Europe: The Problem and the Prospects

 | 

The flow of history sometimes looks so obvious in hindsight.

In 2004 the European Commission issued a formal warning to Greece, having found that it had falsified budget deficit data in advance of joining the Eurozone. That’s right, Greece had not just failed to meet the budget requirements for joining the new currency — lots of countries did that — but it had lied about it for the privilege of swapping drachmae for euros.

Over the next few years the Greek government's modest attempts to reform the coddled Greek labor market, particularly the obese public sector, met with massive protests, many of them violent.

In the late spring of 2009 I sat across from an old law school friend, drinking wine on the terrace of a Parisian bistro near the Bastille. It was a mild early evening with hours of sunlight left, yet as usual my friend was already in his cups. But then, this guy (call him “Jay”), was smarter drunk than I am sober.

As I drained my glass of Beaujolais Cru, just a few years after Greece had joined the Euro, the Greek debt crisis was in full cry. Bailout negotiations between the EU and Greece had begun. Jay is a prominent international finance lawyer, and he represented the EU on the legal side of the negotiations. So I ordered another drink and got an inside view of the proceedings.

Jay and I debated the virtues, vices, and prospects of a bailout. It was all very speculative and academic, reminding me of so many college rap sessions in which my friends and I handily remade the world to no good (or ill) effect. The curious difference here, decades later, was that Jay really was involved in remaking the world.

As an aside, think of Professor Obama noodling over, say, the constitutionality of a federal mandate that everyone buy health insurance, the kind of seemingly harmless brain game that is played all day, every day in our universities and law schools. Most of the highly accomplished students who, like Obama, attended the top schools become convinced that they know what’s good for you. And some of them attain the power to give it to you. A student’s collectivist or paternalist nonsense is harmless. But with the stroke of a pen wielded by the nerd who used to sit next to you in Social Studies, governments convulse huge sectors of the economy. The difference is that the harmless nerd, the student Obama, for example, has become the hand of power.

At that early stage of the Greek debt crisis (which became the Italian, Irish, and Portuguese debt crisis, which became the euro crisis, which became the Europe crisis, which is becoming the second dip of the Great Recession, and which may doom the European Union to diminishment or dissolution and trash the feeble recovery in the US), it was hard for me to see the historical context of the problem. Jay went straight to it, talking about the German fear of inflation and profligacy, at odds with the German fear of the consequences of a divided Europe.

With the stroke of a pen wielded by the nerd who used to sit next to you in Social Studies, governments convulse huge sectors of the economy.

I know this is remedial history, but just in case: Germany suffered three great traumas in the 20th century, and two great boons. The three traumas were the first war of Europe divided, WWI; the second war of Europe divided, WWII; and between them the hyperinflation of the Weimar Republic, which probably resulted in German National Socialism. The two boons were first, Germany’s long, vigorous period of growth and prosperity, which persisted and accelerated in conjunction with the economic, monetary, and political integration of Europe; and second, German reunification, which came with the collapse of Soviet communism.

France, the other dominant player in the current crisis, has learned much different lessons from history. Of course it fears Germany as Germany fears itself, but it trusts government in a way that Germany does not. The French ruling class favors European unity, not just because it wants to restrain Germany but also because it thinks it can harness the Germans. This has made France the serial instigator of Euro-government activism.

At the center of France’s vision of European peace and unity is an organ grinder with an elephant instead of a monkey, but the elephant does not collect peanuts and coins; it distributes them. France is the organ grinder. Germany is the elephant. The rest of Europe stands around applauding, and collecting peanuts and coins.

Later in 2009, Greece lost its credit rating. Much bad news, “reforms,” and bailouts followed in a parade of horrors that continues now more than 2.5 years later, like shit hitting a fan in super slow motion. Greece, the EU, France, and Germany made and broke a series of promises about Greek debt. Greece was solvent. There would be no second (or third) bailout. Greece would never default. Greece would reform. Etc.

More of the same, until something really breaks, is a good prediction. Sarkozy the organ grinder will play furiously. Like an Indian mahout, he will even bring out the “ankus,” the goad. At the sharp end of the ankus are reminders of Germany’s behavior in World War II. The elephant will give out more coins and peanuts in greater quantities but with greater reluctance, and greater resentment for the crowd of client states that surround the center of Europe. In exchange, the crowd, and even France, will give up freedom, sovereignty, and independence. France does not like loss of sovereignty but believes it will always call the tune. The UK will congratulate itself for staying out of the euro and will refuse to sacrifice its own sovereignty to save the newish currency.

By helping us see how people in nation states see themselves, history helps us guess what they will do. But it does not tell us the results of their choices, which they themselves always fail to predict. After all, none of the EU, France, Germany, or Greece intended the Greek crisis or predicted it early enough to do anything to avoid it. How did that happen?

Descriptions of economic crises past reveal the historian’s perspective, bias, and even philosophy. The Great Depression makes a good example, over which commentators continue to fight. Was it caused or worsened by too much trade protection, too little Keynesian stimulus, a shrinking money supply, the bursting of the credit bubble that preceded it?

Soon there will be as many descriptions of the euro crisis.

I see that crisis and America’s subprime mortgage debacle as symptoms of the same contradiction, one that has strained most of the developed economies for decades and seems to be reaching some kind of limit now. The contradiction is between the love of state largesse and the limits of governments’ ability to raise revenue. That is not a very original observation, but in diverse countries and regions, the fallout from this strain takes surprisingly diverse and original forms.

The form of the fallout seems to depend on the particular weaknesses of a country’s institutions. In Greece, they overborrowed, overspent, cheated, lied to their creditors, and chronically failed to collect taxes due. In Germany they turned a blind eye, because European profligacy spurred Germany’s exports, and exporters had the ear of the German government.

More of the same, until something really breaks, is a good prediction.

In the United States we accepted war as an excuse for big deficits, and when the electorate showed resistance to faster growth of the welfare state, Congress contrived to finance it “off balance sheet” through Freddie Mac and Fannie Mae. And now the Great Recession gives us a reason to bail out financial institutions and automobile manufacturers and to print money (“monetary easing”).

In all these cases, the severity of the crises will partly depend on how and how thoroughly a state and its people fool themselves. The exact nature and severity of the crises are hard to predict. There may be cause for real fear.

I am afraid. For the first time in years, I feel financially insecure. I thought that, through work, good fortune, and saving, I had acquired financial security. Now I don’t know. Will quantitative easing cause high inflation? Will the markets where I store my wealth behave bearishly for long enough to beggar me before I die? Will the European crisis grow so deep and severe as to badly infect the world economy? Is Greece in effect a domino? I don’t know, but it’s falling. There will be no soft landing.




Share This


Restoring a Lost Art

 | 

Most contemporary filmgoers do not well understand — much less appreciate — that early, unique cinematic art form known as the silent movie or silent film. The silent era in cinema lasted roughly from the mid-1890s to the early 1930s. It created thousands of films. It created the film industry, both in America and worldwide. That era is the focus of a fine little art flick called The Artist,playing now at selected locations.

Silent films were made, not because filmmakers didn’t want to incorporate sound (dialogue, music, and sound effects) into their productions, but simply because of the formidable technological challenge of coordinating (“synchronizing”) the sound to the rapidly moving frames. So while the first primitive moving pictures appeared in the late 1870s, and the first narrative film in 1888, and movies were popular throughout the industrialized world from the late 1890s on, sound took a generation more to develop.

The first attempt to create sound pictures began at the Edison Company in 1896, but really viable film-sound technology only emerged during the period from 1921 to 1929. (To be precise, there were a number of competing sound technologies during this time.) The Jazz Singer (1927) was the first movie that included sound and was a commercial success, but most movies in 1928 and 1929 were still silent. Only in the early 1930s did silent films essentially disappear. A few movies were specifically made as silent films by the artistic choice of the producers. Especially notable was the choice of Charlie Chaplin to make City Lights (1931) and Modern Times (1936) as silent flicks.

The earnings of the top silent films show how popular they could be, despite their limitations. My figures may be a little off — I had to convert early-20th-century dollar earnings into 2011 dollars — but the top ten American silent films earned big dollars. The top grossing silent movie was The Birth of a Nation (1915)at $217 million, followed by $81 million for The Big Parade (1925), $70 million for Ben-Hur (1925), $58 million for Way Down East (1920), $54 million for The Gold Rush (1925), $49 million for The Covered Wagon (1923), $48 million for The Circus (1928), $45 million for The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse (1921), $45 million for The Hunchback of Notre Dame (1923), and $44 million for The Ten Commandments (1923).

Playing chase sequences, for example, at higher rates of speed seemed to enhance the suspense.

These are very impressive gross earnings, especially when you remember that the nation had a much smaller population back then — about 100 million in 1915 and maybe 120 million in 1928, which is only about 30% to 40% of our present population. The nation was also much poorer. The average household had dramatically less money for entertainment than today’s household. Finally, the distribution channel was much smaller, with many rural communities not having any theaters at all.

Despite the accomplishments, artistic as well as commercial, of the silent era, it is difficult for modern audiences to appreciate them. The reasons arise from the nature of the medium.

Begin with acting. Obviously, silent movies had to convey their stories by pantomime. True, the pantomime was aided by “title cards” (also called “intertitles,” key lines of dialogue or commentary about the action, printed out on screen) and typically a musical score. The score was played on piano, organ, or (in larger setttings) a pit orchestra. At the peak of their popularity, silent film theaters were the largest source of employment for instrumental musicians.

But music — while a vital tool in conveying tone and enhancing emotion — can’t supply much if any narrative detail. Indeed, to try to do so — as did some early scores, by, say, using an ascending scale to mirror a movie character's ascending a stair — is apt to create a cartoonish effect. And the title cards were inherently limited. If producers had tried to put any appreciable amount of dialog text on screen, the audience would have spent most of the evening reading.

So pantomime bore the brunt of conveying the narrative. And in many cases (early on, at least), directors encouraged actors to accentuate their gestures, facial expressions, and other body language in the hope of amplifying communication. Unfortunately, this led to a kind of acting that strikes modern viewers as “mugging,” and at best a kind of campy comedy. There was a gem of a TV comedy series that played in 1963–64 that exploited the hamminess of some of the silent films: Fractured Flickers, produced by Jay Scott and hosted by Hans Conried. The series would take classic silent films and do funny voiceovers.

But it is fair to observe that the movie-going public in the silent era increasingly preferred more naturalistic acting, and major actors such as Greta Garbo, Lillian Gish, Sessue Hayakawa, and Mary Pickford accommodated their work to a more restrained style. Still, silent film acting does take some time to get used to.

Another problem is that during the silent era, film shooting and projection speeds were not standardized. Projection speed became so only early in the sound era. Silent films were shot at speeds (“frame rates”) ranging from 12 to 26 frames per second (fps), depending on the country or even studio of origin. Complicating things even further is the practice of some directors who consciously intended their films to be projected at variable speeds and gave instructions to projectionists accordingly. (They did this because playing chase sequences, for example, at higher rates of speed seemed to enhance the suspense.) Also, projecting cellulose nitrate film (the standard medium of the silent era) too slowly dramatically increased the risk of fire.

As a consequence, when early TV showed silent movies, they were often played at incorrect speeds. Add to this the fact that the films were by then often severely deteriorated, and the unintended consequence was to make audiences simply dismiss as inferior an artistic medium that was in fact quite powerful.

Film directors, critics, and historians long have tried to combat that sorry consequence. Many university film departments worldwide have worked to preserve and restore silent films, and the Turner Classic Movie channel shows some of the best of them.

Moreover, directors throughout the sound era have occasionally produced homages to the silent era. Need I mention the great film Sunset Boulevard, in which actual silent era movie star Gloria Swanson plays fictional movie star Norma Desmond, a woman unable to come to grips with her eclipse by talking pictures? Or perhaps the greatest of musicals, Singin’ in the Rain, which was based on the transition of cinema from the silent to the sound era?

It is in light of all these factors that we should consider the film under review. The Artist is a joint French-American production, and it is a well-written comedy-drama. It is mainly silent, though sound enters toward the end. It is therefore reminiscent of some 1940s films — such as The Moon and Sixpence and The Picture of Dorian Gray — that were shot in black and white, but shifted to color to accentuate an effect; and the 1939 classic, The Wizard of Oz, in which the scenes that take place in presumably dull, real-life rural Kansas are done in black and white, while the scenes that happen in the magical, imaginary world of Oz are shot in color.

Some silent film stars were disdainful of the talkies’ new technology, thinking it inherently less aesthetically powerful than the old.

The protagonist of The Artist is George Valentin (Jean Dujardin), a popular “leading man” in silent films. We see clips of his (fictional) movies, in which he comes across as a combination of Rudolf Valentino (hence his name) and a Douglas Fairbanks type of screen action hero. While he is meeting the press after the screening of his new movie, a very beautiful young admirer, Peppy Miller (Berenice Bejo) literally bumps into him. She is photographed with him and winds up on the front page of Variety with the headline, “Who’s That Girl?”

A short time later, George runs into Peppy on the lot as she stands in line for an audition to be part of a chorus line in a musical. He pushes the studio head Al Zimmer (John Goodman) to give her a minor part in his new film.

This sets up the story's central dynamic. Peppy’s career rapidly rises, but two years later, when talkies take over the industry, George's plummets. He can’t make the transition — for reasons initially unclear — and takes to drink, hitting bottom when he sets fire to his own home.

He is rescued in the short term by his exceptional dog, and in the long term by Peppy’s exceptional love. She not only saves him — she works to save his career.

Now, it is historically true that some silent film stars wouldn’t or couldn’t make the transition to sound flicks. There were a variety of reasons. Some actors (especially those who directed their own films) were disdainful of the new technology, thinking it inherently less aesthetically powerful than the old. Some had pronounced foreign accents, which audiences didn’t expect, at a time — like our own — when anti-immigrant feelings were running high among the general public. Others, especially actors without extensive stage experience, had diction and grammar problems. And some had weak or — in the case of a few male action leads — effeminate voices.

When George finally does speak at the end of the film, we get a clue as to why he had problems making the transition. I won't spoil the film by telling you what it is.

How is the acting in this film about actors? It's outstanding, with strong performances by Dujardin as George and Bejo as Peppy. Bejo is particularly appealing. To me, she is very reminiscent of the marvelous French actress and dancer Leslie Caron, and that's saying a lot.

Absolutely delightful in support — doing silent acting as if it were their first careers — are veteran American actors John Goodman as studio head Zimmer, and James Cromwell as Clifton, George’s faithful chauffeur and valet. And I simply must mention Uggie, who plays Dog, George’s dog. I can’t recall a better performance by a, yes, again, dog in any recent film.

Michel Hazanavicius has done a marvelous job of directing, eliciting robust but still restrained performances from actors none of whom — including the canine! — had ever done a silent film. He also wrote the script, aiming to fulfill a long-standing desire to create a contemporary silent film. (He is also married to the beautiful Bejo.) It's a risky and exciting enterprise, and Hazanavicius succeeded. He clearly spent a good deal of time studying silent film, and profiting from his studies. He performs with panache the difficult task of writing melodrama with comedic touches — and using few title cards.

The film has already won Dujardin a Best Actor award at Cannes, Hazanavicius a nomination for a Palme d’Or, and Uggie a Palm Dog award. The New York Film Critics Circle just awarded Hazanavicius the Best Director award, and gave the film the Best Picture.award. I have no doubt that many more awards are in store.

I recommend seeing this picture with young people if possible. I brought my daughter and her two friends, all young women in their twenties. None had ever seen a silent film before. All of them were entranced by this film, and had no trouble following the action or keeping their interest.

em


Editor's Note: Review of "The Artist," directed by Michel Hazanavicius. La Petite Reine-La Classe Americaine, 2011, 100 minutes.



Share This


Parents and Children

 | 

The Way is a quiet film with a quiet soundtrack that emphasizes the quiet introspection of its main character, Tom (Martin Sheen). But do not equate “quiet” with “boring.” This is a compelling film with a compelling story, told against the backdrop of the beautiful Pyrenees.

Tom is an ophthalmologist who has trouble seeing things clearly. He has chosen a traditional path for his life: He attended a respectable college, entered a respectable career, and reared what he thought would be a respectable family. His son, Daniel (Emilio Estevez), has taken a different way. “I want to see Spain, Palau, Tibet!” he exclaims to his father during what will be their last day together. “Come with me,” he pleads. But Tom is too practical. He has his ophthalmology practice to consider. Leave for two months or more? Just to wander along a mountain trail? When he shouts back about choice and accountability, Daniel responds tersely, “You don’t choose a life, Dad. You live one.”

The two part angrily, but it is abundantly clear that Tom loves and misses his son. In one early scene, Tom’s receptionist informs him that Daniel has left a message while Tom was busy with a patient. Tom’s disappointment is palpable. “Did he leave a number this time?” he asks anxiously. “Do you know where he is?” Any parent who has been estranged from an adult child knows this feeling and can relate to Tom’s despair.

The next phone call is the one no parent ever wants to receive: Daniel is dead. While setting off to walk across the Pyrenees along the Camino de Santiago, a 500-mile pilgrimage also known as “The Way of Saint James,” Daniel was caught in a freak storm. Tom must fly to Spain to identify the body and bring Daniel home. When the coroner suggests that cremation is an easier way to transport the body back to America, Tom decides that he will help Daniel complete the journey by walking the path himself and depositing a handful of Daniel’s ashes at each way station.

Along the way Tom meets several other pilgrims, each traveling The Way for seemingly practical reasons. Joost (Yorick van Wagengingen) is a jovial Dutchman who simply wants to lose weight for his brother’s wedding. Sarah (Deborah Kara Unger) is a flirtatious cougar who wants to quit smoking at the end of the journey. Jack (James Nesbitt) is a journalist looking for a good story.

All these characters have deeper spiritual conflicts that they have avoided facing. The film becomes a journey of introspection, self-discovery, and companionship as they travel not together, exactly, but side by side. Tom’s self-deception is perhaps the most pronounced, and he makes the deepest discoveries. Several times Tom sees Daniel, or imagines he sees him, in a crowd or on a hill, encouraging him and urging him forward. Daniel’s great desire was for Tom to accompany him on this journey. By dying, Daniel has found a way to make it happen.

The Way is a film about the relationship between a father and a son, made by a father and a son. Emilio Estevez, who wrote, directed, produced, and performs in The Way, seems to be Sheen’s less wayward offspring. One can’t help but think about the heartache Sheen must be experiencing in real life as he has watched his more celebrated son, Charlie Sheen, blow up in public over the past year. The younger Sheen was finally fired from his successful TV show, “Two and a Half Men,” because of problems associated with accusations about drugs, alcohol, and extramarital sex. The elder Sheen’s own heartache as a father is apparent in his portrayal of Tom, a man tortured by the way he said his last goodbye to a son whose way of life he did not approve. He plays the role with restraint, but his body language and facial expressions effectively convey his character’s deep emotions.

Tom tells himself he is walking The Way for Daniel, but as one pilgrim wisely tells him, “You walk The Way for yourself. Only yourself.” This is true of life, of course. We make the life we live. Another character tells Tom, “I wanted to be a bullfighter. My father wanted me to be a lawyer.” He blames his father for his failure to choose a more satisfying path, but it was his own choice to put his father’s approval ahead of his own happiness. The essence of good parenting is to provide protection and opportunity without forcing children into a way that is not their way. And above all—never say goodbye in anger.


Editor's Note: Review of "The Way," directed by Emilio Estevez. Filmax, 2010, 121 minutes.



Share This


French Intellectuals: Telling Stories

 | 

There is a French intellectual class. It's better defined — around the figure of the public intellectual — than it is in other countries that I know. French men and women from a handful (that's one handful) of schools dominate public discourse in France to an extent difficult to imagine in this country.

Here is an illustration: One evening, I found my septuagenarian mother transfixed before her television with the pious look on her face she reserved for moments when she thought she was listening to elevating material. She was following an exposition about Claude Lévi-Strauss' “Structuralism.” My mother only had a high-school education (but she did read quite a bit). Of course, no one understands Lévi-Strauss' scholarly work. I am not referring to his young man's slim travelogue, Tristes tropiques. That is a charming and intelligent book. I refer to the impenetrable Le cru et le cuit, for example. And no, dear former colleagues, the translation is not to blame; the original French is rather worse! In fact, Professor Lévi-Strauss himself once famously confessed that there was little chance that anyone who had not taken his seminar would understand any of his writings. It's difficult to imagine an American author combining so much opacity with so much public favor, the latter entirely on the basis of trust. I mean, the trust the general public places in other intellectuals who declared Lévi-Strauss great and essential.

I am not arguing that American scholars and American journalists don't try to become public intellectuals in the French model but that they meet with little success. Different historical conditions, different outcomes. Nevertheless, the French intellectual class is well worth studying because it seems to offer a ready, constant, and tempting model to many in this country, mostly on the liberal end of the spectrum.

In my experience, Americans with higher degrees who are also politically of the Left are almost to a man and woman ardent Francophiles. Of course, I am well aware that my personal encounters may not add up to a representative sample. Or maybe they do, or maybe they are representative enough to allow for a fair degree of generalization. (We worry about samples only because we want to be able to generalize, from “pismire to parliament,” so to speak.) In any case, I suspect that American liberals' Francophilia does not spring from admiration for French cuisine, an admiration that would be amply justified, or from aesthetic appreciation of the beautiful, civilized French countryside, or from their thorough assessment of French culture in general.

The latter explanation is especially unlikely to be correct because American Francophiles — except some language teachers — seldom know the French language well enough to listen to it or to read it with ease. A small remark about the last assertion: American journalists, scholarly authors, and novelists often spice up their narrative with a few words of French, or with a single word. Their batting average in getting both the usage and the spelling right at the same time hovers just above zero, in my experience. In this case, I operate from a reasonably good quantitative basis: I read in English one newspaper a day, one newsweekly, three magazines a month, around fifty books of all kinds a year. About half the books are fiction. I have been doing this for 40 years. Until six years ago, I read a little less fiction, but I perused a medley of scholarly journals every month. And yes, I also know that a large sample is not always representative. See the disclaimer above about samples in general.

Lévi-Strauss himself once famously confessed that there was little chance that anyone who had not taken his seminar would understand any of his writings.

So, by a process of reasonable elimination strengthened by numerous concrete examples, I speculate that many left-leaning American intellectuals admire France because that countryseems to give pride of place to its intellectuals, and recognition, and honor, and often, considerable financial rewards. They wish America would become more like France, in part so they will have a better crack at becoming public intellectuals themselves, with all the attendant material advantages, or even for the glory alone.

I think the French model is poisonous but ultimately not fatal. More credentials are needed here, since I present a strong opinion unsupported by systematic data: I lived in France until I was 21. French is my native language. I read in French all the time. I have published a couple of things in that language. My proficiency in the language, I am confident, is superior to that of most well-educated people living in France. That is true, although I flunked out of French high-school. (This is a confession, not bragging. It's needed because the issue of sour grapes is sure to surface below.) I follow the French media on the internet and through cable television. (I subscribe to TV 5, the French language international television channel. I watch it nearly every day.) I go to France and to other French-speaking countries often enough to make me confident that I have not lost touch with my culture of origin. More importantly, I spy daily on my French nieces and nephews through Facebook. I have a doctorate in sociology from a good American university. I believe it helps me gaze detachedly at the society in which I grew up. I taught — in disciplines other than French — in American universities for about 30 years. Below, I use several tiny anecdotes and three more substantial true stories to try to show why the French model of the public intellectual is poisonous. Those are just anecdotes and stories, of course; they don't prove anything, of course. I just think they might give pause and feed faculty-club conversations, even if only on a modest scale.

Incidentally, and in spite of the acidic tone of this introduction, I do not despise all French intellectual workers who are also public intellectuals, or who aim to be. I have nothing but admiration for the social philosopher Raymond Aron (1905–1983), for political commentator Jean-François Revel (1924–2006), and for my high-school buddy, the sociologist Jean-Loup Amselle. Those are individuals who have escaped the general curse, for reasons I don't quite grasp. It might just be character. And of course, if Frédéric Bastiat (1801–1850) did not exist, one would have to invent him. The French may just be reinventing him right now incidentally, because they have to, after ignoring or reviling him for more than 160 years.

First, what I am not talking about: I do not refer here to the general pokeyness of much contemporary French culture that manages to come through small, haphaphazardly selected cultural imports into the US. I mean some movies and a very few singers. (Translator's note: “Pokey” would be a 55-year-old divorced accountant who has his ear pierced for a big gold ring although he does not even own a motorcycle.) Pokeyness and the poisonous nature of the French intellectual model are probably related, but the discussion of such a relationship would take me too far onto thin ice.

Many left-leaning American intellectuals wish America would become more like France, in part so they will have a better crack at becoming public intellectuals themselves.

The general idea I am promoting is that to switch to French is to enter a world of uninformation, of disinformation, and of involuntary poetry. I recall fondly an hour and half I spent driving through the admirable Loire Valley, intrigued by an animated discussion of the damage being inflicted on Cuban society by the “American blockade” (le blocus). No, the year was not 1962 when the US imposed a partial blockade for a couple of weeks. I was listening to that discussion nearly 40 years later. The correct descriptive term, “embargo,” is the same in French as in English. So, here again, don't blame translation. The discussion took place on a specialized radio channel called France-Culture. Would anyone make this up?

That was the aperitif. By way of appetizers, here are three pearls I collected from TV5’s Le Journal (“The News”) in a span of two weeks (February-March 2011). I admit, they were all gleaned from the same news anchor:

“The Rosenbergs, a couple who were executed because they were Communists. . . .” The speaker was announcing that the soldier accused of leaking military secrets to Wikileaks theoretically risks the death penalty. He added, gratuitously and of his own accord, that Wikileaks’ Julian Assange “knows what to expect if he is extradited to the US.”

To switch to French is to enter a world of uninformation, of disinformation, and of involuntary poetry.

Reminder: at the time of this report, no authority, civilian or military, had called for the soldier to face capital punishment. Assange was facing extradition from the UK to Sweden to respond there to accusations of sex crimes. The US has not asked for his extradition here, something that would be easy to expedite with the UK. Whatever penalty, if any, Assange would face in the US, the editor of the New York Times would face the same. There is solid legal opinion that the dissemination of illegally obtained information breaks no federal law.

Only a few days later, the announcement comes on the same Le Journal that the “North American cougar is officially extinct.” (Translator's note: “cougar” is another name for “mountain lion” and “puma.”) The same perverse announcer makes his melancholy comment while standing before an old Western poster.

This time, I am stunned instead of merely annoyed. Mountain lions, cougars, are stealing pets and carrying goats across eight-foot fences five miles from my house. Oversize alley cats are not committing the misdeeds, I am sure. I’ve even written a story in French about the animal's ubiquity in California. (“Les pumas de Bécons-les-Bruyères.” It's on my blog at factsmatter.wordpress.com.) I am so astonished that I take the trouble to follow through online, where I find a big title in an environmentalist magazine (Planète, March 4, 2011):

“Les cougars ont officiellement disparu.”

But the text beneath the title does not say that at all. The real news, three paragraphs down, is about as newsworthy as “Madagascar dodo officially extinct.” The announcement is of the official extinction of the eastern “sub-species” of the cougar that no one had seen for a century anyway. It matters not; there are dozens of readers' comments about how the demise of the mountain lion is just another horrible case of humans raping the earth.

I know, it's just one zealous announcer blindly following one misleading title. But the news anchor is not a nobody, and he is not a kid. He has an important job, one much prized. I was unable track him down, but I would bet good money that he is a graduate from one of the elite Paris schools. You don't get his kind of position of influence and power without the right credentials.

Finally, here are the main stories, the several main dishes, if you will.

It's 2005. I am living in Morocco for a little while, pretending to gather material for a scholarly book on ethnic identities I never wrote. I go to the central railroad station news kiosk to pick up several Moroccan weeklies in French, because it's convenient. A delivery man dumps a pack of newspapers practically on my feet. I look at them, of course. It's a bundle of Le Monde, fresh from Paris. Le Monde is the French sociological equivalent of the New York Times, except more so. It's resolutely highbrow and unashamedly elitist. Working for Le Monde in any capacity elevates one's social standing. Often, being employed by Le Monde is the only thing that stands between a person and precipitous downward mobility. Le Monde is not exactly the informational equivalent of the NYT, however. It's thin in content, although it's an evening paper. Maybe it's because it defines itself strictly as a political periodical. (No entertaining “Life Style” pages.) For years, it has been run as a kind of “collective” with the unavoidable consequence that its journalists are co-opted from the same small circle. Invited guests play a minimal role, in part because they also come from the same small circle.

The host enjoys a good rapport with the general French television audience because of his fluency in the childish, empty, mindless slang that is the ordinary French language of the mainstream today.

By that day, in Morocco, I have already forsworn reading Le Monde for several years. It annoys me without enlightening me so, why bother, I say? But the unexpected appearance of the French paper in my field of vision induces an involuntary reflex to glance at the front page. A big title catches my eye. It's on the revival of the Baghdad theater. The subject is right down my alley. It's about Iraq and it’s about a performance art. I like Arab culture and I am endlessly curious about it. My guard is also down because the French often do that kind of reporting well. My fugitive favorable prejudice is multiplied in an instant by the realization that a French reporter in an Arab country is about five times more likely to be accompanied by an actual Arabic speaker than is an American reporter. (Hundreds of thousands of French people speak Arabic as their native tongue.)

Favor for Le Monde suddenly returns to my addled heart. I pay for the paper and read the first few lines of the article, standing in the train station.

The story is by a woman who seems young. (Don't ask me how I know; I know, and that's another story.) Here is her opening sentence, remembered, I think, word for word, except possibly for the relevant month (it's not important):

“It's early April 2003; Iraqis are dragging armchairs from the National Theater into the street outside, encouraged by an American G.I.”

Stop right there!, I think. I was not in Baghdad, but I would bet thousands (again) that there was no such encouragement. The US military was under orders not to interfere with looters. That's what it did, not because it's perfect but because Americans under military discipline don't encourage looting by others. They don't, period. (Some members of the American military may engage in looting themselves when the occasion arises. That's another story entirely; greed differs from vandalism by proxy.) And there was no motivation for any single one of them to proffer such encouragement. There was no “encouragement,” I am sure.

With her opening sentence, the French reporter was accomplishing two things. First, she was setting the scene, as any good narrator does: we are in Baghdad. It's shortly after the US invasion. Disorder reigns. It looks like the Iraqi theater is irreversibly damaged. Second, she was establishing her credentials with her crowd at Le Monde and with the general Le Monde readership: I am one of you. That Americans are barbaric, uncouth bullies is a given. Whatever I am about to tell you about my visit to the Baghdad theater circles under American occupation; please remember that I am as anti-American as the next guy or gal. Nothing can change this basic fact. I am me. “Me” is sophisticated and therefore expects nothing but stupidity and gross behavior from Americans.

You must be thinking what I was thinking at the time, because the generous American habit of fairness is difficult to break: this is just one reporter, probably a young, inexperienced one. She has not had time to think things through. Besides, her anti-Americanism at this point, in Iraq, is no greater than that felt by many Americans, including leftists and quite a few libertarians. Hers is primitive anti-Americanism.

Reel forward 9 years.

I am watching something wonderful on TV5 that has no equivalent in the US media. It's the show “On n'est pas couché” (“We Are Not Asleep”). It's the kind of show I mark on my calendar to make sure I don't miss it, although it lasts for two or even three hours. It's frankly an intellectual show but not uniformly highbrow. And it's not mincing, if you know what I mean. I like its format and I like its content. The format is original: there is a general host who acts as an MC and also as a referee or a judge in an American court. He is an affable man, a comedian of no great intellectual weight but endowed with an excellent sense of à propos. (This expression is spelled right and used right here; take note!) He enjoys a good rapport with the general French television audience because of his fluency in the childish, empty, mindless slang that is the ordinary French language of the mainstream today.

The show is shot before a live audience; in France, it's also broadcast live. It presents authors of newly published books, small and big, low and high, film directors and stage directors, and often, film and stage actors, singers, dancers, some athletes, and pantomime artists. There was even a clown once, though one with a famous circus family name. Sometimes, the show bags a national-level politician for a no-holds barred interview.

Two reasonably well-groomed professional intellectuals who know how to act on television are at the heart of the show. They preview the films and the stage shows, and above all, they really read the books whose authors will sit on their hot seat. They actually give the books, deserving or not, a thorough reading. The authors, directors, and actors are grilled about their work and their lives, but all in a non-scandalous way. There is no attempt to find out who bedded whom, except 20 years or more in the past, where the answer may have historical interest. The interviewing is cordial for young actresses, but it is fierce grilling for famous people. The jury of two suspects many of them of using their celebrity to palm off mediocre works (memoirs in particular) on a busy and possibly naïve public. The jurors show no indulgence toward the powerful. One recently told a popular television personality that his autobiography was “nulle” (“hopelessly void”). Then he asked the author why he had written the book at all. The author did not cry but I would have, in his place.

I am guessing, only guessing, that one could even make Zemmour admit that American might is the last rampart against the violent jihadism he openly fears.

It's to the great honor of the show that the same juror was himself called “nul” a week later by a popular soap-opera director whose work he had criticized, perhaps on the wrong grounds. The lady director, a beautiful Muslim woman with striking black hair, and her two main actresses, also attractive Muslim women originating in North Africa, came close to lynching the critic right in the studio. (I know the tension was not staged because I have watched the Jerry Springer trash-show dozens of times, which makes me an expert on rigged fights.) In the end, the argument over a television soap generated so much heat that the irate director called the critic out. What I heard sounded ambiguous precisely because there was so much heat. It was not completely clear in the end whether she was offering to beat him to a pulp outside the studio or if she was threatening to have her way with his body.

This juror who was thus placed under bodily threat is called Eric Zemmour. He is a man I would have for dinner any day, and I would also be glad to drink either coffee or beer with him any time. I might even share my oldest Calvados with him, because I like him so much. He is a journalist and also the author of ten books. He is refined, immensely cultured yet humble, and devastatingly witty. Zemmour often demonstrates a solidly conservative temperament in his comments about others people's work. One of his own best books is about the feminization of society, which he deplores, of course. Another book was the initial public signal in France that multiculturalism had taken stupid and self-destructive forms. Zemmour's is one of the few public voices in the country to undermine the ambient misérabilisme by pointing out that the French welfare net is quite adequate. (“Misérabilisme” is a word that does not exist in English but should, in my estimation. It refers to the emotional and intellectual propensity to feast on the misery, real or imagined, of others in one's society or, often, in the world. It's one of the emotional foundations of leftism.)

Zemmour is quite able to say good things about American movies and about the American cinema in general. It's obvious he has read American authors. No primitive anti-Americanism for him. Yet, very often, and most often when confronted with any manifestation of American power at all, he displays reactions of intense dislike and dismissal. In such circumstances, he seems to become a little stupid. He sounds as if his IQ had dropped 30 points. Maybe “stupid” is too strong a word. He is still an intelligent man at those times, but just intelligent in an ordinary way, not brilliant. I mean by this that his comments do not differ in such moments from what you might hear in any caféclose enough to the Sorbonne.

Zemmour is Jewish. He and his parents are from Algeria. Had it not been for the massive exercise of American power in North Africa in November 1942, there is a fair chance the Vichy regime would have completed the job already started of turning over its Jews to the Nazis for disposal. Later, his family moved to France. This man is also old enough to know that, absent American power, the Soviet Union would have eaten Western Europe alive, as it did Eastern Europe. It's impossible to believe that he does not know that the US threatened the Soviet Union into staying put and that the threat was credible thanks to America's obvious and abundantly displayed power. And there is no doubt that he knows and recognizes that there was no critical show like his under any Communist regime. And he knows full well that to the extent that there were public intellectuals in Communist-ruled countries, their place was most often in prison or in the gulag. I am sure he has signed several letters in support of jailed Cuban intellectuals. I am guessing, only guessing, that one could even make Zemmour admit that American might is the last rampart against the violent jihadism he openly fears.

So, here we have it: this intelligent, cultured man, endowed with a superior critical sense, this man who daily demonstrates his independence of mind in his newspaper columns, often in his books, and weekly on television, cannot put two and two together: American power created and continues to create a sphere of freedom where the likes of him can perform their good work. There might be an alternative to American power, but there is not. There has not been one ever since he was born.

Zemmour appears to suffer from self-inflicted blindness, a kind of hysterical reaction to his macro-environment. The French intellectual context is so mindlessly leftist and anti-US that there are few people with enough resources of mind and character to confront it head on. We are social beings. When enveloped in a warm blanket of homogeneity, most of us will succumb, unless we are trained not to. We all need rocky seas, every so often, just to calibrate our compasses.

Some French people are well enough aware of the political dimension of intellectual homogeneity that there is a French expression for it: “la pensée unique.” There are exceptions to the rule of French intellectuals yielding to the attraction of homogeneity but they don't last. The philosopher Bernard Henry-Lévy, originally a little prince of the French Left, broke publicly with leftism and with the anti-Americanism of his milieu in the 80s. Then he became a publicity hound and a bad writer. I recommend warmly that you don't buy his 2005 tour of the US, In the Footsteps of De Tocqueville, where he grandiosely claimed to follow in De Tocqueville's intellectual footsteps, but definitely did not. French intellectuals who throw off the warm blanket of homogeneity just seem to get lost.

But here is my third and last story. It's so outlandish that I wouldn’t dare tell it if I were not reasonably sure there were archives that could back it up if necessary.

I am guilty of many sins but failing to make myself comfortable is not one of them. Everywhere I am, I nearly always manage to begin the day in the same way — a cup of coffee in one hand and a newspaper in the other. This comforting habit sometimes has to be reduced all the way down to instant coffee and reading up on the exploits of a local high-school basketball team in a language I can barely decipher, but the form, the ritual, at least, is respected.

The French intellectual context is so mindlessly leftist and anti-US that there are few people with enough resources of mind and character to confront it head on.

So, it's late June 1998. I am in Brittany to write something on the largely phony origins of Breton Celticism. (No merit there; I am just following in the footsteps of the English historian Trevor-Roper in his iconoclastic The Invention of Scotland.) I am beginning the day sitting outside a good caféin a pleasant coastal town. There is a cool breeze from the sea. A grand crème warms my hand. (There is no such thing as café-au-lait in French cafés. It's another case of phony Frenchism, among many others.) This is before I rejected Le Monde as a morning sacrament. So, I am unfolding yesterday night's issue.

A front page item immediately claims my attention. It's a long report on India's nuclear policy by Le Monde's “envoyé spécial” in New Delhi.

It's been a little over a month since India detonated nuclear devices with obvious weaponization potential. I start reading with unwavering attention. After about two or three minutes, a small warning bell starts tinkling in my brain. Something is wrong in what I am reading. Now, I don't know about other people's warning bells, but mine is not sophisticated. It does not have special timbres for “lies,” “inaccuracies,” or “involuntary misinformation.” It just says, “Something is wrong here.” So, I go back to the head of the article and I realize with stupor that I have been reading all along that India's national policy regarding nuclear weapons had been until then one of “nuclear disappointment."

The words did not describe a collective feeling among Indians or anything close to such an emotion, as you might be tempted to guess. The envoyé spécial clearlycoupled the word “déception” to the word for “nuclear” in connection with an official policy, a series of connected statements designed to guide state action. The juxtaposition of those two words makes absolutely no sense, of course. A brief explanation is in order (and, by the way, this was one of those times when it is useful to know English in order to understand French).

The French word déception means “disappointment.” The distinguished French journalist sent especially to India at significant expense to investigate momentous events went on and on for thousands of words developing the thesis that India's policy regarding the touchy topic of nuclear weapons was guided by disappointment! There was no trace in the article of the fact that the French correspondent had almost certainly been briefed by Indian colleagues. I can guess what they had told him, in English — for years, India's informational strategy regarding nuclear weapons was one of “deception”: “We have them; we don't have them; we may have more than you think; keep wondering.” Finally, with its public explosions, India had come out of the era of nuclear deception.

I bought Le Monde faithfully for three weeks afterwards and examined it carefully, expecting an author's self-correction or a Letter to the Editor denouncing the non-sense. Nothing, absolutely nothing!

The least interesting observation about this informational debacle is that the correspondent did not know English, although he was judged competent enough by his editors to be put in charge of an important investigation that would have to take place in English. Periodically, I find the same kind of impairment of perceptiveness about language proficiency in American newspapers. In fact, I could name names if I were as mean as I sometimes hope I am. There is a permanent Paris correspondent for several respected American periodicals who, I am certain, does not know much more than high-school French. I mean, enough to shop and to travel by the Metro but definitely not enough to read Le Monde, to take an example at random. I think she often sounds credible merely because she has developed good French sources. Occasionally, not often, her analyses appear both larded with clichés and way off the mark, as if she had tried to go it alone for once.

The main implication of the Indian story is that a highbrow French intellectual from Le Monde spouted utter nonsense for two long pages and never caught on to the evidence that he was spouting non-sense. Worse, in the vast, distinguished readership of Le Monde, there was no one to notice, or to be motivated enough to ask for a correction — or else the management of the paper received corrective communications and decided to bury them, because they knew could get away with it.

Here is the inescapable conclusion, it seems to me: the French intellectual class, and those who follow it, have been listening to abstruse, absurd logic for so long that they assume there are parallel philosophical universes. In those parallel universes, words can be linked together any which way, logic is variable, upside may be downside, and black is as likely to be green, or even white, as black. And above all, clarity of expression is vulgar.

This can only happen when a group prizes collective peace above all, when dissent about ideas is so severely punished that otherwise intelligent people practice unconscious self-censorship. I refer to unconscious self-censorship because France is undeniably a democratic country with no government censorship of any kind. In fact, French intellectuals sometimes point with glee to government censorship in this country. (They refer to lThis juror who was thus placed under bodily threat is called Eric Zemmour. He is a man I would have for dinner any day, and I would also be glad to drink either coffee or beer with him any time. I might even share my oldest Calvados with him, because I like him so much. He is a journalist and also the author of ten books. He is refined, immensely cultured yet humble, and devastatingly witty. Zemmour often demonstrates a solidly conservative temperament in his comments about others peopleocal censorship in matters of sexual display, guided by the vague-sounding doctrine of “community standards.”)

The French example proves that intellectuals don't matter much as far as quality of life, or much of anything else, is concerned.

The unavoidable logical consequence of the French state of affairs for envious American intellectuals seems to me inescapable. France is a fairly well-run society where people don't normally die in the street. It maintains high standards of civility most of the time, in spite of the fact that a normal weekend sees several hundred cars burned by vandals. The French quality of life is high. In many respects it compares favorably to the American quality of life. And the demonstrated superior longevity of Frenchmen may just be due to their ancestral habit of drinking a little wine with each meal. The French system is fine but it's not sustainable, as we, I, used to say. After the 2008 US-originated financial, then economic, meltdown, it's more difficult to maintain the same view without grimacing, at least inwardly.

Similarly, there is much to object to in French foreign policy, but it's no more hypocritical, mendacious, supine, or irrational than the policies of its neighbors. Terrorists never won French elections and they never redirected national foreign policy as al Qaeda did in Spain in 2004. The French army is alongside US forces in Afghanistan, where it's more likely to be doing actual fighting than its German counterparts, for example. France is not as reliable an ally as the United Kingdom or Australia, but it acquits itself better than many others.

So, we see in France a reasonably good society, and a society that does not act especially erratically or shamefully on the international stage but whose cherished intellectuals are often blind and sometimes collectively insane, as my stories show. The inescapable conclusion: The French example proves that intellectuals don't matter much as far as quality of life, or much of anything else, is concerned.

Of course, there are some downsides to this blindness and insanity although they don't add up to poison. One is the propensity to invent madcap intellectual adventures under a serious mien, such as “déconstructionisme." Another is to produce with huge government support movies that no one understands and in which the action is too slow to be worth following. Yet another consequence is awarding the highest decoration in the land to Jerry Lewis. But it all amounts to nothing tragic.

P.S. There is little in this essay to disincline anyone, even intellectuals, from spending enjoyable time in France. You just need to be aware that if you are a rational person, the more French you know, the less restful, the less enjoyable your stay will be. My travel advice: See the sights; read guidebooks in English; don't listen to the radio; don't watch television; and, for Pete's sake, don't talk to anyone who is not working in a restaurant.




Share This


Green Dreams, Green Nightmares

 | 

A rush of recent reports on energy has much to say about the fundamental foolishness of the green vision of energy production, the vision long regnant in academia, and the one that informs the Obama regime.

The green vision — really, the green dream or delusion — is that the world is running out of fossil fuels, and we need to switch to so-called renewable or sustainable sources, such as solar power, wind power, and biofuels. (These “renewable,” allegedly low-pollution green options never include nuclear or hydroelectric power, both of which are proven to be cost-effective and clean — a point to which I will return shortly). If we just embrace these “new” energy sources, the greens aver, jobs will just multiply magically.But if we continue to use fossil fuels, we are doomed to economic stagnation.

The first report is the happy news that the number of new American oil wells is increasing at a pace not seen in over three decades.

According to the major oil drilling company Baker Hughes, it installed over 800 new oil rigs last year, over twice the previous year's (2009) total, and a tenfold increase over the yearly average during the late 1990s.

These rigs are placed to tap so-called “unconventional reservoirs,” squeezed into shale rock strata. Ten years ago these shale oil reservoirs were written off, but the increase in oil prices and in the level of oil-drilling technology have now opened them up.

The story mentions several promising shale oil fields, including the Eagle Ford formation (stretching from southern Texas into northern Mexico), the Bakken formation (in North Dakota), and the Monterey formation (in California). These formations currently produce about half a million barrels a day. It is now projected that production will hit 1.5 million barrels per day in four years, the equivalent of what we currently get from the Gulf of Mexico, which is roughly about 30% of current total domestic oil production. This will go far toward making up for declining production from our conventional fields in Alaska and the Gulf of Mexico.

The Bakken formation is yielding oil faster than can be sent through pipelines to market, so the oil companies are shipping it by road and rail. The companies have had to open camps to house all the workers needed, and North Dakota has unemployment at less than half the national average (its rate is 3.8%, to be exact). As another article notes, the Bakken field produced 113 million barrels in 2010, up from 33 million the year before.

If the Bakken and Eagle Ford oil fields pay out as expected (they are projected to yield an eventual four billion barrels of oil), they will wind up as the fifth- and sixth- biggest US fields ever found. By 2020, shale oil fields could allow us to cut our imports of foreign oil by 60%, which (at $90 a barrel) is $175 billion less we give foreign dictators. And another article reports that the EIA estimates that with these new fields, American petroleum production will increase 14% by 2020.

A more recent news item gives us more detail about the new shale oil drilling technology. It involves drilling down and then horizontally into the rock, then pumping a mixture of sand, water, and small amount of chemicals in to crack the rock and loosen the oil molecules. Drillers figured out how to make the shale crack more extensively, and that made the extracted oil cheaper than had ever been thought possible.

This process, called fracking, has proven very effective in freeing natural gas, as I noted in an earlier piece. It is beginning to pay off big time in oil production as well.

With this method, new fields are being opened, such as the Leonard formation (which straddles New Mexico and Texas), and the Niobrara formation (which underlies Wyoming, Colorado, Nebraska, and Kansas).

Now, last year, as shale oil technology started proving itself a tremendously effective method for extracting oil, environmentalists immediately arose in opposition. Rep. Henry Waxman (D-CA) held hearings investigating fracking, and the environmentalist Left produced a documentary (Gasland) alleging that the technology was poisoning groundwater. But all the EPA studies have shown that fracking is safe, and even the Environmental Defense Fund seems comfortable with it.

So much for the death of petroleum. Turning now to renewable-green energy sources, some interesting stories are worth noting. Let’s begin with the report that France’s solar program is in trouble.

Two years ago, the French National Assembly passed a law requiring France’s national utility, Electricité de France (EDF), to buy all the power produced by newly installed solar panels at $745 per megawatt-hour, roughly ten times the market price for electricity. The goal was to increase the number of people installing solar panels on their roofs.

The Chinese-manufactured solar panels have a large “carbon footprint” — meaning they were produced by using large amounts of power generated by the burning of dirty coal.

The intended result was that applications for rooftop panel array connections rose — from 7,000 applications a year before the subsidiary to about 3,000 a day by December of last year. But there were unintended, though embarrassingly foreseeable, consequences. One was that the cost to EDF of buying solar power has exploded to $1.4 billion a year, and is threatening its financial health. EDF saw its stock drop by 20% in 2010 (compare that to a 3.7% drop for Europe’s Stoxx 600 Utilities Index). EDF is now $78 billion in debt, a situation that has caused it to defer modernizing its 53 nuclear reactors (which provide 75% of France’s electricity). And it has had to jack up the surcharge that consumers who don’t use solar panels have to pay.

A second consequence is that the solar panels are being purchased from China, thus shifting jobs from France to there. Worse, the Chinese solar panels have a large “carbon footprint” — meaning they were produced by using large amounts of power generated by the burning of dirty coal!

Then there is the report about an ethanol plant, Range Fuels, that in 2007 received startup subsidies of $76 million from the federal government and $6 million from the lucky state of Georgia, where it was supposed to open a plant making ethanol from pine chips. The next year, it got a loan for $80 million, guaranteed by taxpayers under the “Biorefinery Assistance Program.”

The reason the Bush administration started pushing this “advanced biofuels cellulosic ethanol” program (essentially, a program for producing ethanol from switch grass and other biomass) was that corn-based ethanol was already rapidly acquiring a bad reputation for excessive costs and a low yield of energy outputs. Cellulosic ethanol looked like a better prospect.

Georgia politicians were so excited by the smell of pork that they started calling their state “the Saudi Arabia of Pine Trees.” The Saudi Arabia of pine trees!

Well, guess what? Range Fuels just closed, having never produced even one shot of ethanol. Gone with the wind, as they used to say in Atlanta. And all the subsidy money gone with it.

Honest to God, you couldn’t make this stuff up.

 




Share This


Liberté

 | 

NewsBiscuit recently reported that in the wake of Wikileaks revelations, the truth has finally been admitted: "The 'French language' is indeed a one thousand year old hoax. The president of France revealed that what purported to be his native tongue was in fact complete gibberish, admitting the French really speak English, except in the presence of the British."

Here are my comments about this terrible revelation.

It’s a wonder the hoax lasted so long, the deceit was so transparent and so unsophisticated. Take the alleged French word for “table,” for example. It’s simply: “table.” They did not bother to change even a single letter. Or take the supposed French word for “intelligence.” It’s just the regular word “intelligence” pronounced in an affected and effeminate way.

Only once in a while did the French make even a small effort to appear to have their own distinctive language. So, for example, they took the English word “connoisseur” and made it “connaisseur,” turning an "o" into an "a" in the middle of the word to try to trip up the unaware and the naïve. Frequently, they just added an "e" at the end of a normal word in a paltry attempt to appear different. This goes, for example, for the longest word in the alleged French language, “anticonstitutionalisme,” which shows with pathetic clarity that it’s simply pseudo-English.

To be completely fair, the engineers of the hoax of a distinctive French language managed two clever defenses that retarded significantly the unavoidable uncovering of their treachery. I refer here to “irregular verbs” and to so-called “false friends.”

Every young American, or Englishman, or Australian, who was ever forced to learn the French “language” first went through an obligatory period of intimidation. They were all told that they had to master “irregular verbs,” like this: “je vais, j’irai, j’allais, [que] j’aille.” (I go, I will go, I used to go, that I go). They were all told of the three hundred verbs like this that they must master without fail. Naturally, as you would expect, all those young people quickly became discouraged. And, of course, their mass failure only served to reinforce, over time, the myth of a separate French language. The French themselves have never heard of such barbarity. In private, they used words like you and I (“you and me”?).

The second obstacle placed in the paths of students, the so-called “false friends,” was thrown at random into the pseudo-language by the perpetrators. Thus, “deception” means “disappointment,” “entree” means “hors-d’oeuvre,” and the old English word “mercy” was robbed of its final "y" and replaced with an "i." Then they tell you it means only “Thank you” in their pretend-language.

Had we been more observant, we would have uncovered the deception much earlier, noting the curious lack of certain words, in the imaginary French language. Thus, it has no word for “fun” and, on the Internet, it uses “LOL” to mean exactly “LOL.”

We were had. Dommage!




Share This


More Than Just a Pretty Film

 | 

The Illusionist is a lovely animated movie by French filmmaker Sylvain Chomet — a movie that, despite its beauty, has a disturbing message.

Its leading characters are a kindly vaudeville magician and the young working girl whom he befriends. The story is sweet and full of pathos, as the older gentleman sacrifices his own comfort and well being to please the girl. Appropriately, the film is drawn in the soft-edged, old-school style that predates Pixar. Its French pedigree is obvious, from its watercolor backgrounds and exaggerated, non-realistic faces to its impressionistic musical score. The characters communicate with each other through a combination of mime and an odd pseudo-language reminiscent of the way adults speak in the old "Peanuts" TV specials. This adds to the dreamlike quality of the story, although it can be off-putting to those who aren't fans of French animation.

Based on a story by Jacques Tati (1907–1982), the famous French filmmaker, The Illusionist is intended to show the deep father-daughter connection between a lonely old man and an equally lonely young girl. Metaphorically, however, the film offers a powerful, though certainly unintentional, warning look at the relationship between the working class and the welfare class. The magician's relationship with the young cleaning girl begins innocently and sweetly. When her bar of soap slips away from her while she is cleaning the floors, he picks it up and "magically" turns it into a fancy box of perfumed hand soap, offering it to her with a flourish. She is thrilled. The next day she washes his shirt to show her appreciation, and he "magically" produces a coin from her ear to thank her — the way kindly uncles do when they visit little nieces and nephews. Noticing that the sole of her shabby shoe is flapping wildly as she walks, he buys her a pair of bright red shoes.

Before long the magician's gig at the local vaudeville theater ends, and he must move on to the next town. Without being invited, the girl follows him. When the conductor asks for her ticket, she points to the old man, miming her expectation that he will produce a ticket for her out of thin air. Not wanting to disappoint her, the poor man complies, again with a magical flourish. Throughout the rest of the film the girl stays with the man, pointing to new goodies that she wants — a new coat, high-heeled shoes, a new dress, and a coin from her ear every time they part. The man takes on extra jobs to pay for her increasing demands. He sleeps on the couch so she can have the single bedroom in his tiny apartment. Sadly, the girl never catches on to what is happening to the man. You can probably guess where this leads. Small- time magicians, like golden geese, eventually give out.

The film offers a powerful demonstration of what has happened to a whole generation of people who have grown up under the welfare state. They have no idea where money comes from, or how to earn it. They turn to the government for housing, food stamps, education, medical care, and even entertainment in the form of parks and recreation. They seem to think that money can appear out of thin air, and that people who work owe them all the goodies they want. Like the man in the film, tax-paying Americans are becoming threadbare and exhausted. The demands on them are too many, and they're tired of not being appreciated for meeting those demands. At some point they are going to stop working — also like the man in the film. What then?

A friend who teaches middle school in the Bronx asked her students to write an essay about what they want to be when they grow up — pretty standard fare for a middle-school essay. One young man wrote about going to college, becoming a lawyer, and representing clients in court. "I'll make a lot of money, and I'll wear nice suits and carry a briefcase," he dreamed. But he ended his essay with this chilling observation: "If I do that, I'll probably earn too much money and I'll lose my housing and food stamps. So maybe that's not such a good idea." What a self-defeating decision! Yet I see that idea in practice every day as I work with people from Yonkers and the Bronx. They are so afraid of losing their tiny apartments in crumbling buildings on potholed streets in seedy neighborhoods that they won't even consider moving to a different state with a lower cost of living, where they could get a job and provide for their families themselves.

How surprising, that the demise of the American dream would be so skillfully and artistically presented in the form of a French animated film. It is well worth sharing with friends as a cautionary tale of pending disaster.


Editor's Note: Review of "The Illusionist," directed by Sylvain Chomet. Pathé-Django, 2010, 90 minutes.



Share This
Syndicate content

© Copyright 2017 Liberty Foundation. All rights reserved.



Opinions expressed in Liberty are those of the authors and not necessarily those of the Liberty Foundation.

All letters to the editor are assumed to be for publication unless otherwise indicated.