Off the Shelf
Maybe I’ve seen too many Judd Apatow films recently, but I’m so over the modern nice-guy shtick in storytelling. The, I’m-kind-of-offish-but-charming-and-I-used-to-be-a-whimp-but-look-I-got-the-hot-girl-in-the-end-so-I-can’t-be-all-that-bad, fable. You know, the male writers that make sure to mention:
a) how they used to get beaten up in high school (or if not, how many comics they consumed)
b) how much they respect women
c) how unattractive they are
d) how they got the hot girl in the end
But in the storytelling, the only thing they seem to mention about the girl that they respect so much is that she’s hot. And that she wanted him, even though the jocks in high school used to tape his ass cheeks together.
There was that anthology that came out last year edited by Ben Karlin, with Neal Pollack (surprise) and Nick Hornby (more surprise). Which Emily Gould reviewed better than I could.
Also, sort of related, from the NY Times, regarding Forgetting Sarah Marshall:
But the schlub-hottie pairings that have become ubiquitous on screen lately also reinforce a dreary double standard. Guys are permitted to be flabby, lazy emotional wrecks, but as long as they crack jokes, some action will come their way. Girls, ideally, should have a sense of humor — mainly so they can laugh at those jokes — but for the most part they should look good in a bikini and like sex (though not too much and not anything too weird). Maybe someday, though probably not under Mr. Apatow’s aegis, a relatively ordinary-looking woman will have a sex comedy of her own.
My point in all this rambling, is that David Griffith does a pretty good job in one of his essays, “Regarding the Electric Chair My Wife’s College Boyfriend Built in His House,” avoiding that nice loveable loser cliché. I should probably mention that Griffith’s collection of essays, A Good War is Hard to Find, published by Soft Skull Press, is a lot more than honest personal confession and doesn’t really focus on romantic matters (thank God). It delves into a mediation on torture and the art of violence in America. Right, that’s the subtitle of the collection: The Art of Violence in America. Even though I wanted to dislike the book (Griffith taught undergrad at my University) I ended up pretty wowed.
All the insightful, politically-engaging writing aside, this is one of the only pieces that I’ve read in awhile about “nice guys” that rang true, and didn’t seem to serve some higher purpose of bragging about the hot girl that wanted them in the end. So, I’ll share.
I just couldn’t get mad enough to wrestle, to go out there and utterly intimidate and dominate another human being. Coach Nailes used to try to psych me up before each match by saying, “Come on, Griffith. Get Mad!” I wanted to laugh. I won a single match that season—the only season I was to wrestle—and that was a forfeit. The other team didn’t have a 112-pound wrestler; he was sick. My teammates cheered loudly if ironically. When my friends heard about it they howled. I’m pretty proud of that one win. It shows what can happen if you just show up….
I credit this advice with what my wife calls my great “patience” and what my mother has called my “tolerance,” as in, “I think you’re too tolerant.” And she’s right. I’ve tended in my life to give most people the benefit of the doubt, to withhold my judgment until I’ve known them long enough to make an educated decision about whether they’re good or not. In the process, I’ve given sympathy to people who deserved a kick in the teeth, and I count myself in that number. As a result I’ve surrendered what I now understand is considerable moral ground….
Four times I’ve been asked for love advice by complete strangers: once on a long cross-country flight, once in line at the grocery store, once in a physician’s waiting room, and once on the observation deck of the Sears Tower. I like being friendly, but my problem has been and continues to be that I don’t where to draw the line; no topic is too far afield, no action beyond redemption.
