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Municipal Bondage
By Henry
Alford
Random House,
231 pages, $28.95
If You're Talking to Me, Your Career Must Be In Trouble
By Joe
Queenan
Hyperion, 267
pages, $28.95
People seem somewhat uncertain about exactly what Henry Alford does for a
living. Anyone who's read The New York Times Magazine, GQ,
Vogue or, especially, Spy will recognize his byline, and this is
a collection of magazine pieces, so obviously he's a writer. It's the kinds
of things Alford writes about and the way he conducts his research that
baffle. And he gets right to that confusion at the start of Municipal
Bondage: "People unfamiliar with my work have, in the past, asked me how
my skits are progressing. . . . Skits, as we all know, involve a funny
doorbell, bad Southern accents, and actor Harvey Korman. Pranks, capers,
monkeyshines call the more activity-based portions of this book what you
will, but do not call them skits. (And if you call me a jackanape, I will
slap you.)" Alford prefers to call the his magazine pieces investigations.
Investigative journalism is usually the work of straight-shooters diligently
lifting up rocks, flushing evil-doers into the light of public scrutiny and
exposing malfeasance. But there's no law that says investigations have to
expose greed, cavalier disregard for human health and safety or law-breaking
to be worthwhile. Instead of aiming to uncover grotesque malfeasance, Alford
exposes the roots of much of the stupidity that manifests itself in the
modern world.
For
instance, he creates a snack called Nubbins after becoming obsessed with
the words repeated appearance in New York Times restaurant reviews.
After making a series of phone calls to people who makes and serve food for
a living to discover what it means, Alford is no closer to discovering
whether the word is legitimate. He ends up trying to sell his own snackable
interpretation of the word to food companies as new product. None will touch
it.
Measuring the scope, depth and extent of officials nonsense tolerance is a
special talent of Alford's. Many of those you'd suspect of being
nonsense-mongers have a hilariously high tolerance for gibberish, even when
Alford pushes the envelope, inventing and presenting ever more ridiculous
and far-fetched chunks of it to his unwitting victims.
After reading a couple of pieces from Municipal Bondage, my brother
wondered if Alford had ever worked as a writer on either incarnation of the
Letterman show. He hasn't, that I know of, but the question is a natural
one. Alford's work shares with Letterman's a good ear and eye for what's
come to be known as found humor. It comprises terms, pronouncements and
viewpoints that have languished unexamined for years; because nobody has
challenged them or questioned them, they've mutated, growing like comic
orchids into very weird specimens indeed. A quicker rationale for terming
this kind of material found humor is the fact that you can't make the
stuff up. But discovering it takes a special kind of brain.
What Alford and Letterman both do is present something so baffling or
anxiety-producing that the only possible response is laughter. The other
thing Alford understands and communicates perfectly is that failure is
funny, and it is that humanity that saves his work from coming off as
superior, self-important or snide. For example, in "You'll Never Groom Dogs
In This Town Again," Alford takes tests for a variety of jobs and performs
way below par. His earnest, guileless approach must have convinced
examination proctors that he was determined to succeed at dog-grooming,
scenic painting or hair styling.
On
a grander scale, the book proves that while people are media-wise enough
to crank up an act for visiting ladies and gentlemen of the media, most will
drop their acts immediately if they think nobody who counts is present. At
that point, Henry Alford is still there, recording it all and composing
embryonic versions of his articles.
Joe
Queenan
causes less confusion than Henry Alford.
Queenan's approach and
methodology are clearer and more straightforward, for one thing. He
describes himself at the outset as a mean-spirited turnip. We need more
mean-spirited turnips. There are too many people who cover the entertainment
business -- and particularly the motion-picture part of that business -- who
want to be good little turnips.
What is it about some entertainment reporters that makes them prostrate
themselves and crank out dutifully slavish promotional copy instead of
worthwhile reporting that tells its story without fear or favor? Are they so
grateful for a couple of free passes to a wretched movie that they'll
voluntarily suspend even the most minimal esthetic standards? Perhaps some
scribblers harbor ambitions to do more than review movies; they hope to
direct one day, and dont want to hack off corporations that might
eventually employ them.
Joe
Queenan, mercifully, in infected with no such confusion. This magazine
writer knows he's a movie consumer much more than a person whos ever likely
to make one of the damn things. His main criterion is not crafting
lighter-than-air pull-quotes for ad copy ("busted my laugh-meter;" "run don't
walk"). Instead, he realizes that people who make movies are supposed to be
doing a job, just like the rest of us. And putting the results of that work
before the public means that if the work stinks, Queenan gets to say so.
One
of the most surefire means of making movies and their makers look ridiculous
is the same method Henry Alford uses: apply the basic tenets of common sense
to a situation that is inimical to common sense. Queenan employs that tool
in his movie genre comparisons. Among the best is his consideration of the
lessons Woody Allen should have learned from the classic films he was
familiar with, but which he failed to apply in his personal life.
And
were all sick of the fawning movie-star profiles in publications as diverse
as People and Vanity Fair (actually, those publications aren't
diverse at all, are they?). Queenan takes that form and twists its neck
smartly, rendering profiles that are refreshing and inspiring for their
jaundiced eye and mercilessly truthful attention to detailed reality
(screwball actress Sean Young tackling algebra, for example).
These essays remind you that it's perfectly all right to have some standards --
no matter how minimal -- for celluloid entertainment. But you also get the
sense in reading the essays in If You're Talking To Me, Your Career Must
Be In Trouble (most of which have appeared in Movieline), that
its author doesn't expect anyone anywhere in Hollywood to take his advice on
anything. Which is good, because blundering and wretched excess can be a lot
more entertaining and enlightening than sensible, well-made, tasteful
pictures. And how can you define or appreciate the truly worthwhile and
laudable without having laughable swill to compare it to?
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