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Another thing you’re not allowed to say in this culture of p.c. confinement and denial (on top of saying on TV that the 9/11 attackers weren’t cowards and saying online that Hurricane Ike was a case of the chickens coming home to roost for Houston/Galveston) is “why did he kill himself?” Go to an Irish wake and after a couple of whiskeys the friends and family of the deceased, standing off in a corner or outside on the street with a cigarette, will confide what his or her life was really like and why it ended as it did. But don’t ask in mixed company. We all know and accept this.
I’m not saying one should trumpet the sad particulars or make them part of the lead graph, God forbid, but somewhere in the obit or tribute piece or farewell speech I think it’s right and fair and complete to explain what happened. Okay, maybe not in a tribute speech, and maybe not in a standard obit either, but I don’t believe in sweeping stuff under the carpet. Not altogether.
I’m bringing this up because when an obviously gifted and well-respected writer takes his own life, as David Foster Wallace did on Friday night, no writers of tributes ever ask, much less provide any sort of answer.
People avoid any mention or allusion to the particulars out of (a) sensitivity for the immediate family and close friends, (b) a natural human instinct to counter-act the goblins of darkness and tragedy that we all carry around by emphasizing the positive — by creating a counter-myth, and (c) out of a standard emotional-political urge to honor and cherish those things about the deceased that were beautiful or elegant or inspiring or what-have-you.
Sorry to step out of bounds, but when someone dies I want to know why, and too bad if that offends you. I want to know what happened. And it doesn’t make me a monster for asking.
Because life is not just about what you’ve done with your potential or lack of one — not just about being brilliant or mediocre or being wonderfully creative or not having the moxie to do anything more than order a beer at a tavern or re-fill a monthly prescription at the pharmacy. Life is also about stuff that happens to you, and how you stand up to it…or not.
It’s about how you respond to hungry wolves sticking their snouts through the hole in your front door or to hurricane waves washing over your lifeboat when one of your oars has been washed away and your rations are gone too. Life can be cruel and fierce and sometimes brutal, and when someone I know or respect has gone under I want to know why, and anyone who says this isn’t the first question out of their lips when a person suddenly passes is a liar.
This said, Glenn Kenny‘s tribute piece about Wallace, posted earlier today, is very well written and remembered.

A mildly funny rundown of the highlights of the just-concluded Toronto Film Festival, written by Eye Weekly‘s Marc Weisblott. Not a review of the films, of course, but the episodes — Lou Lumenick‘s whacking of Roger Ebert, the Toronto Sun‘s Bruce Kirkland decrying corporate elitism, the theft of my Canon digital camera by “three young apes,” etc.

Tina Fey and Amy Poehler as Sarah Palin and Hillary Clinton giving a joint address on Saturday Night Live. Fey has the voice and the tight lips down pretty well.

If low-information Walmart moms were inclined to read or even consider what’s reported in the N.Y. Times, they might be thinking twice right now about supporting Sarah Palin‘s vice-presidential candidacy. But of course, if they did read news stories of this sort they would no longer deserve the sobriquet.

Sarah Palin in 1998 — age 34

This 9.13 expose about Palin’s past political maneuvers in Alaska, written by Times reporters Jo Becker, Peter S. Goodman and Michael Powell, is rough stuff. Based on information from by 60 Alaskan governmental sources, it portrays a woman who has “pursued vendettas, fired officials who crossed her and blurred the line between government and personal grievance.”
Sarah Palin “walks the national stage as a small-town foe of ‘good old boy’ politics and a champion of ethics reform,” the story reads early on. “The charismatic 44-year-old governor draws enthusiastic audiences and high approval ratings. And as the Republican vice-presidential nominee, she points to her management experience while deriding her Democratic rivals, Senators Barack Obama and Joseph R. Biden Jr, as speechmakers who never have run anything.
“But an examination of her swift rise and record as mayor of Wasilla and then governor finds that her visceral style and penchant for attacking critics — she sometimes calls local opponents ‘haters’ — contrasts with her carefully crafted public image.
“Throughout her political career, she has pursued vendettas, fired officials who crossed her and sometimes blurred the line between government and personal grievance, according to a review of public records and interviews with 60 Republican and Democratic legislators and local officials.”
As a 9.12 N.Y. Times editorial reads, “If [John McCain] seriously thought this first-term governor — with less than two years in office — was qualified to be president, if necessary, at such a dangerous time, it raises profound questions about his judgment.
“If the choice was, as we suspect, a tactical move, then it was shockingly irresponsible.”

For the last few days I’ve been trying to put my finger on why Sarah Palin gives me such a bad case of the creeps. Apart from the long list of negatives and serious doubts that everyone has already brought up, that is. Then it hit me — she’s Martin Sheen‘s Gregg Stillson character in David Cronenberg‘s The Dead Zone (’83).

Sarah Palin; Martin Sheen as President Gregg Stillson in David Cronenberg’s The Dead Zone.

And when that vision came to me I was twitching exactly like Chris Walken‘s Johnny Smith character. McCain dead, Palin making the call…I saw it sharp and clear as if I was watching a snappy movie trailer. It’s the single scariest realistic possibility that real-life and realpolitik have put before the American public in the history of this nation, and a lot of the Walmart moms are going, “Girl’s one of us! A tough mom…yeah!”
This is the way the world ends. Not with a bang, but with an Us magazine cover story and the attendant malignancy of the media, looking to drive up ratings with the hot girl and hot story of the moment.

In a 9.11 N.Y. Times column called “Blizzard of Lies,” Paul Krugman described the central malignancy affecting MSM news reporting, which delivers perhaps the greatest lie of all: “Why do the McCain people think they can get away with [their torrent of lies]?,” Krugman asks. “Well, they’re probably counting on the common practice in the news media of being ‘balanced’ at all costs.
“You know how it goes: If a politician says that black is white, the news report doesn’t say that he’s wrong, it reports that ‘some Democrats say’ that he’s wrong. Or a grotesque lie from one side is paired with a trivial misstatement from the other, conveying the impression that both sides are equally dirty.
“They’re probably also counting on the prevalence of horse-race reporting, so that instead of the story being ‘McCain campaign lies,’ it becomes ‘Obama on defensive in face of attacks.'”
Exactly so. And with such a system and attitude in place among MSM reporters and TV commentators (except for a small handlful, led my Keith Olbermann), where is incentive for McCain and the fiends running this campaign to play it fair and straight?

In celebration of my escape from Toronto and return to Los Angeles, I’ll be seeing this sucker again sometime later today for the pure misanthropic pleasure of it.

I’m only just settling into the YouTube videos of John McCain‘s visit to ‘The View” yesterday. But I’m starting to realize that McCain got “got”, in large part due to the focus and persistence of Barbara Walters and Whoopi Goldberg‘s questions. They really got into things and bored in on the guy, and he clearly didn’t stand up all that well.

Read Katherine Q. Seelye‘s account of McCain’s interrogation in her N.Y. Times blog, “The Caucus. And consider this interpretation by the Young Turks Cenk Uygur:

Danny Boyle‘s Slumdog Millionaire has won the Toronto Film Festival’s People’s Choice Award — a harbinger, no doubt, of audience reaction/acceptance to come. Now that I’m back in Los Angeles, I may as well take this opportunity to list my Toronto highs and lows:
Finest, Richest, Most Rousing (in this order): Kathryn Bigelow‘s The Hurt Locker, Phillipe Claudel‘s I’ve Loved You So Long, Steven Soderbergh‘s Che (Parts 1 and 2), Joel and Ethan Coen‘s Burn After Reading, Danny Boyle‘s Slumdog Millonaire, Rod Lurie‘s Nothing But The Truth, Gavin O’Connor‘s Pride and Glory.
Didn’t Feel Strong Love/Like, But Highly Respectable All The Same: Matteo Garone‘s Gamorrah, Andreas Dresen‘s Cloud 9, Steve McQueen‘s Hunger.
Best Crafted, Most Fully Felt Drama By a Really Young Filmmaker: 24 Year-Old Nik Fakler‘s Lovely Still.
Fascinating/Interesting Problem Movie (That I’ve Yet to Discuss At Any Length): Jonathan Demme‘s Rachel Getting Married.
Entertaining, Ideologically and Politically On_The-Money, Cinematically Acceptable: Bill Maher and Larry Charles‘ Religulous.
Good Enough, Not Half Bad, Moderately Stirring or Diverting: Ed Harris‘s Appaloosa, Claire Denis‘ 35 Ruhms, Kelly Reichardt‘s Wendy and Lucy, Kevin Smith‘s Zack and Miri Make a Porno.
Regrettable Misses: Darren Aronofsky‘s The Wrestler, Kari Skogland‘s Fifty Deam Men Walking, the new narration-free version of Fernando Meirelles‘ Blindness, Barbet Schroeder‘s Inju, Max Farberbock‘s A Woman in Berlin, Spike Lee‘s Miracle at St. Anna, Christophe Baratier‘s Fauborg 36, K. Rafferty‘s Harvard Beats Yale, Ari Folman‘s Waltz With Bashir, Paul Schrader’s Adam Resurrected, Marcel Sarmiento and Gadi Harel’s Deadgirl, Dan Stone and Patrick Gambuti Jr.‘s At The Edge of the World.
Deliberate Misses: The Duchess, Flash of Genius, Adoration, The Secret Life of Bees.
Scratch-Off, Not For Me, Sorry: David Koepp‘s Ghost Town (except for Ricky Gervais‘ quite funny performance).
Decent or Half-Decent Films but Primarily Noteworthy for a Stand-Out Performance (or Performances): Richard Linklater‘s Me and Orson Welles, Guillermo Arriaga’s The Burning Plain.