This is how my mind works.
I wanted to link to this piece by Frank Rich in today's New York Times. It's one of the most depressing things you'll ever read, but you should read it, if only to realize the situation in Iraq is far worse even than it seems on the surface.
Rich is by far the best columnist at The Times, the best thinker (lacking, for instance, Paul Krugman's tendency to Clinton-worship, or David Brooks' batshit insanity) and easily the best stylist as well. He's a wonderful writer, as anyone who's read his book Ghost Light could tell you.
Unfortunately, like so many so-called progressives, he's a bit of a snob. He hides it well these days, frequently writing sympathetically on the plight of the poor in Bush's America, but back when he was drama critic for The Times, his sneering condescension towards the lower classes burst forth with alarming frequency. I'm thinking in particular of his review of Marsha Norman's 'Night, Mother, in which he described the lifestyles of its lower-middle class characters as "worthless". Apparently, a life not lived among Manhattan's upper crust is not a life worth living.
Okay, here's where my thought processes twist. Thinking of Rich's review reminded me of my own encounter with 'Night, Mother. In the fall of 1984 my mother and I took a mini-vacation up to Minneapolis. This trip was made at the suggestion of my therapist, to whom I had been assigned following a suicide attempt the preceding spring. From spring to fall I hadn't made any notable progress, and Mom was essentially in the role of care-giver, since I wasn't working or contributing to society in any way.
The trip was supposed to be both a break from normal routine and some sort of bonding experience. My therapist recommended a trip to the Guthrie theater, since regardless of what was playing, any production there would be worthwhile.
Long story short, the trip was a mixed bag--I was prone to wild mood swings back then, unlike my shiny happy personality these days (heh)--and 'Night, Mother was playing at the Guthrie. I knew it was about an adult child's plan to commit suicide in front of her mother, but Mom had never heard of it, and I cruelly let her discover the premise as we watched. It was not, shall we say, a pleasant evening, though it did lead to long, soul-searching conversations afterward.
To cheer ourselves up, we went to Indiana Jones And The Temple Of Doom the next day, still playing at a first-run theater in the suburbs. And though I'd already seen it twice, I thoroughly enjoyed it again.
So here my mind veered from musing about Iraq, Frank Rich's snobbery or bummer anecdotes from my personal life to geeking out about Temple Of Doom, my favorite Indiana Jones movie. Yeah, I know it's not as well-scripted as Raiders Of the Lost Ark, and I'm not unaware of its flaws--though critics who decry its retro racial and gender stereotypes are missing the point, since Temple Of Doom is clearly trying to recreate the attitudes of pulp fiction from the era in which it's set.
This is probably the reason I love it so much. The first time I saw it, that great climax with Indy and Mola Ram duking it out man-to-man while hanging from the foot bridge, literally had me on the edge of my seat, and I remember thinking, This is what Raiders didn't have. Much as I loved it, it didn't have the sheer, pulpy elan of Temple Of Doom, so redolent of the Doc Savage reprints I devoured in junior high, and which were my lifeline to a more exciting world.
Of course, thinking about these movies gets me to thinking about how great Harrison Ford was as Indy, which gets me to thinking about how great he also was as Han Solo, which is my point: No matter what is going on, in my life or the wider world, I'm never more than five minutes away from thinking about Star Wars.
Sad, really.
