Ketchup or Mustard?

Some foods evoke strong feelings. Cilantro, for one, has passionate opponents. Then there's the following anecdote from The Washington Post, June 2009:

When President Obama and Vice President Joe Biden stepped out recently for a couple of burgers... the president asked for mustard, preferably a Dijon style, while the vice president went for ketchup.

Whether we admit it or not, we define ourselves by our place on the ketchup-mustard spectrum. I am a firm mustard-arian. We are a Far Left-leaning people, open to possibilities and varieties. Mustard ranges from yellow to dark brown, from your standard bottle of French's to Grey Poupon, from grainy deli mustard to fusion with horseradish. Lest you think I'm painting mustard as stuffy, let me remind you that it need possess no whiff of class distinction. There's hot mustard in every Chinese restaurant, and honey mustard in every Chick-fil-A. Sure, it's a demanding condiment. The full-bottle shake is necessary, especially with American yellow mustard. But a little investment is necessary for maximum sandwich gain.


Worst Halloween costumes ever.



Notice how particular the mustard user is. Obama didn't just ask for mustard; he specified his preference. How could a ketchup consumer possibly compete? Is one ketchup different than any other ketchup? Ketchup is a food of consistency, familiarity, and comfort. (I know a few people firsthand who would agree that ketchup is a "food," not just a "condiment.") The ketchup lover goes for ketchup every chance he gets. I daresay that complimentary foods (i.e. French fries) might be even be ordered by the ketchup lover just so that he may eat ketchup with them. Refer back to Biden above: the president "asked" and discussed his mustard persuasion; the vice president simply "went for ketchup." No choice necessary. Simple as pie.



And what things these lovers pair with ketchup. Mac and cheese! Scrambled eggs! Note that the ketchup lover is adventurous when he finds food for his ketchup to mate with. He may not be as culinarily conservative as I implied. But with these strange pairings, there is often a slight apologetic acknowledgment: "It's actually really good, I mean it. But I would never put ketchup on this-that-the other." An aura of veiled shame has descended upon the ketchup community, as if they were afraid to expose their true nature beyond the hotdog stand.

If Joe Biden endorses it, it's a BFD. Hopefully those Far Right ketchupers will come out, one and all (the first step is admitting...), and find some middle ground with we mustard-arians. I'm willing to believe there's room on a hamburger for both of us.

Oscar Season 2010 Round-up

Though the first year of the "teens" produced few Great Films, there was consistency. The top ten at the Oscars, a pack of seldom-changing wolves throughout the award season, moved from Western to lurid thriller to little-seen indie, but all were good popcorn flicks. With the possible exception of Winter's Bone (which I have not seen), ponderous, weighty "films" were off the menu. Message boards raged over the spinning top from Inception, or the was-she-or-wasn't-she psychology of Black Swan--but in the end, both aimed for entertainment. They were no more than movies.

Take The Town. Ben Affleck never seems more at home than in Boston. He assembles an impressive ensemble for an action-packed thrill ride through the streets of Charlestown. Who cares if the apex of Charlestown crime was twenty years ago? All right, the script does indulge in Beantown stereotypes, especially Blake Lively as a white-trash townie. But Affleck embraces the adrenaline of his hometown, delivered with zest by hothead Jeremy Renner and briefly by the late Peter Postlethwaite.

Need two more hours of dropped r's? The Fighter elevates what could be a standard boxing comeback narrative into a superbly acted character piece. Christian Bale chews through the most scenery as ex-prizefighter Dicky, now a crack addict training his brother Micky Ward. Bale, along with fiesty mom-manager Melissa Leo and new supportive but tough girlfriend Amy Adams, tend to overshadow Mark Wahlberg as Micky. But Wahlberg's quietness supports Micky's struggle to find his own voice amid his rambunctious but passionate Lowell community.

King George VI seeks a tutor to regain his voice, marred by a constant public stutter, in The King's Speech. When the sublimely witty Geoffrey Rush tutors Colin Firth (an assured performance) through Pygmalion-like breathing/ shouting/swearing exercises, the picture is delightful. The conflict is largely internal, though the intrusion of deliciously sinister Guy Pearce as Edward VIII (king for a hot second) hints at the external tensions that are lightly touched on--Edward's Nazi sympathies, for instance. Director Tom Hooper avoids the air of stuffy British period films, though the wide-angle lenses used make for some odd (and overstated) cinematography that jars with the subtle work of his cast and script.

Pearce also surfaces in this year's breakout Australian hit Animal Kingdom. When Joshua Cody's mother dies, he moves in with his grandmother "Smurf" Cody and her three sons, who are notorious Melbourne criminals. Jacki Weaver is eerily maternal as "Smurf," overflowing with love but unafraid to resort to any measure to protect her family. The script shuttles back and forth, sometimes lacking in clarity, but the film spins a web of violence and mistrust. Down Under, all bets are off; Animal Kingdom has an edge 2010's big Hollywood releases can't match.

The enigmatic Banksy takes some edge off a street artist's process of creation and installation in the excellent documentary (mockumentary?) Exit through the Gift Shop. Is his subject Mr. Brainwash, an amateur filmmaker, legitimately transformed into a bonafide artist by emulating Banksy, Shepard Fairey, and the rest? Street art often has an everyman charm. But the work remains mysterious even as its creators are shown covering walls with murals at night. How else could we respect it (and should we)? Banksy seems to say, catch me if you can. I make movies, too.

Let's Hear It for PD!

The world may end in 2012, according to the Mayan long-count calendar and George Lucas. But book publishers are nervous about 2019... the year of great copyright change.

Most books you read (unless you're devoted to Dickens or Wharton) were published in the last ninety years, I imagine. Probably after 1923. Everything published before 1923 in the U.S. is public domain. So you can post it on your blog, tweet entire chapters from it, give dramatic readings at cocktail parties. But everything 1923 and after is... dun dun dun... copyrighted! (More or less, if copyright was renewed. But that's a whole messy can of money-hungry worms.) F. Scott Fitzgerald's This Side of Paradise (1920) is PD; The Great Gatsby (1925) is not. This works with films, too: Do whatever you want with The Birth of a Nation (1915), but hands off Gone with the Wind (1939).

As the twentieth century rolls along, copyright law gets more and more confusing. But works from 1923 until 1977 are PD after 95 years. Once their near-century is up, we can sell bootleg copies in the streets for profit. So all those books published within 1923 will cling to 2018 desperately, then bam! Up for grabs on New Year's Day.

Let's say that Disney doesn't try to renew rights to Mickey Mouse. Let's say the 95-year rule sticks. What literary gems will the copyright tidal wave release in 2019?

Honestly, not much. Willa Cather's estate might shed a tear for A Lost Lady, which will become PD. Then in 2020, all we'll really get is E.M. Forster's A Passage to India.

But 2021 is when the floodgates really start to open. Download your free e-books of An American Tragedy, Mrs. Dalloway, Manhattan Transfer, and The Great Gatsby. And soon it's on to The Sun Also Rises, Elmer Gantry, Death Comes for the Archbishop, and To the Lighthouse.

Yes, folks, it's time to plan your Oscar-winning adaptations of these classics. (Unless Baz Luhrmann gets there first.) Just keep the PD on the DL around Mickey.