First published, 15th February 2015
I still get the flashbacks, wake up in the middle of the night … Did I cry out in my sleep? Pierce Brosnan singing SOS in Mama Mia scarred me for life. Back then, when I stomped around trying to work out whether it was Mel Brooks or Goebbels who first discovered that the shittier something is, the more popular it will be, everyone else seemed to be squealing with delight. I’m getting the same alienating experience these days. It’s Springtime for Hitler all over again, except camp has been replaced by pre-menopause. I’m not alone in my midnight cold sweats.
Jamie Dornan, on the set of The Graham Norton Show, cake slice in hand, stands beside a half undressed beef-cake man-cake version of himself – though without the I’m-hiding-behind-a-bush-at-the-shame-of-it-all beard. He actually asks the bake-off forty-something-year-old woman in the audience: “Why did you make this?” Indeed, why had she baked a cake of a semi-naked man? While she’s grinning inanely back trying to think of an answer, Graham Norton is greedily chiseling away at the chiseled abs with a knife. Julie Walters is choking in the background caught in the red couch no man’s land of farce and shell holes.
The whole surreality of the Fifty Shades of Grey thing is that everyone on stage is laughing but the women in the audience are dead, albeit uncomfortably, serious. I can’t remember what the cake maker woman, with her zombie eyes, said in reply but what she gave wasn’t a reason, it was an excuse. Well, I guess, in that respect, she gave no more or less than Jamie Dornan when asked to talk about the film.
Of course, it’s not only Graham Norton killing himself laughing at the whole joke of it all, publishing ‘arbiters of taste’, Random House, is laughing too – all the way to the bank. And that Dr. Frankenstein creator of the monster novel, E.L. James, of course. It’s pure Dr. Frankenstein except this monster creator doesn’t stop at two, she keeps pumping the horror out over and over as if the reservoir of effluence wasn’t slopping over the sides enough already. Oh God, I’m getting another one of my panic attacks. Mixing my metaphors is an early onset symptom.
There are two things that interest me in this latest version of Springtime for Hitler syndrome. The first and obvious one is: Why do people like shit? The second is: Why do women get turned on by (the thought of) being beaten up by men who can’t get an erection without the abuse thing?
Here’s a test. Watch Brosnan’s performance in the video: http://youtu.be/pvTEvmhnAMk.
Done it? Okay … Indeed, ‘I can’t go on’ either … (and why is there always a damn cake?!)
But seriously, this performance (the whole dreadful musical in fact) leaves me staggering back reeling for a bucket. It is truly dreadful. Isn’t it?
Well, no. Fact is, many, many human beings can watch something as awful as this and not see the problem. In fact, it’s wonderful stuff and the one or two who can’t appreciate a good musical are just missing the point. Okay, just because it’s not bloody Bryn Terfel doesn’t mean it’s not great entertainment.
So, is this a highbrow versus lowbrow thing? Opera versus soccer? I don’t think so. I’m not a snob when it comes to the arts (or anything, really). Pierce Brosnan just can’t sing and, unless he’s got a gun in his hand, he can’t act either – it’s either a Freudian thing or has something to do with having a name oddly, but topically, inspired by self-harming.
There’s something else. There are many, many human beings who have no idea/s. They’re just dumb. The part of the brain that deals with discernment is completely missing. Here’s a thought experiment: Present a series of images or sounds in pairs. One is aesthetically shite, the other a great work of beauty/art. Adults with Absent Discernment Syndrome (ADS) have no mental ability to rank the one image/sound above the other in terms of taste. They wouldn’t know whether to rank The Birdie Song above or below Jeff Buckley’s rendition of Hallelujah. Like children up to the age of about five, they just haven’t any idea about anything. There’s a tabula rasa up there. Seriously, there really is a syndrome. It’s a kind of taste blindness. Jimmy Hendrix/Nolan Sisters? “Don’t get it. Can’t see what they’re on about.” The only difference between a five year old and an adult with ADS is that the adult will develop ways of hiding their dysfunction – they don’t have the excuses anymore… Same goes, of course, for all arts and matters of aesthetic taste: a passage from a Harry Potter book and a passage from Kundera’s The Unbearable Lightness of Being. Response?: “I think the Harry Potter extract is much more betterer. It’s less protentious and more easier to understand. The bit with the moving staircase is more cleverer, I thought.”
Hmm.
The Fifty Shades man-cake maker just doesn’t see why everyone is laughing. “Well, I thought it was a really nice cake. It’s entered into a competition so it must be good.”
Sure. Your cake is great! And it will win the competition. And here lies the other component needed to explain how or why shite is so popular. Shite wins. Let me explain:
According to economics models of supply and demand, supply will rise to meet demand. Maybe there is a natural causal relationship in the market that says people’s wants and needs are the cause and suppliers respond by meeting those needs by increasing supply. But of course, it’s not so simple. Suppliers don’t just passively react to demand, they create it. That’s what marketing is all about. Publishers like Random House manipulate people’s wants by telling them through marketing strategies that they will want what they want them to want. Those most easily manipulated to buy are, of course, those suffering from ADS. It doesn’t matter to the ADS consumer what s/he buys because they’ve no idea about relative worth. They can’t discern. For the marketing executives, an ADS population is heaven. They’ll consume anything you tell them to consume from Mama Mia DVDs to little swastika flags. Who cares?
The man-cake will win because it bolts so neatly into the commercial culture of dumb down shite hype that presently is wetting itself over the Fifty Shades merchandising shark fest feeding frenzy. You know, when I watch something like last Friday’s The Graham Norton Show I’m seeing dolphins rounding up the tuna. It’s a turkey shoot. Oops, mixed metaphors creeping in there. Move on.
What about the sex abuse thing? How’s that work?
Well, there’s something a little darker going on here. When Kenneth Branagh, as Viktor Frankenstein, puts the spark to his monster and shouts: “Live, live!” it’s not long before he staggers back in horror when he realises what he’s actually created. A monster. The whole Fifty Shades thing is a monster.
Now that the first book is on screen (“Oh God, just the first book?!” Yep.), you get the feeling of increasing discomfort even within the ADS fan base. People are looking round at each other like maybe there’s something not quite right here. Like maybe I shouldn’t be rubber necking ISIL uploads? “Not good?” Not good.
Mrs Norma Jenkins from Tunbridge Wells likes Woman’s Hour on Radio Four and is a real GBBO Mary Berry fan, of course. She prefers Norman to tie her up on Sunday afternoons and tap her gently on the buns with an old table tennis bat they found in the attic. Helps Norman get it up … Well, maybe not more recently … “Still, never mind. It was worth a try and, anyway, got the latest Fifty Shades Freed. Ooh! And all that lovely money. I’d let a bloke beat me up if he had a massive big car in his garage. Who needs a man when you’ve got Christian Grey?”
Who, indeed, Mrs Jenkins? Back to ISIL in your hobby shed, Norman …
“Oh, he’s not really beating her up?” frowns Mrs Jenkins who suffers from a sexual version of ADS. “It’s just a bit of fun. No harm really. Look, I’ve baked a cake of Norman’s crotch for the WI bake-off. All a bit of a giggle.”
Hmm. It remains to be seen how well the Goebbels at Random House Fifty Shades marketing department keep the delusion going, the money flowing, the boardroom peckers up.