Kramer Unbound.

"The spectacle presents itself as something enormously positive, indisputable and inaccessible. It says nothing more than 'that which appears is good, that which is good appears.'"
--Guy Debord, The Society of the Spectacle

There at times seems to be nothing more trite, and inherently unnewsworthy, than the public meltdown of a celebrity. "Celebrities are by definition false creations," we say to ourselves -- or at any rate we do, that's just the way we talk, pay it no mind -- "and are not worthy of our time and attention."

Wrong! (Although that incriminates us, we just realized. Trapped again.) The gaffes of the famous require our closest attention and study. In those moments in which Hollywoodland belches out the offensive, crass, vulgar, and even criminal, reality can be heard, only for a moment, before light music once again muffles all. A few short posts ago we excoriated those who judged O.J. Simpson via television. We do not retract that excoriation, only clarify our reasons: the problem was not that a nation got caught up in a probable dual murder committed by a former football star and B-list actor. The problem was that the same nation failed to be properly thankful to Mr. Simpson afterward. After the endless hours of entertainment and gleeful conversation those paltry murders brought about in the life of our nation, did we give a graceful round of applause, say "well done, sir"? Far from it. We turned on him. We did not respect him in the morning.

(To add insult to injury, Rupert Murdoch has apparently cancelled the "If I did it" special, after discovering that it was "tasteless." We were unaware Murdoch even had that gland.)

Now our beloved Cosmo Kramer, creator of Kramerica, East River swimming enthusiast, dilettante cockfighting impresario, and close friend of Slippery Pete the electrician, has unleashed a truly astonishing volley of racist badinage in a squabble with some hecklers, in one of those useless spaces known as "comedy clubs." An immensely important occurrence, visible here, if you wish:



"Richards retorted: 'Shut up! Fifty years ago we'd have you upside down with a fucking fork up your ass.'"

Remarkable to hear the fifty-seven year old Richards apparently yearning for the age of Strom Thurmond and Orval Faubus. (And incidentally take note of the fleeting applause.) This strange, apparently spontaneous leap in time, together with Mr. Richards' shrill vocal tone, immediately signals us something uncanny is about to happen -- he flies at once beyond "shock humor" to some bizarre semi-buried nostalgia for childhood racial comforts -- a classically Freudian response. "You're brave now, motherfuckers!" He is now living that dream out loud. Following some percussive uses of the term "nigger," he then attempts to play the Lenny Bruce card, murmuring, "those words, those words," but it sounds very much like a foggy but suddenly alarmed brain screaming out: "Quick! Invoke Lenny Bruce! Take your life preserver and swim, you imbecile!" Bruce, before heroin took over, never needed the life-preserver -- his wit was two steps ahead of every provocation. Mr. Richards' wit is here still puffing its way up the basement stairs.

"It shocks you ... to see what lays buried..." Very true, it does, but that's why we're here, yes?

The spectacle tells us, That which appears is good. Mel Gibson, internationally known film actor, director of the immensely popular "holy snuff film" (to borrow Eric Idle's phrase) The Passion of the Christ, and possessor of a famous roguish twinkle, had his amusing incident regarding the Jews and female police officers. Forever will now remain a Brechtian distance between our appreciation of his "work" and our understanding of his mind. Seinfeld, probably the most successful television show in history, an item in constant syndication, and, if we may say so, a genuinely funny American sitcom, will keep Michael Richards alive for us forever, along with his moment of neanderthal arrogance. (In each case, observe the quick, almost instinctive defenses offered by fellow-celebrities for their colleague's behavior. The spectacle imbues them with a dumb animal intuition: the disturbed surface must be smoothed, and quickly, or we'll all be visible.)

That which appears is good, and that which is good appears. These delectably horrible moments loosen the chains that bind us: the chains of "entertainment." Your sports legend is a murderer, your martyr-star is a Nazi, your wacky neighbor is a closet racist. The thug residing in the unconscious will always defeat the outer hero. The false facade is rotted from within by the true nature. And afterwards, when the television, the movie screen, the government, the corporations, and the technocracy all shine their blinding, halogen version of "reality" at us, suddenly we discover we can blink. The thugs made it possible. Thank them for their pains.