TARZAN AND DER GROPENFUHRER

The election of Culifornia's Gropenfuhrer has spawned many articles about the meet-cute of fame and power, most recently Anthony Lane's Talk of the Town piece, "Poll Stars," in this week's New Yorker, and Todd Purdom's Week in Review piece, "Government by Celebrity ...," in Sunday's New York Times. As Der Gropenfuhrer settles into Sacramento, we're bound to see many more like them. But the ur-text of that meet-cute is a very funny 1992 British television series, "Fame in the 20th century," later rebroadcast by PBS, which is unlikely to be improved upon for the wisdom it offers.

One thing you learn from it, besides such pregnant details as Hitler's theatrically clever idea "to enter a rally always from the rear of the auditorium, so that he appeared to emerge from among the people as the expression of their desires, the embodiment of their dreams about a better fate," is how far Uncle Sam has come since the days when:

Power was in Washington and fame was in Hollywood. The only fully equipped American superman was in the movies: Tarzan of the Apes, [whose] ape-call was based on a Tyrolean yodel. If Johnny Weissmuller, like his parents, had been born in Germany, he would have provided Hitler with a stunning example of what the master race looked like with its clothes off. But Weissmuller was raised in America and got the job of Tarzan instead. ...

Weissmuller had a face off the front porch of the Parthenon. He was a natural to play king of the jungle. In one low-budget movie after another he fought to gain the upper hand over Tarzan's deadly enemy -- the dialogue. ... This was where dreams of omnipotence belonged: in dreamland. The king of the jungle was a sportsman turned actor and the jungle he was king of was a hundred yards across at its widest point. Everybody was enchanted and nobody was fooled ...

In Europe, the eyebrows of the highbrows were raised in derision at America's culture of daydreams. But there was one big advantage in confining daydreams to culture. It kept them out of politics.

The advantage has long since disappeared. If there were any question of that, Der Gropenfuhrer will doubtless try his mighty best to make sure it has vanished forever. But to wish us back to the dreamland days of Johnny Weissmuller and the Tarzan era, as though they were a model of sanity, is too ridiculous to contemplate. Has anybody got a better idea?

October 14, 2003 10:42 AM |

Categories:

Me Elsewhere

'WILD SIDE' STILL ROCKS 

Nelson Algren was one of the great American authors of the 20th century, it is no exaggeration to say, and among the most neglected. Consider his underrated classic, "A Walk on the Wild Side." The title -- popularized and co-opted as an idiomatic phrase by Hollywood and Madison Avenue (institutions Algren loathed) -- is familiar to most anyone who speaks English or knows Lou Reed's lyrics. But the novel itself? Hardly.

BUSTER KEATON REVISITED 
Buster Keaton: Tempest in a Flat Hat is not a biography. "This book is merely a fan's notes," Edward McPherson writes in the introduction, although his publisher ignores the disclaimer and calls it a biography on the cover. In fact, the book is a bit of both, a difficult combination to bring off unless you're David Thomson, who set the standard with Rosebud, his penetrating rumination on the life and career of Orson Welles, which was nothing if not a distillation of every obsessive thought he ever had about the myth and the man and all his movies.
LAUREN BACALL, STILL SALTY AT 80 
When Lauren Bacall writes that her singing voice ranges "somewhere between B minus sharp and outer space," she's being candid and funny. It's not every stage star with two Tony Awards for best actress in a musical whose vocal talent offers so little promise. (OK, Harvey Fierstein excepted.) Still less would one admit it.
THE STARS ACCORDING TO BOGDANOVICH 
Peter Bogdanovich's superb collection of movie-star profiles and interviews -- a sequel to Who the Devil Made It, his interviews of top film directors -- begins with an affectionate tale about Orson Welles that reminds us just how intimate the author's connection to Hollywood's greatest has been. But contrary to what we've come to expect from dime-a-dozen celebrities and celebrity interviews not worth two cents, the tale avoids bromidic egotism and journalistic platitudes.
SAMMY'S WHITE DREAMS 
Four decades ago Lenny Bruce sentenced Sammy Davis Jr. to "30 years in Biloxi," stripping him of "his Jewish star" and "his religious statue of Elizabeth Taylor." Now we have two new biographies of Davis that spring him from ridicule, if not from doubts about his legacy, and restore a measure of dignity to a black entertainer whose huge fame and success never overcame his devout wish -- indeed his lifelong effort -- to be white.
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