Interstate 40

For Charles Bukowski

You already have your plans
your image of the women coming to you
blond
and used to the water
you smell salt in the air
and money
when you close your eyes
and you decide to come

You pack your toothbrush
you try it on your friends
you stop for cigarettes in a gas station

And it takes you coming out again
the wind
the way the trucks pass

I think how you stand there
feeling for your wallet or your breathing
striking a light then
inhaling
as you step down off the curb

They do it the same way in the movies
first with the wind
and then

a Greyhound sign
a kid with a botched haircut
and a dufflebag maybe
two girls seen only once
laughing and turning away
outside the terminal

Inside
a drunk and his paper suitcase
get tagged and separated
one ticket apiece
someone puts his last nickel
in the pinball machine
They get it right
the producer
the director
thin as it is and sad as it is
they get it right

And we sit there
watching the places we start from
the places we wind up in
sooner or later
pass over us
and no one blinks
no one wakes up afterwards

Everyone but everyone
a moviegoer
Even the drunk great once
at following the hero and the waving grass
at stepping over the derelict
lightly
with the rest of us
Before the bottle took him
and the fog inside him rose
and left him a six-part
ticket to the coast
and forty maybe fifty cents
The westbound express
is now boarding passengers
at gate five
Places everyone

It was
just like in the movies
the way I remember it
There was hardly anything
left of him then
except for the eyes
except for the way he sat there
with the light on him
looking out
and me across the aisle the whole time
thinking

“It all comes easy to him
the storefronts and railroad crossings here
the lumber yards
car bodies
bars
it all comes easy”
But for me
this is how it is in the towns
The children run
and you pass them
At the crossroads
faces
women’s faces most of them
turning away from you
inside the glass
outside the glass
the same

I have never found it easy
I find it the way it is
the land like a flatiron there to here
the towns small
and broken at the hinges
and wind
and too much light
all of it out of our reach now anyway
no matter what my friends tell me
who rub their hands together
and the dust escapes them
who walk through looking at scenery

No
I have no respect for the land I think
I think of you
shielding your eyes when you travel
the sun at noon
standing on the broken ridgelines

“Half chalk” you think
“half fire
standing like that…”
But you go on following electric wires
letting your eyes glaze
your weight
shift a little
and when the weather changes
you watch the Indian beside you
the one with the crewcut and bow tie
fold his hands

He’s made the trip before
this Indian
or his uncle has
or his sister
Forgetting the hawk
the shadow where their horses go to water
forgetting the slap of the wind
and the broken rock standing like that
they pack overnight
and make their way here with you

Here
they all come here to California
where everything
stays close to the heart
everything works
so they think
and they come
I know the way they come to it finally
leaving the smell of sweat and alcohol behind
the uneasy breathing
They roll their magazines
and step down blinking
in their new sunglasses
they get picked up
or walk toward town against the wind
in pairs
alone

And when I look again
cypresses and redwoods cover them
girls with copper earrings
lemon groves
earthquakes
fire in the hills
money
(if they’re lucky)
money
I know
I have been here ten years now
doing what they all do when they need to eat
or stop for a smoke
or be remembered

I check the mail
put the water on for coffee
find my way downtown
I come home at night
and open up my curtains over
California palm trees
California-loving-the-water

“And when it’s like this”
I think
“I could come to it still
the way they do
the way you do
all heart and teeth”

But after ten years
the suntan oil and chlorine and success
run in me like a river
cheap thrills cheap thrills on signs
burning under the offramps
acres of carpeted hallways
doors with numbers on them
and regret
something like regret always part of it
come morning

It weighs too much with me
the traffic and the leaden air
love
the way my neighbors work at it upstairs
with the lights on and the TV going
all this time
and it never changes

There’s a swimming pool in Burbank
like they say
a yacht
a white sand beach in Venice
lettuce in the desert

And in Hollywood a man I admire
stumbles in his bedroom
Drunk
undoubtedly drunk again
and I think
“Night
and his arms around it
night
and the wind in it
making something for his middle age and mine”
while people pull up in their cars outside
and park
and walk away
while I sit up half the night
with a light on still
and curtains blowing
listening to the palms outside my window
bend and rattle
and it weighs with me

It weighs with me
exactly
the way you’d imagine

Die Amis haben unser Unterbewusstsein kolonisiert*

*The Yanks have colonized our subconscious (A quote from Wim Wenders’ film Im Lauf der Zeit)

Well, you may be old now, I told myself at sixty, but at least you haven’t started reading obituaries. Now that I’m past seventy, I know damned well that it doesn’t matter whether we read them or not. We have Twitter, we have Facebook. Unwelcome news will get to us.

When the unwelcome news of Harry Dean Stanton’s passing arrived on my iPhone a few mornings ago, just ahead of the overnight summary of White House twitter atrocities, I did what we do — I winced and scrolled up to breathless estimates of impending nuclear war. That evening, though, I poured a second beer, dimmed the lights in my living room, dug Wim Wenders’ Paris, Texas out of my essential films library, and watched it again after who knows how many years.

The Sam Shepard screenplay was as laconic, as precise as ever, Ry Cooder’s guitar licks were as haunting as ever, and there, at the center, the Old Man was as magnificently himself as ever, even though he wasn’t nearly as old as I’d remembered. When he died, I said to myself, something about what it means to be an American died with him.

But what is it about these Germans? Wim Wenders, Percy Adlon — who gave them permission to put Harry Dean Stanton and Nastassja Kinsky together in the lonesome American Southwest, or Jack Palance and Marianne Sägebrecht, for that matter? What kind of muse, what kind of genius is this?

Yeah, well…. It’s a long story. If you live in Arizona, as I do, it’s impossible to miss the German cousins in our midst. Go anywhere around here in the summer months and there they are, seemingly impervious to sunstroke, peering into their guidebooks for directions to the local Sehenswürdigkeiten, more familiar with our landmarks — even the ones they haven’t seen yet — than we are ourselves. I used to wonder, now and then, if there could possibly be as many Germans in all the other deserts of the world — the Sahara, the Gobi, the Kalahari, the Atacama, the Negev — as there were in the Sonora and Mojave.

With all due respect to the insatiable German curiosity about the world we share, I doubt it. For all sorts of historical reasons — never mind the two world wars — our national mythologies harbor semi-disclosed affinities that appeal to both our populations more or less equally. Whether we acknowledge it or not, we’re constantly in and out of each others’ pockets, sometimes with a pessimism bordering on the morbid, but more often than not with the kind of cross-cultural fertility that levels empires, confuses dialects, and assists in the birth of things no single individual could ever have dreamed of.

Case in point: Wim Wenders. The French famously lead the rest of Europe in complaining about us, but Wenders, who knows us far better, gives us the benefit of a doubt that admittedly we don’t always deserve. It’s not exactly a get-out-of-jail-free card, though, this Paris, Texas of his. It’s an admonishment, if a gentle and sympathetic one, of our chimerical American dreams. Fair play to him. Having colonized the German subconscious, as Wenders himself so elegantly put it, we can hardly complain when a German artist of his stature returns the favor.

Someone should arrange to show Paris, Texas to the pig* vile creature currently posing as our president, not that it would do any good. He’s as American as I am, but he’ll never have any idea what that actually means, let alone honor it in his actions. How much better off would we be, do you think, if the qualities that Harry Dean Stanton embodied in his best performances informed the day-to-day actions of our politicians? In the meantime, all I can say is that I’ll miss that grand old man, and so will a lot of other people, Wim Wenders fans or not.

*It’s long after the fact, but I just can’t let this stand as originally written. Pigs have good reasons for being how they are. Trump doesn’t. I’m not sure he deserves all the blame for what he’s become, but at this point how he got to be what he is matters less than putting him in a place where he can’t do any more harm to anyone who hasn’t volunteered for his abuse.

Consolation

I don’t know
in the world’s great house
we were raised in
different rooms
maybe
and passed on stairways
you along the wall
me already more than half way
over the railing

Was it then
we began
sending each other pictures?

I was wearing
the shirt you made me
The way the sun was
you couldn’t see my eyes
or so you say
I remember
the far edge of the garden
when you turned toward me
There
above your outstretched arm
the Jacaranda
lifting its
pale architecture

Oregon
you say now
you’d go that far
For the children
And tell me I can have
what’s left of the beerglasses
these four tin plates
equitable distribution
according to the laws
of California

You slam the trunk lid twice
calling me poet
po-et
like that again
but delicately
assure me
God will bless all those
who sail in me
before you drive away

The Arrangements

First
dust in the air
a dog
yelping
and circling its tail
behind the fence

A small house
behind a chain-link fence
a dog snapping at itself
and then the dust
along the ground
rising

Past a torn screen door
half-open
a woman in a sun hat
and braces on both legs
over worn coveralls
coughing
and working herself
crabwise
down the steps
to the yard

A woman in braces
with a hoe
pivoting
and levering up weeds
Or is it the grass
she’s ripping at
blade by blade
in clumps

In a sun hat
in the dust
I am
there to see it

Me
laid out on the steps opposite
full of things
I did last night and liked
only half watching
her hoe across the street
arcing
her braces
locking and unlocking
and the dust

Why tear up all that grass
for Christ’s sake?
Why with a hoe?
It’ll take months
Someone ought to
let her know
about the dog

“It looks
good like that”
I say
“the grass
it’s beautiful”

“Too much trouble”
she says
“beautiful or not
I’m sixty-two years old
and crippled
I don’t have the time”

And never did
I guess
which is why
forty years ago
she gave it up
because there’s no strength
or thrift in it
beauty
nothing we can
decently use

It lights up the eye
and leaves the hands idle
which is sin
It attracts men
and sent one away again
whistling
with his hands in his pockets
the right or wrong of it
small enough comfort then

She tried it again
in the mirror
and
when her eyes cleared
she looked at her hands
opening
and let it go

I see it now
watching the hoe
waving away the dust
“Hard case”
I think
“hard case”
with last night gone
this morning too
almost
I have things to do
and my ears ringing
What to make of Della?

Dust
at least
that’s what I can
tell people
about the dust

And when the dust settles
thirty by forty feet of
scalped grass
a snaked length of
dog chain
crossing it
between fence and house
and the trees

I like the trees
One in particular
always
green at dawn
and still
if only for
a moment

And after that moment
one morning
in the parted branches
of the same tree
Della
crippled
lopsided
goddess of
protestant horticulture
Della
waving her discount pruning saw
and
looking for the serpent

“Sweet Jesus
Della
get down
You want to
kill yourself
or what?”

“Will you look at these loquats
I can’t even
give them away
I’ve got a kitchen
full
and the ground
still covered with them
I can’t be
picking up loquats
all summer

Not now
not with Jim
the way he is
I want it down”

She runs a hand
over the saw teeth
I pull a leaf
tear it
into two halves
along the vein

She tells me
he’s dying
about the house
they just bought
bad plumbing
bad wiring
and him inside it
choking on
sawdust and
cancer trying
to fix things

“For me”
she says
“No matter what happens
he wants me to
go on living here
And I want the yard cleared
I want
something I can
keep up
No telling how I’d
pay anyone enough to
do all this gardening”

I know
I know

I tell her I know
and go on
sweating and
working the saw all morning
pulling at
amputated branches

It seems
we’ve made a pact
about this tree
the delicate fruit
seed
most of it
but sweet
the bark like grey silk
wood white
unexpectedly white
where the blade
opens it to view

I’ll help her
send it on
ahead of him
agree
that love
is her excuse

She’ll offer me
a bowl of loquats
when I leave
go in to him
believing
I’ve accepted

From 1994: The Future of Our Discontents

This essay appeared here and there on the Web in the mid-Nineties in slightly different versions — at one point it was even published in translation by an Italian Blade Runner fan site. There are things in it that I’d change if I were writing it today, but since the only point in re-jiggering the parts that seem embarrassing twenty years later would be to fake a prescience I didn’t have then, and don’t now, who would I be fooling?

 

The Future of Our Discontents

The Contributions of Ridley Scott’s film Blade Runner
to the Landscapes of the Twenty-First Century

Four towering gas flares roar up in the foreground and drift away over the landscape like the exhaust from some monstrous calliope. In the valley below them, a vast, corroded jewel of a city glitters in the smog-tinted autumn twilight. The year is 2019, and the city is Los Angeles—capital of the Pax Americana and setting for Blade Runner, Ridley Scott’s thirty million dollar meditation on the future of post-industrial capitalism.

Scott’s City of Angels isn’t for optimists. His images of things to come are as melancholy and as architectural as Dore’s engravings of Hell, as intensely detailed as a flatworlder’s logic. Yet the darkly eloquent nightmare at the center of his vision is also strangely apolitical—no one is explicitly blamed for the horrors it offers us. I doubt it ever occurred to Scott that anyone would object—not on ideological grounds, at any rate.

So in the summer of 1982, when Blade Runner was first released to theaters, the reaction against it may well have come as something of a surprise. Reviewers pointed inevitably to flaws in the film’s execution, but I suspect that the real difficulty lay in its tone.

Rightly or wrongly, we Americans have always considered our immunity to the historical accidents which plague other people an essential part of our birthright. The decade of Vietnam, Watergate, and the Arab oil embargo had been a depressing ten years for us, and few of us were eager to be reminded of it, especially when we were expected to pay for the privilege. Scott’s problem was this: just when Ronald Reagan was promising to restore American bragging rights, Blade Runner appeared to conjure openly with the demon of false pride. To many moviegoers, the result may have seemed less a prophecy than an exercise in cultural defeatism.

It would be hard to blame them. Blade Runner was—and is—a disturbing film, but it is also an emotionally accurate one. For anyone who continues to harbor doubts about the future of American empire, there is something deeply unsettling about the rain-soaked Los Angeles in which Blade Runner is set, something eerily familiar in its crumbling architecture and punked-out Third World inhabitants. I wonder how many people, picking their way through theater parking lots on a warm June evening in 1982, imagined for a moment that they heard thunder in the air behind them, or looked apprehensively for oriental characters on the exit signs as they started their cars and drove away. I suspect that there were more than a few.

It may have come as unwelcome news to Scott’s investors, but these disoriented moviegoers, and their reactions to Blade Runner—irritation on the one hand, and deja vu on the other—may have been a better guide to its long-term impact than the box office receipts. However much—or little—it grosses, Blade Runner will remain a compelling reminder of just how nasty life in the twenty-first century may eventually become. It shouldn’t be surprising that audiences find it haunting even as they reject it.

The source of their ambivalence is clear enough, after all. We Americans are the inventors of the twentieth century, but we still haven’t found a home in it. Despite our history, and our pretensions to technological superiority over the rest of the world, we are a lot like the victims of the Chinese curse—fated, no matter what our individual desires, to live in times which are a lot more interesting than we would prefer.

Perhaps that is why, in philosophical terms, the second half of the twentieth century has been so devastatingly quiet. The testimony of Heisenberg and Freud is on record in every library, and incidents like Chernobyl or urban gridlock are reported daily in the media, yet the ruling orthodoxy of the post-war era remains unswervingly Newtonian. It understands only cause and effect, problem and solution, and it recognizes only one heresy: anyone who dallies, even for a moment, with the notion that uncertainty might be a permanent feature of human enterprise is automatically persona non grata. Like Socrates, he may be tolerated, but he is never left alone with the children.

The price of this attitude, especially among the orthodox themselves, is a profound and chronic restlessness. The hope that we can find solutions is tempered always by the fear, largely unexpressed, that we may ourselves be part of the problem. We sense that we are facing not one, but two futures: the future of our public allegiances, and that darker future of moral decay, terrorism and nuclear holocaust which occasionally decorates our private nightmares.

Unfortunately, both are based on the same evidence. Whether we like it or not, the choice between them is always an act of faith—which may be why the use of the future as a metaphor for the misgivings of the present has become such a commonplace. It serves the same function in our time as Hell did in Dante’s: it provides us with the excuse—and occasionally the means—to confront what we have all too carefully hidden from ourselves.

And what illuminations does Blade Runner offer? In the story itself, very few. Whether Scott was forced in the end to capitulate to the demands of big-budget Hollywood marketing, or simply held himself aloof from the political implications of his vision, plot and character development in Blade Runner never rise much above the sad conventions of the comic strip and television cop show. It is only in the incidentals that Blade Runner is interesting—the details of set design and lighting, the tight integration of sound track and music; the tantalizing view, in minor characters and in actions taking place at the edges of the frame, of a city in which much more serious business is being transacted than the pursuit and destruction of some assembly-line Prometheus.

If this business is familiar, it should be. In embryonic form, its essential features surround us already. The political and social dominance of so- called “corporate cultures” is a fact; so also is the increasingly neurotic synergy of computers and real-time video which so gleefully confuses our dreams and our waking experiences. If androids seem farfetched, we have only to remember that it has taken less than thirty years for the first tentative experiments in genetic engineering to develop into the industrial technology which makes worldwide headlines today. Whatever the level of our individual understanding, we must all be aware that a sudden environmental or political apocalypse is not the only threat we face.

It is in the light of this awareness, which he clearly shares, that Scott has rebuilt and illuminated the city of Los Angeles for us. We see it as it might look on a late autumn afternoon nineteen years into the coming century: corrupt and essentially ungovernable, the decaying but still powerful queen of a technological civilization which steadfastly refuses to look at either the compass or the clock.

In the foreground, Harrison Ford and Rutger Hauer argue whether androids have souls, and whether, having been denied the right to self-determination by no less a figure than their creator himself, they are justified in resorting to mayhem. We scarcely notice Scott in the background, quietly aiming his camera down a narrow alley at the approaching Götterdämmerung.

Scott imagines the end coming, as Eliot did, “not with a bang, but a whimper.” His camera conducts us through the overpopulated ruin of Hollywood and into the downtown fortress headquarters of the Tyrell Corporation, where Eldon Tyrell, its founder and CEO, has embarked on a mission which would impress even Lee Iacocca. With the natural ecology in terminal disarray, the Third World noisily hawking its noodles in the glass-walled canyons below him, and little hope for continued profit in his dominion over either one, Tyrell—one of those superbly educated and superbly callous white men who, for lack of a better word, we agree to call technocrats—has hit upon a radical solution to his dilemma: he will replace every living thing, human beings included, with more tractable models of his own design.

If his solution seems far-fetched, consider what the present century has already accustomed us to: purge trials and personality cults, Mutual Assured Destruction; the technologies of mass production applied to genocide…. Attempts to selectively re-engineer all of Creation are still comfortably beyond the limits of technology, but should a more capable technology someday become available, it isn’t difficult to imagine a future General Motors or Pentagon willing to experiment with it.

The likelihood of such a future, and the moral fatigue which accompanies it, are among the true horrors of modern life. Against that day, the day when Tyrell’s particular gladness comes to pass, the twin ideologies of politics and religion have little to offer us. The future isn’t an ideological problem.

Sadly, it isn’t an aesthetic problem either. Artists often see evil more clearly than the rest of us, but they rarely have any greater power to correct it. In the realm of the senses, they are not so much politicians as historians. What makes their history more interesting than the kind we are taught in school is that sometimes, as in Blade Runner, it has yet to be confirmed by events.

In painting and in literature this is a familiar concept; in film it is still relatively new, and still poorly understood. Film is a powerful medium, but the experiments with form which, for more than a century, have marked the best of the other arts, have yet to excite much interest among professional filmmakers.

There are two reasons for this, I think. The first arises from the economics of film. Unlike painting or writing, filmmaking is not a handicraft. Film is a collaborative, high technology medium, and feature- length works cost far too much to be sold profitably to the individual collector. Such works must be mass-marketed if they are to be marketed at all, which effectively restricts any experiments in form to those which are likely to be tolerated by mass audiences.

The second reason is more subtle. The illusion of control over reality is one of the most seductive attractions of film, not just for audiences, but also for filmmakers themselves. These days, a director with Hollywood financing at his disposal can do just about anything God can do—provided, of course, that his ambition (and imagination) are up to the task. It is only natural that his acolytes—the cameramen, grips and electricians; the make-up and wardrobe and continuity people—should harbor illusions of their own. Sending an antique Rolls Royce over a cliff just to capture a second or two of film is heady stuff, especially when someone is paying you a fabulous amount of money to do it.

Unfortunately, the grandeur and the exhilaration are available only when the film retains some connection, however tenuous, with its theatrical antecedents. Animation, computer-generated imagery, and other seemingly avant-garde graphic forms may be interesting, but they lack the appeal of film as wish-fulfillment theater.

Audiences in particular have very sensitive antennae for this quality—the quality of their own dreams (or nightmares) given palpable form. The reason that a film like Blade Runner can successfully attach itself to an audience’s subconscious has less to do with its technology—the computer-controlled cameras, digital sound sampling, traveling mats, etc.—than with its psychology, a quality relied upon as much in Shakespeare’s plays as it is in any film.

Of course the tools of traditional theater and of film are vastly different. In Shakespeare’s plays, natural language is the only artifice required—it conjures so powerfully by itself that any staging beyond the absolute essentials seems almost a distraction.

The situation in Blade Runner—as in films generally—is reversed: it is the visual environment of the film which carries the weight of the narrative. In Blade Runner this environment is so strongly present, and so richly suggestive, that at times the relatively little dialog which is required to advance the plot seems more a threat to the dramatic illusion than a support for it.

In large part, this is due to the subtlety of Scott’s visual vocabulary. He gives us brief, but detailed glimpses of a world which is a plausible, if not precisely logical, extension of our own, then openly invites us to interpret them.

To take just one example: almost everyone in Blade Runner smokes—the impenetrable tobacco haze is an important visual element in many of the interior scenes. It isn’t clear, in an age when smoking has become anathema, an almost universal symbol of dissipation and self-contempt, what Scott intends by giving it such pride of place in his version of the twenty-first century.

The answer, I think, is that the smoking in Blade Runner is intended as an echo, a reminder that all the poisonous exhalations of a capitalist society are voluntary. The fatal eroticism embodied in the fumes from Rachael’s smoldering cigarette is repeated in the orange skies above Los Angeles, in the continual dark rain which beats along its decaying rooftops and licks at the trash fires in its streets. Consumption pursued as an end in itself, Scott seems to be saying, will lead to the same, slow catastrophe whether it is an individual or an entire society which does the pursuing. The American Dream is, in fact, a nightmare, and it has always been one.

The psychological acuteness in such metaphors is evident, but for those of us who are roughly Scott’s contemporaries, there is a particular irony in the way he applies them.

We are the children of plenty—our own age of innocence began in the national celebration which accompanied the end of World War II. We grew up surrounded and sheltered by the post-war fantasies of the Fifties. According to the folklore of our childhood, it was American know-how, American technology which had brought us our final victory over war and poverty.

I remember articles in the Weekly Reader of my childhood about the industrial benefits of atomic power and the increased farm yields made possible by the invention of DDT and 2-4-D. I also remember the stories my parents let slip about their own lives; the indignities they had suffered during the Depression, their separation from one another during the war years.

For those of us who had the good fortune to be born white, the future held no particular terrors. What scared us was the past which our parents had so narrowly escaped. Until the Vietnam War arrived to provide us with horrors of our own, we were only too happy to join them in fleeing theirs.

For our generation, then, the more the future threatens, the more it resembles the past—and Scott seems to understand this instinctively. In Blade Runner, he presses the Thirties into service again, like the Bogeyman, to cast its long shadow over our hopes. The Mayan Revival is once again the dominant architectural style; the women of all men’s dreams are once again encased in Joan Crawford’s stiff-shouldered exoskeleton. The horrors of Scott’s landscapes turn on a delicate and beautifully original application of McLuhan’s principle of historical simultaneity—the visual artifacts of another era detached from their original context and pressed into service as emotional shorthand in our own. As the founding generation of the Information Age, we are perhaps the first to be conscious of these signals; we are certainly not the last to be vulnerable to the distortions which they can sometimes introduce into our collective memory. In any event, we respond to the language, and Scott speaks it to perfection.

Yet inventive as it is, this psycho-historical sleight-of-hand isn’t the only trick Scott has in his bag. His camera may imagine the future, but it also echoes the present with an accuracy that is often unsettling.

Consider the immigration patterns of the past twenty-five years. Most of us are aware of the Hmong and the Marielitos, of the continual flood across our southern borders. We’ve seen the changed population mix in our cities, especially along the southern rim of the country. Scott takes the trend a step further, imagining a time when all of our imperial chickens have finally come home to roost.

At street level, his Los Angeles is part Ginza and part Decline of the West—home not only to the rubber-clad, German-speaking dwarves who clamber over Deckard’s car looking for parts to pry loose and sell, but also to Gaff, the extraordinary Latino with white eyes who practices Origami and speaks an argot which sounds like an amalgam of Japanese and Indonesian. (Gaff is especially interesting. As I read him, he is the embodiment of that elegant nihilism which hereditary second-class citizenship sometimes produces among the more talented members of minority groups. If James Baldwin had been stripped of the last of his illusions and armed with a license to kill, he might have behaved a lot like Gaff.)

Although we may not yet be able to find exactly these creatures walking the streets of our cities (even in Los Angeles) there is a definite possibility that we may someday have to make a place for them. And if their numbers happen to include a few clones and cyborgs, who will complain? The same people who complain now, probably—”the kind of cop who used to call black men ‘Niggers.’” For the rest of us, what people are made of—then as now—will have little to do with the physical composition of their bodies.

After all, we are Americans, and Scott’s twenty-first century, despite its stylistic kinship with fascist public works, is an American century. He recognizes that Americans—Californians, at any rate—have always made their own decisions, have always flirted with anarchy.

When Chew tells Batty “I just do eyes,” he is testifying to a form of social disintegration which Orwell could never have imagined. Not ideology run amuck, but the implosion of ideology has sent the people in the streets of Scott’s Los Angeles scurrying. They must re-invent themselves daily out of the unstable bits and pieces of a collapsing rationality. Every man in this New Jerusalem is an island, and a floating one at that. Such purpose as exists here isn’t totalitarian—it’s individual, and small. A subcontractor in human eyes fits the logic of such a society perfectly.

And whether we like it or not, we know that Chew speaks for all of us. If things sometimes go wrong, he believes, as we do, that it can’t be our fault—we are responsible only for a piece of the action, not for the whole. Politics is said to be the pride of free men, but in the twentieth century, the free man has learned to avoid all forms of responsibility, politics included. Politics has been reduced to a form of longing, an eloquence in the prayers of the oppressed. We may sympathize with their plight, but we ourselves are longer interested in acting on their behalf. Outside the Third World, the clear and present danger in our era isn’t totalitarianism, it’s chaos—the lack of necessary and sufficient reasons for doing anything at all.

We know this, all of us. We don’t often discuss it, but we know it. Should automobiles someday come equipped with self-contained oxygen systems, and large-scale mining operations be set up in our urban landfills, we’ll have another chance to reassess Scott’s powers of prediction.

In the meantime, we can say only that his contribution to the vocabulary of our future discontents has been taken up by other filmmakers. When we hear petty fences speaking what sounds like Korean in Trouble in Mind, or see petty Ministry of Information hacks in Brazil driving three-wheel Messerschmidt staff cars (ca. 1949) it wouldn’t hurt us to remember who was first to disembark on these shores. Ridley Scott may not be aware of it himself, but he understands our nightmares.

If you doubt it, make your way over Mulholland Drive, or coast down from Griffith Observatory some night when you have nothing better to do. Try to see la Ciudad de Nuestra Señora, Reina de los Angeles without the gas flares, without the winking lights of ground effects spinners above the Harbor Freeway. If you find, as I do, that the present is overlaid by something darker, something more ominous, then you may agree with me that Scott has, in Wim Wenders’ wonderful phrase, “colonized our subconscious.” When all is said and done, this is what has always been expected of artists. We should be grateful that someone still possesses the ancient power.

Defaming Youth

He (or she) is a teacher (or an employer.)

These kids today — I deal with a lot of them.

No. Not this. Not again.

They don’t like to work, and they don’t know anything. They can’t spell, they can’t add a column of figures. They can’t find France on a map, fer Chrissake.

I pull my iPhone 4S out of my pocket, hold it up to my ear.

Tell me about France, I say.

Five seconds later, the screen shows a zoomable map of France, with a virtual red push-pin sticking out of Paris. I hold out my hand, palm up.

Do you know the average age of Apple’s work force? I ask him (or her.)

The answer is 33. For Google, (which provided the map) it’s 31. Whatever is wrong with the country today, young people aren’t it.

Discomforting the South

From Ta-Nehisi Coates, this eloquent re-statement of fundamental American principles still being trampled on by a legion of racist Dixie apologists. It should be read aloud from every pulpit in the nation. Re-light Frederick Douglass’s torch — here’s someone more than worthy to carry it forward.

History is identity. When we erase the painful portions, we lose texture, color and we are reduced. Patriotism, in my eyes, has always been about the strength of seeing those rough spots, of considering your home at its worse, and remaining enthralled, nonetheless. That is how we love our daughters, our husbands, our mothers. That is how we make family.

I have come to a fairly recent regard for Lincoln. He rose from utter frontier poverty, through self-education and hard work, to the presidency and the upper reaches of American letters. His path was harsh. His wife was mentally ill. His son died in office. He was derided in newspapers as ugly, stupid, a gorilla and white trash. For his patience, endurance, temperance and industry in the face of so many troubles, Lincoln was awarded a shot to the head.

Now in some sectors of the country for which Lincoln died, patriotism means waving the flag of his murderer. The party he founded supports this odious flag-waving and now gives us a candidate who would stand before that same flag and peddle comfortable fictions. What hope is there when those who talk of patriotism brandish the talisman of bloody treason?

The matter falls to you. Don’t [be] conned. Don’t be a mark. Live uncomfortable.

Amen, brother Coates.

Eminently Good Sense

Listening to Noam Chomsky for the first time can be a little like discovering a new species of orchid sprouting in a Wal*Mart parking lot. We think we know where we are — everything looks and sounds the way it’s always looked and sounded — and then, suddenly, familiar perspectives seem to shift. It’s not that Chomsky’s take on things is entirely without precedent, but it’s a genuine shock to encounter anything like it in the familiar American here and now. If you’ve ever thought about looking for an antidote to all those hours of mindless pontification from Washington Week in Review, or Charlie Rose, this Noam Chomsky interview isn’t a bad place to begin: