Dying on Dialectic Hill

“Can’t remember if I told you guys or not, but I tried to watch The Odyssey on my bootleg movie site,” a co-worker mentioned in a group chat with myself and one other person. “It was filmed on camera inside the movie theater. I expected that and was willing to deal with it, but the fucking audio was in Hindu language and littered with Indian gambling advertisements.”

“Were there people passing by or getting up mid-scenes?” the other co-worker asked him.

“Yes, definitely. But like I said I was willing to accept that. Two minutes in, I realized they’re speaking Indian.”

He said he’d checked again and found a new version with unremovable Spanish subtitles, a feature he was okay with.

“The Indian one literally started off with like a three-minute Indian gambling commercial with all these people dancing and promoting their degenerate website. And then when the movie came on there was like Indian gambling URLs just side scrolling across the video.”

“The best way to watch cinema,” I chimed in.

“It’s what this movie deserves,” he said before sarcastically declaring that the English version might be too good given how he already felt dismissive about the movie prior to watching it.

After an interval of obligatory work chatter, he returned to the topic.

“Besides some of the awful casting choices, enjoying Odyssey so far.”

“Which awful casting choices?” I asked.

“Ellie Page, Travis Scott. Lupita Nyong’o.”

“Had no issue with ‘em,” I said. “Not like it’s based on a real historical event,” something the film acknowledges with a preliminary intertitle declaring that what’s about to occur unfurls during a time of “apparent magic.” Unwilling to stop there, I added, “I just find this logic so puzzling when accepting that Matt Damon’s playing a Greek man and doesn’t look anything like one. Or that Tom Holland looks Greek. Or that Robert Pattinson looks Greek. Or that… Once you’ve accepted that they’re not speaking Greek, anything else is on the table.” And then I turned into a passive-aggressive asshole by declaring that I didn’t like how Rock Hudson played straight men.

“L take,” he replied, offering nothing else.

Our other co-worker reintroduced a work problem as the conversation predictably fizzled, not that it dissipated in a side chat where I declared to her that I won’t play Super Mario video games because everyone’s favorite eight-bit mustachioed Italian wasn’t a good plumber and won’t eat broccoli rabe because its name makes me feel gay when I swallow each bite.

“Didn’t see him complaining that a white man played Christ instead of a tan Jew,” I said to her.

“I don’t like the choices either,” she said.

“Getting mad about the wrong things.”

“Eh, to each his own.”

“It’s art. It’s acting. It’s fake. If the performance is fine, who cares? My main problem is: What’s your counter?”

“For me, I don’t like race changes or gender changes. Just to prove it’s propaganda.”

“But that’s you projecting, is it not? Who said it’s propaganda?”

“For example, The Little Mermaid.”

Who knew that mythical sea distaff were all big-breasted, pallid gingers? I thought to myself about the live action remake starring a black actress and instead sent, “I’m not trying to fight with you. I think it’s a fair discussion.”

“You are trying to fight and by the end of it it’s just my preference.”

“It’s a dialectical point. I’m proving my opinion is far more correct than yours.”

“Keyword: opinion, my dude.”

“That’s what dialectics are.”

“I’m not gonna defend my opinion. I know some people will not agree.”

“Right, but if you cannot, that says something about your opinion, usually that it’s not fully formed or thought through. And look, I don’t ultimately give a fuck, but my point is to plant an intellectual seed in people I think are worth the time and effort.”

“Alright, man. Whatever you say. Geez, it’s just Monday.”

I obviously lied. I did give a fuck, of course, or else I would have let it go. Imagine if I said all Irishmen have body odor then argued how I didn’t need to defend my point? When I told another co-worker, a guy on my side, he first accused me of being bored for how long I’d been railing on the subject then laughed and said it’s not his job to convince the ignorant that they’re wrong, a passive approach I admire in theory yet am physiologically incapable of practicing when I try.

A few weeks ago, I’d told my friend’s mother how America celebrates anti-intellectualism, among our country’s worst traits and the one thing that genuinely offends me: willful ignorance. When has it ever been art’s responsibility to make us comfortable or introduce us strictly to perspectives we like? Why bother getting upset that a black woman, Lupita Nyong’o, one of the most beautiful women alive, was cast to play the (“white”) woman history has deemed one of the most beautiful women who ever lived? How could knowing that Elliot Page is a transgender man impact his performance unless you brought your own prejudices to the non-Indian, Spanish-subtitled, bootlegged small screen? Hating on Travis Scott’s performance seemed less troublesome mainly because anyone could’ve filled the role, whether it was a dwarf or Shaquille O’Neal or conjoined twins. More problematic is how whenever someone who is open-minded pushes back on the dissenter it inevitably provokes resentment and further reinforces the logic of the person proffering the inferior position.

I can imagine my co-workers arguing that we won’t see a reboot of Roots with Caucasian slaves or a Holocaust film with Mexican concentration camp prisoners or, heaven forbid, a Little Mermaid with a flat-chested, dark-haired Chinese protagonist, something that seems to be Odyssey director Christopher Nolan’s point: we can tweak historical fiction, a trickier trope with actual history, which is why Nolan didn’t cast Viola Davis to play Robert Oppenheimer. “What about Hamilton?” an agitator will muse while thinking of the most prominent example, failing to remember that Thomas Jefferson, his race notwithstanding, never spit hot fire about taxes and tea during the American Revolution.

It reminded me of a recent essay a friend wrote about trying not to judge people, one of my favorite pastimes as a proud judgy cunt. The friend, also a therapist, said that she’s not supposed to judge her clients even if she neglected to admit that choosing to not judge is itself a judgment. Where would we have gotten in this world without judgment? How do we improve without judging ourselves? Throughout my life many people have pointed out that I’m conflict-inclined, or more willing to engage in it than the average bear giraffe (I’ve recast the cliché to hopefully offend a pro-ursine reader). Playing amateur psychologist, I can tell you why: it was a survival mechanism following a childhood marred by conflict. If I made it through what I did before I was a teen, anyone could surely handle me egotistically stirring the shit about their bad opinions. It gives me great esteem to care passionately about (aka judge) art and attempt to proselytize with takes I’ve spent years refining by consuming as much art as possible, reading endless criticism, and keeping an open mind about the sociology involved in how people are able to arrive at different perspectives depending on their age and/or background. Whether it’s good or bad, I will always defend the mere existence of challenging art—a term I would not use to describe The Odyssey as a piece of filmmaking since it features a largely traditional narrative structure and pat ending, among other things—in part because it has long been my dream job, and because, if you embrace it, it will positively impact how you handle challenges and form judgments outside the world of art. However, I have no issue with downloading The Odyssey even if it being shot on IMAX film means it would certainly be best appreciated at the cineplex, maybe while sitting beside Indians on a casino sabbatical.

I won’t convince my co-worker that his “W take” (to borrow his phrasing) is wrong; he won’t allow me to, détente I’ll abide obligingly. He’s my friend, too, and that matters more…this time. In my defense, fighting about art is a lot healthier than debating politics or religion or morality. My problem may be that I treat the subject as equally, if not more, significant a topic of study, a fact my best friend of thirty years, a huge KISS fan, knows all too well.

“I won’t listen to them anymore because they’re not actual cats,” I texted him in jest.

“I wouldn’t let it get to you,” he replied after reading my synopsis of the afternoon work chatter.

“I’m just riffing on it.”

“I mean, it’s not like you’re casting me to play Peter North,” he said about the retired pornstar.

“Well…North did also do gay porn, after all. Think we just found the ending to the essay.”

“What’s that shoved up my ass? Oh, it’s a ZING!”

Yes, but why was the zing white and not brown when he removed it?