The Great American Songbook: "Summertime"

Written by: George Gershwin, DuBose Heyward

First performed by: Abbie Mitchell, 1935

How many popular songs can you name that were composed for an opera? Sure, some would balk at just classifying Porgy and Bess as an opera when it's a vibrant hybrid of jazz, musical theater, and classical traditions. Maybe that's why so many of the numbers (or should I call them arias?) had such crossover appeal; George Gershwin wrote music across genres. And did he ever know how to place a song. Imagine the premiere in downtown Boston, September 1935: the curtain rises on Clara, who rocks with her baby and sings a lullaby.

          Summertime
          And the livin' is easy.
          Fish are jumpin'
          And the cotton is high.


          Oh, your daddy's rich
          And your momma's good-lookin'.
          So hush, little baby,
          Don't you cry.

George Gershwin's vocal line wavers on "summertime," the voice bending in the heat and finally drooping, resting on "easy." Right after the soprano relaxes into the "easy" life, Heyward's lyrics convey both restlessness (jumping fish) and the character's race, the pre-Civil War importance of cotton still weighing on Southerners' minds. Before the foreshadowing grows too heavy, the lyrics turn from the tragic to the whimsical. Clara envisions a rich daddy, not like anyone currently in Catfish Row (though it used to be where the moneyed aristocrats lived), and fashions herself "good-lookin.'" In its plaintiveness, the melody remains inventive, falling and swaying like a much-needed summer breeze.

The second verse confirms that "Summertime" is a diegetic lullaby, meaning that Clara knows she is singing a song ("One of these mornings / You're gonna rise up singing"). Little did she realize the breadth of artists who would cover it over the next century. Here are two recordings, Leotyne Pryce in the operatic vein, the second re-interpreted for jazz artists Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald.

Price takes liberties with the notes; riffing didn't begin with Kelly Clarkson, folks. She was one of the prime interpreters of Porgy and Bess in her day. Her "Summertime" is less languid, more of an undaunted spiritual. And in another blast from the past, Louis and Ella ease into Gershwin almost too well. He's full of mischief, she's warm and nurturing. Can they record every standard ever written? (Wait--pretty sure they have.)

If you search around, you might hear "Summertime" sung by everyone from Joni Mitchell and Janis Joplin to The Doors and even Scarlett Johansson. Gershwin gives room for all sorts of voices sliding across notes, lingering on syllables. Maybe it's all the gerunds, but there's a presentness to the song, and a comfort as the ending of verse one (crying) resolves with verse two (parents standing by). I imagine "Summertime" in the show like a song passed down across generations. It's always been part of our heritage.

And Isn't It Ironic... Don't You Think?

The late 1980s introduced the buzzword "New Sincerity" in three spheres: post-postmodern literature, genre film, and punk rock music. Post-postmodern, because what can we call the writers who react to postmodern literature? New Sincere writers don't dismiss irony. Maintaining some ironic distance (and irony is primarily a distancing tool) does not denigrate the inherent truthfulness of their story, these writers feel. They are not cynics. 

As far back as 1953, Vladimir Pomerantsev attacked both style and poor construction (farfetched plots and characters, for example) as insincere. His goal was to study everyday life "so that we might lift the reader even higher above everyday life." New Sincerity takes a similar stance. Down with absurdity and postmodern excess! A chair is just a chair. 

Film critics now might call sincerity "new," but the movement really started with the 1980s. Not a watershed time for filmmaking, in my opinion, but a deeply earnest one. Many straight dramas wallowed in tears, endearment, and tender mercies. The top-grossing films of the decade made up an explosion of genre work: E.T., two Star Wars and three Indiana Jones films. An innocence started to emerge in these escape fantasies; we reverted to coming-of-age comedies and Kevin Costner films, with less of the 1970s paranoia. Auteurs of the New Sincerity took over: Pedro Almodovar, Charlie Kaufman, Wes Anderson, all steeped in irony but searching for the sentimental behind it.

A wave of alternative rockers, including The Reivers, was credited with jump-starting the New Sincerity movement against ironic punk bands around 1985. But five years later, the gig was up. Apparently people didn't buy sincerity on CD. One of the band members of Doctor's Mob remembers thinking audiences "were in on the joke." The concept of New Sincerity isn't about taking yourself too seriously as an artist; if anything, some thought these bands were parodies. They kept their ironic distance, able to step back and laugh at themselves. 

Whether or not these artists wanted to be newly sincere, they all stood up for and against excess. Layering on style was useful to a point, but it had to be in service to the substance beneath. So you're ever trying to decide if your writing is sincere or ironic, realize that it's a New age: it just might be both.

How Can There Be Any Sin in "Sincere"?

When Elizabeth Strout visited last week to read excerpts from Olive Kitteridge, someone asked if she considered her writing ironic. "I'm not really sure what that means," she admitted, and qualified the term irony by saying she couldn't be if it goes against sincerity. She considers herself a "deeply sincere" writer.

Relating this anecdote, I agreed instantly that Strout's fiction seems sincere, but when pressed couldn't define what exactly I meant. My best stab at a synonym was "heartfelt," which is too reductive. Sincerity in literature--which I would say is the opposite of irony--is a word familiar to book reviewers, but what does it actually signify? How do we know we're reading "sincere" literature?

Let's start with Lionel Trilling, who wrote Sincerity and Authenticity in 1972. He regards older works as sincere, starting with Shakespeare, and newer works as authentic. The modern goal is to stay true to oneself, despite the pressures of the external world. Authenticity adds a philosophical approach to writing: does this capture the "me," untainted and self-aware? Sincerity, on the other hand, doesn't come this close to existentialism, which is not to say it's shallow. Sincerity is distinctly moral, as Trilling sees it. Both authenticity and sincerity aim for truth, but as a sincere individual, you express your hopes and desires openly, without obscuring them. 

Of course sincerity, then, is an older ideal: morality has waned as what governs us socially. Back in the day, from the 1500s to the 1800s, sincerity was in vogue: an artistic and social ideal. Art reflected society, perhaps more so than the self. To be outwardly honest is a difficult line to walk; Aristole regards one extreme as irony (deficient in expressing truth) and the other as undue pride (which hews close to narcissism). Being boastful indicates a lack of self-awareness, not fitting in what's appropriate. This will seem obvious to everyone around you. 

If I contrast authenticity and sincerity, I wonder if sincerity carries a greater sense of social responsibility. We are truthful to the greater good, the law of man. To be authentic, we look inward at ourselves. If opposed by boastfulness, sincerity seems a quiet art. I would agree that Olive Kitteridge, to bring us back, is a quieter, more character-driven piece. In general, characters propel this moral openness more than story or style. Genre writing does not aim for character first and foremost. Is it less sincere?

Trilling covers irony too: "If we speak it [sincerity], we are likely to do so with either discomfort or irony." Calling literature sincere these days, he says, means, "Although it need be given no aesthetic or intellectual admiration, it was at least conceived in the innocence of heart." Sincerity sounds like a backhanded compliment. In this light, "heartfelt" wasn't such a bad synonym after all.

But Trilling chooses to reclaim sincerity. We should not shy away: "It implies, or should imply, a profound personal self-commitment of the writer... The relevant kind of sincerity is something that has to be achieved by an inner discipline." So despite their opposition, sincerity and authenticity both uphold the authority of the author. So can we use the term in good faith? When a writer transforms into author? When said author somehow opens up, and reveals the greater world? I sincerely hope so.

Stay tuned for Part II, on the New Sincerity movement!

The Great American Songbook: "I Say a Little Prayer"

Written by: Burt Bacharach and Hal David

First performed by: Dionne Warwick, 1967

I have this theory that music of the sixties spans all generations. Young and old, weddings or school dances--everyone grooves to Motown and soul... and those Bacharach rhythms. The year 1967 set off revolutions across America in the cinema we watched (Bonnie and Clyde and the censorship floodgates that reopened) and the protests we launched (the Central Park Be-In, race riots). Don't forget the sounds we heard: Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band forever changed how we listened to recorded music.

For a country in flux, the Burt Bacharach-Dionne Warwick collaboration, begun in the early sixties, stayed its course with assurance. Here was black music that finally went mainstream and sold LPs. The girl groups and choral arrangements owe a small debt to the fluttering choruses enjoyed by Bing Crosby and bandleaders for decades. Yet this new sound was unmistakably its own beast.

Listen to Warwick's original rendition of "I Say a Little Prayer." The key lowers in the introduction just before the vocal enters; contemporary Top 40 hits can thank Bacharach for propelling the please-applaud-me key change. The rhythm section pushes urgently, helped by irregular meters: the chorus ("Forever and ever, you'll stay in my heart, and I will love you") is actually in 11/4. In units of three, not the standard four, and then with the last beat missing, the singer jumps right back into the vocal without a breath.

Warwick's hit #4 on the Billboard charts in 1967. The song's exuberance (remember, the singer can't breathe!) must have matched "The Summer of Love" well. Ubiquitous now, this music was not shocking then, but revitalizing.

Which Actor Has the Worst Resume?

You had to know this was coming soon after my "Best Resume" post. While researching that one, I stumbled across numerous actors with less-than-stellar IMDB profiles. Oh, right, I thought, I'd forgotten how many icebergs they hit along the way. But sometimes, the movie-going public also forgets that an actor they love is notorious for poor choices.

The purpose of this assessment was not to rail against wickedly easy targets. Rob Schneider may be the least redeemable "actor" in California, but I don't want to expend more than a sentence on his deliberate mass-appeal mediocrity. Ditto nottie-so-hottie Paris Hilton and I-know-who-doped-me-up Lindsay Lohan.

I have long marveled at the stunning career path of Brendan Fraser. Here is a sturdy, regular actor; a respectable, not indulgent amount of humor; good frame and mildly rugged face. If all my compliments sound half-handed, think long and hard: When have we seen Brendan Fraser at the peak of his powers?

Last fall, my roommate and other friends kept bringing up Encino Man. Fraser's first major role in a film, and as a caveman no less: How could it not be funny? As if by fate, the movie played on TBS that night, and I found Reason #37 why I no longer subscribe to digital cable. (Though I will be fair; what else did the early '90s produce besides Hannibal Lecter and poor hair choices?)

Take any parts you can early on, proverbial wisdom suggests. So when did Fraser outgrow this trend? After a slew of misses like Twenty Bucks, Younger and Younger, Airheads, The Scout, The Passion of Darkly Noon, Mrs. Winterbourne, and a tacky Disney redo of George of the Jungle? When he followed up the overblown The Mummy with The Mummy Returns and The Mummy: Tomb of the Dragon Emperor?

The Mummy franchise still has not died, nor apparently its eponymous spectre of the Sphinx. So Fraser hasn't, either; no need to worry about tomorrow's mortgage payment. But the aughts did little for his integrity. After Journey to the Center of the Earth and its abhorrent CGI, The Mummy seems close to Casablanca. You'd think he would have stayed home when Journey to the End of the Night didn't work out. Over the years, he has continually received the short end of the lollipop: Dudley Do-Right (the IMDB nadir, at 3.6), Monkeybone, the Lifetime-leaning Extraordinary Measures, and the animal caper Furry Vengeance, so awful-looking even Eddie Murphy and The Rock would turn it down.

He has a few redemptive films amid the dreck: Gods and Monsters and The Quiet American. But despite his middle-class racist turn in Crash, that 2004 Best Picture winner will be remembered for Jack Nicholson's scowl of surprise when he opened the envelope. On the plus side, Fraser owns the leftmost toe of a SAG Award for Best Ensemble for the six-degrees-of-racism story.

For an actor who has stayed on the radar, confidently B-list all these years, I find it surprising how few acknowledge his un-illustrious career. Maybe his next big Hollywood venture will help. What's that, IMDB? "Untitled Journey to the Center of the Earth Sequel"?