The banker mystique: Wall Street returns to screens

In Oliver Stone’s 1987 “Wall Street,” a binary examination of good and evil in Manhattan’s canopy ginned up the excesses of eighties capitalism so well that the moral hammer missed many movie-goers. Instead, aspiring brokers and bankers took Gordon Gekko as a deity of sorts. Ruthless, suave, hair combed back, Michael Douglas’s Gekko exemplified full-scale investment in the false idols and Dionysian pleasures born of wealth, fully aware they came at the expense of others. “That’s the one thing you have to remember about WASPs,” says Gekko. “They love animals and hate people.”

American cinema has long gazed inward upon itself, co-opting foreign narratological conventions and romanticizing the raw culture of a young country even as it built an ideology atop the it empire left behind. The western was built upon the Arthurian notion of heroism and conquest. The musical was a populist response to the classical music canon in Europe. Hollywood was created as a fantasy for the masses to aspire to; its stars and studios teasingly accessible in cinemas to the lower and middle classes, who bought wholesale into the meritocratic American Dream. Likewise, on Wall Street, every man is just one big trade away from fortune.

“Wall Street” fits into the fantasy genre quite neatly. Charlie Sheen stars as the ambitious ingénue, broker Bud Fox, intent on money, glamour, good-looking women, and an easier life than that of his father, Carl (Martin Sheen). The era: bear market America. Bud Fox’s moral arc is somewhat derivative, and consequently feels a little cobbled: he descends into the pits of moral depravity (insider trading!) assailed by the lion (Douglas as Gordon Gekko), leopard and she-wolf (Darryl Hannah), before emerging, soul intact, to summit Mount Purgatory and reach Paradiso. (Fourteenth century Italy has nothing on 1980s America.)

The great contradiction in the film, however, was the notion that audiences had to first buy into the construct of capitalism to follow Fox down the rabbit hole. And at the end of the film, many remain plied with the images of penthouses, gilded skyscrapers, expensive suits and that oh-so-slick ‘80s technology. (At one point Gekko shows Fox the portable television he bought for his son. “That screen is like two inches!” Fox exclaims.) The great star of the film is Manhattan,* whose social geography places characters into cubicles and offices, down on the street, or atop the urban canopy looking down, according to their status. The buildings not only serve as a means of classification, but symbolize the sheer depth of the illusion bracketing an entire society together. “It’s a zero sum game,” Gekko smirks, “somebody wins, somebody loses. Money itself isn’t lost or made, it’s simply transferred

from one perception to another.”

*The other great star of the film is, of course, Gekko’s brick-sized cell phone.

The film is a fantasy because Fox’s revelation (greed is bad!) doesn’t alter the future landscape of America: twenty years later, the bottom fell out of the financial markets again, only this time it wasn’t the savings and loan scandal did us in, rather, simple folk pursuing the American Dream – the “dog shit stocks” Gekko trashes – beyond their own means. In reality, Gekko always gets away with it.

Which brings us to the impending release of the sequel “Wall Street: Money never sleeps” on September 24. According to IMDB, the plot concerns a young Wall Street trader who teams up with paroled Gekko to save the financial markets from global economic doom. The few things I know about this film leave me with a series of questions:

1. In the original film, Gekko had sired a fat son, seen only in a gratuitous nanny cameo, and quickly retired for a nap. Where does Carey Mulligan fit in to this family picture?

2. Gekko is the preeminent antihero of modern-day America. After an entire film of quips like: “You take it right in the ass you cocksucker,” and “Greed captures the essence of the evolutionary spirit,” are we really supposed to buy Gekko as reformed? People with egg-shaped mansions and ridiculous art installations don’t regain perspective.

3. How will Stone portray the highs of Wall Street trading now we’re living in the virtual era? No pink slips to wave, no shoehorn telephones to dial, sensible hair … it’s not quite so sexy, is it?

4. It is interesting to note that bicycle messengers essentially have not changed since 1987; according to the original “Wall Street” they were satchel-toting douches then as they are now. No, that’s not technically a question.

5. What influence will globalism exert upon our fragile 21^st century financial instruments? The original featured Sir Larry Wildman, a British villain of the Bond variety, as well as nigiri sushi machines and such haute cuisine as egg yolk on meatloaf (French?). Now that the world is officially “flat,” we’re close to exhausting the exotic – Korean street tacos and jokes about Greek insolvency is about as edgy as it gets.

6. In a similar vein, how will movie sex have evolved from the Martha Graham impressionistic, blue-silk silhouette sex seen in the original? Perhaps focus is less on pointed toes and “the wheelbarrow” position, and more about yoga triceps and off-axis maneuvers today.

7. Without Sean and Madonna, what does the Upper West Side real estate market have going for it in 2010?

8. Anyone care to venture some speculations as to the stock in question? BABs, perhaps, or shoddy pension funds?

9. What is the penultimate symbol of upper class recreation? What is today’s equivalent of a) the backless dress, b) martinis, c) evil Brits, d) town cars, e) MS-DOS, f) WASPs? And tell me we can do better than Oslen-twin chic and Dubai.

10. Shia LeBouf. I just don’t get it.

“Wall Street” verdict: Before it was distasteful to flaunt wealth, we had this gem celebrating the clunkiest conspicuous spending (a handheld facsimile machine!) in the most entertaining town.

Potential “Wall Street: Money never sleeps” verdict: Provided we don’t have to hear about Ben Bernanke or the stimulus bill, this could still be fun. Though I suspect we aren’t as much fun these days. Worth it to make fun of the wealthy once more, and to see what old Gordon Gekko still has up his sleeve, “pal.”

The summer of the motherf*ing peaches

Few know the sapphic glory of a peach tree in full swing of summer. Nor did we, until recently. The innocuous-looking tree in our backyard that has sat dormant the past two summers blessed us this year with a bonanza of peaches, mortgaging its own livelihood as it bent its branches down to the ground under the weight of juicy, fleshy tokens. Just when we thought there could be no more peaches, the leaves would part to reveal more peaches blooming into being.

During the first week of Peach Bounty 2010, I made:

peach pie

upside-down peach-almond cake

peach cobbler

peach jam

more peach jam

under new label: "Tight, juice peaches" jam

The good fortune would never end, it seemed. Peaches were shoveled into yoghurt, hidden in fruit salads, stuffed into compotes and salads. Upon returning from New York on Monday night, however, I found our winning peach tree had degenerated into a rude, reeking teen, intent on throwing its own filthy fruit onto the grass below, its branches sullied by wasps, squirrels and bugs. Over the past week I have shoveled bags upon bags of rotten peaches into the hopper, careful to keep the retching to a minimum. Still more peaches ripen by the day, flipping me off as they commit seppuku onto the pavement.

At this stage I can well understand the malaise of those who were brought up in, say, an island paradise, and hate sand, hate coconuts, hate the fucking turquoise water. I should very much like to script a short cautionary film about the faraway citizens of Cottoncandy County, blighted by sugary fluff in their homes, in their beds, in their minds. It's like Brewster's Millions, only with peaches.

So, you’re having an existential crisis ... the teenager’s ultimate guide

Hey, you’re a teen, your days are supposed to be full of inconsequential anxieties about going makeup free for the wilderness backpacking trip, bizarre facial hair, the yearbook photo, and the strange wealth of belly-button fluff you’ve been accumulating of late. So what’s with the bummed out feeling you’ve had since class last week?

First, your physics teacher explained the finite capacity of the sun to incinerate the gas of which it consists, and the inevitability that it would one day exhaust its own mass, exploding in on itself, and ending life on Earth.

Then, your geography teacher showed a PowerPoint of climate change around the globe - salinity problems, soil erosion, rising oceans, melting ice shelves, flooding and extreme weather events - and put forward his hypothesis that the extinction of millions of insect and animal species due to climate change may dwindle food supplies to the point that humans go extinct in as little as a hundred years.

Then, you tune into the Discovery Channel for a special on the cosmos ... hey, did anyone know that the universe is expanding? Yeah, one day it will expand so far that it collapses in on itself ending all existence ... anyone want a fruit rollup?

Sit tight, I’ve been there. Simply follow my five-step guide for overcoming existentialism.

1. So what is existentialism anyway? You’ve been aware of it your whole life. Existentialism is thinking about why you’re here. But if reality television has begun to lose all meaning, you’ve reached an advanced stage of existential distress. If you’ve ever walked outside in your Where The Wild Things Are pajamas, looked up at the stars and asked the sky, “Who am I?” then you’ve experienced a mini crisis of identity. Repeating your name over and over and over until it loses all meaning won’t help. Instead, I recommend watching The Goonies - or Spaceballs if things are really bad.

2. How can you avoid existential crises? You need to dull down your philosophical thought, and focus on smaller, more mundane details. The best guides to mundane details are your parents, who have to deal with finicky chores like keeping a steady supply of three varieties of milk, planning meals, changing the oil on the car, buying fridges, and insuring the family. Ask your mother to help her balance the checkbook, or write a list of shopping ingredients from her weekly meal plan. Your concerns about the wellbeing of the universe will quickly dim once you’re immersed in dividing up a week's worth of ground beef into individual freezer bags.

3. Whose fault is existentialism? Although existentialism has existed in different forms through the centuries, eighteenth, nineteenth and twentieth century philosophers from Europe are predominantly to blame. Here in America, we were all perfectly happy contemplating the Dairy Queen value day specials until the French alerted us to the possible meaninglessness of language. And then the Germans chirped in to remind us that our entire concept of the world exists in our own heads - like we have the room! Take your cue from Australians, who famously abandoned existential thought to focus on digging really big holes at the beach, and to race shopping carts through empty parking lots: sunshine can’t get you down.

4. Is there life after existentialism? Believe it or not, being really, really busy is a great way to overcome existentialist preoccupations. Remember how your older cousin Ryan went through that Buddhist phase a couple of years ago, changed his name to “Chikyo,” and wore only purple robes? Now he’s back working for a corporation and saving up for a really sweet cappuccino maker (and calling himself “Ryan”). Ryan simply forgot to worry about the fundamentals of his existence. You can too! I suggest taking on internships, extra credit classes and demanding co-curricular sports like crew to distract you while existentialism makes its getaway.

5. Is there an upside to freaking out about my existence? Actually, yes! Some of the world’s greatest comedy comes from making fun of just how silly everything is. Take, for example, the breeding of handbag-sized dogs, without which we would never have had designer dog handbags. And egg separators, which are kind of a joke all in themselves.

If all else fails, karaoke is to be used in emergency circumstances for stubborn bouts of existentialism.

Bonus! Montage of outback music videos

If you were to believe the montage of Australian life depicted in numerous 1980s music videos, you would walk away convinced that ours is a land of five-foot weeds, deserted dusty roads and road trains, populated by lost, lonesome damsels in floral dresses and randy guitar-players with restless leg syndrome. For this reason, the prize chest of '80s videos are something of a gold strike for sociological study: the below clips are a catastrophically insightful window on how the musicians viewed themselves and their country.

Things of Stone and Wood's hit "Happy Birthday Helen" is a celebration of all the Melbourne landmarks and harmonica riffs that could fit into one music video. The four band members don their flannel and hit the four-part harmonies in front of a shoe repair shop before ripping out a tambourine and turning up the heat. Helen, I hope shoulder length hair was what you wanted from your boyfriend on your birthday.

Currently anchoring several pantomimes and musical revivals, Craig McLachlan of "Neighbours" fame branched out from playing a wooden, denim-clad soapie character to taking his denim out into the wilderness of Top 40 contention. The resulting "Mona" remains one of the least musical songs ever constructed (note the questionable close ups on the frets early in song), and one I am convinced he dreamed up while drumming on his coaster down the pub. The setting for this ode is inevitably reached via a ride in the back of a ute. Upon arrival to the rural extremities of pop music, McLachlan pops his shirt buttons open and lets his chest do the singing.

When you arrive in Australia, you can of course expect your ride from the airport in a ute to be chased by a herd of small, semi-clad children. Unlike the offspring of other developing countries who cry out for soccer balls, Australian mites are after nothing more than a spirited, unironic power ballad, and Darryl Braithwaite is the man to deliver.

The seminal classic, "Land downunder" has perpetuated the greatest assault on Australia's legitimacy in modern years. Not only do the lyrics make no sense, but you've got six fellows out in the desert banging beer bottles and kicking up dust like there's no tomorrow. For Men at Work, there really wasn't.

Lastly, a personal favorite is Ian Moss's "Telephone Booth," which contains the open road, lost girl and lonely guitar serenading tropes so cardinal to Australian '80s pop. Not only is it catchy, but there's big hair to be had, and an ode to Telecom's long-lost public telephones dotted, apparently, across the outback.

New Urban Outfitters catalog dictates Fall style

And by "Fall style," you know I of course mean that hazy mishmash where fashion and motorbike riding collide. It's about lifestyle. To accomplish the lifestyle Urban Outfitters wants you to aspire to, you will have to discard any fat or muscle from your legs, then don an olive bodysuit and motocross helmet. As long as you look comfortable in such getup, the world will believe that your latest sacrifice to fashion was indeed on purpose; that you had planned on ditching pants for the leaf-peeping flurries of Fall even before the catalog went to print. (The truly avant-garde can try wearing their helmet backwards, for an particularly experiential homage to dadaism.)

Also in this Fall: gratuitous exasperation, directed at a fictional parent. This is the look you will want to inflict on your dear mother as you rally for her to purchase you an olive slip, denim jacket and tan handcrafted handbag - they're supposed to clash terribly, duh.

To cap off your outfit, dial up the exasperation slightly - try imagining that your mom is giving you "the talk" when it's already too late, and you already know all about *that.* Bonus points for dislocating limbs in the service of fashion, or for applying natural-style makeup that emphasizes just how gaunt your hollowing skull has become.

Side note on comments regarding poorly applied makeup: I get it, the Mac people provide the buffer between us and 300 shades of eyeshadow because we just can't be trusted. No one without a utility belt of brushes and asymmetrical bangs should be allowed near makeup, I agree. But even if we are escorted through the makeup buying process by the stagehands in the local Macys, even then it is likely we will fail when it comes time to apply the products masterfully in our own homes. Putting a row of false eyelashes below each of your eyes hardly ever seems as cool in your Vaseline-filled share bathroom as it does on the disco floor of a makeup emporium. So let's go easy on the makeup-challenged. We're just trying to make the face roadworthy. It's the same nod to etiquette the driver of a bomb makes as they gaffer-tape their bumper back in place to get to the store. Don't pull us over for dragging our tailpipe along the ground. Forgive us our two-tone paint job. And easy on the headlights.

Open letter to owners of vintage brick rotunda:

Dear Owners of Vintage Brick Rotunda in Bonnie Brae neighborhood,

I passed by your house on my bicycle a few days past, and was admiring the way you have celebrated the bricklaying flair of early 1900s home-builders. In a world of scrapes and pops, you have embraced your grainy brick heritage, replete with quaint steepled facets and a leafy canopy of elderly deciduous trees. Nearby houses squat fatly on tiny blocks like overfed pets, barking feebly from their beds to be brought another treat. Their approximations of Dorian, Mediterranean and Gallic architecture are abominations of design and function. Their faux galleys and faux mosaics indict their owners; at night the fulsome glow of lights in cavernous, empty rooms lets all who pass know that the house cannot be saved, that it has been seized by ill-taste, that ill-will toward all other men is resident. One day I hope to pass by the fortress up my street and see a resident examining the "antique" globe he has placed within view of the street on an empty set of bookshelves, under an "antique" Pottery Barn chandelier which remains on 24 hours a day.

So on seeing your honest abode, I took heart. Look! I said to myself. An artifact! Owners taking pride in their inheritance of a dwelling that precedes them, and that will outlast them, no doubt. They even have a delightful replica of their own house to serve as mailbox. Their house is something of a very large Matryoshka doll. I peered a while longer at your mailbox.

Ho. I thought. There appears to be an incongruous element in the likeness. The charming pointy parlor at left, seen in mailbox form as a triangular replica of the front of the house, appears to have been replaced with a round pod of newer brick in the scheme of the larger house. It was then the raspy whiff of renovation stung my nostrils. They didn't have circular spirit levels in 1900!

I can only imagine why you found perpendicular walls so disagreeable. Perhaps you had a wealth of concave artwork and nowhere to hang it; perhaps you have bent every aspect of your existence to one-upping your relatives at Christmas this year - 360 degrees of baubles in a designated tree room should do it! - perhaps you've invented the first room-size Lazy Susan. I don't know. I don't know what you're doing in that odd rotunda, or why anywhere up to 70 percent of Bonnie Brae residences have one of them. All I know is that it is historically inaccurate, and it doesn't match your letterbox.

Clearly, one of them will have to change.


Regards,

Your Neighbor

"Canada" merely a manifestation of U.S. neuroses

Esteemed psychoanalyst Dr. Ralph Greenson had a major breakthrough this week, overcoming years of transference and projection issues for the psychologically compromised country of America. Speaking with the superpower as it reclined on an asymmetrical couch, Greenson delved deep into the subconscious, bringing to the surface repressed memories dating back as far as the 1600s.

Offering a rare diagnosis, Greenson led America gently to the realization that feelings of inferiority had been pushed deeper and deeper into the subconscious through the years, resulting in the manifestation of a paranoid delusion to the north of America; invention of a land mass with equal scenic beauty, but better health care and social services, a more robust economy, and amiable relations with almost every other country on earth. "Canada," as the manifestation is identified by the patient, offers a veritable projection of all that the United States feels it lacks. Inhabited by a diverse, friendly populace who enjoy quaint activities like ice fishing and making custard, "Canada's" picture-perfect existence and abundant mineral reserves are indeed too good to be true.

The revelation was a blow to America's psyche, which grappled to reconcile purported trips "across the border" at age 18. "Sometimes our idea of 'over the border' is internal," explained Greenson gently, "sometimes we dally with rebellious behaviors to test the boundaries of our beliefs and values, and sometimes that takes the form of a hallucination wherein we visit small, hokey roadhouses where they serve watery beer to minors outside Detroit." He added, "sometimes we all imagine leaving Detroit."

"So Canada never really existed?" asked America.
"Only in your mind." said Greenson. "Stop picking at the velvet, please."

Clif you

The American Dream is star of the heartwarming CLIF Bar story, in which founder Gary transcends his lonely existence in a garage, with only a "dog, skis, climbing gear, bicycle and two trumpets" for companionship, to run a $100 million company based on inventive use of oats and pectin. During a run-of-the-mill 175-mile bike ride with his friend, Gary had what he repeatedly hang quotes "an epiphany": he will make his own energy bars. It is unclear whether "the epiphany" was a bad case of saddle rash, the ecstasy of peeing off a tall summit, or a gnarly crash. Nevertheless, a few short years later, Gary is king of the miscellaneous gooey, textury, fancy pants energy food market.

In the last frame above, Gary is pictured with his mom, who came to maturation during the 1930s, according to sartorial clues. Gary's advanced age as a child of the Victorian era has not interfered with his ceaseless hunger for adventure, in the form of 175-mile day bike rides, treks through Nepal, or "roadless cycling tours" through the European Alps - each funded by Gary's crunchy granola empire.

Gary's spires-of-the-world existence is flaunted on each and every CLIF Bar packet. One package may tell the tale of his frugal unicycle tour of South America ("The Unicycle Diaries: why monopolize two wheels when some men have none?"), another of his traveling down the Amazon in a boat made out of old coffee machines and popcorn makers discarded by the feckless American public. Each story is fashioned so that you, the consumer in need of dense high-cal energy sustenance, can attend that Blues Traveler concert or social volleyball tourney without bonking, and with confidence intact. For enhanced results, carry an ice ax with you to the baseball game.Obscured above, I recount one of Gary's tales:

"While ski-touring through the remotest stretch of the San Juan mountains with my friend, Trevor, my skins began to ice up. I flailed epically on an incline, unable to gain a vertical foot without slipping. We decided to set up and take an energy break. I unwrapped a Carrot Cake CLIF Bar, bit into the patented mix of nutrients and chewy stuff, and lo, an "epiphany" visited me - I sprang into action, possibly saving both our lives. I trapped, de-veined and skinned two marmots, and fashioned some eco-friendly skins to affix to my skis. Soon we were schussing down ski slopes the nearby heliskiing companies could only dream of having access to. But you only get here with nature's help. It's the spirit of CLIF."

And another:

"Me and my friend Jock had long talked about trekking the wilds of Nepal, but were concerned about the appalling impact tourism has had on the area. When we arrived, we were taken aback by the beauty of the people there - and I mean all the people in brightly colored Patagonia shell wear. I have long been an advocate of barefoot running, as it allows me to dialogue with the ground as I run on my toes, often responding, "Fuck, Nepal! Take it easy with all those pebbles." It wasn't until we jogged into Everest's base camp and downed a mint choc-chip CLIF Bar that we realized an "epiphany": feet are smaller than shoes. So we began training, and returned a year later to complete the first barefoot ascent of Everest, leaving a smaller footprint than ever before."

American Bar Association love-in

The mailbox can be viewed as the enigmatic void into which man pours his hopes, unnamed and indescribable; the mailbox is a vessel waiting to be filled with a surprising liquid. Or not a liquid! --Even more surprising. When we wait for the mail, our glances out the front door betray our true base emotion: "I'm bored." The arrival of the mail portends not just seasonal milieu, but the possibility that our lives are about to be rescued, transformed - or at least that we can take five minutes out of our lives to peruse the pages of pumpkin-themed bakewear and tableclothes from Pottery Barn.

So this Saturday, the day holding little promise, I waited keenly for the arrival of The Mail. Bills, vegetable pricing, creditors seeking the ex-tenants of our rented abode ... I almost gave up hope that I could be surprised by the contents of the mailbox, until ...
The new issue of the American Bar Association (ABA) magazine arrived. Departing from the semi-self-important minutae of the great Practice of Law, this month's issue was frivolously carefree and self-indulgent; the hybridized product of several generations of the TV guide. I had on my hands an ABA love-in. Pictured above, the cover story is a hard hitting article on "the 25 greatest fictional lawyers" of all time - law's greatest heroes and scoundrels, for the layman tax attorney to aspire to. And they're all there! Harrison, Orson, Sam Waterston, George Clooney, Matthew McConnaughey, Tom Cruise, the guy from "Rumpole up the Bailey," Al Pacino! Yes, in good faith, the yearbook committee had commissioned an entire issue to the exposition of fictional law practice ... Hey, there's Ally McBeal!

In case the fever pitch of your excitement for a fictional lawyer issue interfered with your mental faculties, the inside title page helpfully lays out the identities of the characters united so cunningly through Photoshop. Like an old class photo, the names and mannerisms come back to you as you bask in the soft glow of nostalgia, thumbing over the stories and speeches of those movable icons, the Lawyers of American television and cinema.

No doubt, there was hot debate in the lead up to publication in the ABA office: how could they leave out Jim Carrey's "Liar, liar"? How did Ally McBeal make the cut? What about the Ally McBeal spinoff, with that Dylan McDermott? Is Orson Welles the lawyer any different from Orson Welles the *anything else*? Wasn't he always just Orson Welles? How did McConnaughey's John Grisham attorney beat out Matt Damon's Grisham attorney? Wasn't there room on the cover for Avon Barksdale's attorney, comically brought in everytime one of his boys shot someone on "The Wire"? Like a latter day Jon Lovitz, perhaps he wasn't glamorous enough to make the cut. But let me ask again: Ally McBeal? And Elle Woods doesn't make the cut?


Crowd-pleaser Vinny Gambini appears in the inside story, serving to complicate the matter of "just how serious are the ABA editorial staff?" Further murkying the waters is an ode to Atticus Finch by several of the sharpest legal minds willing to risk their reputations penning missives to a fictional lawyer. But Atticus is the original hotty totty attorney, and so a natural fixture of the "frivolous discourse on fictional characters" law-writing genre.

I can't wait for the "letters to the editor" in the next issue - legal arguments for and against inclusion of Paul Newman or Marlon Brando, proving once and for all that lawyers are anal beyond all other professions. Moreover, I hope someone will publish a conclusive list of "Hollywood falsities when portraying the judicial process" so I can finally rest in peace. Order!