Remembering

I was still young. Alive in my excited youth, full of sensation and eagerness and anticipation. I was fresh out of college and had yet to experience the repeated beat-downs of economic downturns and jobs that turned on the whim of share price valuation-obssessed CFOs.

A buddy and I were enjoying a late-night snack at McDonald's, back when their french fries were still fried in beef fat and were amongst the best in the land. Flipping through the radio, we became aware of something unusual: every rock station in town (which, counting oldies stations, numbered at that time about a dozen) was playing Beatles' songs.

Only a decade after their messy break-up, it wasn't at all unusual to hear their music on a couple of stations simultaneously. But a dozen? Still naive in the ways of mass-market media, we looked at each other, confused.

Then it hit us: something bad had happened.

There was a chill.

Brian Epstein had already passed. George Martin's passing wouldn't provoke this type of tribute. What else could it be?

A few seconds on the unmodulated side of the frequency spectrum (in other words, one of those AM all-news-all-the-time stations) told us what we didn't want to hear: John was dead.

The horrors of the Lennon's return from a recording studio and their fatal encounter with a deeply disturbed young man unfolded over the radio and I fell into a deep, morose silence.

An emotionally rugged childhood had been made bearable by the light of the Beatles, and the fact that one of them was dead was inconceivable. Like the the one ten years earlier that maintained they no longer existed.

Had I been alone, I would have cried.

In succeeding weeks an avalanche of stories and tributes and remembrances came pouring out. Far and away the most-chilling of them was a photograph in Time magazine of Lennon signing an autograph for the man who would kill him.

A brave, funny and sometimes acerbic soul had been shattered. One of the most-unflinching, plaintive, authentic and unvarnished voices in rock music had been stilled.

Listen sometime to the Beatles' cover of the Miracles' You Really Got a Hold on Me. Or You Can't Do That. You've Got to Hide Your Love Away. Norwegian Wood (This Bird Has Flown). Or Across the Universe, Mother, Jealous Guy and Instant Karma.

The voice never faltered. Only our widespread embrace of firearms did.

 

Fixing Oscar?

There was an opinion expressed recently that since the Oscar telecast suffered a sixteen percent drop in viewership, something must be done. Like nominate Dawn of the Planet of the Apes or the latest Transformer product for best picture of the year.

These, it is said, are more representative of the movies America actually watches. There are a couple of dozen things wrong with this kind of thinking. I'll try and restrain myself to addressing just a few.

First off, if widespread consumption is the measure of excellence, why is no one nominating McDonald's hamburgers as America's finest? Or Bud Light as the best beer ever? Probably because they're not.

The Oscars seek to recognize the movies which best combine the elements of film: a compelling story, acting, cinematography and music. Or to celebrate those in which a particular aspect like editing or an actor's performance is transcendent.

Let me be clear: I'm not a snob. I mean, I like explosions and dirty, sweaty guys screaming “Arrrrrrrggghhhhh!!!” just before they point miniature, chrome-plated cannons at each other as much as the next dude. 

But just for a laugh, I think we should see what happens when we follow the advice of that famous dead Greek guy about reaching for the stars. About our reach exceeding our grasp.

Secondly, in the instant mass opinion gifted to us by social media, singular incidents—aberrations—assume the weight of decades-long trends. With the exception of the folks who hawk advertising space on ABC, who cares if people didn't find this year's Oscars telecast must-see TV? And why does anything need to be 'done' about it?

People may have avoided it in protest due to the all-white best actor and best actress nominees. Or because there weren't enough romantic comedies nominated in the best picture category. Who knows—maybe they were clearing snow from their cars in preparation for the Monday morning commute.

It doesn't mean we need to upend the Oscar blueprint.

This is akin to spending hundreds of millions of dollars on a Scarlet-throated Tanager defense network simply because a few misguided individuals created a lilliputian, even insignificant, problem with missile defense systems—once.

Crazy.

Finally, since when were the Oscars supposed to be a red-carpet-and-designer-gown, Super Bowl-styled ratings windfall? Let them be. Let the Oscars do what they do best, which is celebrate Hollywood and allow us the rest of us an opportunity to practice a little indoor astronomy.

Celebrate movies—not mass consumption.

Please?