Sherry Chandler

Fifty years after the fact, Blackboard Jungle strikes me as a very earnest movie dedicated to the proposition that all America’s troubled youth need is a really dedicated and creative English teacher, the kind who can weed out the bad apples and frog-march them down to the principle’s office.

It’s an attractive idea, I’ll admit.

I was ten years old when this movie was released, not old enough to see such dangerous fare but old enough to be impressed by the rock ‘n roll soundtrack. I had two teen-aged brothers. I knew from Bill Haley & his Comets. Update: According to Destitute Gluch, the film was banned in several cities for fear it would incite violence and Clare Booth Luce kept it from being shown at the Venice Film Festival.

Blackboard Jungle was always part of my cultural texture but somehow I never quite got around to seeing it. I knew it, or thought I knew it, by the rock ‘n roll revolution it helped inspire and by the string of B teen-aged rebel movies that followed it. (It reminds of of Jane Eyre in this way, a serious work that begat a pop genre.) I’m not talking Rebel Without a Cause or The Wild One here (the latter predates Blackboard Jungle and the former was released the same year), but drive-in movies like Teenage Thunder or Dragstrip Girl, even The Blob or I Was a Teenage Werewolf. The kind of thing parodied by John Waters’s Cry Baby, which may be the film that caused me to fall in love with Johnny Depp.

The film was adapted from an Evan Hunter novel of the same title and it rings some Ed McBain emotional clichés that were fifties staples: the vulnerable pregnant wife, the predatory career woman.

I don’t have anything very interesting to add to the reams that have been written about Blackboard Jungle. Just a couple of observations about anatomy as destiny. It struck me watching this movie that there is no way Sidney Poitier would ever be convincing as a punk. Anger, yes. He could play anger and pride as Virgil Tibbs in In the Heat of the Night. or anger and weakness as Walter Lee Younger in A Raisin in the Sun but he can never be surly and weak. He can sneer but he can’t sulk. He has, as Lance Mannion suggests, too much innate authority.

Vic Morrow, on the other hand, has just the right pouty-mouthed sulky look to be the punk gang-leader who will be revealed, at the end of the movie, to be a bully and a coward.

I’ve seen Glenn Ford characterized as a bland actor and he could certainly be accused of playing bland in his role as the English teacher and all-round good man, Richard Dadier. Dadier is that American stock character, the ordinary man pushed to extraordinary actions. In portraying Dadier, bland works to Ford’s advantage. Jimmy Stewart spent a lifetime playing just such characters but nobody who ever spent five minutes watching Stewart on screen ever really believed him to be ordinary. Likewise Gregory Peck, who played his own share of Dadier-like characters.

Glenn Ford, on the other hand, really can look 1950s ordinary.

I won’t say it’s because he’s Canadian.

Oh, I have to mention Jamie Farr, who as Jameel Farah, has a small role as that other stock gang member, the mentally challenged one. He grins a lot.

from Paul Fussell’s Poetic Meter & Poetic Form (Random House, 1965):

When we stand well back and survey the whole history of English versification over almost fifteen centuries, we perceive even through the philological upheavals a recurring pattern. The pattern described by metrical history is similar, perhaps, to the general shape of political history in that it consists of oscillations now toward ideals of tight control and unitary domination and now toward a relaxation of such control and domination. But metrical history differs from political in one important way: while political history can be shown to involve a very gradual total tendency toward, say, ideals of egalitarianism or public philanthropy, metrical history exhibits no such long-term “progressive” tendency. Meter has not really become “freer” over the centuries, and indeed “freedom” is not a virtue in meter—expressiveness is. The metrical imperative underlying the words that Yeats arranges is hardly less rigid and “perfect” than that underlying Chaucer’s poetic discourse; and in “free verse” that works there are imperatives no less visible.

This paragraph was written well before L*A*N*G*U*A*G*E poetry but even that rebellious form has its imperatives.

From Charles Baudelaire, “Three drafts of a preface” to The Flowers of Evil, selected and edited by Marthiel and Jackson Mathews (New Directions, 1955). These notes toward a preface I assume were translated by the editors. This is the first attempt, probably dating from the second edition in 1861:

Great men are stupid.

My book may have done some good; I do not regret that. It may have done harm; I do not rejoice at that.

The aim of poetry. This book is not made for my wives, my daughters, or my sisters.

Every sin, every crime I have related has been imputed to me.

Hatred and contempt as forms of amusement. Elegists are vulgar scum. Et verbum caro factum est. The poet is of no party. Otherwise, he would be a mere mortal.

The Devil. Original sin. Man as good. If you would, you could be the Tyrant’s favorite; it is more difficult to love God than to believe in Him. On the other hand, it is more difficult for people nowadays to believe in the Devil than to love him. Everyone smells him and no one believes in him. Sublime subtlety of the Devil.

…We are all hanged or hangable.

I have included a certain amount of filth to please the gentlemen of the press. They have proved ungrateful.

We’ve had a Japanese twist to our movies lately, having watched Letters From Iwo Jima and Kenneth Branagh’s version of As You Like It in one week.

Branagh’s take on the play — at least he doesn’t call “William Shakespeare’s As You Like It,” a sure indication that much liberty has been taken with the original — sets it in Victorian Japan. Unfortunately for me, about all that offered was a chance to see what a great Darth Vader Brian Blessed would have made. Blessed is cast as both the good duke (Senior) and the bad duke (Frederick). The former he plays with avuncular smarm and the latter with dark gusto. But the Japanese armor has to bring the Star Wars figure to mind. But again, I’m convinced George Lucas stole Darth Vader’s look for Akira Kurosawa’s Throne of Blood.

Though 19th Century Japan may seem counter-intuitive for a Shakespeare play, as hubby points out, none of it matters once Willie has maneuvered his characters into the Forst of Arden, for there is neverland. In neverland, it is fun to watch Blessed, of course, and Kevin Kline, who is probably the United States’s best Shakespearean actor. The NYTimes says

…[Mr. Kiline] seems unable ever to hit a false note. As a thoroughgoing depressive here, he brings some clairvoyance to melancholy, which suits him.

Mr. Kline has, without fanfare, become a kind of elder statesman of American acting, with no taint on him. His face is so kindly and his voice so unforced that viewers can’t help wanting the satisfaction of seeing him cover the big hits…

He is also wonderfully graceful and he gets to use some of his dancer’s moves in this role.

Otherwise, if you want the genius of Branagh’s Shakespeare adaptations, I’d recommend his Hamlet . Here’s Andrea Gronvall in The Chicago Reader:

Although it’s far from the worst thing I’ve ever watched on the small screen, this As You Like It is notable chiefly for Branagh’s puzzling creative decisions. While his fin de siecle Hamlet used the collapse of the Austro-Hungarian Empire and Europe’s slide into world war as the backdrop for the protagonist’s existential dilemma, As You Like It employs its period and locale only as window dressing. The movie opens with a Kabuki performance (by one of the film’s few Japanese actors, Takuya Shimada) that’s disrupted by Duke Frederick’s takeover of his brother’s estate. Interiors follow the lines of traditional Japanese architecture, but nothing is made of how rooms influence the lives of those within them. (Contrast that with the many mirrored doors and hidden passageways in Hamlet, where the production design fits the court intrigue like an expensive glove.)

Try also Branagh’s Henry V. Even his Much Ado About Nothing, which at least offers Emma Thompson.

Maybe what’s missing in all of this is Branagh himself in a major role?

The Kentucky Women Writers Conference calls for submissions for their 2008 prizes:

Each year, the Kentucky Women Writers Conference offers opportunities for both emerging and established voices to be singled out and cheered on by our community.

This year, we are pleased to again present the Betty Gabehart Prize and also the Gypsy Slam Poetry Prize.

The Gabehart Prize is our way of honoring our good friend, patron, and long-time director who took the decade of the 1980s to show us all how it’s done. Three prizes are awarded, in poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. Each winner receives $100, two 2-day passes, and the opportunity to read her winning manuscript at the conference.

Guidelines at the link.

A correspondent sent this link with the remark, “let’s open ANWR and more of our coastlines to the same stalwart oversight.”

Greg Palast, Court Rewards Exxon for Valdez Oil Spill:

Chicago Tribune (revised)

[Thursday, June 26, 2008] Twenty years after Exxon Valdez slimed over one thousand miles of Alaskan beaches, the company has yet to pay the $5 billion in punitive damages awarded by the jury. And now they won’t have to. The Supreme Court today cut Exxon’s liability by 90% to half a billion. It’s so cheap, it’s like a permit to spill.

Exxon knew this would happen. Right after the spill, I was brought to Alaska by the Natives whose Prince William Sound islands, livelihoods, and their food source was contaminated by Exxon crude. My assignment: to investigate oil company frauds that led to to the disaster. There were plenty.

But before we brought charges, the Natives hoped to settle with the oil company, to receive just enough compensation to buy some boats and rebuild their island villages to withstand what would be a decade of trying to survive in a polluted ecological death zone.

In San Diego, I met with Exxon’s US production chief, Otto Harrison, who said, “Admit it; the oil spill’s the best thing to happen” to the Natives.

His company offered the Natives pennies on the dollar. The oil men added a cruel threat: take it or leave it and wait twenty years to get even the pennies. Exxon is immortal - but Natives die.

And they did. A third of the Native fishermen and seal hunters I worked with are dead. Now their families will collect one tenth of their award, two decades too late.

Follow the link and read all of this post.

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Addendum: And then there’s this: Supreme Court Strikes Down ‘Millionaire’s Amendment’ :

WASHINGTON — The Supreme Court on Thursday struck down a law meant to level the financial playing field when rich candidates pay for their own political campaigns.

The 5-to-4 decision, legal experts said, was significant for rejecting the rationale behind the law, known as the “millionaire’s amendment,” and for confirming the court’s continuing skepticism about the constitutionality of campaign finance regulations.

“Supporters of reasonable campaign finance regulation are now zero for three in the Roberts court,” said Richard L. Hasen, a professor at Loyola Law School in Los Angeles. “This is a signal of what is to come. What could easily fall following this case are the longstanding limits on corporate and union spending in federal elections.”

The law at issue in Thursday’s decision imposed special rules in races with candidates who finance their own campaigns. Those candidates are required to disclose more information, and their opponents are allowed to raise more money.

Five/four, five/four, five/four…

Well the Supremes have revoked the protections the Second Amendment afforded the American people from the dangers of an unregulated militia.

Several years ago I read a study of Thomas Jefferson’s ideas and I came across the truism that the early framers of the Constitution & Bill of Rights were thoroughly schooled in the Law, and in Colonial America that meant they were extensively trained in Latin composition. I have noticed that writers like Chaucer, Shakespeare and Sterne who have such training often write as if they were translating from the Latin.

So when I see a phrase such as “A well-regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State,” I recognize that peculiarity of Latin grammar, the Ablative Absolute. Such critters are adverbial phrases which directly modify the verb in the main clause, “the right of the people to keep and bear Arms shall not be infringed.” [emphasis inserted] Many a dangling participle has been aborn by writers trying to employ an Abl. Abs. in English. It follows that an unregulated militia would have its gun-totin’ rights severely curtailed in the interests of the safety of the State.

Scalia aspires to the distinction of being a Strict Constructionist. He needs to brush up on his history and grammar first. People who deploy dangerous armaments such as handguns and legal opinions need a thorough grounding in the basics lest they go off half-cocked.

I own a firearm or three and I also had the unhappy adolescent experience of shooting a goat in the leg through carelessness. The safety on my .22 was not very, so I learned to be extra careful. Anyone who wants to carry a firearm or even keep one in the house for protection needs some thorough training in safety and marksmanship. That is the true meaning of “well-regulated.”

From Lady Wilde’s Ancient Legends, Mystic Charms, and Superstitions of Ireland, The King of the Cats

A most important personage in feline history is the King of the Cats. He may be in your house a common looking fellow enough, with no distinguishing mark of exalted rank about him, so that it is very difficult to verify his genuine claims to royalty. Therefore the best way is to cut off a tiny little bit of his ear. If he is really the royal personage, he will immediately speak out and declare who he is; and perhaps, at the same time, tell you some very disagreeable truths about yourself, not at all pleasant to have discussed by the house cat.

A man once, in a fit of passion, cut off the head of the domestic pussy, and threw it on the fire. On which the head exclaimed, in a fierce voice, “Go tell your wife that you have cut off the head of the King of the Cats; but wait! I shall come back and be avenged for this insult,” and the eyes of the cat glared at him horribly from the fire.

And so it happened; for that day year, while the master of the house was playing with a pet kitten, it suddenly flew at his throat and bit him so severely that he died soon after.

When my son left home, he left some things behind, including some of his bathroom reading: several books of The Far Side cartoons, Terry Pratchett’s Monstrous Regiment, and The Vintage Book of Contemporary American Short Stories (ed. Tobias Wolff, 1994).

Curious, and maybe looking for a way to feel connected to my wandering child, I picked up the anthology and turned to the first story. It was Dorothy Allion’s “River of Names.”

Oh my soul and whiskers. What to make of this.

We were so many we were without number and, like tadpoles, if there was one less from time to time, who counted? My maternal great-grandmother had eleven daughters, seven sons; my grandmother, six sons, five daughters. Each one made at least six. Some made nine. Six times six, eleven times nine. They went on like multiplication tables. They died and were not missed. I come of an enormous family and I cannot tell half their stories. Somehow it was always made to seem they killed themselves: car wrecks, shotguns, dusty ropes, screaming, falling out of windows, things inside them…

…So I made a list. I told her: that one went insane—got her little brother with a tire iron; the three of them slit their arms, not the wrists but the bigger veins up near the elbow; she, now, she strangled the boy she was sleeping with and got sent away; that one drank lye and died laughing soundlessly. In one year I lost eight cousins. It was the year everybody ran away. Four disappeared and were never found. One fell in the river and was drowned. One was run down hitchhiking north. One was shot running through the woods, while Grace, the last one, tried to walk from Greenville to Greer for some reason nobody knew. She fell off the overpass a mile down from the Sears, Roebuck warehouse and lay there for hunger and heat and dying.

This nine-page story has in it so much violence and abuse, so much waste of human life, that it made me feel zero at the bone. A rare accomplishment for a short story. I have come to think of the form as a sort of dessicated thing, artfully put together but appealing only to the intellect. Like a poem by Alexander Pope, except perhaps without the wit. Short stories, I thought, have become vehicles for expressing middle class angst.

“River of Names” is way too full of blood to be dessicated and there is certainly nothing middle class about it. Though there may be wit and even satire, we’re a long way from Alexander Pope here. But surely this isn’t realism. Perhaps what we have here is a classic unreliable narrator. She says

I tell the stories and it comes out funny. I drink bourbon and make myself drawl, tell all those old funny stories.

Funny?

Surely this is a redneck personna pushed to the extreme of fable. Exaggerated and in your face. You want Southern Gothic. I’ll show you Southern Gothic.

I have a vague memory of Dorothy Allison’s Bastard Out of Carolina being a sensation back in the 90s. It was a novel I always meant to get around to reading but somehow never did. A movie I didn’t want to see until I’d read the novel. Maybe I didn’t read it because I had small children then and lots of novels and movies slipped by me. Or maybe it was because I’ve become somewhat leery of Southern Gothic. What was art in the hands of Faulkner and O’Connor too often becomes formula in the hands of their heirs. If you’re a Southern writer, sometimes it seems like you feel an obligation to be more outrageous than the last guy. I can’t spend too much time in Baby Jane land.

Looking around for some way to add context to this disturbing story, I was sort of glad to find this hard-headed post, Bastard Out of Carolina Redux at Literacy, Culture, and the Teacher of Reading, reflecting on her reaction to finding “River of Names” on the school reading list:

When I was a teenager, I was a member of the Speech and Debate team. I competed in several categories, one of which was called OI - Oral Interpretation. We would stand with these little black binders and read prose and poetry pieces with dramatic effect and facial expression. I usually read Dorothy Parker stories (I was a sarcastic feminist in my teens, too), my teammates preferred the original Grimm fairy tales, and there was always a reading from Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul.

But Bastard Out of Carolina held a special place in the black mini-binders of the girls from St. Joseph’s High School, Brooklyn. It seemed that whenever a St. Joe’s girl was in your OI room, you heard a terrible story of rape, incest, beatings, poverty and the struggle for survival. I hated the St. Joe’s girls because their pieces were all alike, they all involved a gruff Southern man and a shrill girl begging for mercy, I knew there was the potential for fake tears, snot and gasping for air. It seemed so over-the-top, condescending to victims of the many separate acts of violence that all managed to sneak their way into ten minutes of prose, and it all sounded so melodramatic in a silent classroom.

I also hated the St. Joe’s girls because they usually won. I hated Dorothy Allison for writing for those pieces.

So when we read “River of Names” in class last night, I felt like a teenage girl in her Sunday best, shrinking back into my seat and saying goodbye to a Speech and Debate trophy. I wasn’t surprised by the content, or the fact it was “horrible” and “fascinating” in its depth. I knew what was coming. I heard the St. Joe’s version of the gruff rapist and the crying female in my head before the rape and crying began.

There is in fact rape and screaming in this story. Too much to comprehend almost. There is also lesbianism, though I wonder whether it might be lesbianism as refuge from the abuse of heterosexuality. And it does seem as though Dorothy Allison has got in the face of this New York teacher. Or maybe it was just those St. Joseph’s girls doing OI. She (I am assuming) continues:

So, how did I do with “River of Names” when we read it in class? Pretty well, actually. I began to see it for its structure, which I never fully appreciated when hearing it read. Reading it for myself allowed me to focus on the intertwining of past and present, creating a haunting feeling that focusing only on the horribly, fascinating events could never convey. I was able to connect the text, not to the St. Joseph’s girl standing before me. It wasn’t “her piece.” It reverted back to its rightful author and was something to be experienced by anyone that read it.

But still she has reservations:

Don’t think I suddenly want to start to the Dorothy Allison fan club, though. I still feel that the material can be too raw, and read melodramatically without understanding of the core of the cycle of violence, poverty and abuse. My relationships with my students, and the knowledge of their lives and stories, make these texts too real, and much less of the novelty they can become for the “fairy tale” reader. I’m far from the “fairy tale” reader.

I don’t enjoy reading these texts for the same reason I can’t watch Law and Order: Special Victims Unit. I know Special Victims; they have names and stories and they sit in my class. To have them read these pieces may be cathartic, may provide them with strength, may even give them a starting place to understand themselves and the world. However, these pieces may reinforce their cycles, prove that these cycles are normal, and hey, if other people went through them and survived to write bestsellers, maybe others will be ok too having never broken the cycle. The use of literature as a tool to expose the reader to a familiar, new world does not work with some of my readers.

I don’t think “River of Names” is a fairy tale, though I can understand any teacher’s reservation in presenting this material to vulnerable students. It is beautifully structured and written. It is moving. It is shocking. It certainly shocked me out of my prejudices against the modern short story.

It is trying to tell us something serious about the waste that is poverty and ignorance.

The question in my mind, I guess, is does it succeed? Or will most people approach it like those St. Joseph’s girls, as a tall tale to win prizes with.