Orgiastic Dancing in Progress: A Spartan Women Miscellany

Orgiastic Dancing in Progress: A Spartan Women Miscellany

 

Castor and Pollux were reputed to have taught the Spartans a special dance that the maidens performed annually.

Girls and women also performed lewd dances in honor of Artemis, celebrating her as a fertility goddess.

It does, however, appear to show men and women dancing and having intercourse in the presence of a hairy, ithyphallic, satyr-like figure.

Like the Pythia, she transmitted superhuman directives.

– from Spartan Women by Sarah B. Pomeroy

And that young woman, whose tunic is still unbelted around her thigh, revealingly.

– Sophocles

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American Detective by Loren D. Estleman

American Detective, Loren D. Estleman, Forge, $24.95

 

Amos Walker’s client in Loren Estleman’s American Detective is a former major league pitching star and it’s tempting to see Estleman in the same way – except that there’s no former about him, he’s a wily veteran at the top of his game. If I needed a stopper in the seventh game of the World Series of Writers I’d go for Loren.

Like baseball, classic Private Eye fiction has fixed parameters but within these parameters a skilled practitioner can explore unlimited possibilities. American Detective begins in classic hard-boiled fashion when Amos is hired by a Detroit sports legend fallen on hard times, ex-Tiger great Darius Fuller (think a black Denny McLain) who wants Amos to convince a shady Lothario to break up with his daughter before she comes into her trust fund in a few months. Of course nothing’s as easy as that, and soon enough the bodies start falling, leading Amos and the reader down a twisted path of illegal gambling, crooked labor leaders, powerful Asian crime ladies and international rackets.

Loren has such a firm grasp on the fundamentals that he makes it all look easy, nailing character — "a man on the thready outer edge of middle age" – and place in just a well placed line or two:

The building had been a department store back when Detroit had them, with an iron front and three floors above the two-storey ground floor where the money was counted and inventory recorded and for the general manager to tilt back and blow wreaths of blue cigar smoke from behind a desk the size of an emerging African nation. There was still a depression in the elevator floor near the push buttons where an operator had sat on a stool to work the buttons.

He has expert command of plot and pace, too, knowing just when to turn up the heat with a few penultimate scenes of life or death violence, and crafty enough to throw in enough curves and screwballs to make it all surprising yet believable. But what vaults Estleman above the other all-stars and into the Hall of Fame is his most basic stuff – his prose. There’s so many great passages in his books that a reviewer is tempted to just present quote after quote, and at least once in every title Loren will uncork a bravura passage that, like a Michael Jordan drive or a Willie Mays catch, takes your breath away, in the case of American Detective, a brilliant riff on the seemingly prosaic subject of doors, which contains within it all of Private Eye fiction:

You can’t work my job without becoming a connoisseur of doors, and a diviner of what was waiting on the other side: oak and stained glass – a kleptomaniac heir and a fat retainer; chipboard and printed veneer – a deadbeat dad and a rubber check; peeling paint – a cheating spouse and a tetanus shot; solid mahogany – an embezzler and a coverup; rusted screen – a shotgun and a running start. There were quaint Dutch doors that swung out in halves, seducing you with the smell of warm bread and a lonely restless woman at the oven; walnut-paneled doors that led you across fifteen feet of pile cuff-deep to a senior executive seated behind marble and glass, silver haired, with a golden parachute and a stomach made of perforated tin; towering double-sided doors made from old growth forest with Tiffany and Waterford in case lots behind them and no way to collect on what you had coming; steel-core

, quilted on the reverse to lay the lunatic head against; swinging doors the orderlies bumped open when you’d knocked on the wrong one; sliding doors, revolving doors, electric-eye doors, doors with bars, doors that moved up and down on tracks; doors that were just doors, something handy to push shut against a cancerous world, with bolts and latches and braces, and God help you if you came to it to ask for information, because it might come in the form of a forty-grain slug, fired by someone who was just a little more afraid than you were (see: swinging doors).

I could go on – the next sentence is pretty great too, and the one after that — but I’ll let you enjoy them yourselves.

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Crime Beat: Welcome to the Jungle

POLICE BEAT

 

Police: Intruder mistaken on house

When Ann Arbor Police found a drunken intruder in a campus-area home early today, he was face down on a stranger’s bed – with no shoes or shirt – and thought he was at his sister’s house in Wayne, Michigan.

The 23-year-old man, on leave from the Navy, is accused of forcing open the door to an apartment in the 600 block of Church Street at 2:30 a.m. and then entering another unlocked apartment to sleep.

A resident of the home said he was studying at 2:30 a.m. when he heard a crashing sound on the second-floor, then discovered an intruder walking up the stairs mumbling that the home belonged to his mother.

When officers arrived, they had to force the door to the apartment because the intruder had a security chain on the door. He was face down on the bed, partially clothed with broken glasses, and insisted he was in Wayne.

The man later told police he is on leave from the military and was drinking with friends when he lost track of them and ended up in the home.

 

Neighbors scuffle on AATA bus

Two women who live in a senior care complex scuffled on an AATA bus mid-morning Monday, Ann Arbor Police said.

A 70-year-old woman called police and said she was boarding the bus when her neighbor got on and shoved her into the driver, then kicked her in the back of the legs repeatedly. She said the woman has never liked her, but she doesn’t know why.

The other woman, a 74-year-old resident of the complex, told police she was getting off the bus when the 70-year-old pushed her and almost knocked her off the bus.

Neither had visible injuries, but the 70-year-old asked to be transported to a local hospital for evaluation. Police are attempting to contact the bus driver to interview him.

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Pink Flag by Wire

Run Up the Pink Flag, Me Hearties

 

Back in ‘77 we were spoiled – in those days it seemed like you could just pick up the latest hot English record and be blown away. Not that it wasn’t an incredibly fruitful time in the States too, New Wave Style, but here the media and the charts were more obtuse and you had to dig a little deeper to find the domestic vein. It wasn’t until the whole Two-Tone/Specials Forget Politics, Let’s Dance business that the U.K. hot streak got a little tepid, but compared to what followed even that stuff wasn’t too bad. For a while there, there was so much good music around that you could start taking it for granted.

Which brings me to Wire’s Pink Flag. Sure, I dug it at the time, played the hell out of it on The Johnny Vomit Punk Rock Radio Show, and even saw them later when they re-formed (and watched them play pool before their set), but somehow I never transitioned Pink Flag to CD the way I did with other favorites when the Great Change happened. I literally hadn’t listened to it in fifteen years when one day Field Day For the Sundays started cranking through my head, possibly because Ex Lion Tamer was on the Rough Trade Shops Post Punk 01 compilation. Even then I would have just bought that one song if I-tunes had carried it, but for whatever dumb reason Pink Flag isn’t available, so I, thank JAH, got the whole CD.

Sometimes when I listen to the old classics I can’t take it – even bands I idolize like the Stooges or the New York Dolls – because even after all this time I’m just so familiar with ever lick and handclap that the effect is like hearing Happy Birthday or The Star Spangled Banner yet again. Not so with Pink Flag. It was still exciting, I guess because there are so many songs and ideas on it, all unified by a single vision. No less an internet heavyweight than Mark Maynard gave me a hard time for not putting the Ramones on my 20 best album list, and JAH knows I love them, but to me they’re almost a singles band. At album length it’s just too much, a single vision but only a few ideas. Another album I just got and enjoyed, Double Nickels on the Dime, by the Minutemen is kind of the reverse, a lot of ideas but a sort of hazy point of view. No, Mighty Mark, if any album was neglected on that list it was Wire’s Pink Flag.

Part of it is the subject matter. When the Clash changed I’m So Bored With You into I’m So Bored With the USA it signaled a sea-change. Part of the atom bomb impact of the Sex Pistols was the fact that Johnny Rotten sang about class war and anarchy rather than true love and heartbreak. The Wire mix political and personal songs on Pink Flag, but they’re strangely intermingled, thorny and ambiguous, more like a Jean-Luc Godard movie than the evil woman done me wrong songs that were being done at the time by the bloated Rock Stars who we all knew were showing their devotion to true love by screwing every groupie in sight.

The music is fresh too – the punk rediscovery of the possibilities on the simple electric, guitar, drum and bass, without synthesizers, long solos, horns, strings or children’s choirs. As pinkflag (?) points out in the excellent liner notes to the remastered CD, the Wire also eschewed the fall back blues progressions and shuffles that were the predictable cliche basis of so much sixties and seventies rock. Not all of Pink Flag is strictly punk, although my favorite song back in the day 12XU certainly is, but the whole album profits by the infusion of the marvelous, liberating punk spirit of rebellion, honesty, simplicity and originality. But in the end to me the most sublime bits of the album are the cocky throw away asides, Colin’s insouciantly drawling "the impossible" on Three Girl Rumba or his deadpan delivery of "that’s the lowdown."

Sometimes it takes the perspective of a few years to make a masterpiece stand out from the merely good that surrounds it, but now that I’ve had a few years and more I can confidently elevate Pink flag to the pantheon of the greatest. Hail, Wire! Salute, Pink Flag!

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Adolescence and Die Brucke

It, too draws upon adolescence as a liminal state of heightened sensitivity, conflict and unresolved yearnings…The Brucke works do not represent them merely as undeveloped versions of adults, nor are they sentimentalized. Instead, they have a disconcerting character stemming from the mixture of childhood innocence on the one hand and a developing self-awareness on the other. Brucke bohemianism negated the conventional "shame" of the body and nakedness, but did not replace it with a corresponding "innocence."

– Kirchner/Grange Books

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Maidens’ Song

For she herself is conspicuous,

As if one set among the herds,

A strong horse with thundering hooves,

A champion from dreams in caves

 

– Alcman, Partheneion

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Laura Lippman’s What the Dead Know

Hey, I just read another really good book. It’s called What the Dead Know by Laura Lippman. From the very beginning I was blown away – it’s the American equivalent of a Ruth Rendell book in its penetrating psychology, mordant wit, perspicacious view of modern life and expert mystery plot, which was, as it should be, surprising and inevitable at the same time. Since I think that Rendell is not just one of the finest mystery writers but one of the finest writers in the world period that’s no small praise.

Like Rendell’s best books (many of which are written under the name Barbara Vine) What the Dead Know is a stand alone rather than a series book. It centers on that great old mystery trope of Brat Farrar and countless others – is the adult who appears out of nowhere really the grown up version of the child who disappeared so mysteriously years ago or an imposter? In the end the theme is simply identity, and Lippman explores it masterfully, moving through the consciousness of many characters (thankfully in the third person), slipping through time and space to construct a moving picture of our time. I’ll gleefully point out that Lippman is no product of an academic MFA program, but learned her craft the old fashioned way (you know like that Hemingway guy) as a reporter.

It was also very encouraging to see that this book entered the NYT bestseller list at #11, statistically indistinguishable from #10 (the detestable Mitch Albom), which (almost) restores my faith in the American reading public. I’m not going to go on and on about it, except to recommend it most highly. It certainly blows away most of the "serious" fiction that’s out there these days, suspenseful while remaining profound and engaging. Lippman’s prose is not really lyrical, the kind that makes me want to copy down long passages, but it’s not clunky either, and rather unobtrusively expresses everything she has to say. This is one passage that really stayed with me in its penetrating insight and depth of imagination, all encapsulated in small detail:

Overall the girls’ rooms remained as they had been, although Miriam had finally broken down and washed the linens, making the beds that had been tumbled and tossed, in Heather’s case, smooth and wrinkled in Sunny’s case. Each girl had used her own sleeping style to argue against bed making. "I’m just going to mess it up again," Heather said. "You can barely tell I’ve been in it," Sunny said.

(In the interest of total transparency I must reveal that Laura Lippman once stole some Fig Newtons from me, but that act did not influence this review in any way).

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Balzac’s The Girl With the Golden Eyes

Yes, dear UBUFAN, I did it again – read another BALZAC book, a novella actually, called THE GIRL WITH THE GOLDEN EYES, and, although I have been certified, don’t ya know, as a MASTER OF ENGLISH LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE by as second rate an institution as the large UNIVERSITY OF MINNESOTA (yes, UBU was a GRADUATE SCHOOL GOPHER), I still had to go on line to resolve my confusion about the predictably calamitous and bloody ending. It turns out (phew) I was right, but had simply refused to credit my own interpretation as too perverse. It all goes to show that we of the 21st century may think of ourselves as so advanced and jaded, but that mankind has been KINKY from the beginning (not that there’s anything wrong with that). I should have guessed from the edition which was from an elegantly printed series of risque works of serious literature, titillation with snob appeal, what direction the book would take. Perverse as the plot twist is (and I won’t play INTERNET SPOILER) there’s certainly nothing pornographic about it, not even the super ugly line drawings which don’t show any skin. BALZAC puts a lot of filler in his little tale – it’s the kind of thing my man DE MAUPASSANT would knock out in eight pages to better effect, but BALZAC’s little treatise on PARIS that begins the book is worth the price of admission.

It also got me to thinking about how NATURALISM and the DECADENT movement, which, given the latter’s love of the artificial, would seem to be natural antipodes, were so intermingled, especially in England, where guys like ZOLA and HARDY were found to be prurient, and my beloved, unknown HUBERT CRACKENTHORPE, who wrote like JAMES JOYCE circa DUBLINERS, could be considered a integral part of the YELLOW BOOK crowd (which also included that wild boy not HENRY JAMES). Maybe movements that come at the same historical moment have more in common than they think – like DISCO and PUNK, perhaps? I’ll let DEBBIE HARRY hash that one out!

Anyway here’s a few of my favorite snippets from The Girl With the Golden Eyes – and despite being a little prolix and disorganized. Balzac’s a prose master even in translation. He also makes a comment on books with "a vulgar reputation," knowing full well he’s written one that will acquire such a reputation:

"Farewell," she said, seizing Henri by the waist and twining round him like a serpent. She pressed him on every side at once, lifted her head to his, and offered him her lips, then snatched a kiss which filled them both with such dizziness that it seemed to Henri as though the earth opened; and Paquita cried: "Enough, depart!" in a voice which told how little she was mistress of herself.

The scene was like a dream to De Marsay, but one of those dreams which, even when they fade away, leave a feeling of supernatural voluptuousness, which a man runs after for the remainder of his life.

There was something somber, mysterious, sweet, tender, constrained and expansive, an intermingling of the awful and celestial, of paradise and hell, which made De Marsay like a drunken man.

Like an eagle darting on its prey, he took her utterly to him, set her on his knees, and felt with an indescribable intoxication the voluptuous pressure of the girl, whose richly developed beauties softly enveloped him.

They talk about the immorality of the Liaisons Dangereuses, and any other book you like with a vulgar reputation; but there exists a book, horrible, filthy, fearful, corrupting, which is always open and will never be shut, the great book of the world – not to mention another book, a thousand times more dangerous, which is composed of all that men whisper into each other’s ears, or women murmur behind their fans, of an evening in society.

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POLICE BEAT: THE ARCHAIC REVIVAL

POLICE BEAT: THE ARCHAIC REVIVAL

 

Phallic symbol painted on greens

 

An eight-foot-long phallic symbol was spray-painted on the greens of the Ann Arbor Country Club in Webster Township, according to the Washtenaw County Sheriff’s Department.

The vandalism was discovered Monday at the course in the 4600 block of East Loch Alpine. Sheriff’s Cmdr. Dave Egeler said the vandal used gold spray paint and caused a couple of thousand dollars in damage if the grass needs to be cut or reseeded.

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300

Is 300 the best fascist movie ever? Better than Triumph of the Will? I certainly liked it better. Generally, unlike Susan Sontag, fascism doesn’t fascinate me, it nauseates, and rather than finding Triumph a masterpiece despite itself, I found it tedious and laughable with some few and far between good shots. 300 isn’t a masterpiece by any means, but I still didn’t find it the awful joke, the "triumph of the manly men" that some reviews did. It certainly has more compelling moments than Triumph of the Will, and I didn’t groan and suffer through the whole thing, although I did, as I do at most movies, look at my watch ninety minutes in. I think it was the comic book thing that saved it – I like comic books (at least I used to, I’m no snob, but I’m sorry, I find something inherently juvenile about the genre no matter what anyone says), and comic book movies, I mean, let’s admit it, the Rami’s Spiderman movies and Burton’s Batman ones are good movies by any measure, not to mention the recent Batman Begins. I even liked the dodgier X-men series, or, gasp, the Fantastic Four one. There’s a snap, a verve to the best comic book films, and the 300 has it, because, after all, these guys are, like the Fantastic Four, a bunch of superheroes battling a horde of ugly freaks.

The awesome six packs (not a special effect!), the nonstop action, the acrobatic kills, the hacked off limbs, and even the gratuitous tit shots are all in the comic book, or at least the "graphic" novel tradition, a lot of which, circuitously enough, derive from movies anyway, and I didn’t have a problem with any of that. Structurally, 300‘s attack plan suffers from the same tactical error the Persians did in the movie – they throw in their best stuff, the Immortals, too early and it’s down hill after than, even the Rhino and Elephants barely mussing the Spartan’s hair, making their long drawn out end anti-climactic. But there are worse ways to spend your time and my thirteen year old son loved it and the thirteen year old in me did too. Plus there’s something about those Spartan women that turns me on.

However, comic books are not good history, and the film’s makers should not, as they do, pretend that 300 essentially accurate historically. Much of the film’s bad history – the Spartans shouting about freedom when they themselves enslaved an entire people in order to give themselves the "freedom" to be full time soldiers, or the bashing of the other Greeks and civilian soldiers when it was the Athenians who delivered the fatal blow to the Persian invasion — stems from the even worse problem of bad politics. I’ve heard an interview with Frank Miller, the film’s auteur, spouting, in a suspiciously nerdish squeak, conservative inanities about the war in Iraq (i.e., that Iraq declared war on us – uh, no, Frank they didn’t – either time!) and America’s unwillingness to stand up and fight the, uh, Persian hordes like men, but even if I hadn’t, 300’s ham handed slant on current events is only too apparent.

A comic book, even if you call it a graphic novel, is no place for editorial cartooning. The idea that resistance to the war in Iraq is indicative of a failure of courage that emboldens our enemies is criminally ridiculous. Put a million Al-Qaida soldiers in Canada headed our way and see how many of us liberals would grab a gun and how few would resist the war effort. 9/11 was an attack on America and we rightfully responded in our attack on Afghanistan, only the Bush regime blew that by already beginning to focus on Iraq. That war has nothing to do with the fine phrases about freedom and family that the Spartans shout in 300. In fact, by invading a country that had not attacked us and did not (even if they HAD had WMD’s) directly threaten us, we tarnished hundreds of years of American honor, acting much more like the fictional Xerxes than the fictional Leonidas. If we’re going to do stuff like that we might as well be like the real Spartans and enslave the native population and declare a military dictatorship. If not, then we have to use the very same diplomacy that the Spartans so unceremoniously reject in 300‘s beginning, very much like the way the Bush regime kicked the State Department down the toilet when planning and executing the disastrous Iraq war. Many people still seem to see the hastily devised "Axis of Evil" rhetoric of Bush as a direct corollary to the actual Axis alliance of World War Two, as if Sunnis, Shiites, Al-Qaida, North Koreans and various antagonistic nationalists are all part of a united front against freedom. Taking Bagdad didn’t prove to be like taking Berlin, and plunging various middle eastern countries into chaos won’t help to defeat Al-Qaida.

As evidenced by 300 and the Nazi line about World War One, the fascist mind can’t accept defeat except as a betrayal, "a stab in the back," and that’s the card the Republicans are playing now. I’m tired of being called a cowardly traitor – although it may be more Spartan I find proactive wars, the Patriot act and torture to be a lot less American that honest dissent. Certainly Bush and Cheney both had a chance to fight for their country against the Asian hordes in their youth, and unlike Leonidas, Kerry and Gore, they skulked at home. 300 is a rousing movie, but, it doesn’t have that much to do with history and even less with current events.

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