Ridley Scott’s Robin Hood

I have a queer fascination with Ridley Scott, and I was quietly pleased to find out I would be required to see this movie. I can never entirely dismiss the man who made Blade Runner, not that he's ever done anything nearly as fascinating since then. Most of the credit for that one probably went to the screenwriters and Rutger Hauer. But even still, Scott is the one who brought it together, and he's the one who can take otherwise mediocre or maudlin screenplays and turn them into something moving in at least one formidable respect. Take, for example, the surprising passion of the blockbuster Alien, or the pitch-perfect pacing of Matchstick Men, or the philosophical depth of Gladiator. In most other hands, these films would have been hard to believe, let alone enjoy. But Scott can make even Demi freaking Moore more interesting than she deserves to be (G.I. Jane, of course).

All of the usual elements were in place for an average adaptation of Robin Hood, and for the most part that's what we got. The film is shallow, predictable, forced, and in at least one respect, formidable.

It is shallow because except for Marion Loxley and her Father-in-Law, Sir Walter Loxley, no character gets any time to really develop and make us care about him. The enemies (supposedly dark and sinister King John or assumedly deplorable Sheriff of Nottingham) are equally as sympathetic as the main character himself. I find myself unconcerned over the fate of any of them right when I should be cheering for the hero and despising the antagonists.

It is predictable because, well, because you already know how this sentence will end.

It is forced because in the moments we are to be most moved, the dialog becomes a campy, Mel Gibsonian tribute to democracy that is so out of step with the times as to be almost as funny as The Life of Brian. Robin Hood basically quotes the first paragraph of the Declaration of Independence, but in a hokey, colloquial way that we are supposed to feel aroused by. He's over 600 years early for any of that sentiment. The idea of "liberty and justice for all" would have made as much sense to these people as socialism does to our modern political sensibilities. There were no small land owners at the time, and while it was certainly fine to loath your king, or even go to war against him, you simply wanted to replace him with a new monarch who would be more generous for at least one generation.

When Scott made Gladiator, he understood that historical accuracy could be sacrificed so long as the story bore a deeper, more important message. His use of classical romance in that film made for a picture that was viscerally pleasant, but with a high-brow nod to the stoics, it was equally intellectual. Robin Hood is just as heroic as Gladiator. It has the crucial elements; your fall from—and return to—grace. But there's no braininess to this movie and it means that all I have left is a collection of killer battle sequences and jaw-dropping cinematography. But as it turns out, these are good enough for one good viewing.

The settings in this picture were sublime. I can't think of any other epic reconstructions of the European Feudal Age that make such a convincing backdrop. Large elements, like the Tower of London, are remade in painstaking detail. Small elements were equally as moving. I remember being distracted from a bit of dialog between Robin and Marion when in the background an old man with a missing leg trundled along the path behind them. He was completely unnecessary to the story, but exactly what made this universe so real. Truly inspired. In fact, despite all the complaints I've made, I had no notion of the film's length. That's how engrossing this world was. It was like I could actually smell the pigs, feel the wind from the sea, and sweat with the patrons in the bar. The overall color scheme was plain old dark, and perfect for what light would have been available at the time. Middle-ages films regularly over-light everything, as if these people weren't living in windowless, stone fortresses or shuddered, thatch-roofed shacks. (The fire, mostly computer generated, could have been a bit more believable, but I was even impressed with its digital rendering.) For a story that lacked any other surprises, the scenery was unexpected enough. Without belaboring the point, the same fine hand was lent to the battles, which worked for me. If you're cut from a similar cloth, you'll probably enjoy the film, like I said, at least once.

Jesus Camp

The experience of watching Jesus Camp is not unlike that of looking into a mirror—a magic mirror that shows you your beliefs rather than your visage. It’s a film about too serious children, highly charged sermons, being “Born Again”, and people who just never stop talking about their religion. It’s a film about the eccentricities of the Evangelicals, and the people who fear them. It is documentation of unashamed indoctrination. Your own life experience will determine how the movie plays out for you.

The main player in this real-life drama is Pastor Becky Fischer, a loud and imposing woman who takes her greatest joy in molding the minds of 5 to 15 year olds. In one scene she is able to make an entire congregation of young people cry in shame at the way that they act “one way in church and then another way at school with [their] friends.”  The kids all come forth to be washed clean, which is to say that she pours small amounts of bottled water into their outstretched, pleading hands. An assistant stands by with each new bottle uncapped and ready to dribble. After the scrubbing each child goes back to her pew and wails.

This fodder for Fischer’s church is characterized specifically by two children. One, Levi, is a precocious boy with a disturbing rat tail hair-do who seems willing to climb every mountain in order to spread the word. He wants to save the world, or he wants to impress the adults around him. He engages in high-minded dialog, coached by his mother, about how global-warming and evolution are impossible and how creation is the only explanation for humanity. He is very charming and outspoken, and is given an opportunity to preach to the congregation as a guest pastor at one point in the film. His sermon follows along the same basic lines of what’s been said by the adults. We are a special generation. The world is a big mess. It’s our job to fix it. Amen.

The other child under scrutiny is a girl a bit younger than Levi, maybe 9 or 10, who is even more zealous. She is the one who feels “moved by God” to approach strangers and ask them, “If you died today, do you know where you would go?” If they answer “heaven”, her response is a skeptical, “Really? Are you sure?” She is one of the most gullible and audacious children I’ve ever seen, with absolutely no temptation to stray from her pious lifestyle. She explains that she has no fear of reprisal from other children in the community, because it is God who will judge her. She goes out of her way to put her faith in between herself and anyone who might want to talk to her. She speaks wistfully of martyrdom, and when she bowls, she prays over her ball, commanding it in Jesus’ name to get a strike. The gutter balls don’t challenge her faith, though.

The counterpoint to these three outspoken fundamentalists in the film belongs to Air America radio host Mike Papantonio. He is a Methodist and a lawyer and a critic of the “Religious Right”. The film includes snippets of his radio show every so often to offer a strikingly different view from the others. Papantonio rails against the ambitions of the Evangelicals, criticizing everything from their political ambitions to their designs on their own children. The film ends with an honest and argumentative conversation between Papantonio and Pastor Fischer, the latter of which readily admits to practicing indoctrination. The excuse Fischer uses for her treatment of kids is that if she doesn’t indoctrinate them, someone else will. She believes with the conviction of the paranoid that an evil world of spiritual zombies is hungry for the kids.  It is her job to eat their brains before anyone else can.

The buffoonery of the film is provided by a guest appearance of Ted Haggard. This is Ted Haggard back when he was still uncertain about his sexuality, blowing boys and doing blow on a regular basis while preaching against the sins of drugs and homosexuality. You have to watch out for these white men in power who go further than anyone else in their anti-gay sentiments. They seem to continually fulfill the stereotype of the sexually inverted homophobe. At any rate, knowing the downfall of Haggard while watching this 2006 film gives you a sense of vindication or embarrassment, depending on your politics.

The viewer really is left with his own mind when deciding what he thinks of the movie. Sure, the filmmakers use creepy music while the congregation is “speaking in tongues.” The editing could be seen as making the worst of out Haggard’s comments. The pastor seems vain and egotistical if judged by her fastidious hair treatment and comments like, “I’m ready for the cover of Rolling Stones.” But these are the impressions that I get, and I’m a crazy tax-and-spend pinko liberal. But what about the choir? What do Christians in general and Evangelicals in particular think?

If you dig a little you find out that the film tells every sector of America something they already believe. Moderate Christians cringe at the way these people make them look. Evangelicals see the film as a powerful tool in showing what a kick-ass job their doing. And Ted Haggard sees the film as a direct attack on his own person. Well, can’t blame him for that, as quoting Ted Haggard on anything is, in a way, a direct attack on his own opinions.

I really like the film. As far as a documentary goes, it’s one of the less contrived versions of the genre this side of National Geographic. Without going to the extremes of directors like Michael Moore and whoever made “Michael Moore Hates America”, this movie does the job of maintaining an apparent air of impartiality as it exposes this highly sensitive and charged subject. As we then speak about the film it is impossible to hide our own political opinions and still maintain any sense of humanity. You can’t watch this movie without feeling some spiritual or political stirring, a connection to something therein, and repulsion to its doppelganger.

It would be easy to blame the filmmakers as having a political bias going into this picture. I have read and watched enough post-film media to be convinced that they were staying as neutral as possible, while still letting the movie be edgy. Every character in the documentary is energized and opinionated and loud. There is very little need for the ladies who made the film, Heidi Ewing and Rachel Grady, to put any further drama into the compilation of scenes. The film was just the beginning of the debate, though. Ever since, people have come out to argue about it, each side using it as a touchstone for their own personal belief. Really, this is an example of what documentary film should be.

Malcolm X

I have no idea how accurate a portrayal Spike Lee’s Malcolm X is, so I can only share my thoughts on the merit of the character as portrayed in the film. I suppose this article should really just be my thoughts on the film itself, but the story is so interesting that I can’t help but just focus on that. Many others will have written about the technical aspects of the film. My meager efforts will be bent only toward Malcolm X himself, or at least, the story of the man as portrayed in this picture.

The film follows the arc of X’s life from his unfortunate childhood to his days as an indolent and criminal youth to his years in prison and finally to his life as a minister for the Nation of Islam. The boy who grows up smoking, drinking, using drugs, and engaging in organized crime becomes converted to a faith in black supremacy through the efforts of one fellow inmate, an apostle of Elijah Muhammad.

Elijah Muhammad was the second leader of the Nation of Islam, an American Muslim offshoot founded in 1930. He reigned for 45 years, preaching a doctrine recognized by no other Islam sect. The film exposes a large number of the religion’s articles of faith, which in large part are bizarre at best and violently racist at worst. Malcolm Little finds himself easily convinced of the white race being comprised fully of devils, and other such nonsense.

The main thrust of the religion, however, is one of empowerment. Even if the faith itself is strange, the message is benign. Black people should put aside all forms of addiction, own the businesses in their communities, and ensure their own education. Eventually X would convert to Sunni Islam and change his mind about racial equality. He would no longer preach a message of segregation, but turn to a more cooperative effort in his last days. There is an interesting argument to made, however, for the extreme views of his original church. It’s entirely possible that without Malcolm X, there would have been no sense of righteous indignation amongst the African American community. Though other Black leaders had attempted to change the state of racism in America, it was Malcolm X who made white people begin to feel afraid. While that fear may no longer be useful, it was an important stage in the drama of segregated America.

This opinion was hard won. Early in the film I resented the message of the Nation of Islam on general principle. But as I listened to Malcolm X in his early sermons, when the main thrust of his message is Black empowerment, I can’t help but agree with him on most of his points. It’s only later in his career when he preaches full segregation that I find myself turned off by his sermons. Even the controversial “Chickens coming home to roost” quote (his response to the assassination of John F. Kennedy) makes a sad sort of sense. In the end, it was the best quote he ever made, because it led to his separation from the Nation of Islam.

Long before this, however, X gives a speech to an all-white university classroom. He denies the common perception that he hates whites. He talks about how his communities need to get off drugs and take care of their families. That is how you gain respect, he says. Any man can make a baby, but it takes discipline and commitment to truly be a father. It means taking care of your family. This is his message. Who can argue with that?

According to the script of the film, the day of the assassination seems foreordained and unavoidable.  X and his family have been terrorized for weeks up until this point by members of the Nation of Islam. He has recently left the organization and followed his own path. He has taken the trip to Mecca, he has prayed with men of all colors, and he has changed his mind about the fundamental principles of his faith. He has sworn off his resentments toward both Christian black leaders and sympathetic Whites. He has become an even more potent message for change, as he has undergone so much change himself, and found an even deeper conviction to truth and justice. His talent as a speaker and organizer can more fully impact the nation now that he has embraced the concept of integration and brotherly love. This is, of course, when civilizations tend to kill a man.

The film claims that Malcolm X knew that he was walking to his death that day. Despite the warnings, he decided to go on with a regularly scheduled sermon. He told his security staff not to search the members of the congregation as they entered the temple. He told his personal guard to leave him and run petty errands. He made apologies, embraced his friends, and walked out to the podium from which he would be shot once by a shotgun in the chest, and 16 times by two handguns.

Just before this happens, when he was alone with his personal guard and just before sending him off to make an unnecessary phone call, X says, “It is a time for martyrs.” What Spike Lee is telling us is that rather than maintain strict security, rather than go into hiding, rather than take any practical measure to protect himself, Malcolm X willingly if not eagerly walked into his own death. I believe that we’re supposed to admire his strength and courage. But I have never really bought into the martyr thing. It’s possible that this death amplified his message more than old age and natural causes could have. But then again, how clear is his belief to us today?

I remember the fashion craze which led up to the release of this film. The few Blacks, many of the Polynesians, and thousands of White kids came to school decked out in baseball caps and t-shirts emblazoned with the largest capital X the fabric could fit. I suppose some of them listened to Public Enemy, but I doubt, many of them read the autobiography. Once the movie was released, most of that gear went away. Did the explicit, tangible expression of X’s life as portrayed by Lee stop the X gear? Was his message so complex that kids no longer felt comfortable attempting to make it marketable? Or was the fact that Ebert called it one of the best movies of the decade just too much adult acceptance for hip teenagers to bear?

But I was talking about his martyrdom. Perhaps it will cause more children will learn about the faith he held for equality, and the ability he showed of a black man to overcome an exceedingly difficult upbringing. His father had been killed by the KKK, after all, and his brothers and sisters were all taken from the mother by a heartless social services system. There is indeed a powerful lesson in Malcolm X’s life. Perhaps the manner of death is just as important.

But here’s my problem with it. If he really did know what he was walking into, and if his six young daughters really were sitting in the front row, and he could have avoided it, how does his decision square with his definition of being a father? The man isn’t perfect, for sure. And it’s easy to judge his decisions sitting here all white and male in the Salt Lake exurbs of 2010.  I don’t take any of my thoughts here too seriously, because, as I mentioned, all of this information comes from a film, and movies always lie. In the end, the opinion I have is that the film is well-made, Denzel Washington, along with the rest of the cast, is remarkable, and as for Malcolm X, I do admire his strength and courage, even as he left his daughters behind. In the end, I suppose I can only say that he was clearly trying to do one last good thing.

Thugs!

Flipping through Newseum.com, I see that Canadian headlines are screaming, “Thugs!” and, “Anarchy!” Understandably, one cop car appears to have burned. It’s ghastly, indeed. No one likes seeing that. Or at least, no one admits it. But if a car burns and no one is hurt by it, is it really such a story? Why do no headlines pronounce, “Police Brutality!”?

Peaceful protesters at the G-20 in Toronto are being corralled, intimidated, pepper-sprayed, and beaten. Interestingly, in our modern age of small media, certified journalists are also getting pummeled. Police reports generally cite instigation by protesters, but most marchers I’ve ever known are mild-mannered and tell another story. Unlike the days of the unfortunately named, “Battle in Seattle,” front line reporters now have the tools to expose unprovoked violence. Check it out.

The Pursuit of Happyness

I once bought this film from Videorama on Alberta in Portland, Oregon. They would put movies on sale for 5 bucks once the demand had died down, and I picked up a number of titles that way. I never got around to watching it before I sold everything I ownded and moved to Sweden. So it wasn’t until today I actually saw it.

There are two reasons I never watched it. The first is that I generally shy away from serious films. I’m not proud of that fact. I like to think of myself as an intellectual, but when it comes down to picking something to watch I’m more likely to go with Hot Fuzz than Hotel Rwanda.  I figure the serious films will always be there later; right now I want to laugh or get swept up in fantasy.  Turns out that I miss a lot of great movies this way. So I got lucky today.

The other reason I didn’t watch the film before now is that on one level I expected it to be cheesy. Where the rest of the world sees The Will Smith, I still see the Fresh Prince. I can’t help it. And when the star of Men in Black does a serious picture, I don’t expect the demands of the role to be in his ken. Now, however, I’m entering a new phase of Will Smith bias. For someone who is used to being presented as larger than life one second, a smart ass the next, he had me totally convinced.

If you haven’t seen it, The Pursuit of Happyness is a somewhat true rags-to-riches story of Christopher Gardner, a gifted and successful American man who happens to be black. The first act shows the collapse of Gardner’s assumed marriage, his struggle with a difficult sales job, and the birth of a stubborn drive to be wealthy. The story is most compelling in that as Gardner progressively loses everything he owns, including a roof, he is also raising his five year old son. Somehow he manages to maintain his dignity, along with his determination to become a stock broker with no college education, no partner, and no home.

Though director Gabriele Muccino downplays race as a theme in the film, it is implied. During his internship with Dean Witter, Gardner is regularly sent on insulting office-boy errands by the instructor. Not only do his duties as a father limit the hours he can spend at the office in competition with the other interns, but now he has this to deal with. Muccino shows his opinion that being black in America can be an unfair disadvantage, but this obstacle is no less surmountable than any other roadblock to success. Gardner deals with racism as he does everything else. You see him weighing his options, making a decision, and doing whatever he has to do in order to move forward. That means playing the game, and if the boss tells you to get coffee, you get it well. If that means you’ll have less time to call prospective clients, then you better make your calls count for more than anyone elses.

The story follows the classical romantic model. It is David and Goliath. It is the Greek hero fending off hordes of Achaeans. It is Robin Hood. It is the Crusades. Who doesn’t love a good underestimated hero? Early in the film Gardner solves a Rubik’s Cube to the astonishment of the man who will eventually offer him the internship. It’s an accidental audition and one of the more pleasant moves of the dour opening act. Rubik’s game is our modern day version of slinging a rock between the eyes of a giant. We’re all technically capable of it, but only a few can inspire us with their ability to actually pull it off.

If anything, such stories should put us off. They are, in a way, telling us exactly how ordinary we all are. A character such as Gardner’s does not seem ordinary through the eyes of the camera. He is always on top of his game, but the cruel world endlessly piles it on.  We know that by comparison we are completely outclassed. But we can’t help to be inspired, as we have since Homer. In the dark of the theater we are closest to our ancestors at the side of the fire. We can almost believe in our own capacity to be as great as the children of the Gods.

City Lights and The General

I began a new class today. This will be my last semester before obtaining an associate’s degree. That means that all the classes I put off are now due. Computer essentials, for example, is a thinly veiled Microsoft recruitment camp, and required before graduation. It’s all about Word, Excel, and Power Point, and comes with a $150 book (which the school will not buy back afterward), and the $150 student version of Microsoft Office 2007. After all these years, Bill Gates finally got me to shell out money for his word processor.

 I also have a Health and Wellness class. Though I was not excited about this one, it does force me to exercise at least 3 times per week. I’m grumbly about it, but I totally need it.

Two more requirements for graduation are Fine Arts and Diversity. No matter how many bands I was in, paintings I made, or exotic girls I flirted with (let alone the one I married), they’re making me take the class anyway. So I went with the most common choice, Film and Culture. It fulfills “Fine Art” by the fact that we sit in extraordinarily uncomfortable theater seats for 5 hours per meeting, and it fulfills “Diversity” because one assumes we’re going to watch “The Godfather”.

All of my crying aside, I’m actually pretty happy with this course, and it’s going to be the ongoing topic of Klipper Till for the time being. After watching one or two films each Monday, I intend to come here and write my impressions. Today we began with the (no drum roll) silent era.

Charlie Chaplin is one of those iconic, national treasures of a bygone American age, about whom I know jack. That adds up to as much as I know about any of the other pop-culture heroes of the early 20^th century. I did, however, see Robert Downey Jr. with all of that makeup caked on him, for whatever that’s worth. I also saw an interesting documentary (“The Pervert’s Guide to Cinema”, Sophie Fiennes, 2006) some months ago which took a psychoanalytical look at everything from City Lights to Blue Velvet. Slavoj Zizek, the writer of the doc , says that whether you’re Chaplin or Lynch, we all want to either be or be in our mothers. My take on the Chaplin masterpiece is less Oedipal.

I’ve been reading the Stoics, lately. Perhaps I’m looking through Cynic-tinted glasses, but I see Chaplin’s The Tramp as Diogenes, a 4^th Century BCE philosopher of the soup kitchen variety. Diogenes, who was called the Dog by many, including himself, lived in an empty wine barrel by the sea and once said, “When I saw a child drinking from his hand, I threw away my cup.” His message is that all attempts to attain status, privilege, wealth, or recognition are vain and unfulfilling. No matter how much you may be able to achieve, you will always want more. You will never be satisfied with what you have until you limit your ambition to only the strictest bodily needs. Furthermore, those materials you do manage to capture in this life will also leave you anxious in your desire to avoid losing them. The Buddha called it dukkha. Chaplin called it, oh, the American Dream, I suppose.

Though my professor says City Lights is satire, which I’ll buy, if we look at it as a romantic comedy, which Chaplin calls it, then it is an exceptional example of the genre. In the end there is no wedding by which such films are defined. There is no afternoon together for the lovers, let alone any happily ever after. The beauty is that the question of, “What happens next?” doesn’t need to be answered. You can decide for yourself. It ends optimistically, pessimistically, or you can opt not to decide anything at all. The fact is, the end of the story is when the film fades to black. Anything after that is another story.

The characters in City Lights all require some sort of deficiency in order to be good. The selfish, narrow millionaire is only kind when he is drunk. The Blind Girl is innocent and pure, but only because her blindness keeps her from seeing the truth. The Tramp is the selfless, loving, and harmless “hero”, but only as a consequence of his break with society. This gestalt is a powerful metaphor all on its own, but one can assume that Chaplin was also being more specific. He made this film after the birth of the Talkies. He said that he could out-perform any new cinema while holding to the old style. The form of City Lights is, despite its deficiency, even more precise and honest in delivery of its message. Chaplin believed that language in film is dishonest by its very nature. As he wordlessly emotes his part, and tells a long, quiet narrative, he certainly makes a strong argument.

One thing about the film leaves me scratching my head. There is obvious irony in the fact that The Blind Girl sells flowers which she cannot see the beauty of. The Tramp is obsessed both with her and her product. Near the end he has come into enough money to pay for her to undergo an operation which gives her sight. Doing so means that he must abandon her; because she will then see that he is not the powerful, wealthy man she has mistaken him for. The question is, why does he do it?

The obvious answer is that he loves her enough to let her go. Perhaps that is Chaplin’s message. But is there something deeper? Diogenes would say that the money was not a good thing to halve. The Tramp’s virtue may require that he quit himself of the windfall, and healing the girl is a handy, noble way to do so. He’s not completely selfless, either, as he does keep a portion of the cash for himself just before handing it over. What else, then, might be in it for him? He has been trying to hold down a job in order to buy the poor girl groceries. Does letting her go mean he can stop working and return to being a happy vagabond? This is a likely motivation, though one he wouldn’t want to admit to himself, especially because he can’t keep himself from her in the end.

The second film we watched today was “The General” with Buster Keaton. He is a completely different breed of silent film star. He makes the blockbusters of his day, with clear, uncomplicated narrative. The story is of a man whose unhappy beginnings are turned by extraordinary luck and circumstances. He charges into the enemy north of 1862 to rescue his rather unrequited love interest. This film is also a comedy, and of course the hero wins in the end, but he is hapless and ends up in his position partly through his own foolhardiness and also through a kind fate.

Made in 1926, the most interesting thing about this movie is that the Good Guys are confederates. The film is decidedly black and white in more than one respect, as I certainly feared and loathed the devious northern soldiers throughout the film. Did the public have any problem with such a depiction only 60 years after the Civil War? Would such a sympathetic view be allowed today?

Otherwise, I was not a big fan of this piece. It didn’t have nearly as many philosophical implications as City Lights. The first half of the film was predictable and a yawn. The second half, beginning with the rescue of the girl and ending with the battle scene, was much more engaging. The problems with this movie all come down to its lack of art. It was extremely well-crafted, and must have had a relatively large budget. But there is no nuance. It’s a feel-good action movie, like a comedic version of “300”, if the inherent humor of that film doesn’t provide enough laughs for you.

A Very Large and Beautiful Building—and YouTube

When I walk into the new-to-me Salt Lake City Public Main Library I feel like I am stepping into God’s own jungle gym. 5 stories of open air rise up from the entrance, encased on each side by walkways and pillars overlooking the relatively narrow courtyard below. Bridges between each side of the column float in the distance, creating an illusion of people crawling around the rigging of an enormous, steel, 16th Century trading ship replica. Beams cross and bifurcate at degrees of deep geometric complexity. I feel awed and overwhelmed. It is beautiful to apprehend, and I indeed feel apprehensive. 

The building is on the cutting edge of urban architecture. Much has been made of Moshe Safdie’s ground-breaking accomplishment. The Salt Lake Main Library is one of the architect’s more conservative efforts, surprisingly enough. But the building boasts all of his most cherished sensibilities: stacks of blocks nestled amongst stylistic, sweeping arcs which bisect hundreds of bold angles measuring slightly-less-than right. Utahns deserve to be proud of this, yet another unique American landmark comprising the character of the Wasatch Valley.

Closer to terra firma, the more tangible themes of the building come into view. These are things I can comprehend. People of all ages and races meander past others who lounge about stylish cafe tables (which are pleasantly not attached to the floor itself). They play chess. They chat. They use their computers. They enjoy the cool air and light atmosphere. It’s like a modern-day town square somewhere in a Dutch villa, trading houses included. That is to say, the library seems to have come equipped with its own little mall. People eat ice cream cones and drink from Coca-Cola emblazoned cups. I wonder at the commercial interests which have become a primary feature to the library’s entrance hall. But then, more to my liking, a fellow can get himself a cup of coffee while he wanders the district. For the moment my fears of conflicted interests and potential corruption are overcome by the smell of steamed milk and heated chocolate. Where was I again?

Alex works at the information desk, and he’s happy to reorient me. He is of modest height, thin, young and sporting a short crop of light brown hair. He looks and sounds smart. I immediately trust him as he kindly explains the storefronts to me. Turns out that the largest shop is run by Friends of the Library. (Well I’ve always considered myself one of those.)Another kiosk simply holds bus schedules and an ATM. (I ride the bus, myself, and often need money as well.) There is even a flex-use space where community groups take turns setting up informational pseudo-businesses, like the breast-feeding café which was in there last month. (And I love...information. Did I point out ice cream and coffee?) I can’t really argue with the commerce, even if it does push all my old-crotchety-man buttons. When I ask Alex if he remembers the studious environment of the old library, he says with feeling, “This library does not have that. Most people come in for the internet or to get out of the heat.” Something in Alex’s tone tells me he knows what I’m feeling. A kinship is shared between us. That part of me which pines for the stodgy old familiarity of academia that this branch once had finds a comrade! Then it occurs to me that this young man was probably hired because he’s so likable. He wasn’t even old enough to vote when the bond for this building came up for general election. Still bemused, but opener of mind, I decide to withhold judgment for the time being.

I was here in 1998, after all, and I did vote for this glass Mecca of the modern information age. This is the first time I’ve been inside, though. I was thrilled that the $65 million bond passed back then, but on further consideration I decided that I couldn’t really afford it. I packed up my guitar and moved to Portland just days after the election.

10 years later and I am back. After a failed run at rock and roll stardom and a brief stint as an expatriate, it is now time to do the Prodigal Son thing. Life is a series of phases, after all. It was a good time, but now I need to take advantage of mother’s wealth. Thank God someone in the family has been working this past decade. Not particularly thrilled to be back, I am at least excited about coming to see what my vote has wrought on the block that once housed a library in one corner and a jailhouse in the other.

Now here I am, thinking about the ominous capital letters on Friends of the Library and I wonder if I am supposed to buy a membership. Is there a gym and a spa in here? Look at the size of that music and movies section. The parking rate was outrageous and it is possible I have come back a little too soon. Must be a fair bit of the bond left for us to pay off. It would explain the galleria out front at least.

Another thing it might explain is the City’s general new air of tight-fistedness. For one thing, the young lady who issues me a card explains that I can no longer use my city card with the county libraries. Furthermore, I am not allowed to return city books to county branches any longer. And another thing, you only get a maximum of three renewals before you have to bring the books back. Was it always like this? I grew up in Kearns and don’t remember so many conditions. Living in South Jordan now, this all seems a bit strict. Getting into town isn’t the easiest thing to do, at least not when compared to where I have been living in Oregon.

Yes, I know. Peeve a Utahn as fast as you please using one simple step. Compare anything in the valley with its counterpart in Portland and you’ve got yourself one irritable resident of Zion. Secular and religious alike get rankled in equal measure. If I say something is better in Portland then I certainly don’t know what I’m talking about. If I claim something is actually better down here then I’m just a fool for having expected anything else. But I can’t help it. Portland is what I know.

Ask any Oregonian and she will go on at length about how they all live and breathe their books. Big, little, old and new. If it’s got at least 4 pages and a cover then it is given special status and specific inalienable rights. Nice looking buildings are fine, but no one notices the flying buttresses when her nose is anchored to the page, which is right where a good person’s ought to be. Give them a library card, a sturdy backpack, and an umbrella any day of the week. What you then have is a happy citizen.

Circulation in Portland’s Multnomah County is off the charts, with every man woman and child averaging 27 items on loan per year. This is coming from only 17 branches, mind you. Salt Lake County circulation is up by 45% this year, apparently, which is great. But with 24 branches in the area, there should be a bit more material in circulation. (Side note, don’t actually tell a county or city worker that I am combining the stats of their library systems.) Those who live in the city slash county check out 17 items per year. That’s nothing to laugh at, sure, but it seems the lion’s share of those are Beatles Anthologies and V.C. Andrews novels. (That is a person’s 

There is an old Utah adage that goes something like, “Those other guys do it wrong.” So I come by my attitude naturally. That’s not to say, however, that Salt Lake is failing. In fact, to be fair, they do many things right, as the rest of my tour proves me. After I get a feel for the Spanish Galleon inspired floor-plan of the building I head into the cargo hold to see what’s doing in the basement. This is by far the largest, most impressive children section I have ever seen. My first sight when I walk in is a large glass case holding Disney puppetry. Beyond this real-life pop-up ad I really do have to hand it to the library board. The children area is chock full of magic. There are special rooms built into the back wall where parents can read to kids who pay absolutely no attention. And who can blame them? There is the crazy cool Ice Room. There are the beams and platforms of the Mine Room. These are hidden away, hinted at by 4 foot high holes in the back wall, begging to be explored, even if you’re a 34 year old man. It’s as if the entire library basement has been plastered in joy and carpeted in imagination.

Were I the type to complain—ahem—I would only doubt the wisdom of high-speed game-computers, and the risk of losing kids therein. But I will admit that the short, hot, uncomfortable computer room is way in the back. Getting to it means passing an unusually active, real-life tortoise, an entire cast of puppets, fun art that you actually get to touch, a killer crafts room, an amazing outer courtyard, the aforementioned theme rooms, and thousands of colorful books surrounded by comfy chairs. If a kid can make it through this gauntlet of wonder without giving up his digital quest then so be it. The sad kid is already lost anyway. Get him a job at Google already. Wait, no. Microsoft. They pay better for lack of imagination.

From the basement I take the elevator all the way up to the top and work my way back down. Thus I find a fairly large collection of grown-up books, including a decent environment in which to read them. There are lots of desks and tables. Alex says, “We’re what’s called a ‘Loud Library’. There’s no place out of the noise.” But I must say the top floor is noticeably quieter than the first. I am relieved to see how much space had been saved for literature and non-fiction. An entire two floors are used just for the hard stuff. One more floor goes to paperbacks, periodicals, and nonfiction. Part of that floor is dedicated to a teen room where if adults aren’t outright prohibited, they are at least made to feel distinctly out of place amongst all the graphic novels and “Teen Only Computer” signs.

There is a really cool art gallery as well, though it’s hardly large enough to have a proper exhibition. But who cares? It’s an art gallery in the library! The view from the windows here is amazing. I find myself believing I could totally study here. There is room for academia after all. But then I think I’d rather bring a computer, plug into the network, and totally kill some zombies in real-time. This lofty, peaceful environment is nice, but look! Free internet! I’m feeling less of that initial apprehension by the minute. But there is a critic who lives in my head. His voice often drowns out the rest of the characters in there. He is currently keeping his peace, but waves a hand at me in a gesture which obviously means I have 5 minutes to wrap it up with the optimism.

Then I get to the fireplaces. The critic cannot be held back. This is one part of the building which is just silly. Each floor has a stack of fireplaces, three-deep, from floor to ceiling which are obviously supposed to add comfort and homeliness. But it’s an asymmetrical stack of fireplaces, surrounded by cold metal and glass filtering in the reflections off of a hundred drab Salt Lake City buildings. There is nothing log-cabin about it. I give Safdie, the architect, credit for trying though. After looking at his portfolio, I’m fairly sure that the poor man has a short circuit somewhere in his mind. What would register as “attraction to serenity” for most of us is where “joy of knuckle cracking” is for this man.

Around closing time I amble back down to the entryway. Just between us, I have a few of the teens’ comic books in hand. I stand amidst the shopping center and consider what I’ve seen. The building is certainly a success, being that its goal is to create a space where people can interact with all types of information, be it tactile, visual, aural or virtual. It is certainly a meeting place for, well, what have you?

The problem with having something for everyone is that there is only one thing that everyone wants: entertainment. Should it really be the library’s job to provide it? I’m not sure that equal-opportunity YouTube viewing and Sex And the City box sets is really what I wanted when I checked “Yes” on my ballot. I’m a little sad about the end result, and I’m a little ashamed that I like it all so much anyway. I suppose I don’t have a concrete problem with anything the library is doing, at least nothing I can point my finger at. I worry about circulation, yes. I worry that this is an awfully expensive way to get people out of the day’s heat and ignoring each other in their private on-line worlds. I worry about the critical evaluations made by members my community. I worry--hey look, ice cream!

No, I don’t know what the problem is specifically. But I can draw a metaphor on what it feels like. On the third floor of this very large and beautiful establishment, with a view to the old building, there is an awesome selection of antiquated maps. Even better than those, there is this large, old-timey, brown globe on a beautiful iron stand which is so big that this may in fact be where Atlas finally dropped his load before going back to the fruit bar. The globe is massive and beautiful, and you can rotate it in any direction like a god wondering what the Patagonians are up to. I turned the sphere up on its end myself, just because I could. (There’s something Jungian about that, I’m sure.) Anyway, as soon as I turned it up on end, as it was designed to do, there was an alarming drop in altitude with a sickening thunk. I quickly turned it back over I found a huge hole in the top. While not quite useless, this very large and beautiful globe had been rendered utterly superfluous through the neglect of its most basic support structure. In the end, it is not really meant to be touched any more.

But, you know, it looks good. Just don’t peer too close. Besides, there are, like, 163 computers in the facility. Every single one of them gets Google Earth.