The one character Mad Men can do without

Mad Men, now at the middle of the beginning of its end , has encountered a personnel problem. It has too many characters to keep track of. Most of the above the line players from season one are still around. But they’ve been supplemented with so many spouses, rivals, and new hires that the stories we’ve followed from the beginning often have to take a back seat.

The show has looked closer at once-minor figures like Margaret Sterling, and fleshed out more recently introduced ones like Dawn Chambers. In episode 3, the appearance of Betty’s old gossip buddy Francine was a signal that any lost character is liable to reemerge as a sign of the times (if Matthew Weiner is taking requests, I’d love to see a vindicated Dr. Faye Miller, or an out-and-proud Sal Romano). Back at the office, things are going well for Peggy and Joan (professionally, at least) but they are so lost amidst the window dressing of catty secretaries, smirking creative and irascible executives that it feels like we’re not getting the whole story. Things have gotten so crowded in New York that Mad Men has had to relocate some of its principal characters to the West Coast. Pete, Megan, and Ted languish in sunshine, now painfully aware that what may have seemed like an opportunity was actually an exile.

I don’t mind the size of Mad Men’s cast. I like that its world has expanded and I am genuinely interested to see what happens/happened to all of these well-written folks. In fact, there’s not a single character I’d be happy to see go.

Oh wait, yes there is.

At the end of season 6, SC&P sent Don Draper on a mandatory paid leave. He was supposed to take it as an opportunity to walk out with dignity, face his demons, and seek employment elsewhere. And yet by episode three they had taken him back, albeit with some ground rules. Sterling invited him back in an impulsive, memo-less way, and the partners capitulated for mostly financial reasons. But it wasn’t all numbers. There was perhaps a sense that while SC&P had been chugging along smoothly in his absence, some of the magic was gone. I assume the viewer is supposed to feel the same way about Don Draper. That despite his many faults, Mad Men isn’t Mad enough without him. That’s what they’re selling me, but I’m just not buying it anymore. I think it’s time for the man in the foreground of the opening credits to finally stub out his cigarette, get off the couch, and stop obstructing the view.

Don Draper has been a great lead. And Jon Hamm is doing his best acting yet in showing what a sad bastard his character has become. It’s just that the show has gone in a new direction, and I don’t see why he has to go with it. It’s not personal, it’s Darwinian. Don has failed to adapt. In Season 1, his biggest problem was that he was not really Don Draper. Now, he is too much Don Draper. He has fossilized into the persona he created for himself.

We should have seen this coming. As his favorite drink reminds us, he’s always been old fashioned. He’s dismissive of young people’s ideas. His second marriage began to crumble when he realized that Megan was not content to be the subservient, stay-at-home wife that Betty was. His drinking and smoking is viewed as a sign of weakness in a somewhat more health-conscious society. And he’s terribly nostalgic. In season 1, when Paul Kinsey pitches him a campaign featuring an astronaut, he rejects it, suggesting he try a cowboy instead. In Season 3, Conrad Hilton asks for the moon, and Don gives him a hamburger. Now it’s 1969, there’s about to be a man on the moon, and Don is not ready for what the world has already become.

I’m not saying that Don needs to be killed off, as many have predicted he will be. Just redistributed. He’s the new Duck Phillips. A once-promising alpha male with a badly tarnished reputation that some bargain-hunting rival agency will happily scoop up. Let him go out with a whimper, it’s all he can muster at this point.

I guess these are harsh words for such an iconic leading man. And as Don plods towards a comeback in his signature two steps forward and one step back style, he’s clearly not going anywhere. Nevertheless, the show stands on its own without him, which is unusual. There’s a reason why Walter White’s death – foretold in the pilot of Breaking Bad – did not come to fruition until the final moments of the series finale. Because no matter how despicable Walter became, he was still the show’s center of gravity. Everything going on around him was still going on around him. Don Draper, as the credit sequence suggests, has fallen, and is now just a casual observer.

Part of the reason for this difference is that Walter White was never replaced. Jesse Pinkman was always a foil as much as a protegee (he lacked Walter’s self-control, where Walter lacked his morality). But Don really has been replaced. And I’m not talking about Lou. Peggy – excelling at work, unhappy at home – is the new face of the ad man’s dilemma. The fact that she is not a man at all is the most powerful indication we have that the Madison Avenue this show introduced us to is no more.

I want a more complete picture of the industry’s new terrain, with Peggy Olson up front and center as its lonesome pioneer. The agency is modernizing and diversifying. America is entering a new decade and a new way of life. That – not the meandering redemption of Don Draper – is the real story now. 

The Conscious Uncoupling Effect

Gwyneth Paltrow is divorcing her husband of ten years. The movie star-turned-lifestyle guru, who speaks in her own patrician new-age dialect, referred to the separation as “conscious uncoupling.” This makes sense - not the phrase so much, but the decision to use it - as Paltrow is not only a woman but also a brand. A walking advertisement for everything that ordinary women need to perfect their lives, much of which can be purchased on her website, Goop.com.

“Divorce” is an ugly word that invokes all kinds of unpleasantness: family upheaval, emotional turmoil, and of course, stress (a known cause of clogged pores and constipation.) Paltrow knows better than to introduce the toxins of divorce into the immaculate digestive system of Goop. So she opted for an organic, cruelty-free alternative in Conscious Uncoupling. 

The term makes an easy target of Paltrow, who has been called pretentious, out-of-touch, and on one inflammatory magazine cover, “The Most Hated Woman in Hollywood.” Gwyneth-haters, basking in the best schadenfreude they’d had since Martha Stewart went to prison, wasted no time lambasting it on the internet. Still, Conscious Uncoupling (originally coined by psychologist Katherine Woodward Thomas) has potential. Maybe, the goop-ified rebranding of divorce indicates a long-overdue sea change in how the marketing world relates to life after marriage.

In spite of the humble name, Goop is aimed at the tastes and budgets of the elite. This target audience is evident not only in the items for sale (monogrammed napkins for $240, a striped t-shirt for $300) but in the site’s holistic approach to self-improvement. Today’s rich are not content to merely buy things. They want their possessions to reflect a healthy body, a sharp mind, a curated life. There is a common thread between every page of the site, tacitly insisting that your new core-strengthening exercise routine won’t work unless you’re wearing the “Beyond Yoga” Lattice Trim Cami ($99). While you’re at it, try a new recipe (like Persimmon Pudding, or Balsamic Miso Root Salad), and reassess the way you cope with grief. One cannot be truly successful unless they are in peak form physically, spiritually, intellectually, and materially. Of course, such artisanal self-cultivation is out of most people’s reach. Most women can’t afford to wear designer clothes, or cook with only the most esoteric, ethically magnificent ingredients. Most working mothers (as Paltrow has often referred to herself) do not have time to keep their bodies model-thin or read a book a week.

But Goop readers (or at least the ones who take regular advantage of the “BUY NOW” thumbnails appended to much of the upscale merchandise) are already more moneyed, cultured, and sophisticated than the average woman could hope to become. The driving force that keeps this top-tier cohort returning to Goop for guidance and inspiration is the understanding that no matter how fabulous they are, they will never be as fabulous as the demigoddess at the helm. Gwyneth Paltrow is the ever-ascending carrot for which all the readers must strive. The perfect woman. Now the perfect woman is a divorced woman.

It is important for the business that being divorced not detract from her perfection. With this in mind, the site’s “Conscious Uncoupling” post followed up the standard celebrity divorce announcement (great sadness, kids come first, etc.) with an essay by Dr. Habib Sadeghi and Dr. Sherry Sami explaining that the entire concept of marriage has changed. The essay argues that due to the increased human lifespan, people should no longer be expected to stay together forever, and we should all start relating to divorce as a positive transformation.

In a way, this is probably just a public figure covering her own Tracy Anderson-sculpted ass. But the doctors do have a point. Their essay covers a lot of ground – incorporating the Paleolithic period, a “Russian esotericist”, and a lengthy explanation of the difference between exoskeletons and endoskeletons – but nowhere does it suggest we do away with the practice of marriage altogether. So assuming the multi-billion dollar wedding industry can survive without the “til death” part, maybe it’s time to get real about the 50% success rate. For couples, that means trading in “we’re never going to break up!” for “if we did break up, we would do so in a healthy, respectful way.” For the marketing world, that means acknowledging that divorced people exist.

On the “About” page, Goop describes itself as an “e-commerce company” first and an “eminent lifestyle publication” second. If the “Conscious Uncoupling” announcement proves profitable for the business side, than it is likely the idea will trickle down to less eminent lifestyle publications, and influence the world of commerce as a whole. A world that still relates to marriage and motherhood as the be-all-end-all in a woman’s life. If you’re selling something to women, chances are your advertisement will feature a sexy young singleton, or a middle-aged mom (typically played by a sexy singleton in khakis and a more conservative haircut). The assumption is that no one wants to buy a product enjoyed by an older divorcee, because older divorcees are downers. How could a woman who found and lost the Holy Grail be anything but a bitter recluse?

This is nonsense, of course. But maybe, after centuries of being considered a crime and/or sin, it’s impossible to scrub all the grime off the word “divorce.” That’s where “Conscious Uncoupling” comes in. It’s clean, it has no baggage, and Gwyneth Paltrow is doing it. And according to Dr. Sadhegi and Dr. Sami, it is the natural fate of most American marriages today. All the more reason for companies to take notice. 

Advertisements capitalize on peoples’ covetous insecurities by taunting them with an unreachable ideal. This is unfortunate, but it’s still refreshing to see a greater diversity of communities pandered to in this manner. Given the astounding number of happily uncoupled people out there, it would be nice to see the lifestyle celebrated by mainstream material culture. So in that respect, Paltrow’s supercilious rebranding of divorce was a supercilious step in the right direction. 

The Dubious Legacy of Carrie Bradshaw

It’s been ten years since the final episode of “Sex and the City” aired. The dramatic finale left audiences swooning and hungry for more. Hungry people make bad decisions, and their cries were answered by the bad Sex and the City movie, the worse Sex and the City 2, and the pointless Carrie Diaries. But even without these gaudy misfires, the show has retained a place in the public imagination. In female ensembles real and fictional, fans continue to designate the Carries, the Samanthas, the Mirandas, and the Charlottes.

                The show has also been praised as a feminist triumph. And at the risk of sounding like a total Miranda, I feel a little cynical about that. I do think that SATC gives us three credible examples of modern womanhood. Lady lothario Samantha who owns her own PR firm, sardonic lawyer Miranda, and even the Pollyanna gallerist Charlotte, who racks up an impressive number of conquests on her quest for traditional marital bliss.

But SATC does not belong to any of those three. It belongs to Carrie Bradshaw. And Carrie is a whole other story. Samantha, Miranda, and Charlotte exist in a gilded sliver of Manhattan accessible only to the super-privileged, but at least they live in Manhattan. Carrie exists in a rent controlled fantasy land. That’s fortunate, because in the real world she’d have a lot to answer for. 

                Carrie Bradshaw is a bad person. She just is. It’s not a criticism of the show’s entertainment value. Nor is it a criticism of the actress Sarah Jessica Parker, who portrays her. If anything, Parker should be commended for somehow making a manipulative, irresponsible narcissist one of the most beloved TV characters of all time.

                Carrie, like the cast of Friends, is a beneficiary of television’s wild misconceptions about who can and cannot afford a spacious apartment in Manhattan. But even with the plot point that her building is rent controlled, there is no accounting for her insanely expensive tastes. She is a writer of a weekly sex column that runs in the back pages of a second rate local newspaper. This column funds a dazzling whirlwind of shopping sprees at Prada and Chanel, trendy restaurants, club nights, and spa days. But Carrie has plenty of time to indulge in all these opulent activities, because the column is her only project. (That is, until she takes a gig at Vogue, in an episode where an editor played by Candice Bergen is vilified for daring to give Carrie - gasp! - edits.) Every purchase of a new pair of Manolo Blahniks comes with an offhanded chirp about how she can’t really afford them. In the real world, such outrageous spending habits are a sign of mental illness. In Carrie’s world, they’re a quirk.

                I know, I know. It’s escapist. It’s fun. It’s not supposed to be realistic. But the problem is that Carrie’s material entitlement spills over into her personal life. She is that friend who always finds a way to steer the conversation back to her own issues. She demands that her friends be available to her at all times, but does not necessarily return the favor. She cheats on the most saintly man of all time (I mean, he’s a carpenter for Christ’s sake) with a married ex. When men eventually balk at her needy, manipulative ways, she concludes that it’s because she is too “wild” or too “complicated” or some other romantic excuse for bad behavior.

Take, for example, the episode in Season 4, “Ring a Ding Ding”.  St. Aidan finally reads the writing on the wall and leaves her. Trouble is, he recently bought her apartment for the two of them to live in together. Now she either has to cough up the cash to buy it back, or she’s out on her ass (which, like the rest of her, is miniscule even though she never works out and spends half her life at brunch). Her prince (Mr. Big) and her ladies in waiting (Samantha and Miranda) offer to give her the money outright. Charlotte wisely resists. Carrie later confronts Charlotte for not offering, and essentially bullies her into handing over her old engagement ring for Carrie to hawk for the down payment.

Both the problem and the solution may seem reprehensible, but if no one had bailed her out, it would violate the fundamental rule of SATC: don’t let anything seriously bad happen to Carrie. The other characters deal with divorce, single motherhood, STD scares, and a miscarriage. They also seem legitimately stressed out by their jobs from time to time. Carrie chain smokes her way through the first four seasons, but in the end it is Samantha who is diagnosed with cancer.

Fast forward to the final episode, in which Carrie drops her entire life to live with her new boyfriend in Paris. The Paris thing doesn’t work out, because it’s raining and the boyfriend isn’t paying enough attention to her. Fortunately, Mr. Big steps in and rescues her. The story of Carrie’s fairy tale life ends in classic fairy tale fashion. I feel about as empowered by the end of SATC as I do by the end of Sleeping Beauty (or perhaps Cinderella, given the shoe fixation).

                The negative influence of Carrie Bradshaw is bolstered by her likeability, as well as the lack of comeuppance. SATC gave us a heroine who treats people poorly, who makes consistently bad choices and relies on men to solve her problems. That would be fine, except that it doesn’t give us any reason to not want to emulate her. Why not be just like Carrie? Carrie is darling, and it all works out in the end.

                So here we are, ten years later. SATC’s teen fans are now young professional women (and young professional gay men). What has become of the adolescent idolaters who entered adulthood convinced they could learn something from this woman? Something like, it is OK to max out your credit cards because looking fabulous is more important than the independence that comes with long-term financial stability. It is OK to sleep with a married man because the love between you and him is more sacred than the love between him and his wife. And countless other misguided tidbits that all add up to the conclusion: if you live like Carrie Bradshaw, you’re doing modern woman wrong.

Modern womanhood is about choice, and that comes at a price. Having the freedom to control your own life means grappling with a whole new set of burdens, dilemmas, and possible regrets. Is it worth it? Absolutely. But what is gained when we pretend that the price doesn’t exist? Carrie doesn’t have to answer to the burden of choice any more than she has to answer to all those calories, cigarettes, Manolos, and lies. A woman who works hard, who makes mistakes, who fights back  and takes responsibility for her actions, and is stronger for it – that is a real modern woman well worth looking up to.

In Praise of Pink

I was never a huge fan of Pink.

I had nothing against the public persona of Alecia Moore, or the music she produced. But she was never my favorite. Her first single “There You Go” came out in 2000. It was sassy and catchy, but its popularity caused it to fade into background noise. It became a song that I only half-heard playing on the radio, or faintly emanating from speakers at the mall. Meanwhile, I was eleven years old. Anyone who has ever been or parented an adolescent girl understands the precipice I was on better than I did at the time.

                The following year brought the album Missundaztood. The lead single “Get this party started” was such a staple of middle school dances that to this day it inspires a self-conscious Pavlovian sweat. Songs like “Don’t Let me Get Me” spoke to the oddballs and misfits, and while I considered myself one of their number, I didn’t pay much attention. By high school my friends were getting into more obscure “indie” music, and I struggled to keep up. Oddball allegiance aside, Pink was decidedly mainstream. I filed her away with all of the other top-40 sellouts.

                As my adolescent angst darkened into depression, Pink was not among the female singer-songwriters I turned to for guidance. I felt that my experience was better vocalized by the likes of Cat Power, Joanna Newsom, and Amanda Palmer. The appeal of these gifted, quirky songstresses was enhanced by their lack of mainstream success. How could someone whose face was everywhere, who dominated the airwaves and made millions, understand the alienation of an anonymous high school girl? And even if I did find myself liking her music, I could hardly respond to a friend’s monologue about her vinyl collection with “hey, what do you think of that new Pink song?”

                By my twenties I was enjoying pop music again, or had become comfortable enough with myself to admit that I’d enjoyed it all along. In the meantime, a whole generation of luminaries had cycled through. Wide eyed hopefuls had been afforded their moment in the sun, a half dozen American Idol winners had fizzled out, and a few former goddesses had fallen from grace. Pink, however, was still going strong. She’d been steadily producing the entire time. She was still making it fun to say “no” (“U + Ur Hand is the kind of brazen candor we still need more of in pop music), and encouraging the weirdos of the world to unite and party. But she’d also dealt with a lot of heavier material like family dysfunction, substance abuse, sexuality, and body image.

                Then, somewhere along the line, Pink started incorporating aerial acrobatics into her performances. Most marathon pop stars rely on other people’s talent to keep their live shows feeling fresh. They wear increasingly elaborate costumes, and perform the same basic dance routines against a rotating backdrop of sets. All around them, a younger and more talented cohort of backup dancers deliver the really demanding moves. But Pink went another route, committing to a whole new art form that requires intense training and athleticism. I first saw her skill at the 2010 Grammy Asards. But I didn’t really take notice until the 2014 Grammy when she delivered her single “Try” in similar death-defying form.

                I liked the song “Try” so I looked up the video. It features a seriously ripped Pink sparring with a seriously ripped male counterpart. The two engage in gorgeously aggressive dance-fighting – as sexy as it is stylized. Pink is a perfect match for her partner. When he throws her down, we know that she will bounce back up and retaliate. The choreography represents a turbulent romance – but not an abusive or domineering one. Whatever they do to each other, they do as equals.  

                             To me, this video acknowledges the complexity of hetero-love without edging the woman into the role of powerless victim or cold-blooded she-devil. Pink herself was in peak physical condition. But she didn’t look like she was keeping it tight to retain a man’s attention, or fit into her size-2 skinny jeans. She looked like she was pushing herself to be strong, so that she could endure and thrive. I asked myself when Pink became so cool. Which led me to look back over last fourteen years of her career and realize (like the dumbfounded detective at the end of the crime-thriller) that the answer had been right under my nose the whole time: Pink has always been so cool.

                             Let’s revisit the year 2000 for a moment. Her first album was defiantly called “Can’t Take me Home.” This was a year when the Britneys and Christinas of the world were exploiting their barely-legal allure with coy references to their own burgeoning, untapped sexuality. Female pop songs were invitations. Then Pink hit the Billboard charts with an unequivocal “NO.” As her contemporaries perfected the seduction of girlish indecision, Pink dealt in absolutes. In doing so, she told young women: It’s OK to want what you want. And it’s OK to not want what you don’t want.

                             Over the next fourteen years, she’s come out with a total of 6 albums. The most recent, “The Truth About Love” is aptly titled. Throughout my recent personal Pink retrospective, I’ve been struck by how honest this woman is. She’s truthful about love. And she’s truthful about herself, remaining confident even when facing her demons head on. She speaks her mind. She respects, but is still able to laugh at herself. She is proudly flawed and fearless. I’m glad she has a daughter.

                             Meanwhile, I have faced down my own demons. I have learned that becoming a woman is hard, but that being a woman is worth it. And for the most part, I think that eleven year old girls today have a better selection of mainstream female singers to look up to. The teasing, the pouting, the breathy ballads of devotion have been widely replaced by full-bodied declarations of powerful, libidinous womanhood. I believe that Pink is partly responsible for this positive shift. I also suspect that my own formative years benefitted subliminally from her songs playing in the background. I don’t know how much she’s helped. But it’s gotten better, and she’s been there the whole time. So I want to say: thank you, Pink. Rock on.

I don't care what anybody says, Obama's "Between Two Ferns" appearance was great.

 

This week, President Barack Obama sat down with Zach Galifianakis on the comedian’s offbeat faux-talk show “Between Two Ferns”. His purpose was to plug the Affordable Care Act. Specifically to debunk the notion that healthcare.gov is still malfunctioning, and to encourage jaded young Americans (aka Galifianakis’s fan base) to sign up for coverage before the March 31^st deadline. As an Obama supporter who is not blind to his shortcomings, I thought it was excellent. I thought that agreeing to appear on the show was a savvy choice, and that the idea was well executed and entertaining.

                Still, it was a bold move. And all bold moves have a backlash. The bobbleheads at Fox News were predictably apoplectic, and many others criticized the president for either diminishing the dignity of the office, or simply falling flat. I will now summarize every dissenting argument that I have come across and dispute them one by one: 

1)      With all the shit going on overseas right now, why does Obama have time to appear on a fake talk show?

Shit is never not going on overseas. There is always going to be a crisis abroad. And while the current crisis in Ukraine is severe, it is not Obama’s fight. As much as the right frets about other countries thinking our president is a pansy, it doesn’t make sense for him to neglect his domestic responsibilities in order to go head to head with Putin full-time. Getting people to use healthcare.gov is one of his most important domestic responsibilities.

2)      It is trivializing to discuss health care on a comedy show.

It lightens, but does not trivialize. There is nothing wrong with lightening the issue of insurance, so long as it gets people to sign up. Insurance (like taxes) is important, but boring. A little humor helps to draw people in. And levity gets results, just ask the marketing department at any major home or auto insurance company, who are all in competition for who can have the wackiest ad campaign.

3)      Obama is embarrassing himself by trying to appeal to hipster Millennials.

I prefer to think of it as not giving up on them. Hipster Millennials are a strange bunch. They obsess over of-the-moment memes, while neglecting the news. They spend hundreds of dollars a week on liquor and lattes, but dismiss basic health coverage as a needless expense. By infiltrating their snarky websites and mimicking their sardonic humor, Obama is saying “Hey, weirdos. I understand you better than you think I do. Believe me when I say you need health insurance.”

Conservative pundits (most of whom misinterpret the tenor of Galifianakis’s humor) are trying to paint this as a desperate bid for the approval of an age bracket that he will never understand. If they’re so skeptical of Obama’s ability to appeal to youths, perhaps they should consult Mitt Romney. Too soon? OK fine - perhaps they should consult John McCain.

4)      It would have been more appropriate for another member of Obama’s team to do this.

Sure, Joe Biden could have done it. Or Jay Carney. Or Kathleen Sebelius. But the result would have flatlined, and likely been the end of “Between Two Ferns.” Without the novelty of the Commander in Chief himself riffing with Zach Galifianakis, then the whole segment really does become a lame, out-of-touch plug for healthcare.gov.

5)      This offends the dignity of the office.

Oh please. It’s not like he made a sex tape. He appeared on a comedy show, threw some mild shade at the Hangover franchise, and then delivered a straightforward pitch for healthcare.gov. Comedy and politics have been awkwardly linked for a very long time. Just look at Nixon’s Laugh-In appearance (the liberal counterexample of choice this week) or the cheery rapport between politicians and the people who impersonate them on SNL. And if it was undignified for Obama to school Galifianakis in a scripted skit, I suppose that Rick Santorum was just doing God’s work when he allowed himself to be openly mocked by Stephen Colbert on his comedy show. Politics is about winning people over, and a great way to do that is by making them laugh, and demonstrating your ability to laugh at yourself.

But if you really want to argue that there is a rigid, eternal standard for what POTUS can and cannot do, keep in mind that some of the earliest presidents owned slaves. Acceptable presidential behavior changes with the times. And it’s changing in the right direction.

6)      There’s nothing wrong with what Obama did, he just did it badly.

I guess this is a matter of opinion, but I definitely disagree. The tone of “Between Two Ferns” is tricky. It is reminiscent of Sacha Baron Cohen’s former project “Da Ali G Show.” But while Cohen made unsuspecting fools of his interviewees, Galifianakis invites them in on the joke. Guests are meant to mimic his awkward, prickly defensiveness. Some can pull it off better than others. I think the president – with the additional challenge of balancing satire and sincerity - was pitch perfect.

7)      Lincoln would not have done it.

-          Oh, Bill O’Reilly. An absurd, unprovable speculation is probably the closest we’ll ever get to a “no comment” from you. So…we’ll take it.

What's the worst part of Stephen King's response to Dylan Farrow's open letter?

On February 3^rd, Stephen King felt compelled to comment on Dylan Farrow’s open letter accusing Woody Allen of sexual abuse. The author took to Twitter saying “Boy, I’m stumped on that one. I don’t like to think it’s true, and there’s an element of palpable bitchery there, but…”

            Unsurprisingly, King’s remark was met with an avalanche of criticism. And rightly so. By choosing the term “bitchery” King managed to both antagonize Farrow and trivialize her claims. The word “bitch” has long been a popular tool for excoriating a difficult woman. Difficult often because she is expressing a strong opinion, refusing to adhere to conventions of femininity, or (as in Farrow’s case) holding a man accountable for his misdeeds. And the B-word aside, a flippant response to such a sensitive case is staggeringly inappropriate.

After the Internet called him out for his comment, King responded with “Have no opinion on the accusations; hope they’re not true. Probably used the wrong word.” He then rounded out the response with a plea for clemency, stating “still learning my way around this thing” in reference to the massive social networking platform he had chosen to air his thoughts from. Ignorant celebrity Twitter gaffs are a dime a dozen. But anyone who has spent half a century on the New York Times Bestseller list should be accustomed to having his words reach millions of people.

            Where to begin with this worthless non-apology? The fact that he was only willing to cede that bitchery was “probably” the wrong word to use? The failure to realize that having “no opinion” typically amounts to saying nothing? Ultimately, the worst thing about the response is that it echoes the most insidious part of the original comment: “Don’t like to think it’s true” becomes “I hope it’s not true.”

            That’s his public response to the news of alleged sexual abuse: I hope it’s not true.

For who’s sake does King hope it’s not true? Dylan Farrow’s? Many in Allen’s camp have claimed that the memory was falsely implanted by a bitter, jilted Mia Farrow. Does Stephen King “hope” that Farrow was psychologically abused by one parent, rather than sexually abused by the other? Or is he just holding out hope that the woman is blatantly lying? Does Stephen King “hope,” for her own good, that Farrow made the whole thing up out of pure, vindictive bitchery?

More likely, he hopes that the accusations aren’t true for Woody Allen’s sake. It stands to reason that an aging writer who produced a few seminal works followed by decades of relentless mediocrity would be inclined to stick up for someone who’s career followed a similar trajectory. More likely, he and Allen are friends. It is an emotional and ethical struggle to accept that someone close to you might be capable of harming a child. Many handle it by closing their eyes and ears.

We all hope that bad news isn’t true. When something terrible happens (especially to a child), our minds reject the terrible reality of it. But this is not just a matter of rejecting a painful reality, this is about denying a young woman’s right to be heard. In her open letter, Farrow expresses profound frustration at the world turning a blind eye to what she went through. People turn a blind eye when they don’t want something to be true.

From the perspective of a survivor, such skepticism further complicates the labyrinth of recovery. Whether the trauma is recent or long-buried, victims are tasked with putting the pieces together. The pieces fit in all kinds of different formations, and it’s easy to reach the conclusion that there was a misunderstanding, that they – and not their attacker – are really at fault, or that they really did make the whole thing up.

It is unlikely that the Farrow-Allen scandal will ever be an open and shut case. Hollywood and the media are battling over the fractured memories of a wounded child. There are no definitive answers. But even if it turned out that it really wasn’t true, even if the whole thing was a deliberate fabrication to besmirch Woody Allen’s good(ish) name, then Stephen King would still be accountable for dismissing it so casually. By responding in the way that he did, he publicly contributed to a culture of skepticism and victim-blaming that continues to wreck lives every day. 

Survivors of sexual abuse – in addition to dealing with the pain of their ordeal - often face a dual reluctance when attempting to share their story: it might be “I can’t accept that this happened because I care about you” or it might be “I can’t accept that this happened because I care about the person you’re accusing.” In the latter case, the attachment might be born of a personal connection. Or it might be a case where the accused is so admired that the world considers them above reproach.

Sexual abuse is always difficult to accept, and the majority of cases take place in a grey area of accountability and intent. For survivors, this often means living in a world that would rather give their abuser the benefit of the doubt then get them the help they need.

Stephen King likely meant no harm by saying he hoped Dylan Farrow was lying. Still, “I don’t like to think it’s true” is a step towards denial and away from helping a survivor feel supported and safe. When confronted with such troubling cases, the pull of denial is dangerously strong. Casting doubt on an accusation makes it even stronger. The master of horror should think before he Tweets.

What is the theme of this year's Oscar nominees?

In the New York Times article announcing 2014’s lineup of Academy Award nominees, Brooks Barnes and Michael Cieply described the current award’s season as “puzzling,” stating that while 2012 was largely defined by political films, the top Oscar nominees of 2013 lacked a thematic pattern.

It is true that the years most lauded films were all over the map (and, in the case of ten-times-nominated Gravity, way off of it) in terms of setting, time period, mood and plot. But in the more general, between-the-lines sense, a number of the top contenders did have something in common. That thing is evoked in the title of one of the Academy’s noted “snubs”: All is Lost.

All is Lost pits the human will to survive against the apparent certainty of failure. The interplay of those two forces – external oblivion , internal perseverance - worked its way into most of this year’s best films. Life is full of obstacles, and every awards season is full of movies about people overcoming adversity. But this year didn’t just give us your garden-variety setbacks. This year gave us insane hope in the face of total despair. And more often than not, hope won. Here are some more examples:

An astronaut, cut loose from her spacecraft, hurtles through the bottomless void.
A captain is taken prisoner after his ship is boarded by armed Somali pirates.
A rodeo hero is diagnosed with a deadly new virus that has no known cure.  
A young Catholic mother has her young son taken away from her and sent to a foreign country. 
A musician is abducted and sold as a slave to sadistic plantation owners. 
Two con artists are busted by the FBI and forced to work under the thumb of the law.
An elderly alcoholic travels across an American wasteland in pursuit of an empty promise.

All of the characters described above pass through the “abandon all hope” gateway, convinced that they can maneuver their way out of hell. All of their stories are nominated for Best Picture.

2012, with frontrunners like Argo, Zero Dark Thirty, and Lincoln, was a big year for political movies. It was also a big year for politics, with Obama’s reelection roughly coinciding with the time most studios release their Oscar hopefuls. Pretty straightforward.

So, what happened this year that made Americans want to watch movies about overcoming hopelessness? Headline-wise, 2013 was an ego bruiser for America. We found that our own security agency was spying on us. We waffled about our involvement with crises in Syria and Egypt. We saw horrendous violence in Iraq following a deadly and expensive occupation that was supposed to promote stability. We slipped further in global education rankings. The implementation of our president’s signature health care law was a disaster. And let’s not forget the week in October when we didn’t have a functioning government.

When America is threatened by an outside foe, we unite and shine. We imagine ourselves standing tall, chins in the air and fists on our hips. This year we were our own worst enemy, which left us shuffling our feet, heads down, avoiding eye contact. This year was embarrassing.

America was founded on the belief that anyone can succeed if they try hard enough. So it is fitting that the nation’s onscreen avatar is an everyman with secret powers. An Average Joe who becomes extraordinary when faced with extraordinary circumstances. Be it a comic book vigilante, a small-town hero, or just a dude who’s been pushed too far, this guy’s job is to remind us that being down-and-out is nothing but a prelude to greatness. The more powerless he becomes, the more inspiring and morale-boosting it is to see him gain that power back. In this humbling year, we needed Joe to work overtime.