‘Upstairs, Downstairs’

Jean Marsh as Rose Buck

Reports that a new series of Upstairs, Downstairs is now being broadcast in America (on what used to be called Masterpiece Theatre, on what’s left of PBS) unexpectedly moved me: after all, it’s not often that I get teary-eyed reading the Arts & Leisure section. However, the original series made a profoundly emotional impact on me when I was young, and something more than nostalgia comes into play whenever I look back on the show.

I began to get a sense of this several years ago, when Masterpiece Theatre reran the original Upstairs, Downstairs. The Bellamy household at 165 Eaton Place had been home to my boyhood imagination, but of course the door was locked shut when Rose Buck (Jean Marsh, the series co-creator) took her last look at the place, in the series’ final episode. At least until the advent of DVDs and online video, “You can’t go home again” was a saying that rang especially true to the homes we knew on television: most viewers couldn’t revisit old episodes, much less recapture the special alchemy that resulted when we watched the first time, and were caught up in the spirit of the place. Eaton Place seemed like a dollhouse, and like children in our imaginations, we could fit inside and share in the adventure — for a while.

One last look
Photos in this post come from the indispensable
Upstairs, Downstairs Web Pages

The sheer quality of the production is one factor in my enduring, affectionate admiration. The scripts were literate, interesting (even when soapy), and well-crafted, planting seeds in one episode and reaping the harvest several episodes (or seasons) later. Apart from a few missteps at the start (Mrs. Bridges steals a baby? Really?), the series progressed with the inexorable force of history itself — and of course the show was brilliantly acted. It’s one measure of great characterization when even minor, recurring roles such as those of the kindly busybody Lady Prudence Fairfax (Joan Denham) and the dour barrister Sir Geoffrey Dillon (Raymond Huntley) register so strongly.

Witnesses to History
Among those on the balcony are Elizabeth Bellamy (Nicola Pagett), Richard Bellamy (David Langton), Lady Prudence and Lady Marjorie

Moreover, Upstairs, Downstairs shared with us a world where rules mattered, and from knowing those rules came satisfaction, even comfort, for the viewer. Needless to say, this isn’t the case in our own lives, and as for me, I’d surely chafe if ever I were subjected to the rigidly hierarchical rules of Edwardian society. Yes, Mr. Hudson (Gordon Jackson) and Mrs. Bridges (Angela Baddely) were adorable to watch, but they’d have been tough bosses to work for — as the series frequently acknowledged, usually in humorous exchanges involving the junior servants, particularly the scullery maid, Ruby (Jenny Tomasin).

The series’ writers consistently aimed to make the Bellamys’ world seem less cosy to us. While certain characters in the series succeed very well by knowing the rules, playing by them, and subverting them skillfully to their own private purposes, it’s to be noted that those characters were, without significant exception, the upper-class folks — and if you or I were transported back to Edwardian London, there’s no assurance we’d find ourselves Upstairs. We might just as easily find ourselves Below Stairs, where the rules promised not so much prosperity as punishment, if ever they were broken.

Collins and Williams as Sarah and James

As I look back on the show, I’m struck by how often the characters who aspired to rise above their stations were smacked down, sometimes brutally. Sarah (Pauline Collins) dallied with James Bellamy (Simon Williams), but the result was not a Cinderella marriage but a pregnancy that might have ruined her forever, had it not been for Lady Marjorie’s (Rachel Gurney) skill in sweeping the secret under the rug. (Probably the only sweeping that lady ever undertook.) Another chambermaid, Daisy (Jacqueline Tong), made a determined bid to climb the social ladder, and in the process humiliated herself and nearly wrecked her marriage.

Hazel’s (Meg Wynn Owen) rise from the bourgeoisie proved exceptionally rocky; she was unable to fit in, or to compete with her husband’s posh friends and ex-lovers, and when she died in the Influenza Epidemic, it was almost a blessed release from a painful daily struggle to be that which she was not. Even Rose’s modest attempt to find security came to sad ends, first in the death of her middle-class Australian fiancé, Gregory Wilmot (Keith Barron), and then in the loss of her inheritance to James’ investment scheme on the eve of the Wall Street Crash.

The death of Hazel Bellamy

The ostensibly simple matter of friendship across class lines likewise met with repeated failure, notably in Georgina’s (Lesley-Anne Down) well-meaning relationship with Daisy. Ultimately, Georgina was more appealing to James than his own wife was: they were from the same background, and that counted more for him than Hazel’s endearing charms or a legal marriage contract. But Georgina was also James’ cousin, and while that might not have posed any obstacle under an even older order, it proved insurmountable now — one more sign of changing times for which James was fatally unprepared.

Daisy (Tong) and Georgina (Down)

It will be interesting to revisit the series now, when folks in the United States are increasingly aware of the widening gap between rich and poor in their own country, as well as of the societal changes that have begun already to grow out of that gap.** When Upstairs, Downstairs first aired in America, it all seemed rather remote and pretty, and many of us may have fallen under its spell as we do for the British monarchy’s: it’s nothing we’d ever want to live under, but we like to watch it, and to fantasize about it. Today, it’s harder than ever to deny that America has a class system, and some of the messages of Upstairs, Downstairs must seem more urgent than they did in 1977.

The Cast, Season 1

The old series is being rereleased on DVD, with extra features such as commentary and “making of” documentaries. This is all to the good, since the original American audience got extra features, too, in the form of Alistair Cooke’s illuminating commentaries before and after each episode on Masterpiece Theatre, as well as appendices like modern performances of Edwardian music-hall numbers.***

The new series is set in the 1930s, a few years after the Bellamys left 165 Eaton Place, though Rose (the only character from the original series to play a major role in the new one) will have aged mysteriously.**** I’m glad that the series’ co-creator, Eileen Atkins, a formidable actress, gets to participate onscreen at last, and I read that the BBC has already commissioned a second season. All in all, I’m looking forward to crossing the threshold once again.

In the kitchen: Edward (Christopher Beeny, left) with Rose,
Mr. Hudson, and Mrs. Bridges

*NOTE: I have much the same response to Hope and Michael Steadman’s home, in thirtysomething.

**There have been a number of articles on this subject in the American press in recent months; this is one of them, by Joseph E. Stiglitz in Vanity Fair.

***The music-hall numbers were taped at the Players’ Theatre in London, and tacked onto the end of each episode in the first couple of seasons of Upstairs, Downstairs on Masterpiece Theatre. I have vivid memories of one artiste, Sheila Bernette, who performed “Why Am I Always a Bridesmaid?” and “Daddy Wouldn’t Buy Me a Bow-Wow” to perfection.

****On the other hand, Rose would have been pushing 30 years old when the original series started, making her 55 or so when it ended, and she didn’t look it. Now she will have caught up. I once had the immense pleasure of seeing Jean Marsh onstage — as Eliza in Shaw’s Pygmalion. She was even better than you imagine.

Read more!

Why There Will Never Be Another Julia Child

An excerpt from the long-anticipated memoir, My Life around France, by an unknown American author.

At 12.30PM we rolled to a stop in La Place du Vieux Marché, the square where Joan of Arc met her fiery fate. There the guidebook directed us to Restaurant McDonald’s (“McDonald’s Restaurant”), which had opened in a medieval quarter-timbered house. Paul strode ahead, full of anticipation, but I hung back, concerned that I didn’t look chic enough, that I wouldn’t be able to communicate, and that the waiters would look down their long Gallic noses at us Yankee tourists.

It was warm inside, and the dining room was a comfortably plastic-and-particle-board space, brightly colored. At the far end was an enormous counter with several cash registers, behind which something was cooking that sent out heavenly aromas.

I sniffed the air. “Paul,” I whispered excitedly, “is that what I think it is?” Paul nodded.

Grease. Already I felt at home!

There really is a McDonald’s in historic Rouen.
The city refused to permit the company to remodel the building, which is why the restaurant has no Golden Arches and doesn’t look like a conventional McDonald’s.

We were greeted by the assistant manager, a slim middle-aged man with dark hair who carried himself with an air of gentle seriousness. Paul spoke to him, and the assistant manager smiled and said something back in a familiar way, as if they were old friends.

“May I take your order, Madame?” the assistant manager said — in English!

“I’d like a Big Mac,” I said, adding, “Did I say that right? And also a Diet Coke,” since I was trying to watch my figure.

Within seconds, the assistant manager had placed my order on a little plastic tray, with Paul’s Big Mac and fries right next to mine. Paul paid, and then he led me to a nice table not far from the door. The other customers were all French, and I noticed that they were treated with exactly the same courtesy as we were. Nobody rolled their eyes at us or stuck their nose in the air.

Actually, the staff seemed happy to see us. As we sat down, I heard two businessmen in grey suits at the counter asking questions of another cashier, an older, dignified man who gesticulated toward the menu and answered them at length.

“What are they talking about?” I whispered to Paul.

“The cashier is telling them about the Chicken McNuggets they ordered,” he whispered back. “How they were raised, how they will be cooked, what side dishes they can have, and which parts of the chicken the McNugget comes from.”

One of the businessmen raised his voice and gestured more vigorously. “Is something wrong?” I asked.

“He wants to order wine,” Paul replied. “And they don’t carry it.”

“Wine?” I said. “At lunch?” I had never drunk much wine other than some $1.19 California burgundy, and certainly not in the middle of the day. I was happy with my Coca-Cola. I like something really sweet with my meal, and wine is so bitter.

Suddenly the dining room filled with wonderfully intermixing aromas that I sort of recognized but couldn’t name. The first smell was something greasy. “That’s your Big Mac,” Paul identified it, “fresh from the heating lamp.” Then came another warm and greasy fragrance from my french fries. This was followed by a whiff of something astringent, which was probably a delicious sauce being squeezed out of a little red packet labeled “KETCHUP.” My stomach gurgled with hunger.

We began our lunch with the Big Mac, or, as it is known in France, “le Big Mac.” I was used to Big Macs in American McDonald’s. But this Big Mac was remarkable for the spongy buns, the flavorless sesame seeds, the unidentifiable and yet lumpily familiar “special sauce,” the dense and unforgiving meat patties, the anonymous pickles and onions, the plastic-like tomato and papery lettuce. Why, it tasted exactly the same as the Big Macs in America!

And the cheese! I was afraid that the French might use some unusual kind of cheese, perhaps even a cheese with a flavor. But Paul explained that all McDonald’s everywhere use the same processed American cheese-type product on all their Big Macs. Indeed, it was sticking to my fingers already, just the way it did back home.

“Bon appétit!” Paul said. I closed my eyes and inhaled the rising perfume of my sandwich. Then I lifted a single french fry to my mouth, took a bite, and chewed slowly. The potato was crisp on the outside yet delicate on the inside, with a light but distinct taste of grease that blended marvelously with the ketchup. I chewed slowly and swallowed. It was a morsel of perfection.

At last, a truly French french fry! This country was turning out to be so much easier than I’d expected!

Then it was time for a special treat, which Paul had ordered without my realizing. A deep-fried apple pie, with the lacy flakes of pastry on the outside, the inner crust that tasted of wet leather and paste, and the gooey fruit filling that was so hot that I burned my tongue and couldn’t tell whether it tasted like anything at all.

Another revelation!

It was exactly like the apple pie in the McDonald’s back home! In Pasadena, we used to have McDonald’s apple pie five or six times a week. But at the McDonald’s in Rouen, I experienced my first French pastry — just like all the pastries I’d ever had before.

Paul and I floated out the door into the brilliant sunshine and cool air. Our first lunch together in France had been absolute perfection. It was the most exciting meal of my life.

“Promise me that everything we eat on the trip will be exactly like this, darling,” I said.

“But of course!” Paul laughed. “And remember, we’ll always have McDonald’s in Paris.”

Julia and Paul:
Here’s to the spouses who give us the gift of France.

NOTE: In real life, Julia Child was known to praise McDonald’s french fries.

Read more!

Anna Baloney

Oh, it makes me so mad!
Netrebko as Bolena

Last night, viewers of Arte TV in France and Germany were treated to a live telecast from Vienna’s Staatsoper: Donizetti’s Anna Bolena (Anne Boleyn), the best-known of his Tudor Trilogy that also includes Maria Stuarda (Mary Stuart) and Roberto Devereux (about Elizabeth I and the Earl of Essex).* Vienna’s production, by Eric Génovèse, has created a lot of buzz in Opera World, largely because of its stars, soprano Anna Netrebko (as Anna) and mezzo Elina Garanca (as Jane Seymour, here called Giovanna). Both ladies will kick off the Metropolitan Opera’s 2011–12 season in these roles, but in a different production, this one by David McVicar.

Which is all to the good. Too much of what Vienna gave us was, in my father’s immortal words, Anna Baloney.

Génovèse’s more-or-less traditional staging is dull (and mono- chromatic!) whenever it’s not incompetent, and while there’s something to be said for standing back and letting your singers fly, that approach didn’t work here. Garanca is a perfectly good actress, but she gave absolutely no indication of grasping Giovanna’s character; moreover, I’m betting that her restrained physicality, which worked on camera, looked merely static to those in the house. And as Henry VIII (Enrico), bass-baritone Ildebrando d’Arcangelo just stood around and scowled. Only Netrebko seemed much inspired by the dramatic material — and really, she didn’t catch fire until the end of the opera.

Since Anna Bolena is one of those operas in which the real appeal is the mad scene at the end, and many in the audience are just biding their time until we get to the juicy stuff, a stage director can’t afford to be so complacent. Look at what Génovèse did in the hunt scene: almost nothing. And yet it’s a wonderfully dramatic sequence, because Henry isn’t just stalking venison, he’s setting a trap for his wife.

Angry scene, as opposed to mad scene

All smiles and regal magnanimity, Henry has invited her ex-lover, Percy, back from exile — while fully believing that they’ll succumb to temptation, giving him the excuse he seeks to get rid of Anne and to wed Jane. In an aside, he instructs Lord Hervey to keep the lovers under surveillance.

But instead of any of those emotional nuances, last night we got more suspicious scowling from d’Arcangelo. Meanwhile, Francesco Meli (Percy) flailed about and Netrebko struggled visibly to locate and to maintain the dramatic moment.

Staging by God: Garanca as Giovanna
The most effective part of Vienna’s production may have been that both leading ladies are so gorgeous. You never think, “What did Henry see in her?”

Inevitably, I was reminded of my first Anna Bolena, at Dallas Civic Opera in 1977 (I think). In those days, I couldn’t get to the opera by myself, and had to rely on my parents to drive me to Fair Park; likewise, I couldn’t find a date, and so either Mom or Dad had to sit with me for the performance. Dad usually drew the assignment, and that’s how I learned that he actually liked opera. (Somehow, the question had never come up before.) But for Anna Bolena, Mom was my date.

While not an opera fan by any means, Mom has always been highly susceptible to music, and in the capable hands of Renata Scotto (as Anna), Tatiana Troyanos (as Giovanna), and the conductor Nicola Rescigno,** Mom got so caught up in the drama that she (apparently) forgot everything she knows about English history. While Henry persecuted poor Anne, Mom was practically hopping out of her seat. “How can he do that to her?” she fumed.

I couldn’t find any pictures of Scotto as Anna,
but this sums up the way I feel about her.

Génovèse didn’t see this kind of potential. During the intermission feature, Arte’s presenter made a disparaging remark about wringing drama out of bel canto, and Génovèse seemed to agree. He’s a member of the Comédie Française, but apparently some works are just too old-fashioned for him to get excited about. He had the sense not to attempt some Regiekonzept (such as updating or radically altering the setting, plot, theme, or tone), but I couldn’t help but think that his staging was dull because Génovèse himself was bored by the material.

This is simply inexcusable. Dramatists, directors, and actors have returned to Anne Boleyn’s story for centuries, finding it irresistible: sex, power, betrayal (which are the very elements that Donizetti and his librettist, Felice Romani, emphasize). Recent years have showered upon us a best-selling novelization and big-screen movie, as well as a wildly successful TV series, The Tudors. What’s not to be inspired?

No drama: Jonathan Rhys Myers and Natalie Dormer
as Henry and Anne in The Tudors

If Anna Bolena is so undramatic, why did singers such as Scotto, Troyanos, Beverly Sills, Maria Callas, and Netrebko herself want to perform it? We’re talking serious singing actresses here. And more than half a century after Callas pointed the way, why are we really in any doubt as to the theatrical possibilities of bel canto? Why did Génovèse take this assignment?

It really makes me wonder whether European impresarios bother talking to stage directors before they hire them. I’d like to propose an outline for such conversations. First question: have you ever seen an opera before? Second question: do you like opera? Third question: what do you think of this opera?

Callas as Anna, at La Scala

At least there was music, and the news from last night’s performance was mostly good — or at least, I didn’t feel the urge to change the channel. I’ve heard cleaner attack in coloratura than Netrebko gave us, but most of the role of Anna lies in a particularly lush section of her voice, and she really rose to the occasion as the opera went on. Garanca’s singing was, for the most part, as coolly detached as her acting, but that seemed to be a conscious choice, an attempt to portray Giovanna (legitimately) as in over her head and nearly petrified with fear: after all, her romantic flirtation is about to cost four people their lives. (No drama here?)

And while conductor Evelino Pidò didn’t delve too deeply into the score, and didn’t manage the rare feat of uniting the many moods of the mad scene, he evinced clear respect for the music (and for the singers) and proved especially successful in the more majestic passages. I once read the remark somewhere that Donizetti wrote the operas that Beethoven would have written if he’d kept at it: to me, that assessment makes perfect sense, but too seldom does one hear a conductor who agrees.

Whether overparted or indisposed, Meli alternated between lovely lyricism and panicky attacks on high notes; as an actor, he needed more help from Génovèse. D’Arcangelo captured Henry’s virility but not much else — it was hard to believe this was the singer I’ve admired on recordings. As the luckless page, Smeton, Elisabeth Kulman was an audience favorite, and along with Netrebko she came closest to managing an effective characterization — but the Met’s Tamara Mumford has a much more appealing instrument, giving New York audiences something to look forward to when she assumes the role in September.

Indeed, Vienna’s production had the unlikely effect of ratcheting up my enthusiasm to see the Met’s Anna Bolena: with greater experience in these roles, Netrebko and Garanca should be more comfortable and more expressive, come September, and a different staging and new colleagues may inspire them. Done properly (and there’s always a chance!), Anna Bolena is a terrific opera I’d like to see again.

It ain’t chopped liver. Or, for that matter, lunch meat.

*NOTE: Elizabeth reportedly makes an appearance in a fourth Donizetti opera, Il Castello di Kenilworth, after Walter Scott, but it’s considered impolite to mention this, and the work is seldom performed.

**Rescigno collaborated many times with Callas, and together they recorded an album of mad scenes, including that from Anna Bolena; it’s available here. Really, my introduction to this work couldn’t have been more auspicious, and I say it yet again: growing up as an opera-lover in Dallas, I was spoiled.

Read more!

Le Retour de Johnny

For hardcore fans — roughly 99.44 percent of the French-speaking world, according to my unofficial estimate — there’s a special sweetness to Johnny Hallyday’s comeback, now underway. That’s because it’s not only a professional comeback (four years ago, the singer announced that he would stop touring) but also a physical and perhaps even a spiritual comeback. Hallyday’s health problems in 2009 brought him to death’s door — and to a Los Angeles hospital, where he received treatment superior to that which he got in France.* (He’s suing his French doctor.) France has been forced to confront the mortality of its favorite idol, and everyone is now resolved to make the most of him, while he’s still around. Carpe Hallydiem.


To put it mildly, Hallyday is a cultural phenomenon with few rivals. His blue-eyed, lupine gaze surveys the entire nation from the vantage of photos on café walls; he turns up in television advertising and major motion pictures; and his voice is never farther than the nearest radio. His concerts sell out France’s largest stadiums. His every move and utterance are faithfully recorded by the press, and his comeback has been reported exhaustively on TV news programs and celebrated in an evening-length variety show in prime time last month.

And yet Johnny Hallyday is virtually unknown outside France. He’s often described as “the French Elvis,” and aptly so: he popularized rock’n’roll in France, and much of his early career, especially, was slavishly patterned after the King’s. (It’s not by accident that Hallyday assiduously cultivates ties to the U.S., wearing cowboy gear, riding a Harley Davidson, and keeping a home in California, as few other Frenchmen would dream of doing.) But global fame — or anything like Elvis’ international stature — eludes him.

Hallyday can be quite a good actor. He’s seen here with the great Jean Rochefort, in Patrice Leconte’s wistful, quirky bromance,
L’Homme du train (2003).

One excellent guide to understanding Johnny Hallyday came in a neat little film, released in 2006: Laurent Tuel’s Jean-Philippe. In that picture, a fan (Fabrice Luchini) wakes in a nightmare universe where Jean-Philippe Smet never became Johnny Hallyday. The fan thereupon takes it upon himself to seek out Smet and to train and guide him to become the superstar he was meant to be.**

Of course, most people outside France live in that universe where Hallyday isn’t a superstar. But look around Luchini’s shrine to Johnny in that movie — the memorabilia fills an entire room — or look at the new animated cartoon, Titeuf, in which Hallyday portrays himself, more or less, acting as a spiritual guide to the title character, a scrappy schoolboy. Many, many French people are absolutely religious about this man.

Jean-Philippe: Luchini in his Johnny shrine

Even those of us who are ordinarily indifferent to him (or, like me, largely ignorant of his work) must feel a little thrill these days when we hear his vibrant, somewhat nasal baritone. Unlike most other French artists, Hallyday sings à pleine voix, a hard-rocking roar that, more than ever, speaks of and to an irrepressible vitality in the French spirit.

If Johnny Hallyday’s return to the stage isn’t quite the Second Coming, it’s a sufficiently miraculous resurrection in the eyes of the faithful — just in time for Easter.

With Titeuf, on the big screen (in 3-D)
Titeuf is the hero of an immensely popular series of comic books
and star of an animated TV show, as well.

*NOTE: I hesitated to mention Hallyday’s experience with French and American doctors, because some of my relatives are going to throw it in my face the next time they want to talk about health care. But journalistic integrity wins out.

**In real life, Luchini is a serious Johnny fan who’s apparently memorized every one of Hallyday’s songs. Luchini — one of my favorite actors — generally comes across as something of a hyperactive bunny rabbit, so it’s quite entertaining to watch him mimic his idol.

BONUS PICTURE:
Hallyday at the start of his career, around 1960.
More recent efforts to stay hip and to look like an American rocker include
an extensive leather wardrobe and some pretty freaky tattoos.

Read more!

The Chalkboard Menace

She only looks innocent:
In reality, she’s coming for your children.

My fellow Americans, our great nation is facing the most serious threat in its long and glorious history, and it is time to sound the call. We must act now, or suffer the consequences. The very fate of the Republic is in our hands.

For generations, my fellow citizens, our land has been infiltrated by a subversive group so cunning and so subtle that we could not suspect their true purpose. Ingeniously, they have striven to sap our vital financial resources, far into the future. Moreover, they preyed on the most innocent and neglected of all Americans: our children. Filling young minds with dangerous ideas about science, mathematics, and history, these people could, at any minute, bring the government to its knees. I speak, of course, of that nefarious network of chalkboard terrorists: schoolteachers.

Who Are They?
Draining the American taxpayer’s wallet, year after year, schoolteachers claimed to seek but little financial reward for their jobs, which is just as well, considering how easy they have it. What is a schoolteacher but a baby-sitter who doesn’t raid your refrigerator and who probably isn’t making out with her boyfriend on your living-room couch when you get home? And how much do you pay a baby-sitter? Consider, too, what short hours teachers work and how many weeks of vacation they get each year.

Instead of high wages now, teachers asked for pensions later — but at what a price? These so-called “pensions” are out of all proportion with a schoolteacher’s salary, and paying them over time could restrict this great nation’s ability to protect the growth of our economy by ensuring that rich people never pay any taxes.

To fight for their so-called entitlements and privileges, many schoolteachers banded together in cells they called “unions.” As you well know, ladies and gentlemen, America has a long and proud tradition of resistance to such organizations, which are and always have been the well-known refuge of Socialists, Communists, Anarchists, and foreigners.

Do I have to spell it out? Schoolteachers want health care. That just shows you what kind of mentality we’re dealing with here.

What Is Our Children Learning?
Meanwhile, the youngest Americans are being brainwashed. Every day, our children are being instructed in basic math skills that might enable them to understand the flaws in our budget proposals on Capitol Hill. By learning so-called “social studies” (or, as I call them, Socialism studies), children may discover that other countries exist, and that they don’t do things the way America does.

Perhaps most alarmingly of all, it’s true that, in a few cities and towns, children are still, despite our best efforts, learning scientific “method,” mathematical “proof,” and historical “analysis” that can only confuse them and cause them to question their leaders.

You Get What You Pay For
We have attempted to combat this menace by using the principles of the free market. We paid teachers so little, we believed that they simply could not afford to continue. As our Founding Fathers wrote in the U.S. Constitution, “Those who can’t earn, teach.” Understandably, we believed that, in time, the few remaining holdouts would reveal themselves, making it easier to eliminate them altogether.

Even after we began the elimination process — starting with art and music teachers, and with school librarians — the enemy tenaciously maintained its position. Not only did incompetent teachers remain, but others did, too. It’s now clear that a broad network of ideological zealots are holding out, ruthless in their pursuit of educating young people.

Modest Proposals
That’s why I’m here to tell you, my fellow Americans, that we aren’t doing enough. Slashing salaries and budgets, laying off personnel and hobbling unions will go only so far to meet our goals of defeating this enemy and enhancing my political prospects in 2012. (After all, if there is anything more alarming than the presence of teachers in our nation’s schools, it is that you never hear anybody say, “What this country needs is Bill Madison in the White House.”)

With these things in mind, I would like to offer the following proposals.

I. The U.S. Department of Education must be abolished; henceforward, all matters pertaining to education must fall under the jurisdiction of the Department of Homeland Security — where they belong!

II. The Educational Offender Act, now before Congress, must be passed. Any persons actively teaching or with a history of engagement in educational activities must be required to register with local law enforcement, and kept under round-the-clock surveillance. Communities must be notified of the presence of educators in their midst, through the use of databases; published announcements in the press and on-line; posters near schools and playgrounds; brochures distributed free of charge to households with young children; and traffic-warning signs at major intersections throughout the land.

III. “Starve the beast” is good policy for bloated state and federal budgets, and it’s good policy for schoolteachers, too. Effectively immediately, all teachers and school administrators must be taxed at the highest possible rate: I propose 99 percent. Let’s put those public salaries back into the hands of you, the people who paid them! This will help to reduce the deficit and to stimulate the economy, and you’ll receive your refund checks just as soon as the current budget crisis is met.

IV. If teachers are so smart, they won’t need books in order to help our children achieve high test scores. Therefore, we must eliminate all textbooks, with the exceptions of the Bible, Tom Bass’ Play Football the NFL Way, and Ayn Rand’s The Fountainhead, which contain all the information children need to know about science, history, and everything else.

V. Finally, I would like to propose that we stop talking about schoolteachers. If we must refer to them, let us call them “bad teachers,” to ensure that each and every one of those lazy, incompetent, low-earning boobs knows exactly what we think of them.

The time to act is upon us, for if we fail, we will live up to the words of Shakespeare’s immortal Henry V, who said, “The fault lies not in our stars, dear Horatio, but in the people who tried to teach us stuff.”

Thank you. God bless America.

Read more!

Lafayette, Nous Sommes Ici

What’s wrong with this picture?

Several generations after the World Wars, when the United States repeatedly saved France’s collective butt, we are still at it. As an American, I’m proud to say that we continue to do for France that which France cannot do for itself — in this case, we are bringing culture and civilization to a backward nation.

Today, a Frenchman can go into a commercial establishment, order a cup of coffee, and sit for hours without feeling the obligation to make an additional purchase. He can read the newspaper, write poetry, or chat with friends, while consuming his coffee (or, as the French call it, café). Amazing! The French never had such an establishment before Starbucks! Some of them even have little tables and chairs on the sidewalk! And what a variety of cafés the French can now enjoy, as never before: dark roasted, espresso, cappuccino, latte, mocha, the list goes on and on. They’ve even got hot chocolate! It takes Yankee know-how to bring these things to France, and today you can find a Starbucks almost anywhere in Paris and in most major cities in this country.

Along the same lines, there are Subway sandwich shops springing up all over France. Isn’t it wonderful? Never before have the French been able to walk into a small shop to order a sandwich on bread freshly baked right there on the premises! A Subway roll is shaped like some thickish sort of stick (or, to use the French word for “stick,” a baguette), which is a completely revolutionary concept in this country. No wonder the French are flocking to these little shops!

Okay, now that I’ve got that out of my system, there are a few points to bear in mind as we analyze the genuinely bizarre phenomenon of the recent and ongoing proliferation of Starbucks and Subway in France.

1. Plus ça change, plus c’est autre chose.
There are slight differences between the products purveyed by Starbucks and Subway, and those that the French have enjoyed for generations.

In the case of Starbucks, it’s size and portability: the cup of coffee one gets in a French café does not ever approach that of a Starbucks “grande” or “venti,” and very few get anywhere near a “tall,” even. Moreover, the traditional French café serves beverages in ceramic cups, which they really don’t want you to take away with you.

In the case of Subway, the difference is variety and choice. No French boulangerie sells so many different ingredients for its sandwiches: even French sandwich chains, such as Pomme de Pain, can’t rival Subway’s variety. No French boulangerie allows customers to mix and match ingredients, and very few French sandwich chains do so: most frequently, sandwiches are made in the morning and ready to go at lunchtime, take ’em or leave ’em.

All of these variations on the classic formulae must hold some appeal.

2. The American Embassy in Hostile Territory
Both Starbucks and Subway seem to have followed the same guidelines: start by opening shops in locations that are frequented by American tourists. The appeal here is clear: the French menus are roughly the same as the American menus, meaning that tourists can speak English when ordering, and still be understood.

Tourists with finicky youngsters in tow may like the familiar brand names, too, because there will be less arguing. Instead of pleading with kids to “try something different, honey,” parents can say, “Oh, look, your favorite! Let’s eat here, shall we?”

Also, the American mania for consistency — the one that leads us to eat at McDonald’s, wherever we go in the world — can be indulged. If you eat lunch in a French café, who knows whether it will be any good? Whereas a Subway sandwich (or a Big Mac, for that matter) will always taste the same. When everything else around you is so unfamiliar, you may prize this kind of comfort.

3. Yé Yé Yé Faux Rêveur!
The thinking seems to be that, once a foothold has been established among Americans, the French themselves will follow. And it must be said that nobody from Starbucks or Subway is forcing the French at gunpoint.

The French themselves are avid tourists who may recognize the American brands from their travels in the U.S. and hope to relive the experience très typique.* Other French people, being generally satisfied with the food they find in American chains devoted to more-or-less American food (KFC’s fried chicken, McDonald’s not-really-from-Hamburg hamburgers), are willing to see what an American chain does with food that’s from closer to home.

However, when I see French people in Starbucks and Subway (through the door, mind you, because I don’t actually go inside), I see that they are, above all, young. And the rise of the two American chains is a valuable reminder that, no matter what the French think of American politics, young people here still hunger for American culture, especially in entertainment.

In a sense, then, going to Starbucks or Subway is no different from listening to American music, watching American TV shows, or attending the latest Hollywood blockbuster. Sure, the French have their own music, TV, and movies — but the American mystique remains powerful, for better or worse.



*NOTE: You should see what they’ve done with breakfast muffins, in the same kind of nostalgic pursuit: sticky, starchy, plastic-wrapped, disgusting, but apparently that’s what the French get in American hotels.

Read more!

Sarkozy Defeated, Exiled to Elba

PARIS -- Following months of record-low poll ratings, domestic turmoil, and a failed attempt to restore France’s preeminence on the world stage, French Emperor Nicolas Sarkozy has been defeated and sent into exile on the Isle of Elba. A new government, under the supervision of German Chancellor Angela Merkel, is now being formed.

Elected to the presidency in 2007, Sarkozy crowned himself emperor in a private ceremony later that year. But his grip on power weakened almost immediately, and recent attempts to divide and conquer the far-right Front National left him weakened and unable to fend off an assault from the left, analysts said. Persistent unemployment, rising costs of living, ethnic tensions, and accusations of mismanagement steadily eroded his support among his own people, leading directly to his downfall.

In happier times (for some): The Emperor and Empress

In perhaps his greatest miscalculation — or overreach — Sarkozy sought to dominate all of Europe, under the guise of leading international troops into military action in North Africa. According to the original strategy, experts say, Sarkozy would have waited until other countries’ forces were fully deployed in the Mediterranean; thereupon, he would move in and seize his neighbors’ territories.

Pollsters say that restoration of the French Empire was Sarkozy’s best, and perhaps only hope for reelection in 2012.

However, Chancellor Merkel suspected Sarkozy’s true motives, say sources in Berlin, and Germany supported the Middle Eastern action only halfheartedly. Later, with French troops distracted in Libya, Merkel’s army met little resistance as it crossed into France, effectively reversing Sarkozy’s strategy and removing him from power.

In world capitals, response to Sarkozy’s downfall was muted. “I’m confused,” U.S. President Barack Obama told reporters. “Does this mean we can call off the whole Libyan thing?”

Gourcuff

While accompanied into exile by a handful of diehard followers, Sarkozy will not be joined by his former wife, Italian-born singer–actress–empress Carla Bruni. Instead, she has retreated to the Riviera and allied herself with two much younger French athletes, swimmer Camille Lacourt and soccer star Yoann Gourcuff.

“I believe that any French woman, if she had the opportunity, would do the same,” Empress Carla said in a statement delivered by a representative.

Lacourt

Read more!