FIRST DAY OF SPRING IN FERGUSON, MO.

(After "Daffodils" by William Wordsworth)


I wandered like a tear gas cloud
     Shouting, "Black lives matter" as I trod.
When all at once I saw a crowd,
     A host of the Riot Squad;
Beside the river, beneath the trees,
Stalwart and grimacing in the breeze.

Continuous as the buttons that shine
     Upon a policeman's chest,
They stretched in never-ending line,
     Poised to make arrests;
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Swinging their clubs in a baleful dance.

Angry people taunt the cops; attacked,
     The once-brave marchers flee:
A poet never could be gay,
     In such beleaguered company.
I gazed - and gazed - but little thought
That, merely marching, I'd be caught.

For oft, when in my cell I lie
     In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flashback on that inner eye
     Which is the bane of solitude;
And before my head can nod
I rise and curse the Riot Squad.

ALMOSTLAND: Peter Pan Live on NBC.

On Thursday (12/4/14) night, NBC attempted to recapture the thrill of watching Peter Pan on live television – and almost succeeded. If the acting, directing and flying were better, they might have added something to the Peter Pan canon. Instead, they gave ammunition to their critics.

Allison Williams has the appropriate androgenous look and youthful appeal to play the boy who never grew up. I’m sure, she can sing, too. It was probably the pressure of live television that caused her to run out of breath and carefully avoid high notes. No such problems with Kelli O’Hara as Mrs. Darling. I’d say she’s the platonic ideal of a Victorian mother except my feelings are more than platonic. The role of Mr. Darling should only be played by the same actor as Captain Hook. No other casting is acceptable. Thus, it would be unfair to criticize the performance of Christian Borle, but we might question his judgment. That leaves Christopher Walken as Captain Hook.

So good in so many things, Mr. Walken is so bad in so many ways that it’s a mystery. What, for instance, was he looking at that was just off-camera and below eye level? Was it a teleprompter? That would explain the, at best, distracted nature of his performance. At best, however, that should only happen once or occasionally. Christopher Walken almost never looked at the camera or the other actors. Even his famously deadpan style and eccentric speech patterns can’t explain the completely disengaged nature of his entire performance. 

Rob Ashford’s work as director is harder to judge. He can’t be credited with imposing a unique vision or style upon either the 1904 original or 1954 musical version of Peter Pan. Nor do we know which bad decisions (casting, for instance) to blame him for and which were foisted upon him. As captain of the production, however, Mr. Ashford is responsible for everything and must go down with the pirate ship.

As for flying, I didn’t see any. Neither in fantasy nor reality do people fly with their legs dangling. Look at Superman. Even planes pull up their landing gear. I saw a lot of hanging and swinging in this production, but nothing that looked like flying. Booo.

Live TV production of famous plays is still a good idea. So is quality family entertainment and television viewing as an event. Ironically, the success of last year’s The Sound of Music (also produced by Neil Meron and Craig Zadan) set both a precedent and raised the bar very high. Their next production - I hope there is one - will have to clear it. Almost isn’t enough.

ASHES TO ASHES, FAIRY DUST TO FAIRY DUST.

Vintage 10/26/09 post from archives:

How could such a bleak and depressing play as Peter Pan ever have been considered children’s fare? Sure, there are pirates, Indians and mermaids, but those are just distractions. It’s really about fear, loneliness, aging and death. 

Take growing up. Peter is opposed. Not because he enjoys childhood so much, but because he fears adulthood. Peter is one year old, being pushed in his pram, when he overhears his parents making plans for his future. This doesn’t square with him, so he bolts. The fairies in Kensington Garden tell   him how to get to Neverland and off he flies. 

That he would make a life-altering decision at such a tender age shows an impulsiveness more common in tragic heroes. What’s more, like those heroes, Peter must face the consequences of his acts. Because of a decision made when he was in his baby carriage, he spends the rest of his life as a virtual orphan. Yes, Neverland has the aforementioned distractions, but he misses his mother. That’s why he visits Wendy. He’s not exactly self-sufficient, either. Peter cries when he loses his shadow and needs Wendy 

to sew it back on.

However much Peter wants or needs her, Wendy goes home at the end of the play. She does, however, agree to see him again next year at “Spring Cleaning” time. This hasty solution bears within it the seed of another dilemma. What happens when Wendy grows up? Both the play and the novel versions of Peter Pan acknowledge that Wendy must get older with each succeeding visit. The play hints at it. The later novel is much more explicit. It ends with Wendy, a married woman, sending her young daughter, Jane, off to visit Neverland with Peter. Thus, beginning a tradition that is passed down through the generations.

                                                         

This serial Wendyism may solve one problem, but, again, it creates another. How can Peter ignore the effects of aging upon the original Wendy? Immune to the passage of time himself, he must watch it consume her in year-long gulps. See her change in front of his eyes. Getting bigger  - and then smaller. “Whom the Gods love die young” for this very reason. They are never diminished nor witness the gradual dimming of those they love. Something of which Barrie’s contemporary, A.E. Houseman, was exquisitely aware. Look at his poem,  “To An Athlete Dying Young,” wherein he writes, “Smart lad, to slip betimes away/From fields where glory does not stay” and “Eyes the shady night has shut/Cannot see the record cut.” If there is a brief for not growing up, this poem is it. Houseman’s solution, however, is a little drastic. It follows, “The road all runners come/shoulder–high we bring you home.” 

Peter Pan can’t die, though, because he’s already dead. Look at the evidence. He enjoys the only permanent, unchanging condition known to man. He lives in a paradise where no one ages. An undiscovered country from whose born a traveler never, never returneth. The play, itself, begins and ends in a bedroom.  If you think that sleep is a rather unsubtle metaphor for death, you definitely won’t like the clock. Captain Hook is chased throughout the play by the man-eating crocodile that’s already taken his hand. How does he know this normally furtive reptile is near? The beast has also swallowed a clock. The approach of death is heralded by a ticking clock. The only thing missing is Tinker Bell saying, “Walk toward the light, walk toward the light.”

Now would be a good time to step back from the brink, if only to better appreciate the joy in Peter Pan. Thinking lovely thoughts, for instance. What could be nicer? And flying – what could be more fun? Then there’s Wendy, her mother and Nana, all of whom are unambiguously good. Not that a character has to be bland or sweet to be positive. Tinker Bell, for instance, is appealingly tart. Especially in the Disney version, where she gives off as much heat as light.

Yet, what do people remember about Peter Pan? Those charming moments in the nursery? Playing house in Neverland? Among writers (a brooding group, I’ll grant you) it tends to be the darker aspects. Peter’s literary influence, unlike his entrance, comes with shadows attached. Take F. Scott Fitzgerald. Only a generation later, he writes about a lonely dreamer stuck on this side of paradise. The following passage, the ending of The Great Gatsby, could just as easily be describing Peter as he hovers outside Wendy’s window, casting one last backwards glance before returning to Neverland. “He had come a long way to this blue lawn and his dream must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it. He did not know that it was already behind him, somewhere back in the vast obscurity beyond the city, where the dark fields of the republic rolled on into the night. Gatsby believed in the green light, in the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter - tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther … And one fine morning – So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”

Again, a mere generation later, Peter returns, practically in the flesh, as Tom Wingfield in The Glass Menagerie by Tennessee Williams. Tom’s futile attempt to save his fragile, younger sister from the brutality of life with a dominating parent parallels the story of Peter, Wendy and her Captain Hook-like father. The directions to Neverland are, “First star to the right and straight on until morning.” The last part is significant because, as Tom Wingfield says, “I didn’t go to the moon, I went much further – for the time is the greatest distance between two places.” One reason why Peter is constantly fighting pirates and Indians may be that, like Tom, he is, “Attempting to find in motion what was lost in space.” Neither, of course, succeeds. Their days may be filled with violent activity, but they don’t build upon each other. They have no cumulative value. As Williams’s hero puts it, “They swept about me like dead leaves, leaves that were brightly colored but torn away from the branches.” Why does Peter return to Wendy every year at “Spring Cleaning” time? Tom Wingfield, again, may have the answer as he confesses, “I tried to leave you behind, but I am more faithful then I intended to be!” Tom feels enormous guilt over not being able to save his sister. As for Peter, who knows? Maybe he never expected Wendy to stay with him in Neverland. It is, after all, a candle-lit world and, as the last line of The Glass Menagerie reminds us, “Nowadays the world is lit by lightning!”

                                               

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying that Peter Pan isn’t for children. It’s exciting and fast-paced enough to thrill even the most video-besotted tot. It just shouldn’t be thought of as exclusively for children, something lost on most productions. Worse even than the simple-minded approach of these affairs is that they usually happen around the Holiday Season, when there is already enough saccharine in the culture to sweeten an ocean without adding calories. So, by all means, see Peter Pan with a child. They can hold your hand through the scary parts.

MAGIC IN THE MOONLIGHT: WHAT DOESN'T THRILL ME, MAKES IT LONGER.

     Woody Allen knows the recipe for a romantic comedy, but he's lost the instructions. With Magic In The Moonlight, he combines the perfect ingredients (appealing actors, beautiful scenery, a summer moon) but the results are half-baked.

     Colin Firth plays a stage magician touring Europe in the Twenties. He's professionally successful, but personally unpopular. We know that because he plays to large audiences and yells at his assistants and crew members backstage. If that's too subtle, a fellow magician tells him that he may be successful, but he's a terrible person. Firth is further isolated because there's no one above him. At least, that he acknowledges. We know that because he calls himself a genius, derides his colleagues and announces loudly, frequently and without provocation that he is a devout atheist. Anyone, of course, who believes in a higher power is beneath both him and his contempt.

     Firth's character, named Stanley and known professionally as Wei Ling Soo, is called to the South of France to investigate an allegedly fake medium, who is financially exploiting a wealthy, but mourning family. Her name is Sophie and she's embodied - or disembodied - by Emma Stone. Stanley is immediately attracted to Sophie because she looks like, well, Emma Stone. She is likewise attracted to him because he looks like Colin Firth. (By the way, his character seems to be equal parts pride and prejudice. Hmmm.) There are no complications. Instead, we have a Sisyphean romance, in which they push the boulder of their mutual attraction up a steep hill until it becomes a pebble of affection, which they mistake for love because the movie is almost over.

     It's a tribute to Colin Firth's skill and dedication as an actor that he can say the line, "What you see is what you get" without sounding like Flip Wilson. He can also perform what is, essentially, the last scene of 

My Fair Lady without breaking into "I've Grown Accustomed To Her Face." Emma Stone is pretty enough to play gorgeous, but she needs help - preferably from the script. Wendy Hiller, for instance, covers a lot more distance between the two in the last scene of the 1938 film,Pygmalion (how that play comes up!) but she was helped by three major talents at their peak, George Bernard Shaw, Leslie Howard  and the director, Anthony Asquith.

     Magic In The Moonlight (2014) shows that Woody Allen is a master craftsman. He can, no doubt, compile a film script in minutes. He should, however, devote more time to the art of screenwriting. To paraphrase a quote by Thomas Hobbes that is dragged through the movie, Magic In The Moonlight is hasty, brutish and not short enough.

A PRISONER EXCHANGE IS NOT FANTASY BASEBALL.

Trading five of your best players for Alec Rodriguez may seem like a good deal, but what if Alec Rodriguez turns out to be, well, Alec Rodriguez? You look like a gullible fool.  Not to mention what it does to your line-up. Your only hope, in that case, is to find someone who still wants Mr. Rodriguez. A little kid, for instance. The problem there is that kids are usually smarter and less gullible than you think. You don’t have that problem with Congressmen. They’re never smarter or more sophisticated than you think.

       I don’t want to get into parties or petty distinctions - being a Senator, for example. Instead, let my comments stand for everyone who has criticized the recent trade of five Guantanamo Bay prisoners for U.S. Army Sergeant Bowe Bergdahl. They are all feeble children treating the life of a U.S. soldier as if it were part of a sports trade.                                          

      “He isn’t worth five prisoners.” “We already have a sergeant.” “We’re getting rooked.” “We should have asked for money and a prisoner to be named later.” You might expect this reaction from the usual cast of dressed-up Snopeses, who have represented large parts of the country for a long time. Surprisingly, they are joined by members of both houses, who, otherwise, are supporters of the President. These people should know better. Instead, they protect their privileges against Presidential incursion with an unashamed vigor. The only possible excuse is that as members of a debased institution, Senators and Representatives are forced to grub for respect like convicts trying to dig their way out of prison with a spoon. Even worse than the foregoing behavior are attempts to discredit Sgt. Bergdahl. 

     Do we really want to go there? Do we really want to open up that can of worms? First, there’s the issue of credibility. Remember “Swiftboating?” If you don’t, ask Secretary of State John Kerry to explain it. You may also want to speak to former U.S. Army Private First Class Jessica Lynch. Not only was her military service – and supposed “heroics” – treated as a political football, but it began with her being rescued as a Prisoner Of War being held by the Iraqis. And those are lies! What about the truth?  I’m not even talking about wartime atrocities, I mean the enormous, growing and, heretofore, ignored problem of sexual violence against women and men in the service. Unless we want the truth about the armed forces and are willing to face the consequences, we shouldn’t go peeking into anyone’s record.

     Besides, what alternative is there to saving Sgt. Bergdahl? Leave one man behind? Is that the new army motto? Or is it more personal, leave this guy behind? "I never liked him, anyway." "He's only a sergeant." "He's been a prisoner for five years, he's damaged goods." "Suppose we rescue him and he dies? Then we really look like suckers."

     Unless being a POW is not as bad as it seems. If it were really bad, wouldn't prisoners die instantly? Compared to that, five years looks like a lifestyle. If only there was Senator, a well-known and highly-regarded Senator, who had been a POW for five years. I'm sure he could provide valuable insights. On second thought, maybe not.

     Can any good come from this whole tragic episode? Once you've seen one set of grieving parents try to throw another one under the bus, what can you believe in? Let's assume that the five prisoners released from Guantanamo are guilty. (Not legally guilty, of course. They've never been charged or put on trial, but they look guilty and, let's face it, they didn't check into Guantanamo voluntarily, so someone thought they were guilty, right?) The very idea of finding guilty people in Guantanamo Bay means the system works! Okay, five out of an estimated several hundred is not a great record, but no one bats a thousand. Compared to an average of, say, .200, it' not bad. If we were trading prisons, I'd go for it.

GEORGE PLIMPTON: REVOLUTIONARY 'ROID.

     Judging from Plimpton! Starring George Plimpton as Himself, part of the American Masters 2014 season on WNET, Mr. Plimpton was exactly what he appeared to be: an overhearty Old Boy with a little talent, a lot of personality and no inner life. He was George W. Bush except he became a celebrity instead of President of the United States.                        

     Invited by his childhood friend, Peter Matthiessen, to start a magazine, Plimpton co-founded the Paris Review, with which he was associated for the rest of his life. For almost exactly fifty years, he ran and financially supported the magazine. Even to the extent of using his apartment as the office. It was more than a  cultivated hobby, however. As someone in the film says, George needed the Paris Review as much as much as it needed him.            

     The same, however, can't be said of his two wives, Sarah and Freddy. Both are interviewed for this film and while they admit to marrying George, neither claims to have known him.

     Public life is where George Plimpton made a distinct and lasting impression. There's his famously plummy accent - more upper-class than New England - as if Parker Fennelly owned Pepperidge Farm in addition to being their spokesman. The tall, slender figure topped with a round face, weak chin and mop of boyishly cut hair made him resemble the inverted exclamation point at the front of a Spanish sentence. 

     How about Plimpton as a writer? Was he any good? Ernest Hemingway seemed to think so. The aging author called him, "The real thing." Keep in mind, however, that "Papa" saved his compliments for sycophants and would never praise a writer whose talent in any way approached his own.

     If George enjoyed any fame as a writer, it was due to his non-fiction. Under the rubric of "participatory journalism," Plimpton attempted several professions - pro sports,
circus aerialist, stand-up comic - at the highest levels and reported on his experience. It was a win-win situation, especially in sports. No one expected him to succeed and if he did - bonus! It was always about him, though. You had to like George more than hockey to read about him being a goalie for the Boston Bruins.

     Perhaps the least self-centered thing he did was work on Bobby Kennedy's campaign for President. Not only did it show public spirit,
but when tragedy struck, he was one of the people who wrestled Sirhan Sirhan to the ground. We'll never know for sure, though, because George Plimpton never wrote about it
or spoke about it - to anyone. Ever.

     The film has footage of George during a rehearsal of the New York Philharmonic. Standing in as the percussionist, Plimpton is asked by the conductor, Leonard Bernstein, to repeat a passage several times. The Maestro is non-plussed. "They're all different," says Bernstein, "which one did you mean?" The same could be asked of George Plimpton's life.

FAMOUS FIRST WORDS.

"Some women choose to follow men and some women choose to follow their dreams. If you're wondering which way to go, remember that your career will never wake up and tell you that it doesn't love you anymore."

                                        - Lady Gaga


               Remember Lady Gaga?

PAY RAISE.

(Sung to the tune of "Heat Wave" by Irving Berlin)

He's getting a pay raise
Executive pay raise.
It isn't surprising
Lloyd Blankfein is smiling
The way that he ran Goldman.

The ethically blind rave
It wasn't a crime wave.
He's simply much bolder
Enriching stockholders
Than any lawyer can understand.

See how his cash reward 
and his salary
and his bonus soared. Good Lord!

He's getting a pay raise
Executive pay raise.
The only pay package 
That's more of an outrage
Is Dimon's who ran Morgan.

AMY CHUA: THE KARATE AND STICK APPROACH.

  If Horatio Alger is the poet of upward mobility in America, then Amy Chua is its tabloid editor. Her previous book, Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother, found childrearing wisdom in the brainwashing techniques of China’s Cultural Revolution. (TFT 1/25/11) Her latest work is The Triple Package and - according to short excerpts and published descriptions - reduces the former book’s content to a formula, applies it to society as a whole and seasons generously with the bad taste of counting other people’s money.

The sub-title for Ms. Chua’s tome is “How Three Unlikely Traits Explain The Rise and Fall of Cultural Groups in America.” If that seems familiar it’s because it echoes those cheesy, small-space ads on the internet: “One Really Weird Trick For Losing Belly Fat.” If it seems obscure, blame it on the phrase, “cultural group.” By that, the author does not mean The Chamber Music Society of New York. She means what other people call racial, ethnic and religious minorities. If you hear goosestepping in the background that’s because the “rise” of minorities in America is not always viewed positively. Henry Ford, for instance, was preoccupied with the success of a certain “cultural group.” This may be a good, though not the best, place to mention Amy Chua’s co-author, Jed Rubenfeld. Not only is he the author’s husband and a fellow law professor, Mr. Rubenfeld maintains a respectable side career as a mystery novelist. Since there is no polite way to speculate on his involvement in this project and, judging by his name, we share a “cultural group,” I will refrain.

Any further discussion of this book must wait until it’s published on February fourth. If you can’t wait, however, and absolutely must know what three qualities constitute “The Triple Package,” then – again, based on short excerpts and various published descriptions - I would sum them up as: strong group identity, weak personal identity and brutal, internalized discipline. Of course, if you’re part of a certain, very large “cultural group,” you already know that.

J. P. MORGAN CHASTENED (AGAIN!)

(Sung to the tune of “A Foggy Day.” Music by George Gershwin)

Will Jamie pay

For what he’s done?

His bank’s been fined

Twenty billion.

A full year’s profits

Are now down the drain.

Their full faith and credit

Are now that of Spain.

How long he wonders

Can his job last?

How long can they blame

The bank not the brass?

Add legal fees

Ad infinitum

And the chairman,      Mr. Dimon,

Looks more like zirconium.

THE TOASTED OF THE TOWN.

Since it is now legal to buy marijuana for recreational use in Colorado, the following scene is, no doubt, being repeated all over the state.

A woman walks into “Bong For Glory,” a legal marijuana dispensary.

Good morning, madam.

         

Good morning, sir. I’d like an ounce of your best “shit,” please.

I just got some “Maui Zowie” in this morning and I think you’ll find it particularly pungent.

He lets her smell it.

         

Mmmm. How many . . . “doobies” to the ounce?

         

Depends how you roll them.

         

I’ve never done that. I don’t suppose you could do that for me?

         

No, but you could use a pipe.

         

Far too masculine.

         

How about a “bong?”

         

Excuse me?

         

A water pipe.

         

Like a hookah?

         

No, madam, like this.

He takes out an object that looks like plumbing on, well, drugs.

It cools the smoke before you breathe it in and avoids the Mammy Yoakem effect of a pipe.

Very civilized. Do I have to wear a Grateful Dead shirt while using it?

No, but it helps.

No, thanks. I’ll take the, uhh, “bong” and the . . .

“Maui Zowie.”

The clerk rings it up.

         

That will be eight hundred and thirty two dollars.

         

Very expensive. I was led to believe it was a nickel a bag.

         

Not literally, madam. Never literally.

         

Very well.

She charges it.

Here is your receipt, your bong and your “stash.” Have a mellow afternoon.

ON GORGON POND.

     August: Osage County is a good imitation of an American family drama. Written by Tracy Letts (based upon his play) and directed by John Wells, it concerns Violet, a drug-addicted monster of a mother and   her family of minatory women and milquetoast men. Bring them all together at a funeral, stir well and cook until half-baked.

     Meryl Streep is wonderful as Violet, a woman whose character is lacking - but her character is lacking. This drug-addicted mother has no tragic dimension, she’s just a pill. Less Mary Tyrone, the “mad ghost” of

O’Neill’s Long Day’s Journey Into Night and more Neill, the ghost of an alcoholic dog in Topper. She has three children (more or less), a sister, who defines competitive and a grand-daughter, who’s thirteen going on thirty. Assorted - and - sordid husbands, sons and lovers complete the picture. They are watched over with loving grace by Johnna, a Cheyenne servant with reservations about all of them.

The story doesn’t matter - but the stories in this kind of drama never matter. They are only excuses for tearing open old wounds and exposing them to the healing light of truth. The closest this movie gets is when Julia Roberts tries to inflict a new wound on Meryl Streep. The rest is pretty superficial. Speaking of pretty and superficial, there’s some nice scenery. 

August: Osage County lacks the poetry of Tennessee Williams, the bile of Lillian Hellman and the blood of Eugene O’Neill. Doubly a shame because there’s a lot of good acting going on. Watch out for that Meryl 

Streep. She’s going to have a great career.

THE SPY WHO CAME IN FROM THE SNOWDEN.

          Fugitive from justice, Edward Snowden, was flushed into the open recently, but the results were closer     to plumbing than to hunting. Mr. Snowden has been in hiding since stealing defense secrets from the National Security Agency and making them public. Once Judge Richard J. Leon ruled, however, that one of those secret programs - phone-related intelligence gathering - was probably unconstitutional, Snowden emerged to take the moral high ground. It was higher than he thought.

         

         The only response to a judge saying something is probably unconstitutional is, “That’s probably bad.” If the same judge calls a government program “almost Orwellian,” one should reply, “That’s almost literate.” Instead, Edward Snowden took it as a blanket endorse-ment of his activities and mounted the world stage to accept what he no doubt thought would be universal applause. After all, he was protecting his country from the “almost Orwellian” threat of unrestricted government surveillance, wasn’t he? Hmmm.

His intentions may have been good, but the road paved with them leads to Moscow - where Snowden currently lives. Moscow, capital of Russia, the country that inspired George Orwell to write 1984 in the first place. He’s a demi-citizen in a nation that could easily make him a “non-person.” One where there’s no shame - and a good bit of wisdom - in address-ing pro-government views to the nearest lamp or chandelier. Where they make  news by letting billionaires out of jail instead of putting them in.  Not that he would know. The best thing you think you can say about Russian newspapers is that there’s no “truth” in Pravda and no “news” in Izvestia.

         

    Another thing Snowden may not know is that ten days after his friend, Judge Leon, said the NSA might be doing something illegal, Judge William H. Pauley III ruled that they definitely weren’t. So, he should stop worrying about “Big Brother.” Put it, as Orwell wrote, in the “memory hole.”

     It’s not all bad news, though. Apart from embarrassing himself, the biggest danger Snowden now faces is getting too comfortable in Russia. That could lead to him criticizing their government and – with his record of thinking ahead and considering consequences (TFT 11/7/13) – something he should avoid.

So, Edrushka, for your own sake, put away the “Free Pussy Riot” t-shirt and remember that before he was President of Russia, Vladimir Putin ran the KGB. Yeah, the “secret police” or in terms that you and Judge Leon would understand, “The Ministry of Love.”

THE QUEUE IS DEAD! LONG LIVE THE QUEUE!

       Umbrellas as weapons are no longer limited to Bulgarian spies and razor-edged bowlers threaten bargain-hunting Britons as well as James Bond. Black Friday has come to Blighty.

     Black Friday, as Americans know it, is always the day after Thanksgiving, which is always a Thursday, and marks the beginning of the Christmas season. It is celebrated by risking your life for a giant bargain on a giant TV. It is called “Black” because however far in the “red” a retailer may be, the sales on this day always put them in the “black.” As Gabi Thesing reports for Bloomberg News (11/30/13) the British supermarket chain, Asda, introduced the concept at 350 stores around the country on Friday, November 29. “ ‘Shortly after 8 [a.m.] most of the TV’s and tablets were gone,’ said Bryan Roberts, an analyst at Kantar Retail, who witnessed the spectacle at Asda’s store in Wembly. An altercation between two customers over a television ‘gave it an air of American authenticity.’ ” Only an air, however. It isn’t truly American unless a security guard is trampled, pregnant women are kicked to the curb and the crackle of a stun gun rises above the screaming. In all fairness, though, it has taken the U.S. decades to reach this point and arresting a shopper in Bristol for fighting over two televisions is a promising start. Add the woman who broke her arm during a stampede in Belfast and the British can be proud of their first “Black Friday.” 

        Now, the country where they queue for everything can look forward to one day a year when it’s perfectly acceptable to act like a pack of rabid corgis ravishing the Royal Family. Don’t bother to thank the United States. It’s the least we can do for our closest allies.  

YES, CANVAS LOVES ME, DE BOTTON TELLS ME SO.

     Good news for wealthy, but overstressed, professionals with “Jobs to go to, bills to pay [and] homes to manage.” Inner peace is within reach. Easily, so. No religion to study or yoga mats to lug around like a Sherpa. According to Alain de Botton in his article, “Art For Life’s Sake” (WSJ 11/2-3/13) the path to serenity leads not to the mountain top, but through  a museum.

         

     Mr. de Botton begins with several assumptions: that people need help with “some of the troubles of inner life,” that visual art is “uniquely well-suited” to the task and that he has anything of value to say on the subject. The first assumption is validated by the existence of the self-help industry. The second is obvious to anyone who can find a museum with a map.The third merits examination, but only because the author is wallowing in cultural approbation. In addition to writing for The Wall Street Journal, Alain de Botton has written four bestsellers, co-founded a demi-philosophical dodge called “The School of Life” in London and, most impressively, salon moi, is a member of two Royal Societies. Assuming, of course, that they aren’t The Royal Mountebank Society and The Royal Institute of Charlatans.

The first painting that Mr. De Botton addresses is The Linen Closet by the 17^th century Dutch painter, Pieter de Hooch. It shows two servants stocking the eponymous cupboard. “But this picture moves us because the truth of its message is so radiant. If only we, like de Hooch, knew how to recognize the value of ordinary routine, many of our burdens would be lifted.” If only he, like de Hooch, knew that this depiction of ordinary routine was preceded by centuries of exclusively religious art, the value of observing domestic chores would be self-evident. The only lifting of burdens, by the way, is being done by the servants in the painting.

Ironically, it’s their daily routine.

The next work of art is the black-and-white photograph, North Atlantic Ocean, Cliffs of Moher by Hiroshi Sugimoto. Mr. De Botton calls it “abstract” and then proceeds to talk about it in terms of sea, sky and horizon. See here, Alain, it’s either abstract or figurative, recognizable or not. Throwing around terms like that undercuts your authority and undermines your “radiant message.” In this case, a Desiderata-like disquisition about going placidly amid the haste.

          

     Finally, we have Claude Monet’s Impressionist masterpiece, Bridge Over a Pond of Water Lillies. De Botton defends its popularity against charges of vulgar “prettiness.” The precious aesthetes who supposedly make these charges deem it to be an unworthy distraction from “war, disease, political error, immorality.” Our guru, on the other hand, writes, “It is this kind of despondency that art is well-suited to correct and that explains the well-founded enthusiasm for prettiness.” All this talk about prettiness obscures the fact that when this work was painted, it was considered so radical and disturbing that it wasn’t worthy of being displayed with respectable art. Yet, today, Monet is considered so mainstream that Alain De Botton feels compelled to defend him. We could use a different Horatio, however, at this particular bridge. Instead of praising society for finally embracing Impressionism, de Botton’s “radiant message” is “Flowers in spring, blue skies, children running on the beach . . . these are the visual symbols of hope. Cheerfulness is an achievement and hope is something to celebrate.” Writing like that is the hallmark of nothing except greeting cards. As H.L. Mencken wrote about Pres. Warren G. Harding’s command of the English language, “It drags itself out of a dark abysm of pish and crawls insanely up to the topmost pinnacle of posh.”

         

     I seem to be alone, though, in not regarding Alain de Botton as a “renaissance man” of our time – unless you mean Machiavelli or a Borgia pope. To me, he’s more Rev. Ike than Sister Wendy and aspires to be Dr. Phil. Yet, his elevation continues at the bottom of the page where his WSJ article appears. The biographical note states not only that “Art As Therapy,” a book-length version of the above insights (co-authored with John Armstrong) has been published, but “From March to August 2014, Messrs. de Botton and Armstrong will rehang and recaption the works in the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam according to the approach outlined in the book.” I’m trying to picture that, but all I see is a museum lobby with three different admission desks: one says, “Feeling Lonely,” another says, “Feeling Religious” and  the third says, “Feeling Cheap.” The curatorial discussions, though, could be fascinating: “Where should we hang Rembrandt’s The Night Watch? In the Jewelry Collection or the Trouble Sleeping Gallery?”

Far be it from me to insist that there is only one path to enlighten-ment. Buddhism counts eight of them. As for different types of therapy, I agree with the American newspaper columnist and author of Fables In Slang, George Ade, who wrote, “A good jolly is worth whatever you pay for it.” Yet, humbugs abound. So, for the last word on Alain de Botton, I defer to Ade’s contemporary, L. Frank Baum, who, in The Wizard of Oz, wrote, “Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.