A friend sent me this defense of the now viral Olive Garden review by Marilyn Hagerty of the Grand Forks Herald:
I’m going to level with you: I love the Olive Garden. LOVE it. I love the Tuscany-by-way-of-Atlanta decor, I love their horrible Italian portmanteaus, I love that you can buy their unpalatable wine by the jug (I know this, because my friends and I split one on Valentine’s Day). I love that their corruption of lasagna is so far beyond the pale that it’s borderline transgressive.
The author, Julieanne Smolinski, spends valuable column inches defending Olive Garden, which is pointless because I don’t think anyone cares that much if she eats there (although she seems to care a great deal that we care). I also don’t dispute that Olive Garden is successful. That’s one of the reasons I found Hagerty’s column absurd: It’s similar to printing a review of a new Starbucks or McDonald’s. Olive Garden is a national chain with an extensive advertising reach. It doesn’t need Marilyn Hagerty or the Grand Forks Herald.
It’s possible the Grand Forks Herald’s readers don’t watch TV or have never set foot in an Olive Garden. However, any public interest would have been satisfied by a review half the size. Arguably, a “review” itself was unnecessary. A brief news blurb about the arrival of the restaurant would’ve been sufficient.
The article, regardless of its subject, was horribly written and edited. Or as Smolinski says, “The real issue is that Marilyn writes in a style we’re so unaccustomed to.” Yes, because it’s bad.
Smolinski would have us believe that “earnest” and “sincere” are synonymous with or a justification for incompetence. I disagree.
My booth was near the kitchen, and I watched the waiters in white shirts, ties, black trousers and aprons adorned with gold-colored towels. They were busy at midday, punching in orders and carrying out bread and pasta.
It had been a few years since I ate at the older Olive Garden in Fargo, so I studied the two manageable menus offering appetizers, soups and salads, grilled sandwiches, pizza, classic dishes, chicken and seafood and filled pastas.
At length, I asked my server what she would recommend. She suggested chicken Alfredo, and I went with that. Instead of the raspberry lemonade she suggested, I drank water.
This should’ve been edited down to “I ordered the chicken Alfredo.” If it was an especially slow news day, I might have allowed the overview of the menu. Although, she repeats it more concisely in the final paragraph.
The story I’m interested in is why Hagerty is even employed at this paper. I’ve read a few of her columns — including her “cheerful persons of the week” — and it’s like paying to sit next to a talkative elderly woman on a cross-country flight. Her piece about airline seating was similar to the five-hour-go-nowhere conversation I endured when flying from New York to Portland before my wedding.
I know someone has to sit in the middle, but I wondered this past week why — on two longer flights — did it have to be me. The aisle is OK. You can get up and go to the lavatory. The window seat is good. You can look out over the landscape. That is, on a clear day and if you aren’t right over the wing…
The existential conundrum of why one is condemned to the middle seat would have more impact if it wasn’t so easily avoidable. Book your flight sufficiently in advance and select the window or aisle seat. Even when traveling relatively last minute for business, it was rare that I was assigned a middle seat. But I digress.
I saw a man in the airport in Minneapolis taking off his woolen socks and putting on lighter socks for the trip to Florida. I heard a woman tell another, “My husband and I have played golf together for 45 years. We have two rules. We don’t get mad, and we don’t keep score.”
I checked a news magazine rack in the Minneapolis airport with scintillating headlines. They included, “Whitney Houston’s Autopsy Secrets” and “Burn 300 calories in 22 minutes—lose that arm jiggle.” Then there was a headline asking, “Is everyone kinkier than you?” And another saying, “Flatten your belly.”
This is not a column containing insightful observations or amusing anecdotes. This is a fourth-grader’s essay about his first trip on a plane. And it would get a C.
Sorry to be ungallant but the least anyone can do for someone who has lived to the age of 86 is not to lie to them. Age isn’t really the issue. Either her writing has always been bad or it has dramatically declined in her later years. If the latter is true, then Grand Forks Herald should have the decency not to publish her anymore. I have too many friends who have lost jobs due to the shrinking print journalism market. Unemployment is around 8 percent. So I don’t think Marilyn Hagerty’s “earnest” pseudo-Onion articles are cute. I think they’re depressing.
And Smolinski’s piece doesn’t cheer me up, either.
MaryAnn Johanson at FlickFilosopher linked to this article about the upcoming, long-delayed Eddie Murphy film, A Thousand Words.
“This is a sweet, heartfelt movie, and it’s a chance to see Eddie do some very physical comedy,” said Megan Colligan, Paramount’s president of domestic marketing and distribution. “He’s really funny in this film.”
OK, funny Eddie Murphy — we all remember Coming to America… 24 years ago.
What’s this new film about?
Successful but prone to ethically dubious behavior, Jack McCall (Murphy) is thrown for a loop when he discovers a tree whose leaves fall off whenever he speaks. He’s told by a mystical figure that the tree’s branches will be bare after he utters 1,000 words, at which point he will die. The set-up yields numerous opportunities for Murphy to engage in gestures and exaggerated body language.
Huh? He plays a man marked for death, who will expire after speaking roughly as many words as the average college essay? This is supposedly going to result in pratfalls and vaudevillian hijinks?
Maybe they’re just not describing it well. Let’s see the trailer.
Wow, that’s terrible. I’m not one to question ludicrous “mystical figures” in movies, but it doesn’t seem like Murphy’s character’s problem is that he talks excessively but that when he does speak, it’s usually a lie. Shouldn’t a leaf fall whenever he repeats a Mitt Romney talking point? Shouldn’t it be safe for him to guide an old blind man across a busy intersection?
If it’s any consolation, Eddie still looks great. It’s like he stopped aging around the time he stopped being funny. Hey, wait a minute, did he make some sort of deal with Ursula the Sea Witch?
Andrew Sullivan raised a valid concern about efforts to pull sponsors from Rush Limbaugh’s radio show.
It’s a free country, but I get queasy with boycotts to target disgusting but free speech.
Writer Peter David is not a fan of boycotts, either. He has often stated that the answer to free speech (even disgusting speech) is more free speech. There is no shortage of outlets for the denunciation of Limbaugh’s idiocy (The Daily Show is but one). Shouldn’t we support an open dialogue and exchange of ideas?
Sure, but Limbaugh has never been about that. He’s not interested in the discussion of actual issues. The Sandra Fluke incident is a clear example. His sole goal is to make a lot of money doing what every 6 year old is trained not to do during kindergarten. He’s a shock jock. Some people compare him to Howard Stern but that’s an insult to Stern. Stern is not a bully. He makes fun of himself as much as he does anyone else. His political statements — when he makes them — are often crass but occasionally insightful.
Of course, that’s all personal taste. I don’t like NBC’s 30 Rock. I think it’s facile and empty with no legitimate laughs (as a friend once said about Family Guy, “A reference is not a joke). I could stage a boycott of 30 Rock but I wouldn’t make much headway on those grounds. Advertisers would not be ashamed to continue an association with the show just because I don’t think it’s very good.
What’s happening with Rush is that advertisers are ashamed. They can’t just dismiss the pressure from outraged groups. It’s hard to support a “personal taste” for referring to women as sluts and prostitutes.
It’s not about free speech. It’s about economics. Limbaugh should find it as profitable to spout his garbage as it is to self-publish your own Twilight fan fiction. If he’s talking about private citizens releasing sex tapes, advertisers should find him as potentially toxic as many advertisers find Stern, who has actual prostitutes on his show discussing their sex tapes.
Limbaugh has a right to be an ass for money. He doesn’t have a right to be a respected voice on any subject. During the 1992 presidential campaign, Bill Clinton criticized the rapper Sister Souljah for perceived racist statements. His words were far stronger than the tepid tap dance Republican presidential candidates had for Limbaugh.
Perhaps once this is all over, Republican politicians will feel free to describe Limbaugh’s more repugnant statements with the same scorn and contempt they usually refer for members of the same sex who want to marry.
From the New York Times article about the legal battle between Julie Taymor and the producers of Spider-Man: Turn off the Dark.
A courtroom battle would likely force Bono to respond to the e-mail claims that in January 2011, soon after “Spider-Man” actors were injured because of technical problems and when the musical was a laughingstock on late-night television, he showed up at a creative meeting with supermodels in tow, too drunk on beer to contribute usefully.
Oh, Bono, I love you. Certainly more than the use of the term “in tow” to describe actual human beings. “In tow” is defined as “to draw or pull behind by a chain or line” — usually in reference to a barge or a trailer. Also, supermodels are defined as “highly paid fashion models with a worldwide reputation.” You know, someone you might refer to by name. Random, unnamed, tall, thin women hanging onto an aging pop star are more the Wonder Twins of supermodels.
It’s possible actual supermodels were in attendance — although that would require their parents or guardians explaining to them who the old drunk guy was and why it would be cool to hang out with him during meetings for a poorly conceived Broadway musical when they could be making millions on an assignment.
Bim Adewunmi at The Guardian comments on Octavia Spencer’s Oscar win and asks why there is a relatively small range of roles for black actresses.
In 1940, Hattie McDaniel became the first black woman to be nominated for, and win, an Oscar. She got her best supporting actress award by playing Mammy, the jolly house slave in Gone With the Wind. At the ceremony, she was not seated with the rest of the cast; instead she and her guest sat at a segregated table.
The award was bittersweet for black audiences. The role required her to be spoken down to by a much younger southern woman (Vivien Leigh) and didn’t touch on her life beyond her white owner’s house. Since then, only five black women have gone on to win acting Oscars. That became six after Octavia Spencer won on Sunday. Her role? A maid in the 1960s.
It’s important not to confuse criticism of The Help with a belief that black actors shouldn’t play maids. It’s just a question of why only maids… or inner city child abusers (Precious) or entertainers (Dreamgirls). Excluding Whoopi Goldberg’s role in Ghost, those are the only roles for which black actresses have won Oscars.
White actresses who have won the same award have played a wide range of professions and backgrounds — queens (Shakespeare in Love), neurotic New Yorkers (Hannah and Her Sisters), quirky dog walkers (The Accidental Tourist), 1920s vaudevillians (Chicago), and non-abusive mothers (The Fighter). They represent the world — not just a servile and pathetic portion of it.
Thirty-five years after Diane Keaton won Best Actress for Annie Hall, there still aren’t similar roles for black women. Not a criminal. Not a maid. Just a middle-class woman living her life. Waiting to Exhale was a brief glimpse into this world but the Academy ignored it (rightly or wrongly — I’m not making an aesthetic judgment… though I’m not sure how it could have been worse than Bad Southern Accent Theatre).
Billy Crystal’s “joke” about The Help during the Oscars does a good job of perhaps unwittingly demonstrating the divide in Hollywood:
When Octavia Spencer won a best supporting actress Oscar for playing a maid in “The Help,” Mr. Crystal joked that after he saw the movie, he was so moved he wanted to hug the first black woman he saw, adding, “which in Beverly Hills is about a 45-minute drive.” It was a line that could have been used back when Hattie McDaniel, the first black actress to be honored with an Academy Award, won for playing a maid in “Gone With the Wind.”
Of course, a random black female lawyer would love being embraced by a strange white person who just wandered out of a movie about black maids. “Oh, what you people went through! I mean, it’s not anything I did personally or anyone I know… but other more cartoonly villainous people.” “Lady, get off me. I went to Georgetown.” Yeah, that’s not condescending at all. I know I’m compelled to french kiss the first Jewish person I run into after seeing a World War II film.
If Madonna had launched her career 30 years later, well, she’d be Lady Gaga. However, she’d probably name her big hit “Material Girl” “Pop Culture Girl,” as it’s more appropriate. The 1980s were the decade of acquisition and the 21st Century is so far all about escapism, which is achieved mostly through reality TV. Odd, that.
If our memories can stretch back far enough to contemplate the weeks after September 11, 2001, you’ll recall how we wondered if the grim reality facing us would allow for escapist entertainment. Also, odd, that. Of course, it would. In fact, it would demand it. The Great Depression gave us Universal horror movies, the Marx Brothers, and Fred and Ginger. The Great Recession gave us The Bachelor and The Bachelorette (working title — Not-The-Bride of The Bachelor). Maybe if we’d just fessed up and called it The Great Depression, the artistic product would have been better.
As Madonna might have sung, “We are living in a Pop Culture World.” It’s even become the dominant language. Try communicating with the average person without knowing the words “Snooki,” “Kardashian,” and “Fey.” No one discusses politics — either because it’s considered rude or uninteresting (“We won’t change our minds on this issue, so let’s just enjoy our lunch and discuss whether Brad and Angelina will ever get married.”). No one even explores the deeper meaning of our escapist entertainment. Generally, because it has none but also because deeper meanings inevitably return you to politics, philosophy, confrontation, and discomfort. We content ourselves with the personal lives of celebrities — as if they truly mattered to us. We even treat commercials, designed solely to sell us things, as “artistic expression.” We repeat one-liners from heartless sitcoms that are merely “clever” pop-culture references that reveal no true emotion — they conceal rather than reveal.
My intent is not to lament the situation, which is inexorable, but to ask that we acknowledge it. The reaction to Whitney Houston’s death has generated the same commentary we saw when Amy Winehouse or Michael Jackson died. People are shocked by the outpouring of emotion. They wonder why the world stops when a pop culture figure dies. What about the nameless soldiers? That’s a good question. Here’s another: On February 26, will you watch the Academy Awards or spend the three hours reading Love My Rifle More Than You by Iraq War veteran Kayla Williams? Already read that one? How about One Bullet Away by Nathan Flick? The list goes on. More Americans have read the memoir of a TV writer than have read any first-person account of the Iraq War. I don’t judge. I just illustrate the reality of the world. On a daily basis, we reinforce what we considerable valuable.
Voltaire said that the living deserve our respect, the dead deserve only the truth. The truth is that our society lives and breathes pop culture. The emotion expressed on Facebook and Twitter when these figures pass on is genuine. Yet, suddenly, we feel shame for what our culture has become. I could cynically say it’s probably because no one enjoys being outside a party — even a funeral — looking in. If the pop culture figure is not important to us, we suddenly see the triviality of it all. If the pop culture figure is important to the individual, we suddenly comprehend the importance of naming a street in the figure’s honor or putting the figure on a stamp.
So, when the flags fly at half-mast for Betty White, I don’t want to hear a peep out of anyone.
CNN raises the question as to whether singer Chris Brown‘s “exile” should be over.
The controversy is that the Grammys allowed “Brown back onstage three years after he was essentially blacklisted over charges that he beat up then-girlfriend and fellow entertainer Rihanna. In June of 2009, Brown pleaded guilty to to one count of assault with the intent of doing great bodily injury.”
Brown’s “exile” was hardly Phantom Zone-esque: According to the CNN article, he was sentenced to five years’ probation, counseling and community service. Michael Vick was punished more severely for mistreating dogs.
The issue isn’t whether the Grammys should ban for life a performer who brutally beat up a woman. The issue is that the Grammys correctly surmised there was an audience for him. The Grammys doesn’t have to bother with banning Wang Chung from its broadcast.
There are still artists who are nervous about the impact coming out as gay will have on their careers, but domestic violence has not derailed Brown’s.
That is what’s unfortunate — more so than some dumb tweets by young girls.
I had occasion the other day to think about the classic number “Steam Heat” from The Pajama Game. Choreographed by Bob Fosse, it epitomizes his style — the hat roll-ups, the smooth bow-legged movement. It’s also compelling evidence for the theory a coworker shared with me years ago that women in musical theatre “get all the good stuff.”
In the show, Gladys performs the routine with “the boys from the cutting room floor” at a union meeting. Carol Haney originated the role of Gladys on stage and also played her in the 1957 film version. Haney later moved on to choreography. She died at 39, shortly after completing work on Funny Girl.
Haney’s understudy was Shirley MacLaine, who played Gladys for months when Haney was injured. This would prove to be her big break.
“Steam Heat” was part of the 1999 musical revue Fosse, Ann Reinking’s tribute to the late choreographer. This is a clip of Meg Gillentine performing the number for Dance in America: From Broadway: “Fosse” on PBS, which is available on DVD,
And here’s the number in Hungarian, which I think is fitting after having spent time in Budapest’s thermal baths.
“I’m Every Woman” is my favorite Whitney Houston song, recorded when she was at the peak of her professional and personal success. As expected when such heights are reached, things were to slowly but swiftly decline afterward. It’s similar to how Mike Campbell answered the question in Sun Also Rises of how he went bankrupt: “Gradually and then suddenly.” Such is the price of fame.
The song’s infectious joy is also evident in its video, which features a visibly pregnant Houston (somewhat appropriate for a song celebrating all aspects of womanhood). She shares the stage with the past, present, and future of soul music: Cissy Houston (her mother), Chaka Khan, who first recorded the song in 1978, Valerie Simpson, who co-wrote it with her husband Nickolas Ashford, and then up-and-coming group TLC (Lisa “Left Eye” Lopes died in a car accident in 2002).
Houston’s decision to cover “I’m Every Woman” was bold. Growing up in an R&B household, I knew that you just didn’t try to touch Chaka. However, Houston makes the song her own — her performance is youthful (she was not yet 30) but mature and confident.
Watching this video, it’s impossible to pity Whitney Houston — no matter how “gradually and then suddenly” things ended. Few people experience the happiness she feels in this video, and I don’t think she was just acting. I’ve seen The Bodyguard.
Our entry today: “Connected,” the title track from Stereo MCs’ third studio album, was released in 1992. It is notable for its cogent bit of advice: “Stumble, you might fall.” If only George Bush had listened to this song before authorizing the invasion of Iraq.
The lead singer does not look at all well in the song’s video, as if the “connection” he’s seeking is someone who will sell him crystal meth.
“Connected” samples “(Let Me) Let Me Be Your Lover” by Jimmy “Bo” Horne. Yes, Jimmy “Bo” Horne. This clip is from Jimmy “Bo” Horne’s (seems weird to just call him “Horne” or “Jimmy” or even “Bo”) performance on a German TV show in 1978. It’s like one of those children’s puzzles where you’re supposed to identify everything wrong with it.
There are also vocal samples from Third World’s cover of “Now That We Found Love” by The O’Jays. The most well-known version is arguably Heavy D’s from 1991.
serhasacomplaint 
Of old ladies and Olive Garden..
A friend sent me this defense of the now viral Olive Garden review by Marilyn Hagerty of the Grand Forks Herald:
I’m going to level with you: I love the Olive Garden. LOVE it. I love the Tuscany-by-way-of-Atlanta decor, I love their horrible Italian portmanteaus, I love that you can buy their unpalatable wine by the jug (I know this, because my friends and I split one on Valentine’s Day). I love that their corruption of lasagna is so far beyond the pale that it’s borderline transgressive.
So when an earnest review of the chain in a small North Dakota paper set the Internet ablaze like the scornful Tuscan sun, I felt compelled to defend my favorite midpriced chain from all this web inhospitaliano.
The author, Julieanne Smolinski, spends valuable column inches defending Olive Garden, which is pointless because I don’t think anyone cares that much if she eats there (although she seems to care a great deal that we care). I also don’t dispute that Olive Garden is successful. That’s one of the reasons I found Hagerty’s column absurd: It’s similar to printing a review of a new Starbucks or McDonald’s. Olive Garden is a national chain with an extensive advertising reach. It doesn’t need Marilyn Hagerty or the Grand Forks Herald.
It’s possible the Grand Forks Herald’s readers don’t watch TV or have never set foot in an Olive Garden. However, any public interest would have been satisfied by a review half the size. Arguably, a “review” itself was unnecessary. A brief news blurb about the arrival of the restaurant would’ve been sufficient.
The article, regardless of its subject, was horribly written and edited. Or as Smolinski says, “The real issue is that Marilyn writes in a style we’re so unaccustomed to.” Yes, because it’s bad.
Smolinski would have us believe that “earnest” and “sincere” are synonymous with or a justification for incompetence. I disagree.
My booth was near the kitchen, and I watched the waiters in white shirts, ties, black trousers and aprons adorned with gold-colored towels. They were busy at midday, punching in orders and carrying out bread and pasta.
It had been a few years since I ate at the older Olive Garden in Fargo, so I studied the two manageable menus offering appetizers, soups and salads, grilled sandwiches, pizza, classic dishes, chicken and seafood and filled pastas.
At length, I asked my server what she would recommend. She suggested chicken Alfredo, and I went with that. Instead of the raspberry lemonade she suggested, I drank water.
This should’ve been edited down to “I ordered the chicken Alfredo.” If it was an especially slow news day, I might have allowed the overview of the menu. Although, she repeats it more concisely in the final paragraph.
The story I’m interested in is why Hagerty is even employed at this paper. I’ve read a few of her columns — including her “cheerful persons of the week” — and it’s like paying to sit next to a talkative elderly woman on a cross-country flight. Her piece about airline seating was similar to the five-hour-go-nowhere conversation I endured when flying from New York to Portland before my wedding.
I know someone has to sit in the middle, but I wondered this past week why — on two longer flights — did it have to be me. The aisle is OK. You can get up and go to the lavatory. The window seat is good. You can look out over the landscape. That is, on a clear day and if you aren’t right over the wing…
The existential conundrum of why one is condemned to the middle seat would have more impact if it wasn’t so easily avoidable. Book your flight sufficiently in advance and select the window or aisle seat. Even when traveling relatively last minute for business, it was rare that I was assigned a middle seat. But I digress.
I saw a man in the airport in Minneapolis taking off his woolen socks and putting on lighter socks for the trip to Florida. I heard a woman tell another, “My husband and I have played golf together for 45 years. We have two rules. We don’t get mad, and we don’t keep score.”
I checked a news magazine rack in the Minneapolis airport with scintillating headlines. They included, “Whitney Houston’s Autopsy Secrets” and “Burn 300 calories in 22 minutes—lose that arm jiggle.” Then there was a headline asking, “Is everyone kinkier than you?” And another saying, “Flatten your belly.”
This is not a column containing insightful observations or amusing anecdotes. This is a fourth-grader’s essay about his first trip on a plane. And it would get a C.
Sorry to be ungallant but the least anyone can do for someone who has lived to the age of 86 is not to lie to them. Age isn’t really the issue. Either her writing has always been bad or it has dramatically declined in her later years. If the latter is true, then Grand Forks Herald should have the decency not to publish her anymore. I have too many friends who have lost jobs due to the shrinking print journalism market. Unemployment is around 8 percent. So I don’t think Marilyn Hagerty’s “earnest” pseudo-Onion articles are cute. I think they’re depressing.
And Smolinski’s piece doesn’t cheer me up, either.
Posted by Stephen Robinson on March 9, 2012 in Pop Life, Social Commentary
Tags: Julieanne Smolinsk, Marilyn Hagerty, Olive Garden