#and therefore erasing what was going on for Louis in 2016

[dogsliampaynedoesntinstagram]

Good morning/afternoon/evening/night, Ralph. (I think I covered all my time zone bases there). I have been thinking lot lately about all the rhetoric in the fandom about Harry’s health and well-being, and how loud it has felt this year. To be clear, I am not asking for you to weigh in with your own speculations about how Harry is doing, unless you feel comfortable doing so. (I’m not telling you what to do either way, obviously, seeing as I am only a little grey icon in your inbox and have no right or way to demand anything of you.) I’m more looking for guidance or even just your rambling thoughts about what is respectful and appropriate when we’re wondering about a celebrity’s well being, and how you handle your own thoughts and assumptions about this. I feel like over the course of the last year we’ve just been inundated with all this panic and speculation about how Harry is unhappy or unhealthy or otherwise not himself, going all the way back to the Jingle Bell Ball Golden performance. Every time we get any new content there’s a wave of people saying he looks too thin and overworked like he’s not getting enough food or rest, or overweight and out of shape (pick a lane, people), he looks stressed, he looks sad, he looks angry, his eyes have lost their sparkle, his smile is dim, he’s addicted to drugs, he’d addicted to drugs because Jeff is doping him up to keep him going, he’s going to quit music, he’s going to hurt himself, blah blah blah. And the people making these “observations” hide behind the assertion that they’re just worried for his health when they’re faced with any sort of criticism.

This whole ongoing rhetoric feels really…icky? I suppose? to me. I do kind of think he has looked more drawn and intense (“stressed” and “sad”) in the content we’ve gotten this year, but I also think (1) the content we’ve gotten has largely been pap shots and stunt stuff, (2) this year he had to postpone his tour, and we know he loves performing so that must have really sucked, and (3) this year has just been rather shit for all of us, we’re all stressed and sad and scared and frustrated by the larger political and social goings on, and by the ways our own lives are impacted. In the past, the content we’ve gotten where Harry looks the happiest and most at ease has been performance footage or him with his family and loved ones. We haven’t gotten any of that this year. It makes sense that the pictures we do get would feature him looking less than completely relaxed and jubilant. And then there are all the assumptions that he’s lost weight or gained weight and is therefore unhealthy or on drugs or drinking a lot and that just honestly pisses me off. You cannot tell jack shit about a person’s health from their weight, and especially not in random pictures taken at random intervals in random settings. To pretend you can is harmful, and Harry probably won’t see you making these assumptions about his mental and physical health based on the prominence of his cheekbones in a set of pap pics, but friends and strangers who are already struggling with their weight will. And the assertion that someone is dealing with an addiction of any kind (or, god forbid, and I hate even typing this, being subjected to drug use at the hands of someone with power over them) is an allegation that a) you can’t make from one picture and b) has really deep, life altering, tragic and painful and hard consequences for that person and all their loved ones, and deserves more respect and deference than to be treated as something you can just throw out into the great wild beyond and then forget about.

But beyond the fact that people are making hurtful and invasive allegations and assumptions about a real person’s private life based entirely on a very very limited and posed and edited set of content that was hand chosen to be given to us, I think the thing that bothers me the most is it feels like the people who are driving these conversations are doing so because they want something from Harry. It’s never (or rarely, I suppose) “man Harry looks tired in the pictures we’ve gotten lately, I really hope he’s taking care of himself, things have been so hard for us all.” It’s always “Harry has been so withdrawn and sad and angry he’s not communicative with fans and he’s not willing to engage with them when he sees them in public and I miss him. I miss my Harry. I miss happy Harry. I want him back. Give me Harry back.” Which tells me the concern isn’t Harry or Harry’s health, but rather the feeling that Harry owes us something that he hasn’t been giving, and now he must pay up or give us a valid excuse.

Then I do, occasionally though, find myself thinking “am I doing exactly what I’m complaining about? Am I assuming the worst of people based on a limited set of insights into their lives?” And in the wake of the Britney legal battle that has been unfolding recently, I sometimes wonder if maybe as fans we do have kind of a duty to call out celebrities when they seem to be struggling or acting incredibly out of character. Most of the time I follow this up immediately with the thought that I’m not responsible for anyone else’s health and safety, much less that of a 27 year old man I’ve never met and have no connection to beyond liking his music and his face, and I do truly believe that, but there is some part of me that feels uneasy just turning off all my concern, because I am a person who tends to be greatly concerned about everyone, who just wants everyone to be happy and healthy and safe and loved, and who wants to help people feel that way, where and when I can. So I guess what I’m asking, in the incredibly long winded and winding way I ask anyone anything (my poor husband, he gets a novel from me every time I ask what he thinks we should do for dinner) is do you have any of these same feelings and concerns? How do your navigate them? Where do you draw a line? Do you just withdraw completely from this type of speculation? How do you balance being a kind, engaged, empathetic fan with being a respectful, responsible fan who knows their limits? (And man, isn’t that the ultimate question?). Your blog is one I end up on whenever something big happens or a particular conversation pops up, because I’ve found that I really value the way you break things down and are willing to consider them from many perspectives, so I appreciate you even taking the time to read this.

Thanks for your interesting thoughts about Harry anon. I feel like there's a lot to respond to here and I'm going to start by answering the questions your questions - and then I'm going to get distracted and talk about a post I really hated.

I'm always a little bit worried about Harry, and all 1D members. He might be really struggling, that's always a possibility. Harry has lived a very intensely scheduled high workload life since he was 16. He might have had all sorts of responses to the fact that that schedule was removed, or anything else that is happening in his life. But I feel like I'm generally pretty boundaried about those concerns.

I think part of it is because my base line assumption is that boyband members are pretty fucked up. You don't need to know a lot about the history of touring musicians to know that. I think I've said before that if 1D members are eating every day and not doing needle drugs then they're doing better than we have any right to expect (and if they're not eating and are doing needle drugs, then those are coping mechanisms for intense stress and there's no shame in either of them).

I do think it helps with boundaries to be starting from a point that acknowledges how hard it is to be a popstar. I'm all about fantasies of omnipotence and in my day to day life I think I can fix all sorts of things, but I don't think I can make any difference to any 1D member's life.

In addition, I am profoundly affected by having been a fan throughout 2016. We know what it looks like when Louis was going through a horrendous, devastating, trauma - and it looks pretty normal.

None of this means I don't have opinions, or worries, but I am aware that my opinions or worries aren't facts. It's rare that I think that my worries should matter even to people reading my tumblr, let alone other fans in general, and certainly not Harry. You say 'am I doing the same thing as other people assuming the worst about people...', but I'd argue that that's actually not the problem. There's nothing wrong with assuming the worst of people. What is wrong is when fans think their assumptions about a celebrity should matter to anyone else. You don't have to turn off your concern to think that it's not a priority.

I definitely think it would be a very bad thing if people took the moral as the 'free Britney' movement as 'fans should call out celebrities when they think they're struggling'. That sort of surveillance isn't effective or useful. What has been useful for Britney is solidarity in a well documented power struggle, which is a very different thing.

And I can't emphasise enough how important the 'well documented' aspect of this is. What most fan worrying about Harry amounts to is: 'I don't like what he's doing, and there's no way he'd do things I didn't like and therefore there must be something wrong with him'. That's a really controlling way of thinking about people. I really think it's important not to reproduce that abusers logic.

I am pretty well insulated from that sort of discourse from a very well weeded dash. But I saw a post that was mostly about other fandom stuff, that treated assumptions like: "Harry must hate being with Olivia and he's suffering and it's clear he's not happy with his image and his team" as building blocks that you don't even have to argue for (this is the post - and I'm going to come back to one of the things someone said that was even worse in a second).

Lets stop for a minute and imagine that Harry hasn't got a problem pretending to date Olivia, and his main concerns are about the messiness of life and his career at this point in time. It is really fucked up and agressive, and pretty hateful towards Harry, to say 'oh he couldn't possibly want this. It's clear that he hates it.' etc. (I feel like I've been making this argument for years about people who object to Louis doing such things as smoking and not performing middle-class culture for them). When fans trash talk what Harry is doing at the moment, and suggest that believing he could be choosing what he's doing is some how an act of huge disrespect to him, there is every chance they are trash talking him and the choices he's making.

The final thing I want to draw attention to is how often this sort of fan storytelling is combined with a profound lack of interest in what 1D members are actually going through. The tags screen shotted and added on to the post I reblogged actually described Holivia as Douis 2.0. Apparently assuming that there was absolutely no connection between Douis, and Louis and his family's ultimately successful efforts to privacy as Jay was dying. What the fuck is wrong with people that they ignore that, and erase that? There's far more interest in making up 1D members suffering so that fans can continue to tell the stories they want to tell, than actual acknowledgement of what we know that they went through.

Sorry I got distracted. What I'm trying to say is that there's nothing wrong with having feelings about celebrities or telling stories about them. But it's so important to acknoweldge the limits of your knowledge and power, even when fandom discourse encourages the opposite.

[notbemoved-blog]

#OscarsSoDiverse: “O.J.,” “13th,” and “Negro,” Focusing on the Color Line

#OscarsSoWhite is suddenly SO last year, as The New Yorker’s cover this week announces. Now it’s #OscarsNotSoWhite, as diversely pigmented actors and actresses populate some of the year’s most memorable feature films. From Fences to Hidden Figures to Moonlight, an array of stories about race and its impact on lives both real and imagined filled the screen and have the opportunity to compete for some of 2016’s most sought-after movie prizes—best actor and actress, best film, and even best director.

  For my money, though, the most interesting category from a race-in-America perspective goes to Best Documentary film. Three of the five nominated films in the DOC category try to get at the question of the role of race in American life, and each one succeeds in various ways of pointing out the perennial problem of America’s original sin. I am Not Your Negro, 13th, and O. J.: Made in America—all three made by black film makers—push the boundaries of our understanding of the issues African-Americans face in our society and demonstrate the enduring legacy of chattel slavery, Jim Crow segregation, and the devaluation and twisted logic fraught in the social system based on judgment of human beings based on the color of their skin. 

Perhaps the most fascinating of these three films is Ezra Edelman’s O. J.: Made in America. This seven-and-a-half-hour-epic traces the life and legacy of fallen American hero everyone came to know simply as O.J. From football legend in the 1970s to TV ad man (running through airports for Hertz) and B-grade actor in the 1980s to alleged wife killer in the “Crime of the Century” in the 1990s, O. J.’s story is a cautionary tale about race, class, and privilege in glitzy L.A. and how the lens of racial bias colors all of our judgments, no matter which race you are classified as belonging to. 

This well-worn story of the murder of Simpson’s wife, Nicole Brown, and the unfortunate Ron Goldman—a waiter who was simply returning a forgotten item from the restaurant he worked at—would seem an odd choice for making a film documentary for a contemporary film maker. But Edelman, the bi-racial the son of Marian Wright and Peter Edelman, perhaps had it in his DNA to deconstruct the most talked about trial of his youth and disentangle the threads of racism, sexism, heroism, and any other -ism tied up in this tragic tale of woe-all-around. 

I was not inclined to spend the time watching a series of five 1.5 hour-long episodes to get to the bottom of whether or not O.J. was guilty. I had lived through the “Year of Living Dangerously” as the crime was reported on and sensationalized, and as the trial was broadcast daily by breathy journalists and pondered over nightly by millions of Americans. But while attending the Washington Ideas Forum put on by The Atlantic this fall, I heard Ta-Nehisi Coates call the film the best documentary of the year and then interview Edelman about the making of the film. I became intrigued and wanted to see what all the fuss was about. 

It is not a pretty story. It takes us through the allegations that Simpson, a black man, had killed his sexy and glamorous white wife in a jealous rage one night and then jetted off to a motivational speaking engagement. The details are horrifying, and Edelman does not back away from any of the gore or titillating facts of the case. We are re-introduced to the entire cast of characters: the sly defense attorney Johnnie Cochran (“If it [the glove] doesn’t fit, you must acquit.”), the hapless prosecutors Marcia Clark (white) and Christopher Darden (black); O. J.’s friends and detractors, who regularly were paraded into our living rooms back then thanks to the rise of daytime talk shows; the uber-bad-cop Mark Fuhrman whose reputation and career took hit after the media portrayed his as the fall guy; and perhaps most notably the grieving father of Ron Goldman, whose dogged determination to nail the SOB finally brings Simpson to his knees and knocks that cocky smile off of his face. 

But the film is so much more than a seedy whodunit. Edelman takes the opportunity to explore how O. J.’s family got to California (the Great Migration), how he rose from lower-class circumstances as a result of his athletic gifts to become the classy “new black” role model, one that whites could readily embrace, and how he attempted to erase race from the equation—expecting people to judge him based on his abilities, not on his skin tone. It is also a story of how celebrity culture kills the soul, of spousal abuse and how women’s claims about their abusive husbands are consistently devalued, and how the lived experience of race in America could so completely color the way one looked at the O. J. trial. If you were white, O. J. was obviously guilty; if you were black, there were no end of explanations as to why he was innocent and being framed. 

Most of the players are still around and offer “color commentary” on their roles throughout the trial phase of the film. We see footage of them then and now. We also hear from some of the jurors who (spoiler alert!) found O.J. innocent mostly because they were not going to give their sainted hero up to Whitey after all of the bad things they had experienced at the hands of “the Man” throughout their lives. It is shocking, mesmerizing, absorbing TV (the series aired on ESPN), and I can’t say I’ve ever seen anything like it. Most of all, as Time Magazine called the O. J. story, it is “An American Tragedy,” played out in five parts. 

  Ava DuVernay’s 13th takes as its subject the Thirteenth Amendment to the U.S. Constitution—the one that outlawed slavery—and demonstrates how what might seem as a throw-away phrase in this two-sentence amendment has become a catalyst for mass incarceration and the ruination of the lives of multiple generations of black American males. The film boasts an impressive array of talented scholars and social commentators, including Harvard scholar Henry Louis Gates, CNN talking head Van Jones (who predicted the Trump victory), New Jersey junior Senator Cory Booker, and 1970s radical activist Angela Davis, to name but a few.

“Neither slavery nor involuntary servitude, except as a punishment for crime . . .  shall exist within the United States. . . .”

 13th could be called a more “standard-style” documentary, providing insight and information on a topical subject in about 90 minutes. Documentaries of this sort are the fondue of modern American intellectual life. You can become conversant on any subject by dipping into a melting pot of ideas—stirred regularly by experts on the matter—and emerge feeling satisfied (knowledgeable) but craving more. 

The inspiration for 13th in part comes from Michelle Alexander’s breakthrough book The New Jim Crow, which provided the first mass-marketed insight into mass incarceration when it was published in 2010. The book became a New York Times bestseller and inspired a fresh look at America’s prison industrial complex through a racial lens, leading to a call for criminal justice reform that continues to this day. 

DuVernay features Alexander prominently throughout the film, citing statistics and historical developments that led to our current situation whereby every third black male in America can expect to spend time in jail as compared to every seventeenth white male and where 40 percent of our entire prison population is black. The film is full of harsh facts like this, often presented in stark black and white graphics, almost like a teacher writing notes on a chalk board. It shows how our prison population grew from 370,000 in 1970 to more than 2.3 million in 2014—a vast increase during a time when crime was actually going down. The causes for this development—Bill Clinton’s 3-strikes policy, mandatory minimum sentencing requirements, the militarization and over-funding of the police force—all conspire to take judgement out of the justice system and lock up more of our (mostly black) citizen and for longer periods of time, often for minor offenses.

13th is a whirlwind tour of our “crimigration” system—as young black men are moved from urban blight to prison in a few easy steps. We hear about the school-to-prison pipeline and the prison industrial complex run often by private corporations for profit. We get history lessons, from Nixon’s call for “law and order” to Reagan’s criminalization of drug abuse to Obama’s plea in 2015 for massive changes in how we deal with the growing crisis (and costs) of nearly five percent of our population being locked up—the highest percentage of any nation on earth. All of this is presented to the soundtrack of hip hop, with Public Enemy coming out looking like prophets for calling out these social outrages at the dawn of the rap era. DuVernay’s film is shouting at all of us. “We are tolerating this,” one of her many guests says. We are all, therefore, complicit. 13th is a damning documentary of the American justice system, and no one is spared its fury. 

I am Not Your Negro, on the other hand, serves its bile cold, which makes it all the more difficult to swallow. It chokes in your mouth and you want to vomit. This spoken word documentary, directed by Haitian-born filmmaker Raoul Peck, apparently recounts word-for-word the 30-paged treatment that author James Baldwin created to sell his publisher on his idea for another blockbuster book in the late 1970s when his star seemed to be waning.(Excerpts from Baldwins other works are also included.) The pitch hangs on the fact that Baldwin was friends with the three most lionized American black martyrs of the 1960s—Medgar Evers, Malcolm X, and Martin Luther King, Jr., and works its way through Baldwin’s grieving over their deaths and what each man meant to him and to the American black civil rights movement.  

Though the book was never completed (and McGraw-Hill sued Baldwin’s estate for the $200,000 advance Baldwin received), the treatment itself is its own mini-masterpiece of analysis of the black man’s plight in modern American life. Baldwin was such a character, such a force on our country’s incessantly race-obsessed scene in the 1950s and 1960s. His articles and books were devoured by the literati and bohemian crowd alike for their sharp, acerbic insights into white American consciousness. And the film shows wonderful clips of Baldwin during his heyday, most tellingly when he debated William Buckley at England’s Cambridge University in 1965 and when he appeared on the Dick Cavett show in 1968. Baldwin’s fire proves too much for his white counterparts—the lost look on the face of the typically unflappable Cavett when the incendiary Baldwin lets off a riff about how blacks are treated is alone worth the price of the ticket.  

Actor Samuel Jackson gives voice to Baldwin’s prose as a jazzy aural backdrop infuses the proceedings with a “Birth of the Cool” vibe. But the author’s prophetic vision is what dominates the film as Baldwin tells how his conscience urges him back to America from his Paris expat hangouts as the country begins its long-overdue civil rights saga. And he recounts in detail where he was and what he felt when each towering figure was gunned down and how he felt compelled to visit their wives and families after each assassination. He doesn’t speak of the toll these visits took on his own consciousness. He doesn’t need to. The pain and outrage inform every sentence of this sharp, acid script. It is a wonder that the man didn’t just self-immolate on screen, so full of passionate observation and Cassandra-like foreboding was he, desperate to make white America understand what it was doing to its own citizens and its own self. 

Of course, I was particularly taken by the photographs of Jimmy Baldwin with Medgar Evers and his children. Having now met the grieving widow and daughter, having stood on the very driveway where Evers was executed, having touched the places where the bullet entered his home and rested on the kitchen counter, I was choked with emotion to see those scenes replayed. “Why is our history so sad?” I wondered. “Why must we relive this nightmare again and again?”  

James Baldwin and Medgar Evers in the carport of the Evers home in Jackson, Mississippi, where Evers would be gunned down several months later.

 These are the questions Baldwin seems to wrestle with, as well, and his answers point not only to government policies, but to the culture itself. Baldwin, it turns out, was a film buff from an early age. And this is where the film offers some relief but also some context. We see film clips of such varied fare as Birth of a Nation (the film also makes a brief appearance in 13th), Imitation of Life, Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner, as well as Doris Day’s and Gary Cooper’s works (films Baldwin hated for their sickening portrayal of pathetic white innocence). 

Baldwin’s mother and his auntie would frequently take him to the picture shows when he was young to escape their daily drudgery. There, at the age of 5, Baldwin was enthralled by a tap-dancing Joan Crawford and fell in love with Bette Davis, who possessed similar “bug eyes” just like his. He later came under the spell of his white school teacher who mentored him, brought him books to read and took him to various cultural events all over New York City. Because of her, “I could never hate white people,” he reveals, which make his dire predictions of where America is headed all the more heart-rending. “To look around America today,” he tells us from the grave, “is to make the prophets and the angels weep.”  

James Baldwin’s words writ large at the new National Museum of African American History and Culture in Washington, DC.

It's hard to tell which of these films (if any) will be showered by Oscar’s gold tonight. All three are deserving. Perhaps, as often winners are wont to say, “It’s an honor just to be nominated in such good company.” Baldwin’s takedown of Hollywood kitsch may cost Peck the Oscar; DuVernay’s rage at the institutional racism that pervades our current justice system may come on too strong for most Oscar voters (most of whom, as we well know, are not black); so perhaps it’s the languorous, complex, perfectly-attuned-to-our-times O. J. film that Edelman serves up that will win the honors. There’s also the distinct possibility that these three “race films” will cancel themselves out and one of the other two nominated films (one on autism, the other on refugees) will take home the prize.

 No matter. The Academy of Motion Pictures has finally broken through the color barrier and nominated three exceptional studies of black American life. This in itself is worthy of celebration. Perhaps now that we see the problems more clearly we can begin to make some progress? I can hear Jimmy Baldwin’s wry, hoarse, infectious, catty laugh all the way from heaven. “Don’t bet on it,” he’d say.

[dogsliampaynedoesntinstagram]

What are your thoughts on the Louie theory that the Azoffs/Sony are deliberately sabotaging Louis' career?

So I’m going to take this step by step. I think those theories are wrong about the Azoffs in pernicious and dangerous way, show almost no understanding of how record labels work, and are pretty dehumanising to Louis.

Big picture - I think that the theories are a way that people make sense of an incongruity between what they want and what’s happened.  It’s easier for a lot of people to imagine that there’s a single actor thwarting what they want to happen - a big bad behind the scences.  Than it is to accept that the world is a messy difficult place, and we only have partial information.  

So I’m going to take each of the pieces in turn to explain why I disagree.

Azoff is a capitalist asshole who is (or rather was) making money out of trying to control the touring industry and gear it towards those who make the most money.  He’s very into fighting people he hates in the industry and does so in quite a public manner.  There’s no need to be confused about who he is or what he does.  

But the idea that they’re trying to sabotage Louis - why?  What’s in it for them?  They’ve got rather a lot on - why would they give a fuck?  There is no evidence for any of the things people say that the Azoffs are doing.   Are the Azoffs doing all sorts of dodgy things that make the music industry and society worse in order to further Harry’s career of course (that’s a good working definition of a music manager anyway).  But why would any of it have anything to do with Louis? Why does Louis matter to the Azoffs?

I think it’s also important to point out that those who make the Azoffs the big bads of their story frequently pass the anti-semitic point of no return (there is a lot I would disagree with about the chart of conspiracy theories from Tik Tok, but I think that’s a really useful concept). The idea that the Azoffs control a large number of media outlets, is pretty much baked into the theory that they’re sabotaging Louis - and it’s an anti-semitic trope that invalidates everything anyone who advances it says.  And it also shows a sort of media illiteracy that makes me despair (the idea that there must always be someone behind stories running and not running - is based on the complete denial of agency of the press - which is just absurd).

Onto Sony - as I understand it the theory is something like ‘Sony is a single entity and its behaviour towards Louis is active sabotage (and there’s an implicit ‘to help Harry’ - which doesn’t eve)

The problem with this theory is that it ignores how shit record labels are.  It tries to paint Louis’ experience with his record label as exceptional and entirely about him as a person and a complicated agenda - rather than understanding that most artists have shit experiences with their record labels.  

Louis’ explicitly said that there was conflict with his label about his sound - that’s easily the most common experience artists have with labels.  In addition, I’m sure there were disagreements with marketing and budget.  He was also at a label that was winding down, and therefore would be very limited in the resources that were available.  There are all sorts of very normal reasons that are part of the music industry for Louis to have had difficulty with his label. On top of that there are lots of players in an artist’s teams and often they can have their own messy and competing motivations. 

The idea that fans can look at Louis’ career and know - with some sort of x-ray vision - exactly what’s going on behind the scenes is absurd.  And the fact that what is revealed is focused on his relationship with Harry, which has always been central to fan preoccupations, as opposed to some guy being an arrogant jerk for reasons that have nothing to do with Louis - show how much this is fan centred storytelling, rather than any understanding of reality.

I also think that this approach dehumanises Louis - and I think it does that in two ways.  First it is predicated on downplaying his career. It requires denying that his music has spoken to and connected with people.  It’s holding up a very narrow definition of success, and ignoring everything else.  (There were people who were calling BTY a flop back in the second half of 2017!).

People who think they knew what was going on have responded to Louis talking about the difficulty of finding his solo sound with this weird denial, because it didn’t fit their narrative.  

More importantly, it requires erasing the trauma that Louis’ has experienced over the last five years.  One of the most telling aspects to me about the stories fans were telling were how little they changed at the end of 2016 and March 2019, when we learned we’d been wrong about everything.  The idea that we didn’t know what trauma he was going through and the difficulties that he faced, but still some fans were absolute right about everything that was going on behind the scenes - is a claim that trauma doesn’t matter.