We Need To Talk About Scotland

So this independence thing may actually happen. I mean, good for Scotland, I guess. And good on them for the way they're doing it. But... it's complicated.

The only idea more romantic than an independent Scotland is the 300-year-old union to which it's bound. It's a relatively new creation, really, and probably not one that could've been expected to last forever. But it's been longer lived and more prosperous than any such union could ever fairly expect. For all their differences, England, Scotland, and Wales (and Ulster) have all made out exceedingly well over the last three centuries.

I get irritated when people refer to the UK as "England" because it's not all England. Not even kind of (okay, Wales kind of). One small part of Britain's charm for me is that England and Scotland are funny partners to be stuck together in the way they are, mostly out of ancient convenience. Even ancient-er than that convenience is a long history of not liking each other and not being too terribly similar despite sharing a border. And just because they get on now doesn't mean they've grown into one another culturally or politically. There are similarities, but they're no more stark than the similarities between Americans and Canadians (Mother Britain screwed us all up pretty good--but at least we're not Australia). So why stick together? Well, even Burnsians aren't immune to the allure of Empire. And nationally-unifying events like WWII tend to dampen feelings of alienation for a generation or two. And, in a very real way, it's the differences that make them work so well together. But now that common bonds have rusted, it's required some effort to find new ones and so Better Together has not had a lot to work with, I'm truly sorry to say.

To start with the up in the air logistics, there are some mildly compelling national security issues to consider. However, it's hard to hear the Brits asking "what about our place at the table?" without reflexively thinking, "oh, you still want that?" Moreover, if the Scots still cared for that sort of status (which, admittedly, disproportionately benefited Scots during the Empire years), they probably wouldn't be going through with this vote in the first place.

But you don't have to be a paranoid hyper-nationalist to feel the thumb in the eye of a Yes vote. The financial impact, at least in the short-term, will likely be what economists refer to as "not good." Sharing a currency with another nation invites comparison to the less than stable euro. And I've had enough personal experience with frustrated cashiers on both sides of the border to know that irritation with same-but-not-quite currencies is strong enough as is. That's probably why the unionists have placed their bets on the economic fallout, arguing that a splitting of the purse would create a shambles for both sides, perhaps especially for Scotland, which would no longer enjoy Westminster's relatively favorable largesse. And they might be right. Unfortunately, the Scots aren't looking at this as a business transaction. Not because they're overly emotional--as some have insultingly intimated--but because that's not how human beings conduct all of their affairs. Economies crest and dip, but identity is a trickier concept and a little short term pain for long term dignity and pride doesn't seem so bad a trade. If, in fact, that arrangement can be guaranteed. And it can't.

To be fair, Better Together's case is a difficult one to make without looking stodgy and out of touch. "You know you'd miss us" isn't terribly convincing as a plea, hence the fallback to dodgy economic forecasts (from both campaigns). But cash alone does not drive a movement. That tension you feel blowing from across the Atlantic? England's last ditch scrambling? Scotland's palpable anxiety? The apprehension from the EU and the US? The nervous hand-wringing in this very blog post? It's built on fear, excitement, uncertainty, and a particular viewpoint--of the UK and the wider world. In other words, things that are very difficult to quantify. There are more more logical ways to interpret independence, but to see things in those terms alone betrays a misunderstanding of the situation.

Losing Scotland would probably not be catastrophic. No, Scotland won't disappear and Lagavulin won't be cast into the phantom zone. Scotland would only cease to be a part of the union. I adore every corner of the British Isles, and those corners don't cease to exist just because there's a line down the center of the room. Ireland is no less fun that it would be as part of the UK. It just means passing through customs to get there, and even that might not be an issue. But all that doesn't mean it wouldn't also be sad.

The truth is, whatever happens, some constitutional re-considerations wouldn't be out of line are called for. Just because the union works better together doesn't mean this shouldn't be a wake up call. Some kind of federal system might be exciting, if ultimately a non-starter for those who want independence because now--and only now--is London taking a serious look at how to maintain an always-strange relationship. It's not as if England can't be accused of being less than enamored with their upstairs neighbors, so why not address the root of those feelings? For example, if No prevails, perhaps an English Parliament and a subsequent end to the West Lothian problem and its attendant incongruities just might clear some of the tension, allowing each nation some autonomy and dignity in its local matters, saving some energy for the bigger issues. The jurisdictional quirkiness might be "oh-so-British" but they also create logistical nightmares that benefit no one.

As is usually the case, Charlie Brooker is the most reasonable commenter working: as an outsider, you'd prefer Scotland to vote No (for admittedly selfish reasons), but totally understand the itch for a divorce. If I were faced with looking at David Cameron for five more years, I'd be looking for the fire escape, too. It's almost too bad England doesn't have its own built-in exit. There's an argument Better Together hasn't tried: "Please, Scotland, don't leave us with them." And, honestly, if this split must happen, there's some humor to be taken in the fact that it came on Cameron's watch.

Cultural identity, history, geography etc, those are all wrapped up in the referendum. Nationality's got some to do with it, though less than anyone who wants to view this as a rebirth of old Celtic-Anglo battle-lines will admit. Nationality is much more slippery than that in the UK these days--one of modern Britain's better qualities. The union's cosmopolitanism is an enormous benefit to both nations--something young Scottish voters appreciate, even if they've long seemed more likely to side with independence. But politically, England and Scotland have been drifting apart since the end of the war and weren't much on solid ground before that. Westminster can make all the promises it wants now--and it is--but where were these gestures ten, fifteen, twenty years ago? Now they care. When it's a referendum on them. And much as I hate to diminish a movement that's been anywhere from ten to three-hundred years in the making, it's hard to imagine a better time for Scots to take a long look at the state of things. And that only makes this more difficult because, as much as I want Scotland to stay, it would be hard to blame them if they don't.

This is an unsatisfying position (even to me, and I'm the one assuming it): whatever they decide is for the best. If it's Yes, there's a lot of credit in doing it this way: bloodlessly, democratically--all those fun, fluffy adjectives that are easy to take for granted. But I'd prefer Scotland to vote No. In light of the evidence that probably qualifies me as a romantic. On the other hand, I also believe there's a difference between 'could' and 'should.' It's why I tend to believe the referendum will--narrowly--swing No. Scots are as good as anybody at soberly sizing up a situation (yes, soberly, lol). And if the decision is a firm and convincing Yes, it won't be because they spent the night bent over a whisky barrel with Braveheart on in the background (for the same reason that a No vote wouldn't be the result of a night spent counting their GDP and watching old newsreels of the Blitz). It's because all of us occasionally feel the need for a fresh start and the prospects of an independent Scotland are only slightly less certain than the prospects of a renewed United Kingdom (or the prospects of the US, or any one, really--it's been a rough summer).

Both options are rooted in a sludgy kind of sentiment and history and tradition and on and on. These are not meager things. Promises are made on the harder prospects: finance, government, etc, and yet remain at least as hard to quantify as all the other stuff. Some of those promises may hold up (however pretty the songs, they're all being sung by politicians, remember). The difference is that Yes offers a sure bet of losing something--Britain, for all its flaws--and only a hope that something will be gained--a thriving, independent Scotland.

For all the mawkishness of the idea--and the campaign trying desperately to preserve that idea--they really are better together.

(Image source)

Siren Maiden 2013

I don't care for barleywines on the whole. Too cloyingly sweet while at the same time too heavy on the palate and in the stomach. However, it remains a generally popular style with segments of the population and its hard not to see why: boozy and fruity is always a popular combination and, in a pinch, a glass of barleywine can easily replace a rich slice of cake for dessert. That said, it's not so grossly overrated as its dimwitted and nostalgia-fueled cousin, mead, which we will not speak of again.

Last year's offering celebrating the first anniversary of Berkshire's Siren Craft Brewery pours ruddy red and a tad watery.

The somewhat high ABV (11%) hits the nose immediately but does so fairly pleasantly--a rusty, well-worn booze smell that doesn't trend toward cloying the way other barleywines do.

Malty and very dry, the Maiden lands somewhat heavy on the tongue but not overly heavy, once again playing against type by not becoming a meal beer after a single glass. This light heaviness, unfortunately, is also just enough to hide the alcohol which, in this style, seems unnecessary.

The body sits less heavy in the stomach, allowing room for more, perhaps, if one feels the immediate need. I did not; maybe as winter advances it will call to me again (or perhaps I could obtain this year's model).

A lighter imitation of the style serves Maiden well, though will likely prove wanting for barleywine enthusiasts. Nevertheless, the style once again proves versatile, both for flavor and body, and while Maiden be as thin as barleywines go, there's not too much to be upset about here. Also not too much to recommend it, sadly.

Grade: B-

Sorry, Brazil (World Cup 2014)

 
I enjoy the Olympics theoretically. Spectacle is good, controversy is mildly better, but the athletics feel like filler. It's not that it's not impressive--it totally is and I couldn't dream of performing any of it even at an amateur level against asthmatic kindergartners. I'm just not terribly invested in people running or swimming or whatever the hell else is going on. The thing's a damp squib.

The World Cup, on the other hand, is about a sport I actually like and understand. And that makes all the difference. You still have spectacle, of course. And controversy: if you haven't already seen John Oliver's take on FIFA's truly Herculean corruption, it's worth thirteen minutes of your time. I, for one, am patiently waiting for Qatar 2022 to totally implode. And on top of all that, we also get a genuinely exciting game to watch with it.

Admittedly, part of me looks forward to the Cup because somewhere a Fox News personality is dusting off his incredulous face for all the attention the World Cup will get. "But it's soccer," he'll sneer (and it'll be a "he") and that just makes me want to watch more. More than that, though, it's surprisingly easy to get caught up in something when everyone around you is really, really into it. Even the most defiantly contrarian among us notice when a religious fervor sweeps through our peers, regardless of other identifying factors. You may not necessarily glom on to the thing in question, but only a terminally incurious person doesn't at least take a look for themselves. Deign to travel abroad and the American will find that, true to stereotype, that thing is soccer.

I came home with the foreign malady some years back, and it's hard to maintain the symptoms when the conditions for the virus aren't around you all the time (a shiny donkey to whoever who can point out exactly where I stretched that analogy too thin). The World Cup is a booster shot, gearing even apathetic Yanks back into the game. That's why I don't begrudge the bandwagoners. Half the reason I root for the USMNT is in the quixotic hope that a U.S. win will keep the celebration going and supplant other athletic fixations with the beautiful game (I mean, do we need hockey?). Knowing that even that won't do it allows me to cheer for England on the side without much guilt, another largely fruitless endeavor (I have my reasons). And though we're nothing if not hopeful, a lot of Americans develop an easy secondary attachment in soccer--Brazil, or Spain, or somebody else who may actually win. And it's not just international tournaments either--how many people prefer MLS to La Liga or the Premier League? That bet-hedging and internationalism probably does nothing to improve soccer's standing among its American detractors. And if I thought anything was likely to bring them around, I'd suggest we quit it.

So it's left to the rest of us to absorb the dichotomy of our love for this great sport and the organization that runs it. Sure, the NFL can be impressively shady, but it's a girl scout compared to FIFA. You'd think the reflexively anti-soccer crowd would cite FIFA or Sepp Blatter in their arguments, but that would involve rather more effort. And anyway, it hardly addresses the quality of the on-field portion of the sport. Still, whether it's the Olympics, the Super Bowl, or the World Cup, hosts get stiffed with a staggering bill and not much in terms of benefits. You know, aside from the fun of figuring out what do to with all those new stadiums and villages and airports. And the pride. Can't forget the pride. $11 billion worth of pride. SPORTS!

As for picking a winner, a kinder, sensitive soul might think Brazil is the way to go. After all the money they've spent and the nightmares they've endured, it just seems to give them a little ray of light, doesn't it? But then the ray of light is the story and everyone forgets how shitty it is to host such an event and no one--anywhere--learns any kind of lesson (no, I don't know why I feel people should be learning something). So I'm going with Portugal, because then you have a soccer megapower throwing a party for its former imperial overlord and the enormity of what's happened can't help but dawn on everybody. Also, Portugal at least has a shot at winning. Otherwise, for maximum facepalm, you choose somebody like Iran. Sorry to make you the fall guy, Brazil, it really isn't personal (I love churrasco!).

Enjoy the matches, everyone. 

(Image via Project Babb)

Zombie Mascots and Rainbow Dragons

Despite the best efforts of U.S. Customs and Border Protection, I am back in the States. Now, I normally don't like to indulge in these look-at-what-I-did shenanigans, but I want to highlight a couple of things that caught my eye while strolling the motherland of pale, drunk gingers. 

I wrote about the Easter Rising briefly in Nos Populus, so I couldn't not include this. Relatedly: as we passed through Heathrow, we told British customs that we'd be continuing on to Ireland before returning to the UK. The guy asks us if we were going to "Northern Ireland" or "Southern Ireland." I just figured the guy was so retro that he refused to recognize an independent Hibernia. 

Zombie Uncle Pennybags, spotted somewhere in Dublin's Old City, a ways west of Temple Bar.

Edinburgh, Scotland. Probably the most gorgeous city on the planet...

...which happens to to be home to arguably the ugliest building on the planet. See more here.

Found this guy in Chinatown in London. The wife was fairly sure that he was going to climb through our hotel window one night. The hotel was some two miles away... and yet that still seemed plausible.

A short walk from Puff up there, I found myself in a pub near Covent Garden, where I got mistaken for a local a couple of times. It was probably the beer in my hand in the middle of the day, but I took the compliment. There's magic in sipping a local craft beer outside on a calm, clear 68º day, not a care about work or bills or laundry. As my wife returned from some light shopping in the market, she found me standing outside a pub with my third beer of the day in my hand, and opined that "this would be so sketchy in the States." And that, dear readers, is why we do drinking wrong.

Good to be back, I suppose.

... But What Can I Do?

Okay, fellow drunks, I'm out of here for a couple of weeks.

In the meantime, I recommend watching Charlie Booker's Black Mirror, a Twilight Zone-esque take on our abusive relationship with the television, computer, and smartphone screens that put us in touch the terrible world all around us. One episode has recently been optioned for a film by Robert Downey, Jr., so if you watch it now, you can say you were on board with it before it became popular State-side.

I'll write at you soon. And remember to Love Each Other. 

On Anglophilia

The royal baby is due this summer. If you are at all excited about this and neither your line nor your wallet are about to expand as a result, I advise you to strip ass-naked, throw on your ceremonial bearskin hat, and parade around Trafalgar Square, belting out the score to the H.M.S. Pinafore until Boris Johnson decides that you've got too little dignity to be allowed in public. If that's over the top, it's because I'm overcompensating.

The curse of the Anglophile is not that we know about the baby (everyone does). It's not that we can locate Cambridge, Cornwall, and all the other dukedoms and princedoms sullied by the Windsors on a map. It's not the lazy rebelliousness of romanticizing a culture that's not radically different from our own (compare to Western Japanophiles). It's not even the connotations of old-school Toryism, Etonian-style classism, and visions of racial homogeneity. It's that the posh, royal-obsessed, Hugh Grant-tolerating Anglophile image is so firmly entrenched that it's useless to deny the affiliations. It doesn't matter if your Anglophilia came to you via the Beatles, or Monty Python, or Doctor Who, or, less commonly, Tolkien; if you make the mistake of demonstrating a semi-working knowledge of British culture and politics and history, you're lumped in with George Will and Madonna.

In his essay, England My England, Mark Dery examines the sources of his own Anglophilia and the probable sources of it in American culture--a culture and polity that, by most rights, shouldn't allow for a fascination with England. Dery doesn't get very far on the second aim. As he acknowledges about mid way through, "[e]very Anglophile has his own private England, which is, of course, unrecognizable to the English." Like Batman fans, the Anglophile meshes cherry-picked ideas about England and Englishness into a mostly unique and mostly sturdy whole. The England we invent in our heads may bear only a passing resemblance to the real thing, informed by media, popular culture, a posh accent overheard at a coffee shop, and the occasional visit.

That last imprint is interesting because while there probably aren't any solid numbers to back this up, I suspect that relatively few American Anglophiles migrate to the Isles permanently (at least compared to the numbers of Yankophiles in the UK and elsewhere who make a point of coming here and staying). Those that do risk bursting their Albion bubble because they must confront the fact that England is like any other place on Earth: overflowing with terrible people. "Yes, Patrick Stewart is very charming. Oh look, here are some chavs."

Their politicians are as loathsome as ours. The news media is as intolerable there as it is here and maybe more so--the Murdoch toxins have been at work for much longer. They produced Shakespeare, sure, but they also produced Piers Morgan and decent chunk of our reality shows. Yes, the NDAA is cringe-inducing, but so is CCTV. They've barreled into the same rushed and congested 21st Century we have (Anglophilia is often frozen in time, usually pre-War, but occasionally jumping forward to 1960's mod London), complete with the same economy-crashing bankers who will never be made to regret their avarice. And the Brits have still got the breathing anachronism that is Betty Windsor's brood; to say nothing of the Cult of Diana.

These can be harsh realizations and you can't stay long and expect to keep your Anglo-cherry intact. It's easy for those of us have dealt with this disappointment and come out on the other side to lament these plastic Anglophiles for the deluded pushovers they are. But at least it culls the weak from our numbers.

Some of us (or maybe it's just me) wonder why the "Anglo-" must dominate the -philia. Can't the rest of the Isles be thrown in, too? History leans toward "no" on that question. The "United Kingdom" is a relatively recent political creation, from which much of the rest has either escaped or is ever-trying, featuring more than a few instances of war, famine, and terrorism over the last millennium. Dery mentions this Celtic-branch (which he calls "the Braveheart demographic") and describes it as a generally Anglophobic phenomenon, usually unaffiliated with the royal watchers who prefer the scenery south of the Tweed. It's a very American desire that I should want to ignore inconvenient historical facts. However, if one also genuinely loves the Irish and Scottish cultures, can they claim the mantle of Britophile? Is that any more absurd than Anglophilia already is? No, so I'm keeping it.

As for why an American should feel any such affinity, well, if you don't already share it, you probably won't get it. And if you do share it, you probably have a hard time seeing why it's a little ridiculous. Sure, you'll sheepishly admit your infatuation in that way that you think is oh-so self-deprecatingly British. But you never really understand why your friends get weirded out when you go wobbly-kneed at the mention of words like "pudding" and "Sandringham."

For me, it's pubs and the more sensible British drinking culture (now sadly succumbing to the scourge of binge drinking); a class consciousness that leaves little room for the Ayn Rands of the world (Dery mentions this as well); the serious commitments to public transportation (which may be more of a rejection of America's inexplicable love affair with cars); the weather (try spending a summer in the DC swamp and you'll get it); the breadth of history; the encouragement of dry wit as a virtue; the suspicion of unreserved emotion; Charlie Brooker; the more casual swearing (everything except "arse"); and, yes, goddammit, the accents.

Maybe it was something in the water I drank as an infant, but these things are real to me. However stupid they may be are. And at least I wasn't up before dawn to watch the royal bloody wedding.

On Thatcher

I was all set to do a quick, snarky piece on Thatcher. Had the Neil Kinnock quote all lined up and everything. Then I realized that that would be classless and hollow. It's not that I think she deserves better, there's just no point. And while I'm not sure how warm her body ever was, we can at least wait until it's as cold as possible.

Anyway, she would probably only welcome the gloves coming off and I'm not about to give her what she wants.

Instead, here's Fry & Laurie.

Skyfall

WARNING: MAJOR SPOILERS AHEAD

Apprehension sets in when we arrive at the Bond family manor in rural Scotland, the name of which lends Skyfall its title. The Bond films of the last fifty years seem to have made a pointed effort to not delve too much into James Bond as a coherent person--all the easier to replace aging actors, a cynic may say--and all we've gotten is "007." This works fine, assuming the films are good, but they're not always (I will never fully understand anyone who claims that Roger Moore achieved better than one or two decent Bond films). If Casino Royale truly was a reboot, then maybe we now deserve to see everything that made Bond who he is. We previously knew that he was an orphan, but little more. Skyfall introduces the blood and flesh, brick and mortar of his youth, revealing there is a person inside the agent, rather than an agent inside a person. And though these revelations all but kill the intriguing theory of James Bond being more of a code name than a person, the film series will prove the better for it. 

Outside of the character and the mythology, Daniel Craig is the greatest beneficiary of this development. What was once (on his good days) a two-dimensional hired killer is now a fully fleshed character, who happens to be a hired killer. There is a psychology and a reasoning behind the action hero. And this, by the way, is what the best so-called "gritty reboots" have always done: pare down the gimmicky action and give us a reason for the stunts. Craig is in the driver's seat of one of the most interesting heroes in cinematic history, one who changes and grows, if usually for the more grim and haunted. The brash, sharp-edged rookie from CR has evolved into a hard, field-ravaged machine. This owes as much to Craig's vulnerable, not-so-clean-cut performance as it does to the careful writing. There's always a lot of hyperbole surrounding this discussion, but I find it fair to say that Craig is quickly approaching the top of the Bond heap, with Connery still in the lead only because he was first. 

Judi Dench--even during the earlier Brosnan films--has always been an inspired choice for M, finally bringing a few measures of depth to Bond's boss. Where once MI6's boss could sometimes seem little more than a careless, bemused old man, enjoying Bond's antics, Dench brought a severe professionalism to the character, and a patience for Bond that could occasionally run out. But it's perhaps not until Skyfall that Dench is used for all her acting talents, delivering an M that is defiant but faltering. She is old, outmoded and, her slow understanding of that fact is sad because we realize how attached we've become to her, how attached Bond has become to her. Her death is sudden--a minor quibble, as that might've been handled better--but it could not have ended at any other time; she was never going to retire. Dench's M gets shuffled out not because we need her to move on, but because Bond needs her to and because MI6 needs her to. And that the story has more to do with her than any world-in-peril super-plot is a welcome development in a series that has too often felt the need to top itself over and over, in an increasingly impersonal fashion. 

Perhaps the bigger news--even bigger than M's fate--is the return of the eccentric, theatrical Bond villain. Javier Bardem (once again proving that if you give him a funny haircut, he will make it terrifying) brings an ebullient energy to Raoul Silva's quest for vengeance. When Silva arrives at Skyfall for the climax on a helicopter blaring The Animals' "Boom Boom" over a megaphone--one of several scenes in which Bardem simultaneously inspires both terror and glee--we see the flip side of the gritty reboot's gift for grounded transcendence (yes, I'm sticking with that description): the song is an organic pairing for his mission, a spurned madman's way of announcing himself and his plan. There is reason and history to Silva's mad methods and even his home base gets a back-story. When you make the villain interesting on his own terms--more than just someone for the hero to fight--you elevate both. 

I don't have as much to say about Naomi Harris' Moneypenny, other than that I like her. A lot. That this Moneypenny has been in the field--and can hold her own there--gives her much more interesting possibilities than someone who just has an easy and fun rapport with Bond (which, yes, this Moneypenny also has). 

Same with the new Q: a high-tech whiz kid with both feet planted firmly in the 21st Century. Portions of MI6 might prefer someone with an equal grounding in the old ways, but that's what Bond is for, right? 

The Bond series has flirted with irrelevance more than once. Skyfall boldly makes that theme central to its story and comes out the better for it, injecting desperately needed humanity into a series that can still be about escalating action, exotic locales, dangerous women, and insane villains, as long as there's a beating heart at the center. 

Grade: A-

British vs. American Dystopia

The other day, a friend asked me about British writers and their fascination with dystopia. She referenced a scene in the television show Sherlock, which included an observation on CCTV cameras. That thought having been sparked (one might blame the framing of the question), a slew of synapses started firing, recalling works from Brave New World to Nineteen Eighty-Four to Lord of the Flies to A Clockwork Orange to V For Vendetta. These British works seem to come at a rate disproportionately greater than the dystopian output from American literature. Why?

The simple answer is that the Brits have more personal experience with dystopian hellscapes. The aforementioned surveillance cameras, the long history of British intelligence networks. There's the still barely-fresh memory of the dismantling of the Empire; all of that power--minus all but the ceremonial glory--turning inward, now bitter for what once was.

Then there's the way that British government seems to act so smoothly on matters of national security as to make our own post-9/11 measures seem like a Keystone Cops production. Americans will hyperventilate for a bit about the newest piece of Homeland Security meddling until the energy escapes our systems and we find another shiny object to focus on (seriously, though, when was the last time you heard anyone wring their hands about the full body scanners?). But the Brits, with that Keep Calm, Carry On ethos, prefer to stew in grim fascination with the creeping menace.

Maybe there's a vestigial American libertarianism at work: we understand government to be a blundering, inefficient thing. It might be a cumbersome, better-door-than-a-window type obstruction for many of us, but we're not exactly worried about a well-oiled Big Brother, are we? Only a misguided, paranoia-mongering ideologue could believe in an incompetent government that is also somehow all-powerful. But in Britain--where "socialism" is not so scary a word--they have a different relationship with government and, if asked to think about it, might nod their heads and say "yeah, I could see that happening" before shuffling on with their lives. This is the psychological aspect of it; the bit that, it seems to me, is the most decisive between American and British attitudes toward dystopia. 

See, the Brits have a greater comfort with grim subject matter and a more natural skill for dark, observational humor. Not that there aren't plenty of American artists who excel in these fields, but the subjects tend to play better with British general audiences than they do with American ones, so you get more of it over there (see Bill Hicks' success in Britain). British culture was incubated over thousands of years on a relatively small island, where there are few places to hide from the near-constant rain. The only attitude that survives something like that is: "well, what can you do?" The Brits, then have less qualms with fatalism, a concept that is anathema to most Americans. Indeed, the philosophy of fatalism--the lack of individual agency--almost rebuts the American Dream. The attempt by American culture to embrace a British-view of the dystopic has two potential outcomes:

1. (Not so likely, in my opinion) The rejection of some near-sacred American values, precipitating the collapse of moral, civic, and economic society. One must clap to keep Tinker Bell alive.
2. (Much more likely) We just won't buy it. A co-worker has commented to me that she could never enjoy dystopian works because she cannot fathom that a society would be allowed to degrade that far, that efficiently. Such a force would naturally be fought against, or crumble under its own weight, or any number of other factors that would keep a Big Brother from being so imposing.

As a dystopic tale gets moving, the Brits roll with the punches and more readily accept the premise. Americans must wonder "how was this allowed to happen?" And American stories often like to provide the answers (think on the V For Vendetta film adaptation, with its more explicit telling of the rise of neo-conservatism fascism, something Alan Moore preferred to leave to implication). I attempted similar explanations in Nos Populus, before I realized that the exposition was getting out of hand. Americans want the background, but that background takes up precious time that can better used on the story itself, a problem even the specifics-demanding reader will concede. We prefer a dystopia that shows us something more familiar.

You've probably seen this comic, outlining the differences between Orwell's fears as he explained them in Nineteen Eighty-Four and Aldous Huxley's fears, as laid out in Brave New World. They're arguments I've covered before. And I must agree, however strong my love of Orwell, that BNW is the superior dystopia. One of BNW's most intriguing conceits is the character of John the Savage, an outsider who can observe all the shallow and materialistic horror of the World State that the reader might. A British writer, authoring a classic of the genre, depicting a surviving mode of thought that rejects all the assumptions of a terrible future. It's almost enough to upend this theory of mine, if not for the fact that things don't end well for John; death is preferable to the loss of freedom and dignity--at least there's some agency in that. And interestingly, Huxley spent the last 25 years of his life living in California, attempting to attain U.S. citizenship. I'm speculating, but it seems likely that Huxley felt more at home among a less fatalistic bunch.

One can point to other exceptions. Sinclair Lewis' It Can't Happen Here (which was no small influence on a teenaged-me; Lewis is still one of my favorites) is a lesser-revered work among the dystopias, largely for the aforementioned problems of exposition. Lewis does his due diligence in transforming his contemporary American polity from the New Deal to the total takeover of the Huey Long-esque Buzz Windrip. No far-flung, sci-fi speculation in this one. As with much of Lewis' work, ICHH gets most of its mileage out of broad caricatures of middle-American nastiness, a farcical formula that works for a while, but quickly starts to hit too close to home, begging on the last nerve of the reader. And while ICHH is a thorough and convincing narrative of demagoguery, one has to want to believe in the possibilities, as I did in those nauseating Patriot Act days. It should be no surprise that the book experienced a significant revival during the Bush II Administration.

The Handmaid's Tale nearly fits, too. However, 1), Margaret Atwood is Canadian and, culturally speaking, Canada has nearly as much in common with the U.K. as it does with the U.S. And 2), Handmaid is mostly notable for its feminist take on the dystopic, an angle that at times seems more relevant than what most of the rest of the genre has to offer (the stream-of-consciousness crutch notwithstanding).

The Hunger Games seems to fit the bill. But how much of it's monstrous success is owed to the fact that Katniss Everdeen is exactly what Americans want to see in that situation, or imagine themselves being: an able and eventually-willing freedom fighter. A little bit of pathos goes a long way. Though, as I've explained before, I still have not read the third book, so I'm ready to take another hit to my theory should the book end poorly enough.

I may have to concede the point on Fahrenheit 451, pending a re-reading. However, it's not like we can't accuse Bradbury of just being a crotchety old man. 

As for my own work (just for comparison; my work has not earned mention alongside these others), Nos Populus started out as a dystopia of sorts--the idea first sprouted after reading It Can't Happen Here. But those elements were ratcheted back over the drafts, as I focused more on the building of a potential dystopian society and the struggle against that construction. Some of this was because of the verisimilitude I had striven to set up; Nos Populus takes place in something of a separate time-line from our real world, but the line only split a few years ago and it remains recognizable to us. I hope. There was only so much--logically and narratively-speaking--that I could allow President Ward to do while suspending the reader's disbelief. And I had included a fair amount of exposition as it was. So we get a despot who's only a fraction as powerful as he was originally conceived, but perhaps all the more terrifying because of it--we recognize Ward.

And perhaps some of it was also my American brain getting in the way, never allowing me to slip too far into bleak paranoia and cynicism. To recognize, at the very least, that I needed readers not to throw down the book in disgust. When my friends/editors commented that the book was rather bleak, I took it as a badge of honor (no pandering crowd-pleaser, me). And yet I still found myself fixing that where I could, attempting to balance plausibility with palatability.

And it's the plausible and the palatable that mark the difference. The Brits have a different sense of the plausible when it comes to government overreach (if that phrase means anything within the dystopic realm). So, too, their stronger palate for grim fatalism, which allows for a less diluted--or alternately less labored--realization of the dystopian state. With these elements working together, their dystopic myths can stretch and grow in ways that American literature won't equal. Not that we're interested in trying to.

Flowers for Mittens (UK edition)

What the hell is wrong with you, Mittens?  And where are your handlers?  It's one thing to write something stupid like this in your book just because you never had to win Britain (much as Cameron never has to win Utah).  It's entirely another to run over there and insult them and make a general ass of yourself because... why, again?  Are their trees not the right height?  Are their national hymns harder to sing?  And not even getting a country's name right, by the way, earns you your "worse than Palin" status.

But you couldn't stick to your guns on any of that: you had to flip-flop... again... and give under-stimulated commentators like me yet more ammunition.

This, Mittens.  This is why Obama has to "apologize" for America.  Because of morons like you.

Olympic Fever Isn't the Only Contagion

"Even if one didn't know from concrete examples (the 1936 Olympic Games, for instance) that international sporting contests lead to orgies of hatred, one could deduce it from general principles."
-- George Orwell, The Sporting Spirit

"I can't bear the thought of us hosting the 2012 Olympics. We're not ready, Liz. Have you seen the Beijing opening ceremonies? We don't have that kind of control over our people."
-- Wesley, 30 Rock

To start, I should say here that I don't have any problem with the Olympics.  The concept is solid enough.  And there is a vague, ephemeral inspiration that comes from watching athletes from all over the world compete for something that isn't money-oriented (generally speaking).  Plus, the Marathon is, for my money, the single most impressive thing a person can do because... that shouldn't be possible.  My fat, ten-year-old self sees people who willingly trained at running--running--for a really long time--26 miles and change--and weeps proudly for man's ambition and skill.  It's like the moon landing except harder because there's no one to make you run on the moon.  And, if nothing else, it's always a decent distraction from election year nonsense.

However, I'm not sure what any city expects when it vies to host the games.  They're kind of expensive, for one thing, and don't usually return on the investment, for another.  They're also obnoxious for locals (yes, people live and work in London, and they don't all wear the Marge Simpson hats or use Cockney rhyming slang--fascinating, eh?).  National pride is a decent reason, but it's a gamble.  If the country loses money and is made to look poorly (and it can happen), what good does that do for morale?  What do you get if all goes well?  A chance to literally hand the torch to the next host while everyone goes home.  And how much national pride can you claim when one city hosts the games?  At least the World Cup uses host countries, balancing the burdens and expectations on more than a single metropolitan area. 

I've started to wonder if I should feel any sort of stoic disappointment in the fact that the city of my birth is hurdling towards an internationally-anticipated debacle.  That does seem the classically English way to absorb bizarre and embarrassing spectacle, isn't it?  Or perhaps a detached, all-in-good-fun kind of derisiveness--that's the best aspect of Englishness.  The sort of softly biting sarcasm thing that was born in watching gilded, pompous ceremonies planned by and for coddled, privileged aristocrats.  The tongue that was sown permanently into cheek over centuries of Keep Calm and Carry On.  And finally achieving adulthood after the Empire collapsed and the world didn't end but was instead revealed to be much less serious and important than it had previously seemed.  Tried and true.  That seems the right perspective. 

There's a decent chance that the opening ceremonies will be genuinely impressive in that standard British way.  You know, the sort of overzealous sound-and-fury-signifying-nothing events with which the royal family continues to slyly evade the "what are you still doing here" questions (except Prince Philip--he exists for the enjoyment of all God's creatures).  Weddings, funerals, and everything in between; put the royal team on it and you might just have something worth crippling a working city for.  Something that makes the world say "Wow, look at that."  "Yeah.  Why is Mary Poppins fighting Voldemort?"  "I'm not sure, but look at it!"  And then, for those of us who understand that the Brits are truly at their best when taking snidely taking the piss out of whatever's happening in front of them, you get Stewart Lee to narrate the whole thing.  Imagine what he could do with those mascots.  Assuming he doesn't break down and go mad just looking at them.

A Lesson From Sweden

As a senior in high school, I got one of those cold recruitment calls from the Army (or maybe it was the Marines) that every 17-18 year old gets.  I politely told the guy that I wasn't interested.  But quotas aren't made to be unfilled, so the recruiter set his voice to its Smuggest Setting and replied, "Are you afraid of guns?"  Yep.  You nailed it, guy.  Master of perception, you are.  Good to know that our Armed Forces have the best and brightest public relations people at the helm on recruitment.  And during two wars, no less. 

That's what I wanted to say to him, anyway.  Only thought of it later, after being so taken aback that I could only mutter something like "No. Gotta go. Bye."  I still regret not having the better retort on hand.  The French have a phrase for that situation--it literally translates as "the wit of the staircase."  But this isn't about the French--it's about the Swedes.

That there's a recruitment ad for the Swedish Armed Forces.  Here's another one along the same lines.  This series of ads has won some awards and been mildly popular in some corners of the Internet.  If you're an American, however (and most of you reading this are), you're probably wondering, "How could they say that about their own military?  And where's the super soldier science fictiony heroics?  Where's the lava monster?"

Ah, that's better.  Was starting to feel disoriented with all that down to Earth, relateable stuff about acquiring real world skills for real world jobs.  Thank you, lava monster.  And thank you, Kid Rock and 3 Doors Down for over-achieving on your usual manipulative pablum with those ads that play before movies, which are likely their own overlong, overblown, unrealistic ads for military service.  Or, in an admittedly ingenious ploy, an overlong but more realistic ad for military service.  Between them, Michael Bay and Roland Emmerich have melted our collective, what do you call them?  Brain bones.  It's hard for us to get stimulated by anything less than adrenaline-fueled, patriotism-exploiting action shots, with lots of quick-cutting to distract us from how bad the CGI (CGI!) is.  So when the military constantly needs fresh blood (literally), it has to resort to some really stupid gimmicks, just like any other organization. 

Yes, the world of advertising is anything but subtle and accurate.  But shouldn't we expect something better out of our armed forces?  You know, something that appropriately captures the things we make them do for us and doesn't mythologize them into something that makes us think they're always there, ready to bomb whomever we need in order to advance our short-term political interest?  Or is this the price we pay for living in an era of war and mass communication in a post-draft society? 

As a final comparison, look at this ad for the British Royal Marines: 

It's not much less subtle than our ads, but you can taste the tonal difference, can't you?  This is not glamorous, it is not fantastical, it is not romantic.  It doesn't make promises.  It tells you up front that you will not be able to do this, don't bother applying, we don't even want you.  The only people still standing are those who can do this (or think they can) and they will push themselves for their country.  Those of us left behind are legitimately impressed and appreciative of the tools we have in them.  "Let's make sure we don't waste these tools on any vanity wars," we say.  "You know, unless our mates in America insist we should."