Wherefore Art Thou, Simple Hero?

The Good Old Days - The Lodger (mp3)
Superman Song - Crash Test Dummies (mp3)
On Film I Play Myself - Tim Seely (mp3)

The American has the unmitigated gall to question what's happened to the cinematic hero of yesteryear:

I mean real heroes, unqualified heroes, not those who have dominated American cinema over the past 30 years and who can be classified as one of three types: the whistle-blower hero, the victim hero, and the cartoon or superhero.

(Seriously, you should click on that link and enjoy the read. It's a very interesting article.) 

Heck, I'll forward his theory one notch further. Most of the comic book-based superheroes who clog the screen today are no longer the simple superheroes of yesterday. Batman is one seriously psychologically discombobulated fella, leap years away from Adam West's cheeky '60s version. Iron Man is an alcoholic fighting to right the wrongs of decades of corporate irresponsibility. The Hulk is the notion of powers that are more of a burden than a blessing. The X-Men are people who are pushed to the fringes and feared.

The last Superman movie failed miserably, yet Superman and (possibly) Captain America are the only two heroes that, at least for a large chunk of their existences, were fairly simple and clean heroes. They carried few deep, dark secrets. Their aims were simple and true (and quite similar): Fight for truth, justice and the American Way.

The point of all three of the kinds of hero in which Hollywood has specialized over the last 35 years has been to make sure that heroism can continue to exist only on a plane far removed from the daily lives of the audience. It is hard not to speculate that this is because of a quasi-political aversion on the part of filmmakers to suggesting to the audience that real-life heroism was something to which it, too, could aspire.

While I agree with the essence of Bowman's argument -- that golly, it sure would be peachy-keen if we could have some fellas up on the big screen who were pure role models for how to be a Stand Up Guy in today's wacky world -- I can't help but confess that nothing about characters that simple appeals to me.

I prefer Unforgiven, where you realize that Gene Hackman's Little Bill, who's supposed to stand for justice, actually stands for something a little more egotistical, frightening and rash. Where Clint Eastwood's William Munny was a lawless man who'd found the righteous path, went on a fairly chivalrous errand to earn much-needed money, and then reverted to his more evil ways when he stumbles upon the kind of flawed justice that ruins the lives of mostly decent people.

In fact, William Munny isn't that terribly far from Batman. They both give in a little to their darker natures, sacrificing something of their own souls in the name of a higher and more aspirational sense of justice. The reason we don't have simple hero figures is because we know better. We know that being a hero comes at a cost. It requires sacrifice. Sometimes that sacrifice is in relationships, and sometimes it's safety. Whatever the price, it's always there, and it's always significant. Most superheroes sacrifice intimate relationships, must hide their identities. Even the greatest movie "simple" hero ever, Atticus Finch, had to pay a steep price for his principles.

As much as I love Atticus, though, I've always been more fascinated with the conflicted hero, the one who has just as much potential to do the wrong thing as the right. Characters who actually come to two paths in the wood and... awww, you know the rest of it.

Some examples, if you want to check out some of my favorite conflicted-hero flicks (non-superhero version): Jennifer Lopez in Out of Sight. The East German policeman in The Lives of Others. Tom Cruise in Jerry Maguire. Lindsay Lohan in Mean Girls. Jeff Bridges in The Fisher King. Topher Grace in In Good Company. Edward Norton in American History X. Ben Affleck and Samuel Jackson in Changing Lanes. The whole cast of Galaxy Quest.

Then there is Bowman's conclusion:

Without this belief in a community where power is not antithetical to the good and the decent but the means of its advancement, (no films) of our own time will ever be able to give us any but a debased sort of heroism.

Sadly, it's difficult to disagree with him. But... have you tried to watch Mr. Smith Goes to Washington lately? You might as well watch The Wizard of Oz, because Jimmy Stewart's Jefferson Smith is just as fictional in our current world as the Tin Man or the Good Witch.

As all movie-based debates should, this one ultimately falls around Jimmy Stewart. Do you prefer the imperfect heroes from It's a Wonderful Life or Rear Window and Vertigo, or would you rather have Mr. Smith, The Man Who Knew Too Much and Lin McAdam from Winchester '73?

Either way, as Bowers rightly acknowledges, The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance has enough simple heroism and conflicted heroism to make either side happy.

"The Gold Old Days" is from Life is Sweet. "On Film I Play Myself" is from Funeral Music. Both albums are available on Amazon.com's mp3 downloads site and iTunes. "Superman Song" is from the first album by Crash Test Dummies, The Ghosts That Haunt Me. It ain't avilable either place.

And Babies Make Four (Love, Part 4)

Love, the Metamorphosis IV: And Babies Make Four

The Water is Wide - Karla Bonoff (mp3)
In Dreams - John Waite (mp3)
Ordinary Girl - Rick Springfield (mp3)

I skipped right past the Honeymoon phase, because newlyweds aren't usually all that particular about love songs. All love songs are great to newlyweds. Even breakup songs make happy newlyweds smile, so trying to find three songs central to the happy newlywed experience was an exercise in futility. Hell, I even listened to Chicago's Greatest Hits -- the Peter Cetera edition -- repeatedly during this phase in my life. So that's not a time I look back on and think, Wow, I should share my favorite musical moments, love-wise!

"The Water is Wide" was our song. They played it at our wedding reception, and we danced cheek to cheek while our audience fought to stay awake. The song was so boring to everyone, apparently, that Jenni's dad barged in on us at the halfway point.

Like most everything, we overanalyzed the crap out of this song before picking it, especially that somewhat troubling second verse where love grows old and waxes cold. We basically agreed that, at least for us, that verse was a reminder that mere passion could never sustain a relationship, that a strong relationship required headier stuff. The passion might not be there every minute, every month, but we'd still have plenty of river yet to cross. All we had to know is we had a much better shot of making it across that river together.

Partly we loved the song because it had that old Irish angle to it, and it seemed relatively original (and by my father-in-law's reaction at the reception, I guess I know part of THAT reason). And it also wasn't completely syrup. Had a cute little duet that pops in when they have to row together. Besides, it was on the thirtysomething soundtrack, so it could do no wrong.

The other song we listened to a lot and that held onto its place in my heart years later is the John Waite song, "In Dreams." You may know good ol' John from his painfully repetitive hit "Missing You" or, if you were a Neal Schon fan (Journey guitarist), maybe you remember their joint work on Bad English ("When I See You Smile," anyone?).

Anyway, this was Waite's song on the very underrated soundtrack to True Romance, a very underrated but violent movie starring... well, lots of folks. Tarantino wrote the screenplay, and it's probably what sealed him the chance to make Pulp Fiction. If you like Pulp Fiction and haven't seen True Romance, I've just given you one tremendously enjoyable evening.

This song spoke of a man who'd seen some bad shizzle go down, yo, but he refused to give in. It was cheesy, but weathered. Smoked gouda, maybe. As long as that chick was at his side, he could continue to see bad shizzle and sing bad shizzle, and he'd make it through to the other end of the rainbow. That's my kind of cheese. (Although apparently I loves me some whiners, too. Whiners singing breakup songs will always have a leg up on other subjects.)

Finally, there's the song I consider the Greatest Love Song A Man Should Never Play for His Wife. It's the Backhanded Compliment Love Song, but I get verklempt almost every time I play this song. Yes, Rick Springfield makes his return to this blog because dammit, the guy writes some killer pop music no matter his stage of life or mullet style. Not only that, but playing backup on this song is none other than Stan Bush, without whom we'd never have one of the two most cringe-inducing singing performances in the acting world: Dirk Diggler (Mark Wahlberg) singing Bush's "You've Got the Touch" in Boogie Nights. Rick sings about being proud to be something short of extraordinary, in love with someone short of extraordinary.

The irony is, well, he's Rick Springfield, so WTF does he know about being ordinary? He's not Will Smith, but c'mon, he's not exactly a character from Our Town, either. But if Madonna can sing about prayer and Michael Jackson can sing convincingly about loving a woman, then I guess anybody can sing about anything and nail it once in a while.

I never published a book or got hired to write a column for The Washington Post or produced platinum records or cured cancer. I'm pretty damned ordinary, but I can love someone and raise a family with her and give these children an unspectacular but sincere and involved upbringing and aim to be something like an ordinary decent person. And maybe that's not only not so bad, maybe that's pretty damn good. Maybe that's better than we can really know. Or maybe we just keep telling ourselves that so we can sleep better in our ordinary houses under ordinary covers.

Works for me!  

All three songs are available on iTunes or Amazon.com's mp3 site.

Kids Rule, Adults Drool?

Daddy's Gonna Pay for Your Crashed Car - U2 (mp3)
Alison Foley - Better Than Ezra (mp3)

Old dude writes a lengthy Weekly Standard column complaining that the world now revolves too much around them damn kids. Parents are too attentive, too nurturing, too overprotective, too omnipresent. Kids are too coddled, micromanaged and supervised. Back in his day, he had to combat rabid dogs for scraps of meat, and his parents would disappear for weeks on end when he was an infant, forcing him to fend for himself. It's not that his parents didn't love him, 'cuz they did. They just had better stuff to do with their time. Like, everything else.

He gives this theory a brilliant name, though: The Kindergarchy.

Unfortunately, as "Back in My Day" curmudgeonly as his writing seems, I can't help but think his central point is dead-on: for all the extra attention, time and cuddles we invest in our children, does it really produce better adults? Less selfish adults? More considerate adults?

Last I checked, employers are saying today's college grads need more praise, more incentives, more rewards just to do the same job their elders did just 'cuz that's what jobs are. That's the price of growing up with parents who convinced them they're the center of the universe: they actually believe it.

You're special.
Hell yes I am!
You can do anything you want to if you want it bad enough.
I'll be the first 5'3" NBA center!
Your place in the world is on top!
Duh! Now get the f*#k out of my way and fix me breakfast!

Reading Epstein's article splits me in two. Part of me feels sorry for the guy for not even knowing what he was missing. Poor kid, his parents weren't particularly nurturing, and they were only mentors in the abstract. But the other part sees my own childhood in his descriptions... (cue personal flashback)

By the time I was in fifth grade, I regularly rode my bike, along with one other friend, five miles, some on traffic-congested roads, to a movie theater. I rode it to school some three miles away. I had a TV in my room by the time I was 10, fully equipped with HBO and Skinemax. My parents didn't go to all my baseball games, nor did they spend tons of time training me in athletics (but then, I wasn't very good... which begins a chicken/egg debate). In middle school, my curfew was hardly enforced, and I would frequently come in at 3 a.m. from a late night role-playing extravaganza at a neighbor's house.... and I'm forced to acknowledge that we grew up with a less heavy parental guiding hand yet somehow emerged mostly OK.

None of these things were examples of stellar parenting, but I never thought of my parents as anything but wonderful, loving parents. Once in a blue moon I somehow felt my parents fell short of their obligations, but for every one of those moments I had 30 where I was grateful my parents were soooo much better, more loving, more caring, than someone else's.

Will reading this change my philosophical approach to parenting? No more than Supernanny, frankly. That show -- arguably the most valuable (and overlooked) public service commercial TV has offered in a long, long time -- should serve as the central reminder that the behavior of a child is the direct reflection of how their mother and father have raised them. For a while there was talk about how little parents influenced their children in comparison to peers and other external factors, but increasingly, common sense and surveys point to parents as the most important influencers (cute little small-town column) on their children's lives.

So what are we to do? We have great influence over our children, but we can also abuse it by overusing it. Damned if we do, damned if we don't, to some extent, which makes the intentionality of choosing our battles all the more crucial. Worst case, it seems picking fewer battles will rarely hurt the kids as long as we stay in the fight.

Standing By

Standing By - Actual Tigers (mp3)

There's a lot written about those nightmares of the 21st Century known as "Helicopter Parents," those adults who become the micromanagers of their child's life. They complain to teachers about grades. They complain to coaches about playing time. They hover and schedule and thrust themselves into the minutiae of their youngster's existence.

Now that I'm back into the interesting zombie state of parenting an infant, returning to this state after five years thanks to the rhythm method, I sympathize with Helicopter Parents more than I did previously. I was just starting to get a little of my normal life back, y'see, and then another baby comes along and takes it all away. Damn you, baby!*

Now that I'm back into my parental cocoon, it would be tempting, stuck with a pathetic excuse for a social life, searching desperately for a bigger gauge of your day than which prime time show comes on that night, to make your child's life an extension of your own.

In fact, our society encourages it, like your buddy on the couch with the big grin on his face, smoke leaking out of his nostrils, arm outstretched and holding out a joint to you. We tell parents the more they're involved with their child, the better job they're doing. C'mon. Everyone's doing it. It's cool. But it's never really cool to do it as much as that guy on the couch. It's never good to do something so much you get a nickname for it. Like "Helicopter Parent."

Parenting is an art, not a science, no matter what H.I. McDonough might say, the Dr. Spock book nestled comfortably under his arm. The art is not whether we let our children make their own mistakes, let them learn how to recover, let them pick themselves up after a fall. The art is knowing when. The challenge is sitting on your hands knowing damn well you can help them and make things easier for them.

I'll be standing by,
Just don't forget to come on home...
First sign of recovery is the climb after the fall.

The wisest of sages, from my first girlfriend's father to Bruce Leroy's master teacher in The Last Dragon, have noted that true happiness comes by finding a critical balance between doing things for others and being comfortable with oneself. True selflessness is a pretty ideal that sells books, but 99% of us stuck on this planet seem fated to be a little more needy. We need our space. We need our time. We need our spotlights and attention and praise, silly stuff that's just for us and no one else.

We must all find balance, Daniel-san. Balance is rejoicing in our children's successes and mourning their failures while restraining from punching out the umpire or cussing out the teacher. Balance is telling you love them by letting them fall off their bike a few hundred times.

I'll be standing by... just don't forget to come on home.

* "Damn you, baby!" is 95% joke.

The song "Standing By" is from the Actual Tigers' only album, titled Gravelled & Green. It's a darn fine album that delves into Paul Simon, Ben Folds, and maybe even a little Guster. Go show this one-album wonder some luv.