My beloved United States Army is a blunt instrument, a magnificent club that has pummels our nation’s enemies into submission.  But the Marines are America’s rapier, a razor sharp weapon of war that has never been bested and never will be.  For over two centuries, the United States Marine Corps has been fighting our country’s battles in the air, on land and sea.  They don’t give up.  They don’t quit.  There’s no word for retreat in a Marine’s vocabulary.  And they are making history even today in the mountains of Afghanistan and elsewhere.

November 10th is the Corps’ 234th birthday.  With the indulgence of my Devil Dog brethren, here is this Army veteran’s countdown of the Top Ten Marine Corp movies:

10.  55 Days at Peking:  The Boxer Rebellion in China provides the backdrop for this epic true-life tale of Marines (with help from a few others) protecting civilians from rampaging Chinese peasants.  Charlton Heston is the head Marine; Ava Gardner and David Niven show up as well. 

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9.  Jarhead:  This film of Anthony Swofford’s book about Marines in Operation Desert Storm is a mixed bag.  Perhaps director Sam Mendes was trying to make up for his slander of military men in American Beauty by making an attempt to understand how men function in wartime.  He effectively captures the unreality of that war, but his depiction of the desert environment itself is somehow off (though not as inaccurate as the awful Three Kings).  The clouds of oily smoke after the Iraqis set off the wells did bring back some memories.   Look for Jamie Foxx as a tough Marine sergeant.

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8.  Gung Ho:  This World War Two story recounts the real-life story of the Marine’s raid on the Japanese position on Makin Island early in the war.  Watch for Robert Mitchum as a Devil Dog named “Pig Iron.” 

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7.  A Few Good Men:  This is problematic film for several reasons.  First, it promotes the idea that lawyers as attractive, interesting people, which is demonstrably untrue.  Second, it is positively schizophrenic in its attitude toward the Corps.  Noted Hollywood liberal Aaron Sorkin penned the script, which features Jack Nicholson’s legendary “You can’t handle the truth!”speech.  Many look on that speech as an inspiration, not an indictment.  Regardless, the issue of a society that demands protection yet questions the manner those who protect it do so resonates even more powerfully today than when Sorkin wrote it.

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6.  Aliens:  Okay, so James Cameron’s classic sci-fi flick is not technically about the United States Marine Corps, but ditch the space ships and hi-tech weapons and this band of Colonial Marines would be at home in today’s USMC.  The interplay between the Marines is priceless.  Their gunnery sergeant, played by Al Mathews, is calm, capable and scary.  And as Private Hudson, Bill Paxton plays the most amusing military screw-up in film history.  “Game over, man!  Game over!”

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5.  Generation Kill:  This a miniseries is a tough call because there is a lot good and a lot bad about it, but it honors the Marines who have been fighting for us since 9/11 and so deserves a spot here.  The bad first – there’s too much talking and pondering of the bigger issues going on.  Those portions feel forced into the script to fit the filmmakers’ pre-existing anti-war narrative.  What is accurate is the look and feel of the film.  This light recon battalion is quite similar to an Army cavalry recon squadron, and the way the men lived in and around their vehicle feels true.  One particularly good scene involves a young Marine asking to medevac a wounded civilian.  You expect a typical movie conflict between the sensitive young officer and his uncaring superior, but instead the filmmakers have the battalion commander explain his perspective and the consequences he has to consider when deciding whether to divert evac resources away from his own wounded.  It’s a powerful scene that demonstrates how high ranking officers, often portrayed on film as self-absorbed, obtuse and insensitive, bear enormous responsibilities for making difficult decisions that their subordinates sometimes do not fully appreciate.

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4.  Pride of the Marines:  This is the story of Marine Al Schmid, blinded fighting the Japanese in the Pacific, and his return home.  It is a moving testament to the human cost of war and it demonstrates the price paid by many Marines over the years – and a price many continue to pay today.  It is also the story about how once you become a Marine, you remain a Marine, and how that pride will stay with you throughout your life.

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3. Heartbreak Ridge:  The great Clint Eastwood does a tour of duty here as Tom Highway, a Marine gunnery sergeant his obnoxious new commander labels a “dinosaur.”  When all hell breaks loose on a tropical paradise called Grenada, Clint and his platoon smack around Castro’s minions.  It’s very cool.  One theme of the film is how a great sergeant grows his lieutenants into real leaders, and anyone who has been a platoon leader will smile as the nerdy LT learns to take charge and finally seizes the initiative to win the fight.  Look for Mario Van Peebles as the world’s least likely Marine.

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2.  Full Metal Jacket:  Don’t see this a week before you ship to basic training.  Take it from personal experience that this is a poor idea.  R. Lee Ermey’s hilarious and horrifying turn as a Marine drill instructor is a legend, and properly so.  His four minute verbal assault on his recruits is appalling, and yet one cannot turn away.  The second half of the film, which covers the retaking of the Vietnamese city of Hue during the Tet offensive, is a solid depiction of the terrors of urban combat.  Watch Big Hollywood’s own Adam Baldwin and the rest of the cast as they demonstrate the awesome firepower of a Marine infantry squad:

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1.  Sands of Iwo Jima:  A classic Hollywood story told against the backdrop of the greatest battle in Corps history, it features the Duke in his legendary role as Sergeant Stryker.  As much as we all love R. Lee Ermey, John Wayne remains the gold standard for hardass Marine sergeants.  This is the story of a tough NCO welding a gaggle of recruits into a lethal team of Marines, and this story is being repeated today with a new generation of tough NCOs and recruits.  Only the battlefields, uniforms and weapons are different.  The fighting spirit is the same. 

I bleed Army green, but even I have to admit that the Marines are something special.   But they don’t need validation from me or from anyone else.  They are Marines.  That says it all.

Semper Fi.

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What is the enduring fascination with a 55-year old flick that stars a fake Japanese reptile stomping Toyko into matchsticks?  The first thing is that Godzilla is a truly entertaining movie.  Actually, it’s two movies.  The version most Americans have seen on TV is the 1956 re-cut version of the 98-minute original Japanese movie, Gojira.  Some American producers decided it could make them a bundle, but it needed a bit of familiarization before the American audience would accept it.  They hired a pre-Perry Mason Raymond Burr to film some awkward footage as American reporter “Steve Martin,” cut out a lot of draggy filler, and shipped the slimmed down 80-minute final product to drive-ins all over the fruited plain.

Gojira is pretty cool on its own and is available in an awesome DVD collector’s edition (which also includes Godzilla, King of the Monsters).  Gojira is very dark, both literally and figuratively.  Black and white is really the only way to see Godzilla in action, and most of the monster attacks conveniently take place at night.  In the shadows and the flickering flames of the shattered city, you almost forget that it’s a dude in a dinosaur suit.

Under the capable, steady direction of Ishirô Honda, Gojira forgoes subtlety and is a pretty straightforward nuclear weapons allegory.  Godzilla represents the Japanese perception of what they saw as an uncaring, unstoppable and undeserved alien force of remorseless destruction wreaking havoc on their homeland, sort of like the rain of fire that descended upon Japan from American B-29s less than a decade before.

Accordingly, the central visual theme of the film is flame.  It surrounds Godzilla as he smashes through the city, it frames him on the horizon and it literally comes from within him, evoking both the pika don of the A-bomb detonations but also the even more destructive night fire bombing campaign of General Curtis LeMay.  There’s more going on here than just a monster movie – and post-WW2 Americans could not have cared less.

Of course, you don’t need to let this self-pitying revisionism get in the way of your enjoyment of the film.  I had two grandfathers bobbing out in the Pacific waiting to go in with the invasion the A-bombs ensured never happened.  I also served for nearly two decades in the 40^th Infantry Division, which was scheduled to be the first to hit the beaches and probably would have been wiped out on the sand.  Accordingly, my sympathy for the just consequences the Japanese suffered as a result of treacherously starting their brutal, savage war of conquest is distinctly limited.

But the film does provide an interesting insight into the attitude of willful indifference to the facts regarding the war that persists in Japan to this day.  For example, visiting the A-bomb museum in Nagasaki, one must search through the myriad, elaborate displays of destruction and suffering to find the most important thing any such museum might provide to its visitors – context.

Literally squirreled away near the back of the museum, I stumbled upon a small display of pictures.  They were not clearly labeled but it seemed that some were of Japanese-occupied China and one was particularly recognizable to an American – the burning hulk of the USS Arizona.  That was 2002; perhaps things have changed.  But walking out of that museum – or out of Gojira – one might be forgiven for thinking that the Japanese were just sitting around, minding their own business, enjoying some teriyaki and bottles of Asahi Super Dry, when all of a sudden these terrible things happened to them for no conceivable reason.

Sorry, Ishirô – you can try peddling that to somebody else cuz I’m not buying.

And the American producers were wise to cut that silliness out and American-ize Godzilla into something an audience that consisted of many people who had literally been shot at by the Japanese just a few years prior might want to watch.  They removed most of the allegory and, as the trailer shows, they gave Godzilla the full P.T. Barnum treatment, promising – and delivering – “dynamic violence” and “savage action.”

But they left the essential story elements in – Raymond Burr’s crudely inserted scenes simply frame the action and clarify the story so the movie can get right to the landscape-wrecking fun.  The movie starts off with some mysterious events going on out in the Pacific.  You don’t see the big guy at first – you just see shadows, bubbles, flashes, and huge footprints and you hear his legendary roar.  When Godzilla finally shows up in all his glory – the special effects here really are terrific – it’s just awesome.

There are still no laughs – well, no intentional ones – in Godzilla.  The people of Tokyo look and act terrified, and the movie plays the threat of the creature straight.  You see the injured and the dying – it’s not graphic, but the movie does show the figurative fallout of the monster’s rampage.  In the end, one character makes a noble sacrifice that will put a lump in your throat.  And, as with all the best monsters, you sympathize with Godzilla as he meets his fate.  It’s actually quite moving.

Sadly, after Gojira, the Godzilla series followed a regrettable pattern common to great genre flicks.  The first movie is a serious, uncompromising film made by serious people for serious people (but sometimes, as with Godzilla, fully appropriate for and beloved by kids too).  Then the series starts heading south.  Pretty soon your terrifying, mysterious, darkness-swathed wraith becomes a fat guy in a lizard suit wrestling King Kong for laughs in broad daylight.

It happens all the time.  The 1931 classic Frankenstein was a disturbing meditation on man and the limits of science.  By 1948, Dr. Frankenstein’s monster was chasing Abbott & Costello around while Dracula and the Wolf Man looked on.  The original A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984) is a very tough, very creepy little horror flick.  I think Freddy Krueger fights Jason in the last sequel.  Or maybe Chucky.  Or Optimus Primus the Transformerzoid.  Who knows?  Who cares?

I haven’t seen any other Godzilla films in years, and it appears I have not missed much.  The movies reached their nadir after 1969’s Godzilla’s Revenge, where the big guy stopped stomping cities and started helping out lonely latch-key children.  Yawn.  From its very loud, very explodey trailer, 2004’s Godzilla: Final Wars looks more like Godzilla v. The Matrix.

And don’t even mention the awful 1998 re-boot.  The new Godzilla featured a redesigned, doofy-looking monster plus some transplanted pseudo-raptors ripped-off from Jurassic Park chasing Matthew Broderick all over Manhattan.  This only reinforced one of the five key principles that guide my life – never see a movie starring Matthew Broderick that does not also feature Ben Stein.  Well, to be fair, Glory is pretty badass too – and itself no doubt a future “Movie We Like.”

Now, that is not to say that the later Godzilla films do not provide their guilty pleasures.  Godzilla v. The Thing (1964) is a lot of fun.  For some reason, a few years ago they insisted on re-titling it Godzilla v. Mothra, but to those of us who, in the 70’s, waited up late for Creature Features to see it, it will always be known by its original TV moniker.  And, as a bonus, it features the miniature Mothra twins’ ear-melting Mothra song.  And some of Godzilla’s later antics have a kind of goofy charm:

Another delightful Godzilla-related musical interlude is provided by the mind-boggling tune Save the Earth from 1971’s terrible, terrible Godzilla v. The Smog Monster. This is the one where Godzilla battles what appears to be a sentient, flying cow pie.  The song is the true lowlight.  It’s this combination of over-earnest 70’s enviro-nonsense and 60’s Japanopop that is mistranslated into English and served up for your listening pleasure.  You can almost see Al Gore sitting alone in his mansion, nodding his head, grinning, and snapping his fingers to its big beat as he gazes upon his Oscar and Nobel Prize.

Forget the rest of the series.  Stick with the original – okay, the second original.  Godzilla, King of the Monsters is a terrific 80-minute thrill ride mercifully free of the kind of clichéd movie industry nonsense that ruins so many movies today.  There’s no nauseating shaky-cam, the shots last longer than 0.35 seconds, and the whole thing is just plain cool.  The kids dug it big time.  Plus there’s a guy in a rubber dinosaur costume smashing up Tokyo who represents the awesome, righteous wrath of the American people – what’s not to like?

Many feel this ballad is a touching hymn that gives voice to man’s yearning for a better world.  They are wrong.  “Imagine” is a cloying, boggy, sonic swamp of numb-skulled sentiments that sound like they were recycled from a bong-fueled, 2 a.m. bull session between a couple of pampered, credulous UC Berkeley lit majors.  It’s the national anthem of the hopey/changey crowd — all at once pretentious, smug, tiresome and intellectually bankrupt. 

“Imagine” should – no, must – be banned and all remaining copies of it destroyed.  Its continued existence makes mankind a stupider, more boring race.

Some shortsighted people might consider this assessment a bit harsh.  They are wrong.  Sure, it was a hit in 1971 and still today Imagine remains a radio staple.  It has sold millions of copies and inspired a legion of cover versions.  Rolling Stone even ranked it third on its roster of the Greatest Songs of All Time.

But these are not testimony to the song’s transcendent quality.  They are signs of the apocalypse.

The song begins with a dull piano chord progression that telegraphs to the listener that Something Waaay Profound is in-bound.  Then Lennon’s atonal voice pipes up.  Let’s leave aside the lyrics for a second – he sounds awful, like some over-earnest troubadour trying too hard to impress the four friends he guilted into coming out on a Wednesday to see him play his new tune over at the Common Grounds coffee house’s weekly open mike.

It’s so ponderous and booorrrinng, seeming to go on forever.  It’s the musical equivalent of passing a kidney stone, only not as much fun.

What was Phil Spector, who produced this mess, thinking?  Right now, he ought to be thinking that “Imagine” was the second biggest mistake of his life.

And the lyrics – give me a break.  Never have so many fawned so shamelessly over such utter nonsense.

The first lines are: “Imagine there’s no heaven/it’s easy if you try.”  No, it isn’t, because if there’s no heaven then there’s no hell, and we know that there’s a hell because when this song is playing we’re in it.

And how about “Imagine all the people/Living for today?”  Yeah, he’s put his finger on our problem – too many people planning ahead and preparing for the future.  This is the kind of powerful, incisive reasoning that led a guy who could take his pick of pretty much any woman in the world to shack up with Yoko Ono.  Let me put it another way for emphasis – this guy chose to see Yoko Ono naked.  Many times.  The only response to someone with that kind of judgment is to listen carefully to what he says and then do the exact opposite.

There’s also the gratuitous commie babbling:  “Imagine no possessions/I wonder if you can/No need for greed or hunger/A brotherhood of man/Imagine all the people/Sharing all the world.”  To quote a better song by the infinitely more talented Frank Zappa, a man with an admirable lack of patience for such treacle, gag me with a spoon.

I’m not sure of the Lennon timeline, but didn’t he write this nonsense about the same time he ditched England because of the tax bite he was taking to help pay for its socialist welfare state?  Sure, depriving a rapacious lefty government of revenue by moving to someplace with a more sensible tax rate is clearly the morally correct thing to do, but isn’t the transparent hypocrisy of this poser a bit much to stomach?

And if all that’s not insipid enough, we also get:  “You may say that I’m a dreamer/But I’m not the only one.”  Oh, please.

The most galling thing about “Imagine” is how it urges the listener to assume the mantle of that “dreamer,” thereby joining the ranks of the free spirits, bohemians and other assorted loafers, chislers and social parasites who are only too happy to belly up to the table that is our society but who are nowhere to be found when the check arrives:

“Sorry, I can’t be bothered to work to build something or to fight to defend anything – you see, I’m a dreamer, so you just let me know when you’ve gotten everything ready for me to enjoy.  Until then, I’ll be here relaxing on my parents’ sofa, pretending to read Gravity’s Rainbow. ”

The only bright spot is that so few folks actually seem to pay attention to its inane lyrics.  How else could one explain American Idol’s David Archuleta, the all-American Mormon kid, covering an ode to atheism that even Lennon conceded was pretty close to being the Communist Manifesto set to music?  Simon Cowell should have slapped him.  Several times.

Fortunately, there’s plenty of music out there that rejects this kind of hippie crap.  Sadly, for every one kid whose mind is opened by, say, The Clash or Husker Du, dozens more will sit slack-jawed and nodding vacantly at the moron-bait songs like “Imagine” dangle in front of them.

For me, I smile when I imagine a world without “Imagine.”  I guess that would make me a dreamer, except I have a job.

Sadly, the dead white males who imposed the Constitution on America enumerated only negative rights that limit the power of the government over its citizens.  But if you squint your eyes and look beyond obstacles like the plain text, lurking in there somewhere behind the penumbras and emanations is the positive right of every American to be a TV star.  Those with MAD are not cretins to be shunned but civil rights visionaries at the edge of a new frontier of governmental largess and probably a lot of profitable litigation.

It’s obvious that American society has failed the Heene family.  After he and his brood’s triumphant appearances on Wife Swap, Heene was left media-deficient and was forced to feed his addiction with crude YouTube videos.  In one, he speculated that Hilary Clinton is a shape-shifting space reptile, which would be totally cool if true.  In another, he claimed that he spoke to aliens at a local fast food restaurant, which is actually pretty typical, at least at Southern California fast food joints.

This sad state of affairs was a direct result of the deep, black emptiness in Heene’s life that could never be filled by superficial things like work, religion or family.  Like all MAD-men, he craves, needs, must have the validation that only comes from having his mug flashing across America’s television screens.  He not only wants his MTV, he has to have it.  And we owe it to him.

But, typical of the kind of divided America left behind by the Bush regime, we failed to give it to him.  TLC, that paragon of class television, passed on his reality series proposal.  What is clear is that Heene’s rights have been grossly violated – this likely constitutes a full-fledged hate crime.  So his actions are understandable, even admirable, in light of the oppression visited upon him.  Roping his wife and kids into a project that had cops, pilots and others chasing a glorified Mylar “Happy Birthday” balloon across Colorado was not a giant scam but a cry for help.

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America – will you answer the challenge?  They certainly would in Europe.  Surely America can spend a few billion dollars to ensure that unfortunate victims like Heene can have their 15 minutes and then some.  Is it too much to ask America’s wealthiest to pay just a bit more so MAD victims can receive the validation that our Constitution clearly holds they are owed?

Our government must address this terrible crisis!  The only real question is the extent of the MAD public option – should the government undertake to directly provide media access in a “single media” system?  Or should it allow – at least for a while – private media to continue, but with a “public media exchanges” designed to provide the competition that is utterly unknown to media companies now.  However, to bend the cost curve down it can cost no more than $900 billion.  Perhaps we can impose a tax on those with a “cadillac” media profile.

And don’t let yourself by distracted by the Right Wing’s lies - this plan will not provide free media coverage to aliens, whether they are illegal, cabinet officials, or hanging out at your local Burger King.

Senator Snowe, I think I hear history calling again.

Or, as an alternative, we could just express our contempt for dumbasses like Richard Heene and stop celebrating the antics of every buffoon without a shame gene.

Dear Chairman Landesman:

With all this fuss on Big Hollywood.com, Big Government.com and elsewhere over the NEA’s government-funded forays into partisan political propaganda, I thought maybe we could help each other out. 

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Right now, you probably want to support some art that addresses vital current issues from a right-wing perspective in order to demonstrate your impartiality (ha ha!), and I just want to cash in your organization’s evident willingness to spend good tax money on any kind of nonsense that can be passed-off as “art” (ca-ching!)   

Well, I am uniquely suited to provide you with just what you’re looking for!  As a college student, I got a “B” in my Visual Arts 1 class for dressing up a juniper bush in one of my Hawaiian shirts to draw attention to man’s essential oneness with nature while providing a stinging critique of America’s consumerist culture.  Sure, my black-clad, Bauhaus-loving classmates protested that I was a fraud who was more concerned with collecting four easy credits than internalizing our professor’s commie insights about how expressionism equals imperialism, but hey – aren’t all great artists rebels?   Or, at least, weren’t they before last January 20th?

Just kidding, dude!  Anyway, as your organization’s visual arts mission statement says:

Grants in the visual arts support projects undertaken by organizations that encourage individual artistic development, experimentation, and dialogue between artists and the public through exhibitions, residencies, publications, commissions, public art works, conservation, documentation, services to the field, and public programs.

Sounds awesome!  Now, I went to the NEA’s grant application site and there’s a long complicated process for getting grants that seems to involve me becoming a federal contractor.  Nothing like the government for taking something simple – like you writing me a fat check – and turning it into a bureaucratic death march!  Can’t wait until you folks take over health care! 

Anyhow, instead I think I’ll just cut to the chase and sketch out my proposed projects for you here.  You can fund the one – or ones! – that you like best:

1) My first proposed project is an interpretive dance piece to be performed on the streets of Greenwich Village titled “The Cry of the Employed.”

This innovative performance involves me using motion and song to tell the story of a beleaguered taxpayer forced to subsidize the ridiculous indulgences of pseudo-intellectual no-talents who try to pass off their pretentious junk as art.  Dressed in business suit and button-down shirt with a sensible tie, I will confront passing goateed hipsters and pierced bohos, acting out the story of a man who works hard only to have his money siphoned off support the antics of a bunch of pompous deadbeats.  My choreography will draw from the traditions of ballet, kabuki and Appalachian folk dance while incorporating maracas and jazz hands.  And yes, there will be krumping.

2) My second proposed project is a performance art piece that was going to be called Chocolate Thunder until I Googled it and found that this is the title of a very , very specialized series of erotic videos.  Instead, my piece will be called Suburban Fudge.  Out of an abundance of caution, I have not Googled this title.

In the tradition of pioneering NEA grant recipient Karen Finley, who famously covered herself in chocolate to demonstrate the corrosive effects of patriarchal hegemony, I plan to slather myself in rich, creamy Hershey’s to demonstrate the glory of corporate America.  This act will reaffirm my allegiance to Big Chocolate and underscore my belief that the best hope for American progress is a vigorous, lightly-regulated private sector.  Using my body, I will also form a Laffer Curve then engage in some dramatic readings from Milton Friedman’s Free To Choose.  And I will personally keep any profits from the performance, an act which itself is central to the integrity of the piece.

3) My third proposed project is an installation that takes Andres Serrano’s infamous Piss Christ, the crucifix in a jar of the artist’s urine, to the next level.  I call it Pee Health Care Reform Bill.

Now, the draft health care bill is well over 1000 pages long, so I’m not sure I can personally handle the, uh, logistics of this project.  This is where the NEA comes in.  I plan to use my grant to buy a keg of frosty Dos Equis Lager for me and my buddies.  After we drink it we can, well, get “creative” Serrano-style!  We’ll also need limes, and some snacks would be nice too.  I think I could get you a final product for, say, $25,000.

Anyway, thanks for taking the time to read my email – though I have to say that as a conservative I am horrified by the fact that there’s an Internet domain out there with the name of “arts.gov” since the only proper involvement of the government in the arts is not to have any role at all.  Well, guess we’ll have to agree to disagree on that, right?

I sure hope you dig my personal vision enough to cut me a check – just don’t forget the second “h” in “Schlichter” on the payee line!  And remember, because I’m a heterosexual right-wing gun-owning veteran with a real job, you’ll be able to check several important diversity boxes for your organization for the first time in its illustrious history! 

I’m looking forward to seeing you at the premiere of Suburban Fudge, but don’t forget to bring a jacket – the first three rows will get wet! 

Best,

Kurt A. Schlichter
Future Performance Artist

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Levi is the Kevin Federline of American politics, a good-looking, not-too-bright guy catching a break by impregnating a rising star, or at least one’s daughter, then basking in the reflected glow.  When things went south with Bristol Palin, he found, in a mainstream media eager for anything that might derail the Sarah Palin express, an opportunity to go farther than he ever thought he could.  Movies, modeling, memoirs – anything was possible, they assured him.  Just tell us what we want to hear, Levi – the good stuff, the juicy stuff, the stuff too good to fact check.  Oh, and hand over your dignity while you’re at it.

But Levi’s antics are about more than just manufacturing ammunition to fire at Governor Palin.  The minstrel shows of the past were calculated to demonstrate white superiority through the employment of the most degrading stereotypes and the ritualized humiliation of the African-American performers.  This shameful circus is no different.  Levi’s mindless brand of masculinity, his dropping out of high school, his troubled home life – these are all the hyper-exaggerated cultural touchstones the bicoastal liberal elite imagines define the rest of our country. 

Levi Johnston is what they want to see when they look at Middle America.  They don’t want to see the young heroes like Track Palin, an Iraqi Freedom vet.  They don’t want to see Americans whose commitment to a better world is manifested by their putting their lives on the line instead of pasting a “Hope & Change” bumpersticker to the back of their Prius.  They want – and need – clowns, and Levi is only too happy to oblige them.

Most young people today, looking on the things they did in their youth, will have only an ill-considered tattoo to regret.  But Levi’s kid needs him, yet Daddy is busy far away performing like a court jester for people who will slam the door on him the second he stops being useful. 

Can he really be so dumb as to think they actually care about him?  Does he really expect to get a call from Kathy Griffin to accompany her to next year’s Teen Choice Awards?  He’s like the nerd in one of those high school movies who the bad kids make-over as part of a bet – except there’s no happy ending here unless Levi comes to realize that this is all a big joke to them and he’s the punch line.

Despite the fervent desire of some, like the bloggers at the circulation whirlpool called Newsweek, that “as long as there is Palin, there’ll be Levi Johnston,” they have to concede that “Levi’s 15 minutes are almost up.”  Neither GQ nor Vanity Fair will be calling him back for another photo spread anytime soon.  Larry King and Tyra Banks have wrung him dry of slime.  He’s off CBS’s speed dial.  The Celebrity Dysfunction Complex has moved on.

His big achievement is a 19-second TV spot selling some obscure brand of pistachio nuts.  They don’t even let him talk.  He’s also going to go nude in Playgirl – providing fantasy fodder for lonely cougars and randy gay men.  Levi, pinch yourself cuz you’re living the dream.

But Levi is a symptom, not the disease.  Levi’s being a fool, and it’s sad to see him put a discount price tag on his dignity and his family.  Considering his background with a mother who is allegedly involved with drugs, one can see why he does these things, though a lot better folks came from a lot worse.  His background is an explanation, not an excuse. 

The ones exploiting him are the real villains.  People, even dumb ones, aren’t to be used up then discarded like garbage when you’re done with them.  Those pulling his strings ought to be ashamed of themselves, but they aren’t. This minstrel show is too delightful, too much fun, as it promulgates the most condescending stereotypes imaginable of those unworthy wretches living outside the bi-coastal elite bubble. 

And what of Levi?  He’s burned the one bridge that could lead him home to people who might actually still care about him when he finds himself on the wrong side of the velvet ropes again, when the only opportunities he has left are reality kickboxing matches with Vanilla Ice and bit parts in Skinemax epics about horny stewardesses.  He’s a father who, if he ever sees his son again, is going to have to answer one of the most brutal, heart-rending questions a child could ask:

“Why did you choose them over me, Daddy?”

Levi Johnston’s weakness of character will lead him to sorrow after those who are using him today have moved on to other victims.  It’s not too late to make amends – I suspect the Palins would forgive him if he sincerely asked them to - but he won’t do it.  He can’t.  He thinks the elite loves him.  He thinks he will never wear out his welcome.  So he will keep on dancing, playing the fool, the minstrel, for the transitory amusement of those who hold him in nothing but contempt.

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Perhaps this junkie, who by her own admission had a decade-long affair with her own father starting at age 19, is not the most reliable witness.  On the other hand, considering the Hollywood community’s frantic defense of noted pedophile Polanski, it’s not too difficult to imagine how Mackenzie and her rock star father might have figured, “Well, we’re here, we’re high, we’re horny.  What’s some shared DNA between stars?”

I blame Oprah.

Oh, I blame Mackenzie Phillips too.  The law has a wonderful concept called “joint and several liability,” which recognizes that several wrongdoers can all be jointly blameworthy even if they do different awful things.  Mackenzie Phillips is a narcotics-gobbling pervert; the manifest evil of her father does nothing to lessen her own guilt for the smoldering wasteland she has made of her charmed life.  That is, assuming even a portion of her accusations against John, some of which her sister backs up (which itself is mind-boggling), are true.

But Oprah’s blameworthiness is based not on committing the underlying evil but on exploiting it, celebrating it and normalizing it.  That YouTube clip was not selected at random.  It’s an ad, and it’s selling degeneracy.  Watch as it strings along the viewer with tantalizing tidbits like “My father shot me up for the first time” and an anecdote about a lecherous Mick Jagger while leading up to the big score, the hook, the catharsis, the promise of a heartrending confession of incest, some tears, Oprah’s soothing words (aided by the currently sleek Valerie Bertinelli) and a final absolution right there on daytime television.

You screwed your dad for a decade while in a drug-fueled haze, but you came on my show and confessed, and your sins are washed away.  Go in peace, my child.  You are absolved.

No.  It’s long past time to end the Celebrity Dysfunction Complex’s power to grant indulgences.

There’s this powerful tool out there that for too long has been stashed away in our society’s attic.  It’s called “shame,” and it serves a wonderful purpose: it helps prevent people from doing horrible things by ensuring they understand that when they do horrible things, society will treat them like people who have done horrible things.

Mackenzie Phillips ought to be ashamed of herself.  She should be hanging her head in shame, not hanging out in studios getting sucked up to by TV nimrods:

Ladies and gentlemen, Mackenzie Phillips, who as an adult, shot smack and banged her dad – thanks for sharing your amazing journey!

But shame is so old-fashioned.  It makes people feel bad.  And who wants to make people feel bad?  Probably those mean old conservatives who have nothing better to do.  No, it’s easier to simply normalize dysfunction, to rationalize wrong, to mainstream evil.

You get to be the good guy, the nice guy.  You get to be Oprah.

That’s how the Celebrity Dysfunction Complex works.  The Complex encompasses talk shows, tabloids, web sites – anything that embraces the dysfunctional, caresses them, pats them on the head, assuring them they are blameless while displaying their dysfunction for our amusement.  And by doing so, the Complex whittles away at the differences between the dysfunctional and the functional until they can’t be told apart.

This requires a rejection of judgment.  Oprah would never be judgmental.  That’s too emblematic of a narrow-minded worldview where all you see are black and white instead of moral relativism’s gauzy, comforting gray.

As we know, judgmental is the worst thing you can be.  Mao can kill tens of millions, but who are we to judge?  We light up the Empire State Building to celebrate his creation.

Now, on the other hand, take Sarah Palin – well, feel free to judge the hell out of her.

The smack-addled bimbo who nailed her pa for a decade – no, she’s the real hero.

Right and wrong are troublesome concepts because they impose limits on what one can and can’t do.  This is against everything that the Celebrity Dysfunction Complex stands for, because if people start judging those they see wasting their lives and their talents on drugs, alcohol, perversions and all manner of other debauchery, then the circus is over.  When Lindsey Lohan sobers up, the party ends.  When the mutants from the Springer-type talk shows stop living like the crew from Deliverance, the gravy train derails.  And the Celebrity Dysfunction Complex depends on a never-ending supply of new human train wrecks.

The task of bringing down the Celebrity Dysfunction Complex falls to us.  You have a remote that goes with that big screen.  Up near the top is a red button.  When some degenerate comes on your screen, supported and approved of by media demigods, spouting off about how being a stripper is empowering, push that button.

When a checkout-stand tabloid tempts you with the tale of some Hollywood hunk’s extracurricular three-way action, reach past it, grab some Tic-Tacs, and pay your bill.  Home-wrecking isn’t funny or fun and don’t let your good money go to support it.

When you walk through Barnes & Noble, walk right past Mackenzie Phillips’s paean to perversion and grab something else, anything else.  Just leave her book right there between the unsold stacks of Spellbinder: The Essential Speeches of Al Gore and The Carter Sutra: Jimmy and Rosalind’s Illustrated Guide to a Sexually Satisfying Marriage.

We’ll know we’re winning when Oprah asks Mackenzie Phillips just what the hell she was thinking.  When the ladies of The View come to a rare consensus that she ought to be ashamed of herself, then we will know the Celebrity Dysfunction Complex is collapsing.

Maybe Mackenzie Phillips and Roman Polanski have done us a favor.  They’ve given us a glance at the dark, sick places where the Celebrity Dysfunction Complex would take us.  Now, the question is whether we will choose to follow its lead down into the murky depths, or turn and climb back up into the light.

Law & Order’s mysteries are as unpredictable as where the sun will come up tomorrow morning.  In a typical episode, when the cops arrest a gang member you can safely bet the climatic trial denouement will reveal the real killer to be either the wealthy corporate executive,  the ambitious conservative politician or the hypocritical Christian preacher.  You know, kind of like in real life.

So now Law & Order is taking on the new Bush administration and, by extension, all of those who have fought so hard to keep our country safe from terrorism since 9/11.  I’m in awe at these iconoclastic artists’ bravery and courage in forthrightly expressing exactly the same views held by all of their friends and associates.  Taking risky, edgy stands like this can put you in physical danger – for instance, you might be hugged to death by your fellow-traveling industry peers. 

Legally, the whole theme of the episode – that a former government lawyer’s legal opinions on what constituted “torture” under various statutes and treaties can give rise to criminal liability in a state court case – is a joke. Little things like the rules of evidence, basic criminal procedure, the Supremacy Clause, and several dozen other rules, statutes, and Constitutional doctrines would never allow this “case” to exist in the first place.  But the more important point is the bigger issue – the whole notion of prosecuting lawyers for their legal opinions is unbelievably short-sighted and dangerous to our democracy.

The episode makes a great deal of hay from the wicked Bush lawyer’s attempts to determine exactly what conduct is permitted and not permitted under the potentially applicable legal authority – which the writers refer to “[a] surgical parsing of words to draw hair-splitting distinctions.” 

Uh, guys – after 20 years of shows, you should probably know that drawing close distinctions is exactly what lawyers are supposed to do.  But now, for cheap political advantage, your bright idea is to persecute attorneys who get the answers to tough legal questions “wrong” – at least, wrong in your opinion.  And this is not some clear-cut, un-nuanced (and I thought you leftists loved nuance) issue.  The application of the Geneva Conventions and US law to the fact pattern presented by war on terror detainees is far from crystal clear – which is why lawyers were analyzing the issue in the first place!

Here’s the rub.  Parties change, but principles remain the same.  If you think it’s a really smart idea to prosecute conservative lawyers when you believe they get the wrong answer, think about what happens to the liberal government lawyer who opines that the law forbids an aggressive interrogation of a terror suspect after that failure to perform an aggressive interrogation keeps us from preventing another 9/11 – or worse.  Then think about what happens when the Republicans come back into power in the aftermath of that disaster and decide to prosecute that liberal attorney for manslaughter resulting from his negligence in offering that legal opinion.   Heck, maybe some members of the prior Democratic administration ought to be prosecuted too for good measure – isn’t that the logic you would find regarding Bush administration officials on the Huffington Post?

Sound ridiculous?  Yeah, I would have thought so too, until liberals started about talking about prosecuting conservative lawyers for their legal opinions and maybe even some of our past political leaders as well.  Like I said, parties change but the principle of prosecuting your predecessors, if we are foolish enough to let it become established, will not.  If you want to tear this nation apart, it would be hard to think of a more effective way to do it.

Law & Order has once again managed to rip a critical story from the headlines, but it’s not the story its writers think.  It is the story of one of the stupidest and scariest trends in American politics today – the criminalization of political opposition.  And, for the sake of our country, we should hope that this lousy episode of a lousy TV show is the last we hear of it.

Let’s start with the cast:  James Stewart.  George C. Scott.  Lee Remick.  Eve Arden.  Ben Gazzara.  Even Big Hollywood’s own Orson Bean in a supporting part as a doctor who plays a key role in the story.  If you love movies, you only needed to get to the word “George” before you were adding it to your NetFlix queue.

The plot is simple.  Small-town lawyer Paul Biegler (Stewart), who is more concerned with fishing than his practice, is talked into meeting Army lieutenant Fred Manion, who is sitting in jail for the murder of the man the soldier claims raped his wife Laura (The hotter-than-hot Remick).  Beigler takes the case, and faces off with Claude Dancer (Scott), the ace prosecutor sent in from the big city to chalk up yet another conviction.   There is much more to the story – the movie is a brisk two hours forty minutes long – but there’s no sense in going into the details here.  You just need to know this:  Jimmy Stewart goes up against George C. Scott in court.  Case closed.

The sparks fly in the courtroom under the direction of Otto Preminger, the enfant terrible of 50s and 60s Tinseltown, but the interesting part (at least for a lawyer) is that the film covers all aspects of the trial, in and out of the courtroom.  Cases are often won not in front of the jury but hunched over a dusty book of old cases (or, today, in front of a computer screen looking at precedent online), and Anatomy doesn’t hesitate to show the hard work involved in putting up a defense. 

That sounds dull as dirt, but Anatomy is anything but.  Stewart is helped by his burned out, alcoholic mentor Parnell, played perfectly by Arthur O’Connell.  His character is funny, irascible, sad and, in the end, redeemed.  O’Connell even manages to steal scenes from Jimmy Stewart while snagging a best Supporting Actor nomination for himself (Stewart and Scott both earned Oscar nominations as well).

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Preminger was known for the pushing boundaries, and he does it again here.  This was 1959, and audiences must have been in for a shock not only hearing a frank discussion of topics like sexual climax and seminal fluid on the big screen but hearing it come from the mouth of George Bailey himself.  But it’s not exploitation – it’s reality, and there is nothing wrong with adults viewing adult subject matter.  If only films today were brave enough to put forward an ambiguous character like Laura Manion – perhaps a rape victim, but perhaps something else.  They’d be picketed by bitter, snarling feminists furious over the movie’s rejection of easy archetypes and easier answers.  And almost no studio today would risk the ending either – an ending that is a perfect fit for what comes before. 

The beauty of Anatomy is how it never treats its audience like children.  Its characters are fallible – sometimes they drink to excess, smoke, have questionable morals and lie, but the movie expects the audience to understand that human beings are not purely black and white.  That audience had come through three terrible wars and the Great Depression.  They knew something about real life even if most of what Hollywood was putting out was sanitized and saccharine.

If Anatomy was being remade today, those twit studio suits would probably try to push Josh Hartnett as Beigler, Scarlett Johansson as Laura, and some kid from a CW TV series about vampires as the accused.  It’s sad that there are so many mediocrities out there today, and sadder that the suits don’t even realize it.  No matter how hard she tried, the pretty but vacant Johansson could never get anywhere as close to down and dirty as Lee Remick does here.   And there’s no comparison in life experience – Stewart flew B-24s over Dusseldorf; Harnett looks like he bursts into tears when he runs out of his Axe body spray. 

The only problem with Anatomy in my book is the music.  It’s jazz, and aficionados of that art form hail Duke Ellington’s soundtrack as a masterpiece.  But if you feel that jazz is like a colonoscopy for your ears, the musical interludes can be downright painful.

It’s been a summer of sequels to lumbering blockbusters that should have never been made in the first place, twee romances between self-consciously awkward 20-something nerds, and big screen adaptations of “graphic novels” that demonstrate why generations of parents past declared comic books a pernicious waste of time.  Now give  Anatomy of a Murder a look – it is a reminder that not all films are aimed squarely at the half-wit demographic.

Tonight Fox will run the series finale of King of the Hill, the saga of Hank and his gang of associates living in their exurb paradise of Arlen, Texas.  King has a helluva a pedigree.  It was created by fellow UC San Diego grad Mike Judge, who also developed the criminally under-appreciated Beavis and Butt-Head.  The co-creator was Greg Daniels, who previously worked on The Simpsons  and wrote the classic Lisa’s Wedding episode.  Together, they made King the most subversive comedy on television.

Hank is the archetypal anti-free spirit, an assistant manager at a local company selling “propane and propane accessories” with a wife, Peggy, who thinks she speaks fluent es-pan-nole, and a son, Bobby, who looks like a bag of potatoes with two feet and a head.  Hank loves his quiet life, and the mere idea that someone might consider him “cool” would terrify him – Hank likes routine, calm and the occasional Alamo beer.   And he’s perhaps the fussiest heterosexual character in television history – about his lawn, about his tools, about his abnormally narrow urethra.

But the true glory of Hank is his eternal conflict with those who somehow feel morally empowered to stick their noses into his life.  All Hank wants is to be left alone, but a never-ending stream of know-it-all petty fascist bureaucrats, nanny-state meddlers and smarmy government twerps with more authority than common sense are determined to get in his face.  Hank, you see, doesn’t understand his immense need to be changed and modified and improved by the forces of enlightenment. 

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The beauty of King is that while it pokes fun at Hank’s myriad foibles, it understands the creepy nature of those who dedicate their lives to interfering in the lives of others, always claiming the moral high ground yet inevitably maximizing their own personal power and advantage.  From snooty school guidance counselors to pompous college professors to lazy municipal clerks, Hank is constantly beset by nimrods trying to force him to conform to their personal vision of how he should be.  He usually responds as any good American would – with an exasperated threat to “kick your ass.”  There were probably more than a few Hank Hills at Lexington and Concord.

Hank also embodies a kind of glorious naïveté, the shameless love and admiration for our country and its principles that would make a goateed hipster snigger.  Hank is the type of guy who would show up at a town hall meeting about health care and ask where the Constitution says the federal government has any business at all getting involved with him and his doctor.  The politician would roll his eyes – what kind of hick thinks the fact that the Constitution doesn’t empower the feds to take over health care is an argument against doing so?  You know, kind of like in real life.

The beauty of King is that it made no apologies for the Hanks of the world.  Liberals with a wide range of life experience living on the coast tend to think of those parts of America that stretch between Manhattan and Manhattan Beach as a sinister breeding ground of banjo-strumming inbreds aching to drag their terrified meterosexual victims off to a revival meeting.  Not quite – if you really want to take a risk, hang with a liberal icon.  Hank Hill wouldn’t have left a passenger in his truck at the bottom of a pond – but he wouldn’t have been heading to the beach with a gal pal for a personal pork barrel project in the first place.  If your daughter’s car broke down on the side of the road at night, you’d pray for one of the Hank Hills of this country to be the one to pull up beside her.

While King of the Hill will now be reside in syndication, Judge is continuing his campaign of subversion with the new film Extract and – assuming it gets revived on a new network – the conservative-friendly series The Goode Family, while Greg Daniels continues to work on the American version of The Office.  King never got the kind of street credit that the more surreal The Simpsons received.  A show where the husband was usually the wisest guy in the family and where traditional values seem to lead to happiness just doesn’t cut it with the hip crowd. 

King was never cool, which was kind of the point.  It had to get by on doing its job, which was being funny.  “Doing its job” – that kind of sums up Hank Hill, and the rest of the folks like him who make this country work.