Worlds Apart

It may come as a surprise to some (certainly not to many of my friends) that my previous entry (an anthropologic observation of American Football) was only marginally tongue-in-cheek.   My understanding of the rules and intent (of scoring points by carrying a ball into a specified zone while adhering to certain constraints enforced by referees) is nothing so ignorant as a plain reading would suggest, yet it was with an equal honesty that I composed the whole piece. 

In short, my understanding of sports is purely academic. 

I comprehend the various games in the same way that I understand driving, drilled with little league teams in the same manner as when I studied and practiced for my driver's license; the rules, whether logical or tyrannical, are necessarily followed, while the processes behind engaging the gears in sequence and depressing the accelerator and/or brake at the proper moment are prerequisite skillsets necessary for conducting the whole affair.  But I have no deeper connection to rules of sports than to traffic laws, no greater thrill of play than in arriving at my destination at the proper time. For me the thrill of a goal scored is hardly more profound than a decent parking job, and certainly less permanent; at least the parking job promises the chance of an easy exit.  And I cannot begin to understand why one would care to watch someone else play ball - or watch someone else drive to the supermarket. 

(Even then my analogy is not perfect; there is a certain thrill that some men find behind the wheel of a vehicle, which I have never experienced nor truly desire.)

So to speak of ball-sports (leaving aside all other sports for the moment) in sterilized terms of people engaged in an activity with no immediately apparent meaning is the most correct expression of my connection to the game(s).   I am told that sports helps to build coordination; this is manifestly unnecessary, given the prevalence of track and field sports, as well as martial arts.  I have been assured that sports is instrumental in developing teamwork and social skills.  This is also suspect, as I developed no such ability during the several seasons I played flag football.  Not that I was warming a bench every game; I played as often as every scrawny kid out there.  The key difference is that I had no idea what was going on, something to do with that ball-that's-not-a-ball someplace behind me in the ruckus.  Nor did it occur to the coaches to explain the fundamentals.  I think they believed that we all innately knew the gist of our roles, never suspecting that I had never watched a game in my short life.  To me it was an excuse to play organized tag in large teams.  Problematically, everyone else seemed to take the ball-and-scoring bit too seriously for my liking, and to enjoy tackling each other for fun.  So when I outgrew flag football for contact, I left and took up karate. Joke's on me.

So I am left wondering what all the fuss is about, since in my experience with ball sports there does not seem to be anything going on besides groups of athletic people pelting about in search of the elusive macguffin.  In the main, there appears to be largely one set of goals in ball sports: to take the thing from point A to point B. Often there will be friends involved. Sometimes total strangers. Some of these friends and strangers are on one's own team. Sometimes these friends are not actually your friends at present, because they are on the other team. Points A and B are goals of some sort, either a zone or a net, of varying sizes but all intended to demarcate the physical space in which points are scored using the ball. Even the balls are unique to their game; basketball, soccer, lacrosse, and Gaelic football all use different balls and different goals, but the aim is the same. American football and rugby shake things up by swapping the ball for an egg (while insisting that it is, indeed, a ball).

Baseball is the wild card in this arrangement. Herein one man, representing Team A, faces the entirety of Team B; Team B's representative offers Team A's representative the ball (aggressively) while Team A's rep returns the ball in such a manner that occupies the whole Team B lineup in reestablishing control over the ball before Team A's rep is able to sprint the distance between four white targets. Unlike basketball, soccer, or American football, where the audience's attention is centered on the ball and those in proximity, in baseball the man courageously sprinting from target to target is as much the focus as the little white ball spinning merrily about somewhere in the field. Team B's responsibility is to bring these two foci back into one place, by causing the ball to arrive at one of the targets before the runner; Team A's rep's responsibility is to avoid this. 

In other words, an involved and very expensive game of tag. 

Then there's cricket, which is about as comprehensible as wack bat.  Nobody knows what those commonwealth folks are up to.  (Somebody divide that by nine, please.)

This Curious Game

I had the opportunity to attend my first Ducks game in Autzen Stadium over the weekend—which is apparently a pretty big deal in the college football world. After the game, one of the freshman players asked me if I’d enjoyed it.  I answered in the affirmative because there had been food, conversation, and a festive atmosphere; I did NOT express my general confusion regarding the sport around which (he explained) he had structured his entire academic career. Not that anything unexpected happened during the game—indeed, I suppose it went as well or as poorly as any scrimmage of that sort—only that I have no idea what happened after the first whistle. 

Down on the field there was an inflatable, ovuloid macguffin that each team often and violently offered to the other team, but only once the first team (dressed in green) had carried the macguffin to an area marked off with white paint and then taken a moment to punt it between two upright posts. The second team (yellow) busily engaged in trying to accept the macguffin earlier than their rivals were prepared to part with it, which resulted in a good deal of running and yelling and physical contact at speed (it is worth noting that the players were specifically dressed for exactly this activity, being both adequately armored to withstand impact while also sufficiently unencumbered enough to maintain their native agility). 

However, the yellow team was apparently none too eager to complete the exchange; frequently, upon forcing the greens to lose control of the macguffin, either by swatting it out of another man’s grip, or preventing its being caught following a long toss, or (most often) by physically grounding the unfortunate porter under a heap of armored bodies) the yellow team would scatter, with much strutting and yelling and exchanging of high-fives, while allowing green time to collect themselves, strategize, and carefully arrange themselves in a line formation. Never once did yellow take the opportunity to immediately seize the coveted oval and take a turn with it; they let green make several attempts at progression towards the white paint before green either kicked the macguffin at the uprights or gave up.  In either case, green finished by kicking the macguffin in the opposite direction, thereby effecting an agreed-upon exchange of the thing. Then the whole process was repeated, with the roles reversed.

Curiously, the people in the stands around us (and many of my coworkers too) seemed inordinately and emotionally invested in who had the macguffin or how they comported themselves while possessing it or trying to. Several became very animated and vocal whenever a third set of players (themselves unarmored and wearing white and black clothing) inserted themselves into the ritual exchange, dictating to either the yellow or green teams how and when and where to properly carry or exchange the macguffin. The vocal people became the most so when these black and white individuals took to the field apparently for a reason imperceptible at our distance, which generated much excitement in the stands, as well as an amount of colorful language. 

So it was with the utmost candor that I expressed bemused appreciation of the young man’s sport—besides, I got a free t-shirt out of the deal.  Good game, indeed!

On Goodwill Towards Men

While stumbling about Youtube last night, I happened upon a video titled “Why Isn’t Mexico A Global Power?” The premise asked why Mexico has never extended her reach overseas, taking into account geographic, population, economic and other factors. By the time the video ended I found myself rooting for Mexico, hoping that maybe one day she will exert hegemony over her neighbors. 

After laughing off this passing sympathetic fancy, I nevertheless sat considering how I actually regard the global prospects of a foreign country, be it Mexico or any other. On the face of it, an American like myself (or any patriot anywhere) would understandably want the very best for their own home to the exclusion of everyone else. In terms of human nature, it is sadly easy for anyone looking across the border at another state, especially those against whom one has some legitimate gripe, such as Russia or China, to lump into this assessment the people also living within the bounds of that state; to wish the devil take them all and for one’s own to reign supreme. 

That, at least, is a fearsomely pragmatic and nationalistic view (and one frequently ascribed to "America First" patriots by unkind observers during the last administration).

The more wholesome reality for myself and most everyone I know, is that we like and value our friends and acquaintances from abroad; moreover, those countries that I have had the pleasure of visiting I have enjoyed and appreciated very much. To what end to condemn the energetic Japanese shop owner who kept an English-language dictionary on his desk in anticipation of my regular visits? To what end condemnation of the gregarious Welsh bus driver taking simple joy in talking about local happenings or musing about international politics with his Yankee passengers? I have laughed at (and have myself made) my share of jokes at the expense of the allegedly elusive warrior spirit of France, but in practical terms such jabs or ribbing has been more than outweighed by the cheerful humor of the Frenchmen I have been privileged to meet. If I cannot honestly distain such wonderful people and if I have found joy and happiness in visiting their colorful and inspiring countries myself, then how can I earnestly condemn any place or anyone at all, especially my neighbors south and north? 

Much as I have studied other cultures and their peoples over the years, I have mostly neglected Mexico and Canada. Perhaps proximity fuels disinterest. This is a matter deserving of attention, hence Adam Shoalts’ History of Canada In Ten Maps on my end table and videos on Mexican geopolitical prospects in my watch history. However insular my own experience, that of my country (or “countries” if one takes a States’ Right view) has been a rip-roaring adventure alongside and occasionally in conflict with those states immediately next our own. The militant within me hopes for martial strength at home juxtaposed against weakness and passivity beyond the limes, but my inner capitalist thinks otherwise; for isn’t a prosperous neighbor a valuable one? And the Christian within me speaks of peace on earth not by right of conquest but by brotherly love—watched over by solemn guardians, to be sure. It is true that I regard the murky and unknown frontier with a trepidation born of ignorance and distrust of any evils perceptible from my vantage point, but let it never be that I ascribe generally to the people of any place the bitter wrongs committed specifically by their most lawless (or in government, the most lawful) citizens. Chaos along the Mexican border need not inculcate a disgust for Mexicans, nor should breathtaking tyrannical abuses by the Canadian government ever instill in me mistrust of Canadians. How hypocritical it would be to cheer the success of the immigrant self-starter in this country, while at the same time wishing ill (or worse perhaps, not wishing or even thinking at all) about the successes of his erstwhile countrymen! It is the most reprehensible and ignorant shade of Karl Marx that believes one man’s prosperity to be at the expense of another’s.

Maybe I cannot truly wish that Mexico ever be a global power. Indeed, to take that wish to its fullest extent might smack of gross insubordination to my own homeland. But I can say with the utmost candor that I want the very best, and I do wish the very best for my neighbors in Mexico and Canada. If we each find success and security and freedom within our own boundaries while respecting and maintaining cordial and firm relations with those around us, cannot the result be anything but good?

Ethnicity, Cinema, and the Fanbase: Let Us Reason Together

With the advent of the teaser trailer for Amazon Prime’s The Lord of the Rings: The Rings of Power (LOTRTROP or TROP for my sanity) and the resultant internet flame-wars between diehard Tolkien-fans and their cousins in the Peter Jackson camp, the issue of race remains center-stage in a polarized pop-culture society. Some might argue that the best route forward is to drop the issue entirely, for one camp or the other to cease their foul sputtering and cede ground to the side with the greater moral clout. However, to marry Rahm Emanuel’s infamous quotation “never let a serious crisis go to waste” with St. Paul’s injunction to “overcome evil with good,” it is my persistent belief that honest and articulate discussion encourages mutual understanding and is anathema to the rampant, nonsensical, and counter-productive race baiting so pervasive in today’s social discourse. 

One perspective commonly argued is that more representation in media cannot be a bad thing. Art for art’s sake, as it were. I question this assumption on a number of grounds, but if the fundamental issue is that of hiring and firing actors based on their merits, then I find myself in total agreement. But an ancillary consideration should not be lost in the argument that all and sundry ought to be welcome to the casting couch: that a person’s appearance can be of as much substance as their acting caliber. Let me explain.

It should go without saying that casting actors appropriate to the role is of equal importance to casting actors whose abilities measure up to the producers’ very high expectations. One would not cast a woman in the role of Abraham Lincoln, for instance, unless the intent is to subvert tropes in a specific way that requires the casting of a woman. Now, I know nothing about show-biz, but I have been advised to surround myself with people whose expertise make up for my lack. For which I now turn to comedian and sometimes actor Gabriel Iglesias. In recounting his first casting call, Iglesias observed that the producers were clearly looking for a type because competitors for the slot all looked like him—to the point where he described the atmosphere in the room as that of everyone trying to show how they were more like themselves than the next fellow. The producers clearly knew the sort of person they wanted to represent a character; thus, appearance took on equal if not more precedence than acting chops. 

So perhaps a discussion of race in film is to mischaracterize the central argument: it is not the ethnicity of the actor, but their appearance that ought to be considered. One can blithely argue that it should not matter that a given performer’s complexion is darker than Pantone 727, but the altruism of that enlightened sentiment falls rather flat if a 5’3” Inuit is considered for the role of Lincoln. But neither should the role be denied a man who can convincingly portray the sixteenth president. An historical example: I have a vague memory from high school of having read excerpts from the diary of a black man who wanted very much to fight for the Union in the days before that was legal. Happily, all he needed to do was tuck his hair into his cap and, like Clark Kent donning glasses, he suddenly looked like a completely different person. So complete the transformation, in fact, that he not only served at the Battle of Gettysburg but also acted as the unit’s scribe (being the only literate soldier available to transcribe his comrades’ letters), which required close-quarters interaction with the other men, who remained none the wiser. Could not this man, were he dropped into the present day, walk into a studio and offer his acting services in the role of a white character? Perhaps one need only reference the cast of Broadway’s Hamilton for validation here. 

In a world riven with racial angst, it is perfectly reasonable to expect proponents of representation-in-media to argue in favor of breaking any glass ceiling that may exist for actors of color. Yet it remains essential to temper that elevated desire with the realistic expectation that producers can and should cast only those actors who can accurately interpret the characters that they are hired to represent. And meanwhile among the fanbase, it is equally important that frank discussions of race, ethnicity, and representation be held frequently and freely, because if the culture is really as divided as some would have the rest of us believe, then honest talk can do nothing but good.

~~~

*I hope to make this the first of several blog entries exploring diversity in cinema—where it succeeds, where it fails, and how its implementation contributes to or detracts from storytelling. This need not be about race alone, but cultures, women, accents, and anything else employed by producers to best bring their world to life.

The Saga of Lagerthof Gostaberling

The storm’s swift retreat left the streets mud  slicked, with leaves driven into heaps low against the houses’ timber frames.  Goodmen of the town stepped out of their homes to see to animals and sent their sons to look to the thatching, while the goodwives swept their stoops and threw out bedpans and buckets placed beneath leaking rafters, and chased their little ones out to play in the puddles, or gossiped across low fences.  A yellowing sun threw hot rays against the rooftops as it drew to setting, promising a clear night after the chill day of sleet and rain.  A peaceful night, apart from the woman screaming in the street. 

She ran hither and thither, this woman, too well-bred for such carrying-on, the goodwives thought, to judge by her dress and that of the stately man who hurried after her, half entreating her to quiet herself, half begging passers by to give her ear.  At first the goodwives thought to draw the poor woman in to a warm hearth and the satisfaction of their own curiosity, while the goodmen puffed through their mustaches and put a kindly, if gruff arm about the stately man’s shoulders in a genial, sensible manner as though to say “here, let’s have less of that and more action! What’s to be done about all this?”  But upon hearing the woman’s tale the goodwives called to their children and tut-tutted their way indoors; the goodmen suddenly stood off and grumbled into their beards about some work that needed doing out back; so that before long the  poor woman was left to kneel, sobbing, upon the cobblestones, her husband’s arms tight about her, and the street nearly empty but for the driven leaves. 

Evening came on; there was nothing for it but to retreat indoors. The stately man sat beside a fire in the grate of the fine room hired in the best inn, his wife lying full upon the bed beside him, wetting the pillow with tears amid her groans.  Now and again the man would venture a word of encouragement or pity, sometimes pleading with his wife to eat of the food brought in by the curious barmaid, herself gone taciturn the moment she too heard their story.  So now they were alone for the night, as neither innkeep nor maid had the slightest inclination to disturb them or even to wait upon their needs longer than was strictly necessary.  So the woman wept and her husband fretted until the sun was well down and the stars high, and no one disturbed them.

That is, until the door abruptly shook upon its hinges under fist blows thunderous enough to fell a portcullis.  Man and wife fell perfectly silent at that, exchanging fearful and wondering looks as the hammering began again, a burst of heavy, demanding knocks.  That stirred the man, who rose up and set hands to the latch and drew it back to crack open the door.  In her hysteria his wife could scarcely suppress a startled scream at the enormous figure that stood looming without.  Pale eyes glinted in the firelight, brows shaded by the lintel, so tall was he; and broad lips beneath a hawk beak of a nose parted when he spoke to reveal flat, white teeth and were more those of a horse than a man’s. 

“You are being very loud.”

His voice was a growl that gathered itself together in the caverns and hollows of his broad chest and came rumbling and boiling up his throat with all the resonance of the storm’s anger, were it contained in a barrel.  The stately man cleared his throat weakly, which found new strength in a wracking cough that shook him head to well-stockinged toes.  The giant said no more until the man reached a half-choked conclusion, then intoned heavily, “You are unwell, little uncle, and you’ve been dealt with poorly today.”

Something in his tone seemed to have softened and the woman sat up upon the bed and reached out her hands, imploring.

“Come in, sir, please do come in - we are so sorry, Elrik and I, for any distress we’ve caused.  Only do come in and do not turn your back on us!”

The giant looked a little puzzled at this, but obliged, bowing his great head and shouldering past the door before the alarmed Elrik could sufficiently recover himself.  A giant indeed, the old man thought; their visitor was half again as tall as a man, with shoulders built to fill out a doorframe.  He had no hair on his pale face or upon his head; even his brows were clean-shaven.  He came to stand in the middle of the room, looking like a stone monument and as garrulous.  Elrik grimaced and went to stand over his wife, placing a protective hand upon her shoulder.

“Elrik, Lord Orczy, & Lady Emmuska,” said he, then added with a wince, “and you are right, mine guest: I am not well.  This infernal storm...” he trailed off, weariness and grief stifling any sense of protocol.  Unperturbed, the giant bluntly filled the silence.

“The storm did not do that,” he said, pointing a heavy finger.

Milord Orczy gently touched his blacked eye and the fresh gash below it, saying, “ah, this.  This came to me by a brigand’s hand.”

“We started early this morning,” Lady Orczy interrupted.  “We meant to come down to Drakeswold for the spring; our son does love mountains, and my lord husband is so busy with the estates.  Only, he isn’t really our son, you see; our grandson by way of a daughter, gone these eleven years, gods release her.  He’s all the family we’ve left in our old age; we call him our son.”

The giant said nothing, though if it were possible for impassive statues to look tedious, his was the expression for it.

“In short, good mine guest,” Lord Orczy said hastily, “a brigand came upon us over a lonely stretch of road.  Gave me this and this”—touching fingers gingerly to his face—“then as I lay in the mud he took our boy onto his saddle and rode away without having said a word.”

Lady Orczy was weeping again as her husband fell silent.

“He took the boy, but nothing else?” the giant  asked.  “You didn’t know him?”

“No,” Orczy answered.  “Although it might well cross your mind—it has ours—that he knows us; a public figure I am, and wealthy too, traveling alone with my wife and son along a country road.  But no, I cannot say I know him.  He was a great brute of a man, and appeared a knight for his armor.  His face I did not see; he wore a helm and war mask like a horned skull.  A towering man,” he repeated.

“What did you do then?”

“We came here, called upon the watch, only...”

Lady Orczy was cut off by a loud scoff from her lord husband: “Only the Watch Master is a demmed fool!  He called the knight a ghost, a wight cole up from the barrows or some such—that he’s taken our Dereck to squire, and him not the first.  The Death Knight, he called him!

“There was no help from the guard after that; and when we looked elsewhere, people turned up their noses and muttered inanities about ghosts and squires until their doors shut in our faces.  Ghosts!  He was real enough, by my eyes.  Lud! but I’ll have our boy back from him, be he madman or risen ghost.”

“Then you will die for it,” the giant interposed suddenly.  “But I will not.”

Struck dumb by the promise spoken so forcefully in so voluminous a voice, Milord and Lady Orczy gazed as at a descending deva at the giant of a man, as his voice rose to shake the rafters: 

“I am Lagerthof Gostaberling—and I will kill your Death Knight!”

————

Mind...blown

I'm probably the last person on the net to notice this: