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Wednesday 15 July 2020
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MIRROR, MIRROR, ON THE WALL; WHO’S THE BIGGEST WHORE OF ALL?

MIRROR, MIRROR, ON THE WALL; WHO’S THE BIGGEST WHORE OF ALL?


“Does Art mirror Life, or is it the other way around?” is the question framed in one form or another by columnists with a deadline to meet and no cutesey, self-referential anecdotes about how Downton Abbey or something relates to their worthless, parasitic lives.  Let us put this matter to rest – at least as far as this corner of Cyberspace is concerned: ART MIRRORS LIFE.  There; I said it.  

The earliest known art-form – cave-paintings – depicted people hunting and the like: was that the spur that got Homo Sapiens off their hairy arses and picking up spears?  Of course it wasn’t; it was the representation of something that was already going on – and so it goes.  No hominid Moral Majority scratched their heads and expressed concern that these images would inspire a wave of copy-cat mammoth murder; they were simply reflections of about the only noteworthy activity in which our forebears indulged – pictures of people shivering in caves and starving to death might have been awfully poignant, but they wouldn’t put bums on rocks…

The people that make film and TV know this of course; you only need the slightest high-school massacre to have them spewing it at any camera put in front of them; but are the media’s “reflections” always accurate?

In a word: no.  They know that people prefer to see themselves at their very best than as they actually are: clever without being a nerd; concerned and thoughtful, yet not so much so that they don’t enjoy a laugh, now and then; well-rounded, in short – the type of guy or gal than anybody would want to hang out with.  Thus the films and shows that represent these qualities are laden with Oscars and Golden Globes; with Emmys and those lopsided BAFTA faces.

More people might have watched Here Comes The Boom than watched Black Mirror – but you can be damned sure that Charlie Brooker is going to get more wear out of his tux than Kevin James will (sweaty girth notwithstanding) when gong-time rolls around.  Similarly, while Skyfall continues to have millions queueing for vicarious, misogynistic crypto-Fascism, it looks like Lincoln and Les Mis will do rather better* in terms of trophies.

Yes; Art might mirror Life, but the Arts/Entertainment establishment don’t want us to have to really see ourselves for what we are: instead, the Awards shows’ glass shows us as good-humoured, compassionate connoisseurs of the best and brightest the Arts have to offer rather than a bloodthirsty mob of sentiment-drenched, viscerally-guided cretins with the unshaven face and yellowed eyes of somebody who’s been up all night trying to imagine what Megan Fox looks like while taking a shit. Ultimately, the baubles are unimportant: thanks to their shameless pandering, we are always the real winners.

*The Adele theme-song’s success illustrates this perfectly: it’s “classier” than pure pop, without being “difficult” like Opera or Classical.


Words by The Silver Fox
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