But when it comes to stuttering Englishmen I was, frankly, more moved by Roger Daltrey’s performance of the song “My Generation.” My main problem with The King’s Speech is that the character we’re supposed to identify with, the down-trodden-schmuck-who-can’t-catch-a-break-but-we-root-for-him–anyway-because-for-all-his-faults-he’s-got-a-heart-of-gold just happens to be…THE KING OF ENGLAND! That’s right: in order to enjoy this film I’m supposed to feel sympathy for a man who, almost by definition, is an unsympathetic character. Like a Frank Capra film about the riches-to-mega-riches life of Donald Trump, this movie simply doesn’t make any sense to me despite fine performances by Colin Firth, Geoffrey Rush, and Helena Bonham Carter.

I had the same problem with The Queen, which, you’ll recall, was about the trials and tribulations of a woman– oh, let’s call her THE QUEEN OF ENGLAND!—whose big life crisis was being criticized for not grieving enough after the death of Princess Diana. Well, ain’t life a bitch? I’ll bet you after those nasty British tabloids had their say about her Queen Elizabeth cried all the way home to her…ENORMOUS CASTLE. This is royalty we’re talking about, folks. The royal family’s various homes are worth well over a billion dollars– yes, even in today’s housing market. The personal net worth of Queen Elizabeth, Prince Charles, et al are in the hundreds of millions of pounds, each—by the way, each pound coin being distinctive in that IT HAS A PICTURE OF QUEEN ELIZABETH ON IT. When you’re a royal the “family jewels” is not a crude reference to anyone’s anatomy– they’re actual jewels. Call me heartless, but I just can’t feel sorry for anyone who has their own moat.

My antipathy towards the royalty genre in movies goes beyond the absurdity of being asked to identify with bejeweled billionaires seated on solid gold chairs. I frankly find it appalling, in this progressive, politically correct, anti-Establishment age, that supposedly civilized people like us continue to tolerate, and even celebrate, royalty. Slavery, as we’re reminded by the mainstream media on almost a daily basis, was a terrible, evil institution. So was Nazism. So was, and is, communism. So, I would argue, was disco. But you know what was a really, really bad institution? Royalty, the notion that God considered some men more valuable than others, that one’s class is an unchangeable accident of birth, and that the lower class should be, in effect, the slaves and property of the nobility. Does anybody not grasp the evil of this? Who could not be enraged by the fact that by law one man should bow down before another simply because the two men’s ancestries were different– and that refusing to do so could cost the commoner his life?

Obviously the Royal Family no longer rules England, but aren’t they all living, breathing symbols of an evil empire that lasted not seventy-odd years, like the Soviet Union, but more than a millennium? How do we continue to venerate, and even admire, Queen Elizabeth, her useless boob of a son Prince Charles, his ridiculous offspring, the pathetic, money-grubbing Sarah Ferguson, and the rest of that corrupt, inbred gang of gin-swilling mutants?

Or, as some would suggest, are the Royals a quaint, charming link to the past? Fine, then let’s re-establish some working cotton plantations here in the U.S., complete with African slaves, as a tribute to America’s diverse history. Let’s forcibly place living Native Americans back onto bleak reservations as living testimony to America’s triumph over intolerance. The whole thing’s grotesque. Hell, let’s bring back public hangings—just think of the Pay-Per-View money.

 There was a scene in The Queen where the newly elected prime minister had to kneel before Queen Elizabeth and kiss her ring before he could take office, a time-honored British tradition. In a parliamentary democracy? In the twentieth century? Who exactly is not horrified by that? Who does this Queen person think she is, Barbra Streisand? How is it that Queen Elizabeth’s personal holdings are in excess of a billion dollars, yet England is currently in the grip of a severe budgetary crisis? Not to mention that, judging from my own recent trip to the UK, the English people have been denied even the most rudimentary dental care for decades. In truth, so long as they continue to curtsy before a rich jackass seated on a special chair no Englishman (nor any citizen of any other country that still recognizes a monarchy) is in any position whatsoever to make moral or political pronouncements on anyone else, in particular the United States. Got that, George Galloway? Good. Now go brush your remaining teeth.

Ignorant, bitter demagogues like Bill Maher and Howard Zinn would have you believe that the United States was founded on the twin evils of racism and genocide. In truth, this country was founded on the principle that no man is more valuable in the eyes of God than any other man simply by birth. (The definition of “man,” of course, eventually expanded in the U.S., as it was expanding around the world at that time, to include men, and women, of all races). That simple, powerful principle is what separates us from England, India , Japan, and any other nation that, for all of its virtues, still tolerates a class system. Royalty, even in its remnants, is the embodiment of a class system that brutalized, murdered and enslaved entire peoples, not just members of certain races, for over a thousand years. Which means, it seems to me, that any celebration of royalty– even a tourist’s visit to Buckingham Palace, or the media’s fetishization of the late Princess Diana– should be morally repugnant to any American. Our Forefathers’ cry that “We have no king but Jesus!” did not advocate Christianity, it boldly defied the notion that any man on earth should have dominion over any other man.

Like teen vampires, bank robbers who think they can pull off that one last heist, and anything starring Jennifer Aniston the royalty film genre will eventually be played out and Hollywood will move on to their next fixation. Until then, please spare me any more movies in which the protagonist rules over a quarter of the world’s population, or can have me put to death for making eye contact with her. Call me a populist, but I’m not interested in movies about how hard life is for wealthy, out-of-touch figureheads who expect to be worshipped by us commoners for simply drawing breath.

And don’t even get me started on Queen Latifah.

—–

Moreover, even if I had seen the SEIU ads, Mr. Camp’s claim that I plagiarized his work is preposterous.  As any legitimate comedy writer knows–  no, as anyone who owns and operates a television set knows–  the boardroom “pitch meeting” featuring an ill-tempered, out-of-touch boss surrounded by yes-men and women alternately sucking up to him and pitching lame ideas, is one of advertising’s most durable, time-honored scenarios.  [For a lengthier discussion of this phenomenon, go here.] It is the joke-teller’s equivalent of “a priest, a rabbi, and a minister walk into a bar”**; the screenwriter’s equivalent of “boy meets girl”***.  Saying I plagiarized his work is like saying that E.R. plagiarized St. Elsewhere because they were both shows about hospitals.  

After acknowledging that not a single word of his deathless prose was actually lifted from the SEIU ad (the usual definition of plagiarism), Mr. Camp claims that I copied the “mannerisms, style, and feel” of his piece.  In the sense that both spots were shot with a hand-held camera and featured actors speaking to one another in English, I take his point.  But if that’s Mr. Camp’s idea of plagiarism, I suggest he get himself a good lawyer because he’s got a lot of TV, movie and advertising writers to sue.   He could start with this list of companies that have created humorous TV ad campaigns using the classic corporate boardroom pitch meeting as a premise: 

• Air Tran Airways 
• Tofutti 
• Big Boy restaurants 
• Oldsmobile 
• General Electric 
• Alka-Seltzer 
• Burger King
•  IBM 
• Bud Light  -  including Super Bowl halftime ads 
• Diet 7-Up 
• Del Taco – many ads using this premise 
• Fed Ex – literally dozens of classic, often award-winning TV ads since the 1980’s, many of which aired during Super Bowls 
• Jack in the Box – dozens of such ads over the years 
• Direct TV – currently, featuring Ed Begley, Jr. 
• Snapple – current, where the woman says, “We’re dating!” at the end.   

This is, of course, just a partial list, and just of TV commercials.  It doesn’t include the probably hundreds of sketches on Saturday Night Live and other TV shows since at least the Johnny Carson era (remember the Lowenboy beer ads?), and at least one scene every week from a current show Mr. Camp may have heard of called Mad Men.     

I think we can all agree that accusing another writer (let’s just say for the sake of argument that Mr. Camp really is a writer) of plagiarism is a serious matter, and before doing so one should really have one’s facts straight.  Clearly, Mr. Camp’s claims that I plagiarized his work have no merit.  So in closing I say to you, Lee Camp, have you no sense of decency, sir, at long last?  Have you left no sense of decency?  The world awaits your response.     

*a figure of speech I occasionally use but did not, in fact, originate 

**If Mr. Camp were actually a comedy writer he would know this. 

***Full disclosure: I am currently working on a screenplay during which a boy meets a girl, a scenario my attorneys assure me is in the public domain.

If these shows find audiences we can expect to see more shows with similar themes.  How about a sitcom in which a divorced dad with a very large penis tries to juggle career and parenting?  Or a family drama about a 70-year old widower with a very large penis who’s forced to move back in with his adult kids?  Or maybe people would watch a gritty police drama about a slightly racist, older white cop with a very large penis who’s assigned to a younger black partner of indeterminate penis size.  I know I would.    

HBO’s Hung feels like one of those “out there” spec scripts unemployed TV writers sometimes shop around desperately hoping to generate some heat out of sheer outrageousness, like a Seinfeld script in which Jerry kills a guy.  But in this case the joke’s on the writers because Hung actually got produced.     

WRITER:  OK, this one’s about a guy who’s so broke he decides to become a male prostitute.
AGENT:  (YAWN) What else ya got?
WRITER:  Oh, and he’s got a really big penis.
AGENT:  I’m listening… 

Hung is set in Detroit, so I guess the metaphor they’re going for is about how the failure of western industrial capitalism has turned us all into whores.  Which is such a great idea I think I’m going to write it up as a screenplay and call it The Full Monty.  Wait, somebody already did.  Anyway, there are just two major obstacles standing between Hung and dramatic plausibility:  First, the idea that simply having a very large penis would give a man like Ray (played by Thomas Jane) instant credibility as a gigolo.  Not to get too personal here, but whoever created this series has obviously had very little experience with male prostitutes.  And second, that a New-Age-fortyish-hippy-chick-unemployed-poet like Ray’s friend-with-occasional-benefits Tanya (Jane Adams) would see becoming his pimp as a viable entrepreneurial venture, even to the point of soliciting clients for Ray at the law firm where she works.  

In real life someone like Tanya wouldn’t have anything to do with a guy like Ray, much less go to such great lengths to become his pimp.   Hung is one of those shows with great production values and a solid cast which is frustrating to watch because the characters do things that just don’t make sense.  And the show’s main selling point– Ray’s very large penis– is completely superfluous to these characters, the situation, and the stories they’re trying to tell. 

Other than the cachet of appearing in an HBO production one wonders why Thomas Jane, Jane Adams, and even Anne Heche would, you should pardon the expression, touch a project like Hung with a ten-foot pole.  Maybe, like Ray’s character, they just did it for the money. 

Like every classic TV family comedy, the pilot episode of MTV’s The Hard Times of RJ Berger opens with the lead character in bed masturbating under the covers while his mother sits at the end of the bed watching.  The twist here is that Mom doesn’t realize what her teenaged boy is doing until he finishes, at which point she beams with delight.  This heartwarming sequence is followed by some exposition, such as it is (high school loser drops shorts during basketball game, exposing his very large penis to the crowd), featuring fairly specific references to every conceivable sexual act except necropheliatic beastiality which, if you’re not a regular MTV viewer, means sex with dead animals. 

As in Hung, having a very large penis isn’t simply one aspect of the RJ Berger character, it’s essentially the premise of the show.  Yet even after he exposes himself during a basketball game and the entire school learns his secret, RJ’s life doesn’t change.  He’s still an unpopular loser with the fat, even bigger loser friend and the unrequited crush on the school’s hottest girl. 

So what purpose is served by giving the lead character in this show a very large penis?  Apart from launching an endless stream of double entendres about large penises, and perhaps getting this show on the air in the first place, none that I can see.  And in case you’re thinking that this show is the fledgling effort by a struggling unknown writer to establish a foothold in the industry, The Hard Times of RJ Berger was created and co-written by David Katzenburg, whose father Jeffrey Katzenberg is one of the wealthiest and most successful entertainment moguls in Hollywood history.  

For all of its shortcomings Hung launches its second season on HBO this month, and The Hard Times of RJ Berger (premiering June 14) is so crass, so cynical, so inauthentic and so amateurishly executed that a long and successful run for it on MTV seems almost guaranteed. 

Still, I do hope that these two shows don’t mark the birth of a major new TV genre devoted to the prodigiously endowed male.  There are too many great stories left to be told, too many epic characters to be sketched, and too much human wisdom still unexplored for the networks to simply abandon TV to the pandering of pointless obscenity.  Here’s hoping that these two shows represent a short-lived trend, and that TV will soon be back to doing what it does best:  shows about women with large breasts.

Crystal Lee Sutton, 68, died a couple of weeks ago of brain cancer.  You might know her better by her Hollywood name: Norma Rae.  Crystal’s life story was the inspiration for the 1979 Sally Field blockbuster that grossed $22 million (in 1979 dollars), four Oscar nominations, and two Oscars including Best Actress for the aforementioned Ms. Field.  Norma Rae’s character is #15 on the American Film Institute’s list of all-time greatest screen heroes; Norma Rae is rated 16^th of their “100 Most Inspiring Movies of All Time.”  Given all this you probably think that Crystal Lee Sutton died in relative comfort, content with her life’s work and unencumbered by material concerns such as medical bills.  Well, guess again.

Crystal Lee Sutton actually did many of the things in real life that Sally Field did in Norma Rae, including writing “Union” on a piece of cardboard and holding it up for everyone to see, sparking the wildcat strike that launched her cause.  But when the producers of Norma Rae refused to give her script approval Sutton withdrew her name from the picture, thereby foregoing any participation in the profits.  While Sally Field and the producers of Norma Rae were attending the Oscars, Crystal Lee Sutton went on to a series of other low-paying jobs, including work at a chicken processing plant (afterward saying she’d “rather shovel shit” than work there again) and then put herself through school to become a nurse’s aid.  At some point Crystal received a small settlement from the movie she inspired, but it wasn’t enough to provide her with even minimal financial security.

At the time of her death Crystal had just won a dispute over coverage with–you guessed it—her medical insurance company, and her husband was working two low-paying jobs to support Crystal during her last days.  Upon hearing of Crystal’s death, Sally Field described her as “a remarkable woman whose brave struggles have left a lasting impact on this country and, without doubt, on me personally.  Portraying Crystal Lee in ‘Norma Rae,’ however loosely based, not only elevated me as an actress, but as a human being.”  To which she might have, but didn’t add, “It didn’t elevate me enough to write Crystal a generous check from the many millions I have earned as an actress, or to organize a Hollywood fundraiser on her behalf, or to assume even partial responsibility for her medical bills, which would have been well within my means, but, you know… I felt like I was pretty darn elevated, just the same.”  To paraphrase somebody you know, Ms. Field, we resent you!  We really, really resent you for this!  Oh, there’s that darn piano music telling me to wrap up… oh, thank you, everybody!

It would be unfair–exploitative, even– to blame Sally Field for the fact that Crystal Lee Sutton died broke and forgotten.  Lots of other people in Hollywood were in a position to ease Crystal’s financial burdens and couldn’t be bothered to do so.  What’s appalling is how many leading Hollywood figures enrich themselves playing, writing about, or directing movies about the poor, the down-trodden, and so on, and then forget all about the real-life subjects of their scenery-chewing once they’ve moved on to their next project.  Worse, these smug actorcrats berate us little people for not paying enough taxes, not donating enough to charity, and, lately, for resisting efforts to “reform” the health care we’ve earned by extending it to those who haven’t.

And it’s not just actors who won’t walk the activism walk.  Michael Moore has built a career out of parlaying social activism into a series of lucrative “documentaries,” if an investigative film whose findings are written before shooting starts is your idea of a documentary.  Moore has been called… OK, by me… the only filmmaker in Hollywood who shoots three different ending to his documentaries and then uses the one that tests the best.  For all of his blathering about “the little guy” and workers’ rights, Moore is notorious for not paying his crews union wages, not giving his writers the on-screen credits they deserve, and generally being a miserable person to work for.  Moore’s four most popular films alone have grossed over $300 million; if his earnings for TV, publishing and speeches are included his tales of exploited G.M. workers, exploited teens, exploited Iraqis, exploited sick people, and exploited victims of the banking crisis have generated close to half a billion dollars.  Some might say that capitalism, described by Moore in his latest offering (which I refuse to plug here) as evil, has been pretty good to him.  But if Michael Moore is re-distributing the millions he’s pocketed to the victims he and his film crews have, uh… well, exploited in order to make those millions, it’s the best-kept secret in Hollywood.

But as I’m sure you all know they don’t call it show “business” for nothing, and I’ve got my own career to think about.  So in the interest of full disclosure I hereby acknowledge that I’ve recently taken my place at the Hollywood writer/actor-vist feeding trough.  I’ve just started a script about a union organizer whose bravery in the face of corporate intimidation sparked a movement that improved the lives of millions, after which her life story was stolen from her and turned into a highly acclaimed movie that made millions for everyone involved except its subject.  The working title for my new project is Crystal Lee and I’ve gotta tell you, I’m pretty excited about it.

OBITUARY                           August 27, 2009                     Ned Rice

The whole world suffered a terrible loss yesterday with the passing from cancer of a great American icon who overcame unspeakable family tragedies and his own alcoholism to become a legendary advocate for justice.  Born to privilege in a large and wealthy Irish Catholic family, he attended elite prep schools, served in the military, and after a family member’s murder devoted the rest of his life to social causes and fighting injustice wherever he found it.  This larger-than-life character’s quick wit and compelling speaking style made him a friend to all who knew him – even those of different political beliefs-and helped advance the many causes he believed in so passionately.

May you rest in peace, Dominick Dunne.   

OTHER DEATHS YESTERDAY:  Ted Kennedy           

Yesterday, Independence Day, Vice President Joe Biden attended a naturalization ceremony at Camp Victory in Baghdad, Iraq.  During the ceremony 237 U.S. servicemen from 59 countries, including Iraq, were sworn in as citizens of the United States of America.  At the conclusion of this solemn, undoubtedly moving and inspirational occasion, and in the presence of his own son Beau (currently serving in the 261st Theater Tactical Signal Brigade, Delaware Army National Guard), this is what the Vice President of the United States had to say: ”As corny as it sounds,” he told the troops, “Damn, I’m proud to be an American!” 

Where to begin?  

OK, if you were really proud to be an American, Mr. Vice President, you wouldn’t find it necessary to preface that declaration with the words, “as corny as it sounds”.  If you were really proud to be an American those words wouldn’t sound corny to you.  Then again, if you were really proud to be an American you wouldn’t be serving under a President who spent his last trip overseas apologizing to the world on behalf of America.  You wouldn’t be serving under a President who either doesn’t recognize or simply doesn’t understand the concept of American exceptionalism.  You wouldn’t, it could be reasonably argued, be a member of the current Democrat Party.     

Joe Biden is known in Democratic circles as a “shoot-from-the-hip” type of guy, which means he’s known for shooting his mouth off on subjects he knows nothing about without the slightest regard for where he is or who he’s speaking to.  You might say that’s his trademark, along with the serial plagiarism and the hair plugs.  Well, yesterday’s outburst was vintage Biden.  It simply never occurred to America’s Number Two (as he’s known around my house) that it might be sort of…oh, I don’t know, moronic?…to stand up in front of hundreds of U.S. soldiers in a combat theater and tell them you think it’s corny to feel proud of your country.  Then again, Biden knows virtually nothing about the military despite his (much boasted-about) service on the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, as any English-speaking adult who’s analyzed Biden’s, uh, “thoughts” on Iraq could tell you.  Like Vice President Dick Cheney (who I’m sure doesn’t think it’s corny to be proud to be an American), Vice President Biden sought and was granted five military deferments during the Vietnam War.  So like Senator Barbara Boxer, who recently scolded a brigadier general for (correctly and properly, as it turns out) addressing her as “M’am”, Biden might be forgiven for the stupidity of today’s remarks on the grounds that’s he’s simply ignorant of military culture. Which I guess would be something else for him not to be proud of.  Then again, it could be worse. Michelle Obama only started being proud of her country about a year and a half ago, and she’s the First Lady! 

But let’s say a reasonable person might, under certain circumstances, be feeling somewhat reticent, somewhat bashful about a full-throated declaration of pride in being an American.  Like, say, after visiting the Bill Clinton Presidential Library or attending a deceased senator’s memorial service with Al Franken or something like that.  OK, fair enough.  Personally I don’t get it, but I suppose that, in some hypothetical situation, the words, “I’m proud to be an American” might strike some hypothetical person as being somewhat corny.  But if there’s one person, in one scenario, who should never, ever feel that it’s corny to be proud to be an American, it would be: 

- The Vice President of the United States.
- Surrounded by hundreds of U.S. servicemen and women.
- Who have just become U.S. citizens.
- In a war zone.
- On Independence Day.
- You stupid moron, you.  

So on this July the Fourth weekend, please take a moment to contemplate the implications of Joe Biden’s casual, unscripted (thus, highly revealing) thoughts on what it means to him to be an American.  And after careful consideration if you still think an arrogant,  grinning, eye-blinking, speech-stealing simpleton like Joe Biden is qualified to be Vice President of the United States–  and Sarah Palin is not!–  I’d love to hear from you in care of this website.  

As for the rest of you: at the risk of sounding too corny, happy Independence Day to you all, and may God continue to bless the United States of America.

If you’re not familiar, the S.P.L.C. is one of those groups who did good work in their day (the Civil Rights Acts of 1964 and 1965), but, having run out of dragons to slay, are now casting about for reasons to carry on with their anti-white-racist mission in an era where a black President presides over a Democratic House and a Democratic Senate while the wealthiest, most admired and most powerful people on Planet Earth include Oprah Winfrey, Colin Powell, Tiger Woods, whatever Sean Combs is calling himself these days, and the black writer on 30 Rock. 

Chris Burgard “Border”

The S.P.L.C. has become a good illustration of the old adage that if all you have is a hammer pretty soon everything starts to look like a nail.  The group operates from a presumption of racism, i.e., the belief that every white person is a racist until they prove otherwise by adopting a Somalian orphan, personally spitting in David Dukes’ beer, and/or shopping for clothes at Target like Michelle Obama does.  All of which made the S.P.LC. a very unlikely source for an objective review of Chris Burgard’s spectacular documentary Border.

Frankly, it’s hard to imagine how anyone could have seen Border and then written the scathing review that the S.P.L.C.’s Larry Keller wrote. (I was going to say “any English-speaking person,” but then I realized how that would sound).  Then again, Keller barely touches on Border itself, mostly confining himself to casting aspersions on the character of filmmaker Burgard by mentioning that Chris is a former ballet dancer and Ferris Bueller stunt man, that he has cats named Smith and Wesson, and that– are you sitting down?– Burgard grew up in Wisconsin and yet likes to wear cowboy hats and ride horses!!! 

Now, why does this sound familiar?  Oh, yes.  Now I remember: a favorite trick of Lefties is to disparage men of action they despise and fear by calling them cowboys.  Remember that notorious cowboy Ronald Reagan?  You know– the guy who won the Cold War?  Earth to the Left Wing:  AMERICANS LOVE COWBOYS!  PRETTY GIRLS LOVE COWBOYS!  MOST LITTLE BOYS IN AMERICA WANT TO BE COWBOYS WHEN THEY GROW UP!  KNOW WHO HATES COWBOYS?  BAD GUYS!  So just for future reference, if you’re looking for something to call a guy to get the American people to mistrust or dislike him, try “community organizer.” 

The reviewer also calls Burgard a “nativist,” which according to the dictionary means “one who wishes to preserve or revive an indigenous culture,”… “one who would protect natives from immigrants,” and “one who would favor the rights of natives over those of immigrants,” which I guess makes me a nativist, too.  Come to think of it, that would make most Americans nativists.  Not to mention our Constitution, which must be a nativist document because it charges the President and Congress with defending our borders from foreign invaders, which is what Border is all about. 

What Border is most decidedly not about is xenophobia, racism, or being anti-immigrant, as any English-speaking person (there, I’ve said it) who’s actually seen the film could tell you.  Border makes it clear that the illegal immigrants themselves, for all of their lawlessness, are the real victims here– along with the ranchers whose property (and even lives) are endangered, the small border towns being bankrupted, and the American people whose security and native culture has been under assault for decades by a federal policy of unrestricted, unregulated immigration.  

You can quibble with the fine points of Border, if you wish.  What you can’t quibble with, at least not truthfully, are the film’s basic themes: that illegal immigration victimizes, and even kills decent, working class people on both sides of the border every day and that the bad guys are the coyotes who bring them across, the businessmen who profit from it, and the gutless politicians who don’t care.  Which is why you would think that the Southern Poverty Law Center would be more supportive of Border’s powerful message about poverty-stricken people at our southern border breaking the law: the words “southern,” “poverty,” and “law” are right in your name, folks!  Wake up and read your own letterhead! 

And while you’re at it, next time you decide to review a movie, try focusing on the film itself rather than just doing a hatchet job on the director.  You wouldn’t want people to start calling you a hate group.  Just imagine how that would sound.

Hollywood A-list actress and longtime “Law & Order” star Angie Harmon caused a bit of a stir recently when she made the following comments about our new president: “If I have anything to say against Obama, it’s not because I’m a racist, it’s because I don’t like what he’s doing as president, and anybody should be able to feel that way. But what I find now is that if you say anything against him, you’re called a racist.”

But Harmon’s brazen outburst of political incorrectness was just getting started. Here’s what she had to say about Barack Obama becoming the first sitting U.S. president to appear as a guest on “The Tonight Show with Jay Leno”: “I do think McCain would have done a better job, only because I think he has more experience. I also think if W. or John McCain or Reagan would have gone and done a talk show, the backlash would have been so huge and in his face, and ‘What is our president doing? How unclassy!’ But Obama does it, and no one says anything.”

Want more? Here’s Harmon on the subject of Sarah Palin: “I admire any kind of woman like her. My whole motto is to know what I stand for and know what I don’t stand for and have the courage to live my life accordingly, and she does exactly that.”

WILLING TO TAKE A RISK

Yes, the rumors are true. After decades of cowering in the deep-blue (as in Blue State) shadows, Hollywood conservatives are beginning to openly express their political beliefs despite the price they’ve paid-both socially and professionally-for doing so in the past. Some are calling this newfound courage the Breitbart Effect, named for the affable New Media titan who exposed the amoral Superfund toxic waste site of Tinsel Town by subjecting it to the standards of traditional, conservative (read: normal) American values.

Through his pioneering work on news aggregation Web sites such as the Drudge Report and the Huffington Post, Breitbart led the charge away from the take-it-or-leave-it company store of monolithic network news and toward the consumer-driven free market of the New Media. How important was it to break up this monopoly? Before there was a New Media, Dan Rather’s “CBS Evening News” “exposé” about George W. Bush’s National Guard service (complete with forged documents) would have gone unchallenged-and Dan Rather would still have a career. Because of New Media and outlets such as Drudge, Rather’s inept hoax was discovered-and shared with the world-within a matter of hours.

…You can read the piece in full at Townhall.com.

“I believe in kindness and love, and there are those who say those are God.  I don’t know, but I respect and love kindness and love, and worship them, and if I’m worshipping God, then I’m delighted.”   

Hmmm.  Well, no, Mr. LeCompte, you are most definitely not worshipping God by worshipping kindness and love, as worthy as those two pursuits might otherwise be.  Even I, a non-practicing Christian, know that.  But he continued: 

“I love love, and I love kindness, and I wish the churches would emphasize more the kindness.  Kindness to everybody,” he added, rather pointedly.   

With this interview being broadcast on Holy Saturday– the day before Easter, the single holiest day in the Christian calendar-did veteran host Scott Simon try to steer the interview into slightly less contentious waters?  By asking, say, a question about some technical aspect of creating stained glass?  He did not.  

Q:  Could I get you to talk just a little bit more? 

A:  Whatever you wish. 

Q:  It occurs to me that we could fairly describe you as…well, perhaps as a believer in kindness as opposed to a deity.  I’m touched by the fact that you and the Bible are in the same business-you illuminate these stories. 

A:  Well, I’m certainly not trying…to yell at people for what they’ve done and to say that they’ll be in Hell. 

If you’re keeping score at home Mr. LeCompte has (so far) denied the existence of God, suggested that the Church (by which I take it he means Christianity) is unkind, and strongly implied that the purpose of the Bible is to “yell at” people and tell them they’re going to hell.  Was he finished?  He was not. 

“There cannot be Hell,” LeCompte went on to say, “except as we make it.  There’s Hell on Earth, certainly…I’ve tasted it.”      

Perhaps LeCompte felt that his evisceration of Christian doctrine was incomplete until he also denied the existence of Hell and, presumably, Heaven.  

Let’s review:  On the day before Easter millions of Christian listeners (whose tax dollars subsidize NPR) got to hear a sad, bitter old man denounce their God, their church, and their Bible with the cheerful assistance– if not the actual prodding– of a seasoned radio veteran like Scott Simon.  This took place on NPR, which is a veritable Ground Zero of politically correct obeisance before every possible ethnic, ideological and religious faction on Earth except, of course, the predominant American one, Christianity.

As any longtime NPR listener can tell you, the network has nothing but contempt for traditional American institutions, especially conservative ones like Christianity.  And while they’re generally better at cloaking their enmity towards the church under that public radio aura of detached objectivity, that hatred reared its ugly head during the LeCompte interview. 

If you think I’m over-reacting, imagine a slightly different, yet parallel scenario.  It’s the night before the start of Ramadan, and someone with some peripheral connection to Islam– the owner of a bookstore where the Koran is sold, let’s say-goes on public radio and roundly denounces the tenets of the Muslim faith.  Can you imagine the public outcry, the rioting, the car burning that would ensue?  It would make those riots over the Mohammed cartoons in Amsterdam seem like a day at the beach. 

Fortunately, such a thing could never happen.  Listener-supported National Public Radio would never dream of insulting anyone’s religious beliefs.  Unless, of course, they happen to be Christians.

Cut to me in one of the comfy chairs at the Screening Lounge of the Landmark Theaters at the Westside Pavilion in West L.A last night. (Which is awesome, by the way– it really is just like a screening room.)  Things got off to a slow start when some guy, seemingly not noticing the half-empty room, informed me that I was sitting in his seat.  Like most of the other patrons, this guy gave every appearance of being either a Yale or a Harvard man. Speaking of which, does Harvard only admit pompous jackasses, or is becoming a pompous jackass a requirement for graduating from Harvard?  Ah, the eternal questions.  (Actually, that’s probably not fair.  I’m sure that plenty of normal, decent, men and women of average-sized egos have graduated from Harvard University.  I’ve just never met one.)  In any case, the seating issue was resolved, the film was soon underway and I settled in for what promised to be the cinematic experience of a lifetime.

About half an hour in it occurred to me that Harvard Beats Yale 29-29 would probably be most interesting to people whose passion in life is Ivy League football.  Towards the forty-five minute mark, I had narrowed this down considerably to conclude that, with the exception of the starting line-ups for Harvard and Yale on this autumn day in 1968, IT IS HIGHLY UNLIKELY THAT ANYONE ELSE ON THE FACE OF THE EARTH WOULD FIND THIS FILM EVEN REMOTELY INTERESTING.  Not for the on-field action, the skill level of which was about that of the average suburban high school football contest.  Not for the endless, pointless inserts of former players waxing poetically about this singular non-event.  Not even for the pauses, silences, and visual takes that can be so satisfying in a good documentary.  As I desperately tried to maintain interest in this film, my mind began to wander and I found myself dreaming up alternate titles for Harvard Beats Yale 29-29.  The best ones I came up with were:

Crappy Team Almost Beaten By Even Crappier Team!

Ivy League Football Standings Remain Unchanged After Tie!

Other than “Coal Miner’s Daughter” and “The Fugitive,” What’s the Big Deal About Tommy Lee Jones, Anyway?

Finding the game footage virtually unwatchable, I looked to the non-football aspects of the film.  After all, some of the best parts of Hoop Dreams took place off the court.  But I found no salvation there.  Just rich-looking old men reminiscing about how great it was to be young during the Sexual Revolution and the anti-Vietnam War protests.  One former player spoke of taking a three-year break from his Harvard studies to serve as a Marine in Vietnam.  Arriving back in the States, he and his fellow Marines were spat upon as they stepped off the plane.  Weren’t all those “Vietnam vets being spat upon” stories supposed to be apocryphal?

The filmakers being Yale men, they managed to find a former player who claimed to have seen an inebriated George W. Bush after a football game–wow, how scandalous.  Another Yalie who had dated Meryl Streep was astonished by her success in Hollywood given that in the entire time he knew her, La Streep had virtually nothing to say to anybody about anything.  A pained-looking Tommy Lee Jones described his Harvard roommate Al Gore as being “funny.”  Asked for an example, Jones said Gore would play “Dixie” on his touch-tone phone when that technology was first introduced.  Hard to believe some people still think he’s a big, weird stiff.

I’ve been an avid filmgoer for over forty years, and in my entire life I’ve walked out of maybe five movies after paying for a ticket.  I really wanted to sit through Harvard Beats Yale 29-29, and you can’t say I didn’t give it the old college try, but a little over an hour of this film was all that I could take, so I made for the exit.  I guess I’m just not Harvard Beats Yale 29-29 material.

Like any film, a documentary is supposed to tell a story which has something to say about the human experience that ordinary people can relate to on some level.  That’s what made Hoop Dreams such an exquisite film.  We’ve all imagined the exhilaration of exceeding others’ expectations and dreaded the despair of unrealized potential.  A person with absolutely zero interest in high school basketball–me, for example–could watch Hoop Dreams and, by the end of the film, be up on his feet clapping, laughing, and cheering for Arthur and William because their hopes and dreams had something to say to all of us.  As opposed to the aging, elitist Ivy League jocks of Harvard Beats Yale 29-29 who, in attempting to ascribe such gravity to this utterly meaningless incident, came across as smug and self-indulgent at best.

Tonight (Thursday) is the last night this film will be playing at the Landmark Theater, after which you’ll undoubtedly be urged to rent it on DVD by the same shysters who tricked me into coughing up eleven dollars and an hour of my life to see it last night.  Here’s my advice: times are hard and life is short and unless you were in the starting line-up of either Harvard or Yale’s 1968 football teams, don’t see Harvard Beats Yale 29-29. Instead, spend that hour and fifty minutes hugging your kid.  Well, OK…no, that would be creepy.  But give that kid a good, solid hug, then spend the rest of that time doing something useful like changing the batteries in all of your portable clocks, or having a sandwich, or offering up a prayer of thanks that you’re not a Harvard or Yale man.  Better yet, dig out that old VHS copy of Hoop Dreams and watch it again.  You’ll be glad you did.