Doris Lessing’s blogger bashing

Doris Lessing has a pop at the world wide web, Stephen Fry does panto and the Beijing Eunuch Museum

Oh, the irony. Just weeks after this blog praised Doris Lessing for her strong web presence, she’s gone and slated the internet in her Noble Prize acceptance speech. She argued that the net “has seduced a whole generation with its inanities so that even quite reasonable people will confess that, once they are hooked, it is hard to cut free, and they may find a whole day has passed in blogging etc.”

Cue much uncomfortable shuffling at NS Arts Blog HQ. But, Lessing’s comments, which seem to view blogging as an activity roughly akin to opium addiction, are part of a broader debate that’s been going on all year.

On the one hand, at the end of 2006 Time Magazine celebrated the arrival of the interactive age by whacking a reflective(ish) panel on their cover and naming “you” (yes, that means you) as their Person of the Year, and Salman Rushdie has also been making complimentary noises about the growth of new media. Conversely, the rise of user-generated content was lambasted by Andrew Keen in his book “The Cult of the Amateur” (which he somewhat ironically blogs about here), and Jeremy Paxman announced that Newsnight was open to viewer submissions in a tone which made it sound like you’d have to be an incorrigible moron to take him up on the offer. So is the blogging community usefully democratising the media or just offering so much ill-informed blather?

At the risk of being accused of vested interests, surely “user-generated” content on the net is diverse and interesting enough to resist any glib generalisations or totalising theories. Moreover, on the literary side of things, the internet has the capacity to make great writing more readily accessible then ever before. Even if some of us spend more time on sites like this than browsing the complete works of Shakespeare, you can now, provided you have web access, view both from anywhere in the world.

It might also be worth noting that you get many more hits Googling “Doris Lessing” than you do Googling “inanities” but, of course, that’s a fairly inane point in itself.

Related:

A handy blog directory
An article on Google’s plans to digitise 32 million books
Online alternative news sources from around the world

Christmas Arts Round-Up

Christmas is coming, the geese are getting fat, the billboards are crammed with tinselly exhortations to prop up the flagging economy in a frenzy of consumerist excess and, of course, the theatres are wheeling out their big festive shows.

Stephen Fry’s “Cinderella” leads a crowded, star-studded field of pantomimes, while writer-director Anthony Neilson offers an alternative Christmas show with his “Gods In Ruins”. Our bumper Christmas issue includes all the tips you need on the best theatre to catch this yuletide.

However, if you’re a crotchety Scrooge looking to rise above the seasonal cheer, the Guardian was keeping things intellectual with a Freudian reading of Jack and the Beanstalk and Wired offered a decidedly sarcastic list of “10 Christmas Movies You’ll Never See.”

Meanwhile, a series of outdoor light installations reflecting the lives of families living on an estate in Oxford promises to be one of the most interesting displays of festive art on offer.

Of Pogues and Eunuchs

In other news this week, Lily Allen was announced as one of the judges for the Orange Prize, Orson Wells’ Citizen Kane Oscar failed to sell at auction and 37 African musicians have recorded a UN sponsored record to boost awareness of HIV/AIDS across the continent.

Meanwhile, the Russian government instructed the British Council to close its two offices outside Moscow (you can read our take on a BC sponsored project in the country here) and the erstwhile Pogues musician and NS diarist Jem Finer won the British Composer Awards 2007 with his “Score for a Hole in the Ground”, an acclaimed installation paid for by the PRS New Music Award.

Happily, the Beijing Eunuch Museum looks set to reopen in time for the 2008 Olympics, but there was bad news for the Museum of Ethnology in Hamburg as they discovered that the terracotta warriors they have been exhibiting are apparently faked.

Equally bizarrely the British Press picked up on the story of Barry Cox, a Merseyside shelf-stacker turned Chinese Pop Sensation. There’s hope for us all…even the bloggers.

Getty
Show Hide image

In praise of Keanu Reeves, the nicest of meatheads

The Hollywood star has embraced a life without pretensions. 

The Rolling Stone journalist Chris Heath once asked Keanu Reeves a simple question: why do you act? The star of The Matrix, Speed, Point Break and My Own Private Idaho paused the conversation to consider the matter. And he paused it for a long time. “Forty-two seconds, he says nothing. Not a word, a grunt, a prevarication, or a hint that an answer might come,” wrote Heath. But then an answer did come: “Uh… the words that popped into my head were expression and, uh, it's fun.” When Heath later asked Reeves if he ever wanted to direct, he waited 72 seconds for: “No, not really.”

Both Coco Chanel and George Orwell observed that by 50, we have the face we deserve. The Beirut-born Reeves is now 52 (the same age as Nigel Farage, as tweeters and bored bloggers periodically point out), but he looks pretty much the same as he has always looked: solidly handsome and straightforward, yet somehow vulnerable, like a Boy Scout who wants to do the right thing in a world that doesn’t. Jan de Bont, the director of the 1994 film Speed, called him “an action hero for the Nineties”. By this, I think he meant that, unlike the muscle-bound shit-kickers of the previous decade, a Keanu hero wouldn’t go out of his way to kill for fun. Where Arnold Schwarzenegger could, in Total Recall, shoot the woman he had wrongly believed to be his wife and joke, “Consider this a divorce,” Keanu always seemed somewhat conflicted while taking care of business – as if his eyes were saying, “Sorry it had to be this way.” The Nineties were the age of hunky romantics: Jason Priestley as Brandon in Beverly Hills, 90210, Ethan Hawke in Before Sunrise. Keanu fit that mould. I suppose even guys with guns had to be sensitive.

And even dumb guys, too, with or without guns – for you don’t have to be able to think in order to feel. Reeves began his career describing himself as “a meathead”. “I can’t help it, man,” he said. “You’ve got smart people and you’ve got dumb people. I just happen to be dumb.” He specialised in playing benevolent meatheads, from Ted “Theodore” Logan in Stephen Herek’s Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure to the spaced-out teen Tod Higgins in Ron Howard’s Parenthood (both 1989). Then he traded meathead simplicity for that of the likeable (and, as ever, sensitive) action hero in films such as Speed (1994) and Chain Reaction (1996). The Matrix series followed, as did a few smaller, more indie-ish movies (Thumbsucker, A Scanner Darkly). But the 2014 action film John Wick, whose sequel is in cinemas now, was widely welcomed as a return to form.

Reeves largely plays the assassin of the title as a primitive cinematic archetype, but he can't help but gesture towards something more profound. Wick, in both films of the franchise, is motivated by grief over the death of his wife. (In 2001, Reeves’s girlfriend Jennifer Syme died in a motor accident, a year after losing their child; perhaps the role had a personal resonance for him.) He might stab people in the head with pencils, break necks and shoot guns into crowded rooms like Chow Yun Fat after three espressos, but he’s ultimately a man of feeling.

This narrative of a career of sensitive but slightly dumb simplicity isn’t quite fair on Reeves, however. For he has, on occasion, been capable of delivering complex performances that rank alongside those of his more conventionally actorly peers. In 1991, he held his own opposite River Phoenix in Gus Van Sant’s road movie My Own Private Idaho; he has since appeared opposite Al Pacino as a wily defence attorney (The Devil’s Advocate) and Gene Hackman as a troubled sportsman (The Replacements). He has been directed by film festival favourites such as Francis Ford Coppola (Bram Stoker's Dracula), Bernardo Bertolucci (Little Buddha) and Sam Raimi (The Gift) – if not always successfully.

And he started his career not with excellent dudes, but with Shakespeare. When Reeves was 14 and living in Toronto, he was cast as Mercutio in a local production of Romeo and Juliet. An agent who saw him signed him up and secured for him a string of television roles, which swiftly took him to Hollywood. Reeves’s embarrassingly stilted attempt to portray the evil Don John in Kenneth Branagh’s Much Ado About Nothing (1993) makes me fear the discovery of video footage of that version of Romeo. But the fact that Reeves’s life as an actor began in this way reminds me of his seriousness about his craft. He might not have much range but he has admirable ambition. Many years later, when the studios pressured him to sign on for a Speed sequel, he ran off to play Hamlet in Canada.

In 2011, the New Statesman’s film critic, Ryan Gilbey, observed in the Guardian that Reeves had “some claim to be the most enigmatic, as well as the most warmly adored” actor in Hollywood. That assessment was based in part on the “Sad Keanu” meme that had spread the previous year, in which a paparazzi photograph of Reeves morosely eating a sandwich on a bench led to countless expressions of sympathy online (more than 14,000 people joined a Facebook group called “Cheer Up Keanu”; 200,000 comments about the picture were left on Reddit) and to the declaration by fans of a “Cheer Up Keanu Day”, which apparently takes place every 15 June.

This weird adoration and the sense of enigma surrounding the actor are, I think, closely linked. We know relatively little about Reeves’s off-screen life, which he keeps well guarded, but what we do know suggests qualities that are, for one reason or another, vanishingly rare in entertainment gossip warm humanity and hidden depths. Hagiographic stories circulate of the actor donating millions of dollars to animal welfare charities and cancer research (his younger sister Kim was diagnosed with leukaemia); of Reeves offering stranded hitchhikers a ride; of a team of stuntmen being surprised with a gift of £6,000 Harley Davidson motorbikes, which he had quietly paid for.

“Money is the last thing I think about,” Hello magazine reported him saying in 2003. Not long earlier, he had reduced his pay by several million dollars so that the producers of The Devil’s Advocate and The Replacements could afford to hire Al Pacino and Gene Hackman, respectively. And, according to ABC News, he “handed over his valuable profit-sharing points” to the special effects and costume design team of the Matrix franchise, which he believed deserved the true credit for its success. (Some place the value of this donation at $50m.) By these accounts, Reeves is most definitely a righteous dude. He’s also a curious one. A few days after the Brexit vote, the New Statesman’s politics editor, George Eaton, was surprised to find him visiting Portcullis House as a guest of the Conservative MP Nadhim Zahawi. It was “fittingly surreal”, George told me, and Reeves came across as “courteous” and “modest” when he posed for a group selfie with some of the journalists who happened to be there.

As Reeves’s star rose in the early 1990s, the American men’s magazine Details lamented: “Nearly all celebrities – nearly all people – like to talk about themselves [but] Keanu doesn’t.” I guess it’s frustrating for journalists that someone so clearly interesting should be reticent about telling us about himself.

But I don’t really have to know much about Keanu Reeves to like him, though I’ve never met the guy. And there are things that I can learn from him, too. In Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure, Alex Winter’s Bill S Preston, Esq., paraphrases Socrates: “The only true wisdom consists in knowing that you know nothing.” To which Reeves’s Ted responds: “That’s us, dude.” That’s them – and every one of us with any sense, if we’re honest. We may think we’re smart and even persuade the people around us that we are. But in the end, most of us are meatheads. Reeves shows in his life and work that meatheads can live good lives, even in the face of disparagement and personal tragedy. Maybe Chanel and Orwell were on to something – he really does have the face he deserves.

Yo Zushi is a contributing writer for the New Statesman. His work as a musician is released by Eidola Records.