People Need Escapism As Much As They Need High Art

Do you remember O Brother, Where Art Thou? It was a Coen Brothers film based on The Odyssey, a book the two claimed they'd never read. In fact, the movie took its title from a classic Preston Sturges film, Sullivan's Travels, which, appropriately, I've never seen. The plot is roughly as follows: a comedy director worries that the fluff he's been making isn't important enough for society; he then gets accidentally beaten up and sent to prison, where he learns from the prisoners that his movies actually help them briefly forget their troubles and preserve their humanity. Basically, people need easy escapism as much as they need high art. As a defense of the social importance of entertainment, it's a good way of framing this blog.

Now, entertainment is a fairly loose term for a very broad concept I'm outlining. Any positive reaction that art engenders, that's entertainment: the feeling of being moved or touched; goosebumps, laughter or tears; increased understanding, knowledge or self-awareness. If an audience member felt any of these things and wasn't bored, then he or she was entertained, and the art did what art is supposed to do. All art possesses this capacity. You can be as amused by Rembrandt as by Groucho Marx, and as awed by Steven Spielberg as by Arnold Schoenberg.

Nonetheless, most art is divided (by the snobs, anyway) into high and low culture. "Low" comprises all mass entertainment and pop fizz, as well as virtually everything that has ever been considered cool or liked by anyone under the age of 30. However, there's a statute of limitations of a century or two, so ancient low culture (like Homer or Shakespeare) can ferment into high culture given the passage of time. As long as snobs haven't mutated out of the gene pool, Roger Corman and Green Day should be accepted into the pantheon somewhere around 2200.

Not that all pop culture is good. Some -- like Britney Spears, or that abhorrent hotel heiress -- is less "culture" and more "direct marketing," and its existence doesn't uplift us, it demeans us. But the distinction between good and bad has nothing to do with money or popularity. As a general rule, a sleazy quick buck made by a guy on his own is far better than a sleazy quick buck made under a Svengali (or by a soulless nematode like Paris): at least there's poetry in the soul of the individual, despite any coarse commercial instinct driving the art. Think of Andy Warhol, or Philip K. Dick, or the Ramones. Even though they wanted to make money, they stumbled into greatness despite themselves. And that's as it should be. As Steven van Zandt has said of the countless rock groups playing out of tune and dreaming of greatness, "Keep in mind that, one hit wonders or not, every Garage band wanted to be stars."

There's nothing wrong with wanting to be rich or famous, and nothing wrong with loud, garish, cornball excess, to a point. (It's something I admire about Russians, whose greats from Tolstoy to Tchaikovsky have never hesitated to turn on the histrionics when necessary.) And there isn't a thing wrong with enjoying having your emotions manipulated, since that's the idea behind every romantic comedy and horror movie, not to mention every grindhouse exploitation or softcore flick that Quentin Tarantino and Robert Rodriguez idolize. Art moves us, whether it's high or low, no matter how grubby its intentions. Ain't nothing guilty in that pleasure.

What's wrong is wanting your emotions manipulated specifically in order to join a group or a crowd, not out of love for the art but out of fear of being your own person. It's like the difference between plaid and patchouli. Once upon a time, plaid may have been a fashion statement, but now it just represents something hopelessly behind or out of the times. Wearing plaid nowadays makes a fashion statement: you're placing yourself in a certain era, time and place, wearing something hopelessly unmainstream for effect, marching to a drumbeat that only you hear. You're not joining a crowd, you're digging your own weird retro trip, and more power to you.

On the other hand, patchouli oil is just as aesthetically appalling as plaid, but it represents something far worse: the desire to smell repellant solely in order to be a part of something you're not. It's a political statement masquerading as a fashion statement. Even in the '60s, being a hippie wasn't about not showering or shaving. It was about believing in a better future through new music, new politics, and replacing war with love. Over time, that notion got replaced by a shorthand of incense and beads. When someone douses their apartment in scented oil because they think they're striking a blow for nuclear disarmament, that's when culture dehumanizes us.

So, better plaid than patchouli. (There's my Tom Friedman moment.) You've gotta have the courage to be your own freak, and raise that flag as high or low as you see fit. Power to the people.