In the early 90s an Italian team of neuroscientists reported a new class of brain cells in the macaque monkey. These mirror neurons responded just as well during the monkey’s own actions as when the monkey watched someone else performing similar actions. The mirror neuron theory took off and has been used to explain many aspects of what it is to be human—such as language, empathy, imitation and even autism. We re-examine the mirror neuron theory—has been it applied too widely?
“Hey! All you peoples draggin along here. Stop and come stick your ass on a Night of Joy stool,” he started again. “Night of Joy got genuine color peoples workin below the minimal wage. Whoa! Guarantee plantation atmosphere, got cotton growin right on the stage right in front your eyeball, got a civil right worker gettin his ass beat up between show. Hey!”
“Is Miss O’Hara on yet?” Ignatius slobbered at the barker’s elbow.
“Oo-wee!” The fat mother had arrived. In person. “Hey, man, how come you still warin that earrin and scarve? What you suppose to be anyway?”
“Please.” Ignatius rattled his cutlass a bit. “I haven’t time to chat. I have no success pointers for you tonight, I’m afraid. Has Miss O’Hara begun?”
“She be startin in a few minute. You better get your ass in there and get you a ringside seat. I talk to the head waiter, he say he have a table all reserve for you.”
“Is that true?” Ignatius asked eagerly. “The Nazi proprietress is gone, I hope.”
“She jet away to California this afternoon, say Harla O’Horror so good she gonna go dip her ass in the ocean a while and stop worryin about her club.”
“Wonderful, wonderful.”
“Come on, man, get inside before the show start. Whoa! You don wanna miss one minute. Shit. Harla comin on in a few seconds, go get yourself right down by that motherfuckin stage, see ever goosebump on Miss O’Horror bum.”
Jones propelled Ignatius rapidly through the padded door.
Ignatius stumbled into the Night of Joy with such momentum that his smock swirled around his ankles. Even in the darkness he noticed that the Night of Joy was somewhat dirtier than it had been on his previous visit. There was certainly enough dirt on the floor to permit a very limited cotton crop; but he saw no cotton. That must have been one of the Night of Joy’s vicious come-ons. He looked about for the headwaiter and saw none, so he lumbered through the few old men scattered about at tables in the gloom and seated himself at a small table directly beneath the stage. His cap looked like a solitary green footlight. At this close range he could perhaps make some gesture to Miss O’Hara or whisper something about Boethius that would attract her attention. She would be overwhelmed when she realized that there was a kindred spirit in the audience. Ignatius glanced about at the handful of empty-eyed men seated in the place. Miss O’Hara certainly had to cast her pearls before a dismal lot of swine, who looked like the type of vague, drawn old men who molested children at matinees.
. . .
“We no have Dr. Nut,” she said and slammed the tray on the table. “Mira, you are owe twenty-four dollar for these champagne.”
“This is an outrage!” He directed a few swipes of the cutlass at the woman. “Bring me a coke.”
“No coke. No nawtheen. Only champagne.” The woman took a seat at the table. “Come on, hawny. Open the champagne. I am very thirsty.” Again the breath wafted toward Ignatius, who pressed the scarf to his nose so rightly that he felt he would suffocate. He would catch some germ from this woman that would speed to his brain and transform him into a mongoloid. Misused Miss O’Hara. Trapped with subhuman women as co-workers. Of necessity, Miss O’Hara’s Boethian detachment must be rather lofty. The Latin woman dropped the check in Ignatius’ lap.
Yet another great review by someone who get’s it. Also check out this for another thoughtful example of the reviewer’s art. Even Percy has respect for counterfactual history:
One can’t read of that [Civil] War without playing the fascinating game of what-if . . . What if Jackson had lived through Chancellorsville? What if McClellan had listened to Phil Kearny (instead of to the Pinkerton detectives) during the Seven Days? What if Jeb Stuart had tended to business at Gettysburg?
Walker Percy, “The American War” (1957) in Signposts in a Strange Land, 1991, p. 74.
Check out this collection — a “whose who” lineup with an amazing scope.
Speaking of the trials and tribulations of getting The Moviegoer to the screen, if ever there were someone who could do justice to the interior life, it is Mike Leigh. Regardless of his Englishness he has such a strong sense of place, and would therefore be ideal to undertake such a project.
AN ODD THING. Ever since Wednesday I have become acutely aware of Jews. There is a clue here, but of what I cannot say. How do I know? Because whenever I approach a Jew, the Geiger counter in my head starts rattling away like a machine gun; and as I go past with the utmost circumspection and with every sense alert—the Geiger counter subsides.
There is nothing new in my Jewish vibrations. During the years when I had friends my Aunt Edna, who is a theosophist, noticed that all my friends were Jews. She knew why moreover: I had been a Jew in a previous incarnation. Perhaps that is it. Anyhow it is true that I am Jewish by instinct. We share the same exile. The fact is, however, I am more Jewish than the Jews I know. They are more at home than I am. I accept my exile.
Another evidence of my Jewishness: the other day a sociologist reported that a significantly large percentage of solitary moviegoers are Jews.
Jews are my first real clue.
When a man is in despair and does not in his heart of hearts allow that a search is possible and when such a man passes a Jew in the street, he notices nothing.
When a man becomes a scientist or an artist, he is open to a different kind of despair. When such a man passes a Jew in the street, he may notice something but it is not a remarkable encounter. To him the Jew can only appear as a scientist or artist like himself or as a specimen to be studied.
But when a man awakes to the possibility of a search and when such a man passes a Jew in the street for the first time, he is like Robinson Crusoe seeing the footprint on the beach.
From the very excellent Eric Schliesser.
by Ron Shelton
A faithful but uncompelling translation of Percy’s novel to film is exactly what the world doesn’t need.
There are enough bad movies and precious few great novels. Let us allow that one of the signs of The Moviegoer’s greatness is that it cannot exist in any other form.
Binx Bolling was right. The movies always “screw it up.”
manwithoutqualities 