Singapore: It's All Good News

I wrote this in March, 2009, for what I intended as the first post in a blog about Singapore life. I didn't start the blog because I realized that much of what I had to say about Singapore was in this disparaging vein, and I didn't feel like pissing off my friends, my employer, or the ministry that granted my work permit (this is the kind of writing that finds foreigners suddenly not getting their visas renewed for unexplained reasons). I could have posted it anonymously, but given how much I knocked others for being critics without faces or guts, I didn't want to be one myself. In the end, I succumbed to the same self-censorship that I lambasted in this piece. In retrospect, I wish I had done more writing like this and posted it while in Singapore, but an additional disincentive was some kind of intellectual anaesthetic in the city's air that made me too docile and content. There are, of course, lots of happy topics to blog about in Singapore, but they'd been covered to death by expats. I didn't want to be the 4,009th amateur to blog about food, sunshine, and shopping malls.

Singapore: It's All Good News

A populace that allows itself to be too tightly controlled finds itself drained of creative significance.

Despite having worked in the Singapore media market for almost two years, I still start my day reading the Canadian news. The Vancouver Sun and The Globe and Mail are my first daily ports of call. Vancouver's Georgia Straight is still my "local" paper. I also frequently hit The Guardian and CNN. Sometimes I watch CBC's The National online. Never do I pick up a paper in Singapore. Sure, The Straits Times is usually lying around the office, but once I've scanned the headlines, I've consumed all I need to know for the day about my adopted home.

Why? Singapore is an ostensibly free country with an ostensibly free press. Compared with media owned and controlled by authoritarian states -- China's for example -- the major papers of Singapore have the gloss and texture of the most informative American or European periodical. But Singapore's major papers and TV networks are, ultimately, owned and controlled, not without interference, by the government. Unlike in China, the media here are not required to submit their works to government censors before publication or broadcast. Anyone is free to publish whatever they wish, so long as they are willing to suffer the repercussions when the government or the courts are offended. It is then that publishing licenses are known to be suspended or withdrawn, or writers put at risk of demotions or terminations, with causes never specified. Fear of the government's wrath guarantees an uncritical press offering a daily string of "good news" headlines and one-sided stories. Newspapers from neighbouring Malaysia are banned to protect the delicate population from being exposed to potential criticism of Singapore's undertakings.

My first job in Singapore was with a current affairs periodical that was relatively new to the market, a blend of The New Yorker and GQ with a dash of The Economist. Such a publication had been rare up to now, for reasons that are as much political as cultural. Analysis and opinion of issues related to local governance risks attracting unwanted attention from officials. On the rare occasion when that boundary is breached, citizens don't lap it up; instead they feel embarrassed for the poor sods who just put their careers on the line. When I have questioned this thinking with acquaintances, suggesting that they should be grateful for the occasional offering of free thought, they give me a gentle reminder: "You're not in the West. Respect our Asian values." In other words, it's okay to have an opinion, as long as you keep it to yourself. Though, I suspect this value is not particularly Asian, as you’d find many Japanese, Taiwanese, or Thai (to name but a few) being unafraid to take political stances.

Our magazine set about to engage Singaporeans on a broad range of subjects and heighten tolerance for open discourse. During a relaxed office party one night, I made a modest proposal to the general manager. "Wouldn't it be great," I said, "if we could get this magazine into bookstores in some other major cities -- Hong Kong, Tokyo, London, LA, New York." The idea being, if I can pick up The New Yorker or The Economist here, and if we're in their leagues, shouldn't we be available in the same cities as their readership? The GM was dismissive. "Err, you don't understand, there's no point. It's not our market." I pressed the argument that it could be vital to establish our title as a leading voice on affairs in Asia-Pacific, given the breadth of regional issues we covered. Alas, I was "too idealistic."

But, I learned, Singapore has no voice on its own affairs, let alone the world's -- and it doesn't want one. As I carefully observed past editions of the monthly, it became apparent that they had fallen into the trap that the government set for all local media: Print only flattering stories about Singapore, don't comment too much on the local government, and emphasize the discord and instability of surrounding Southeast Asian countries. The content tended to portray Singapore's neighbours as third-world backwaters run by crackpots. The intent was not to make Singapore look flawless in comparison, but that was the result of the self-censorship. So, the GM was right after all. Our magazine fell just short of measuring up to the substance of the international magazines that inspired us. Alas, the magazine lasted about one year and the company folded.

This perversion of open dialogue is the country's greatest deficiency. The result is that Singapore, a beautiful city with one of the most livable environments you'll find anywhere, is the world's proverbial dumb blonde -- she's the seductive woman every man desires, but take her out to dinner and she has nothing intelligent to say.

The list of newspapers and media outlets that have been sued -- libel-chilled into silence -- by founding prime minister Lee Kuan Yew and his family is exhaustive and includes the Asian Wall Street Journal, Time, The International Herald Tribune, BusinessWeek, The Financial Times and Bloomberg. The Far Eastern Economic Review was ordered to fork over damages so grand that the magazine was unable to pay and thus stopped publishing in Singapore -- an effective ban for the misdeed of quoting an opposition member. In 2004, The Economist paid damages to the prime minister and his family for using the word "nepotism" in an editorial to describe his family's record of receiving prominent government appointments. No media outlet has ever won a case overseen by Singapore's ruling-party-appointed judiciary.

It's also worth noting that the Singapore constitution's guarantee of freedom of speech and assembly has so many conditions attached as to make the freedom redundant. Any gathering of more than five people without a police-issued permit is illegal. While the authorities ignore family barbecues, beach volleyball and pro-government gatherings, permits to assemble in public have been withheld from the opposition, and small gatherings in private spaces to discuss political affairs or screen critical documentaries are often broken up when discovered.

Singapore's ambassador to the USA, Chan Heng Chee, gave this defense of Singapore's heavy-handed approach last year to The Washington Post's Fred Hiatt: "On an aircraft carrier [America], you can be playing soccer in one corner and have jets taking off in another, and the carrier remains stable. In a rowboat [Singapore], it makes sense for everyone to row in the same direction."

That metaphor must be greatly offensive to the Singaporean people, who are highly educated and have no desire to see their country destabilized. Nor do they view their homeland, one of the world's most lucrative economies, as a shoddy rowboat. The fact is, if the opposition were free to air their grievances without fear of persecution or imprisonment (the opposition leader has been jailed twice for stating that the judiciary is not independent), Singaporeans would continue to re-elect the ruling party by wide margins. The people here are proud of the accomplishments of the ruling People’s Action Party and their sound governance. They are not going to be swayed by a cantankerous opposition who are in no shape to govern. [2012 note: the opposition parties have become less cantankerous, more credible, and better admired since I wrote this.]

But let's assume that the Singapore government is justified in limiting its critics and forcing the local media to self-censor. What's the harm, when pretty much the entire population is well looked after and is offered a high quality of life?

What's lost when people are taught to be quiet and never question is that they lose the capacity for self-examination, a trait that bears much of the creative voice. Count the number of important filmmakers and novelists who have emerged from China, for instance. Even that country, with its repressive, dictatorial government, has bred an intellectual class responsible for internationally renowned works of cinema and literature. Jia Zhangke has been called "the most interesting filmmaker around" by the venerable critic Jonathan Rosenbaum, and acclaimed American director Martin Scorcese says that Jia has "redifined cinema." Lou Ye, despite being officially banned from filmmaking, continues to ply his trade and recently won the Best Screenplay award at Cannes for his Spring Fever. Zhang Yimou is known worldwide for great films such as Raise the Red Lantern and dozens more. Other great films by Chinese-born directors include Yi Yi and The Blue Kite, the latter being a critical portrait of family life during China's transition to Communism, a theme that required the film to be smuggled out of China to screen at festivals. Then there is the prolific Chen Kaige, best known for Farewell My Concubine.

Chinese novelists with works published worldwide are numerous, but let me mention two: Eileen Chang, who wrote Lust, Caution (which became a celebrated film by director Ang Lee), and Ma Jian, author of the recent Beijing Coma, a biting look into Chinese politics and the Tiananmen Square massacre.

All of the above-mentioned works are available in the West and have been reviewed by the world's most discerning critics.

And then there are the internationally recognized painters of the Philippines, whose works are often politically charged. By contrast, Singapore bans politically themed art, which only stifles its relevance on the world stage.

Singapore's novelists, filmmakers and other artists are talented and numerous. But I would challenge any professional critic or festival-goer in the West to name just one. That is not to say the works produced in Singapore are not good, just that virtually none has warranted international recognition. (The "small" population of 4.6 million cannot be a factor; Paris has 2.2 million people and no one would doubt that city's global creative influence.)

When you look at the artists mentioned above, here is the difference: They prove the maxim that the personal is political. Even for the Chinese, who are certainly discouraged against speaking their minds, often with force, they somehow find the courage to do so, and in the process, like Filipino painters and other political artists, tell the world something relevant about their lives and their nation. Singaporeans, on the other hand, are too content to risk the comforts of their first-world standard of living. Their novels and films dutifully refrain from socio-political themes that might offend the sensibilities of their government. Many of these works have individual merit, but end up working collectively and unconsciously as propaganda. Like the local press, their appearance of being free and uncensored is just that -- an appearance -- and the result is an artistic community that does not resonate with the world outside its borders.

Not to say there are no films or other artworks that deserve recognition. Singapore Dreaming, for one, is a film that could easily stand with Yasujirô Ozu’s Tokyo Story as an incisive portrait of family life in a particular place and time. Or a more contemporary comparison could be made with Woody Allen’s Manhattan-centric Hannah and Her Sisters, as it deals with the disintegration of the hopes and cultural expectations of each family member until they are lost (and found) in a an emotional catharsis. The matters dealt with in Singapore Dreaming are unique to its inhabitants, and there’s no reason this work shouldn’t be held up as some sort of defining portrait of the nation’s heart, the same way Yi Yi and A City of Sadness are for Taiwan or To Live is for China. But why was Singapore Dreaming not screened at any of the world’s film festivals nor reviewed by any notable critic (according to release dates and reviews on IMDB)? I would hazard a guess that Singapore’s film community does not feel the hunger or need to connect with international audiences, just as the magazine I worked for saw no use going beyond its constrained borders. Singaporeans have just become so conditioned to not being recognized that when they do produce a great work of art, they have no network or institutional knowledge for finding wider distribution.

Which brings me back to why foreign media is more germane to my life. The dearth of unfettered creative expression in Singapore has left me with little sense of place to connect with. I feel an emotional and personal relationship with the nation, but not an intellectual one. When I visit Borders or Kinokuniya now, when I’m looking for some mental stimulation, I go straight for the magazines I went for at home – The New Yorker and the political pages of Vanity Fair foremost among them. Local media offers nothing comparable. The only magazines that survive in this country are those dedicated to home decor, cars and fashion. 

Artists and journalists raised in an environment with this superficial level of dialogue are also likely to have nothing to say about their country -- and if they do, they keep it to themselves, which is the same as not having an opinion at all.

For the government, that's just the way they like it -- all rowing in the same direction with no destination in mind.

Expat vs. Immigrant

The following article was written at the request of Singapore's daily Today newspaper. One of their section editors contacted me in late 2010 while I had been working at ANZA, asking if I'd be interested in writing about Singapore life from an expatriate perspective. He replied: "I absolutely love the piece. Extremely well written and raising some great points." But later on he said his editor put it on hold, and after that it just died. I can't cite any proof of overt censorship, but my guess is that the paper didn't want to publish anything that would put the wealthy expat population in a bad light. The inability to have this kind of open conversation, I believe, is indicative of an overall problem in Singapore that exists between the local and expat communities. Locals resent expats for a variety of reasons – turning quaint character neighbourhoods into yuppie enclaves, increasing costs of living, using the nation for a few years of quick buck-making while leaving behind nothing but higher rents and shophouses transformed into unaffordable furniture stores. But the establishment media of Singapore seems to have a vested interest in ignoring such divisive issues, while promoting the white culture that is a vital part of bringing money and (sometimes perceived) talent to the island. I thought it was important to have an "ang moh" such as myself touch on the way white people present themselves in Singapore's expat media. Apparently Today didn't find it so vital.

Expat vs. Immigrant

There are few words that I have found as bothersome as the one that labels us whiteys in Singapore – "expat". I intend no offence to expats or those who call themselves such. It is a convenient label that I have taken to using myself on occasion, but the way the phrase is used in Singapore gives me some particular difficulty.

Prior to residing in Singapore, I had no problem with the word. I lived briefly in China and have had six months’ worth of extended stays in Tokyo over the years. In both countries I heard the word "expat" bandied about, but Westerners there also found the word interchangeable with "foreigner" or a host of other terms used to define immigrants.

Yet I wonder why it would be so derogatory to call a Caucasian "foreigner" in Singapore. I suspect there’s still a subconscious tie to the colonial days, and we as a Western community have not entirely accepted the idea that our days of owning the place – and not being foreigners – are over. As such, the word "expat" has taken on myriad connotations relating to race, status and wealth. We must ask why dark-skinned labourers from around the region are "foreign workers" but never expats.

My understanding of "expatriate" is that the emphasis is supposed to be on the "ex". It has always implied, to me, a person who has cut ties with his home country for economic, ideological, or political reasons – and, unlike most Singapore expats, with little intention of returning home. Growing up in Canada during the Vietnam War, my idea of an expatriate was a draft dodger from America who fled his country out of fear or disgust, or a Beatle or Stone who settled abroad to escape UK taxes.

During my experiences in China and Japan, most of the expatriates I met were intellectually curious types who were fed up with the lack of opportunities in their homelands, and had found a new place on the globe that was simply more compatible with their personalities. Many of them had arrived single and settled with a local spouse. In Singapore, though, expats are a more transient bunch than in other Asian countries, often arriving with a family, holding on to property back home, and returning after a few years. There seems to be nothing "ex" about the patriation of most Westerners here.

The way the word "expat" is used in Singapore exemplifies how we use language to convey power, ethnicity and influence, and this is what I find troubling. I was attuned to its usage the first time I saw Expat and Expat Living magazines on the shelves at Borders. With their cover images of affluent white people lazing on tropical beaches and lounging amidst stylish interiors, I had to wonder how these publications made local Singaporeans feel about a certain race coming to their country and demanding nothing less than a life of privilege. I debated if my discomfort was justified or if it was a hang-up I had to get over.

I do not mean to disparage those magazines. I cannot fault them for finding a profitable market and forming legitimate businesses around it. Expat Living is my former employer, and I was once published in Expat, which I found to be a source of some good investigative journalism. At the same time, what does it say about Singapore that such titles don’t exist in Tokyo, Hong Kong, Seoul, Shanghai, or Taipei? Certainly those cities have expats, too – it’s just that the word has different connotations in those places. (It may also say something that not enough of us cared for a magazine called Expat to keep it in business; it folded in January.)

On Expat magazine’s still-existing website, it uses the words "affluent", "well-heeled", and "upscale" to describe a typical expat reader. Expat Living’s advertising card says that its consumers have "high disposable incomes". I find it problematic that the Singaporean usage of "expat" makes it sound like a lifestyle choice rather than a common noun that should describe non-local workers of all incomes and races.

It would be amusing to one day find a new magazine on the racks, one with a cover showing a prosperous white couple enjoying drinks on Dempsey Hill, with a simple, neutral title that applies to us all – Immigrant. After all, that is what we call the Asians who settle in our countries. What makes us so different?

For fans of Woody Allen's lesser achievements

At some point in the 1990's, I became a fan of an obscure little film magazine out of New York called CINEASTE. Some its writing was conceited, frequently using big words that never appear in regular conversation, like verisimilitude and solipsistic, just to set itself apart from, y’know, common folk. But I enjoyed its long 20-page reviews that treated movies as art, not pop-culture products. Given their tendency to let writers ramble, I thought I’d give it a go and submit this. I was shooting way out of my league and it’s no surprise it didn't make it to print.

CELEBRITY

Written and directed by Woody Allen

With Kenneth Branagh, Judy Davis, Joe Mantegna, Leonardo DiCaprio

113 minutes, 1998, USA

Originally written November, 1998

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

CELEBRITY illustrates, more than any of his other films, how Woody Allen is one of America’s most gifted filmmakers yet one of its laziest screenwriters. His latest film embodies all of the characteristics of some of his best work: dreamy black-and-white cinematography, eccentric casting, incisive dialogue, and a portrayal of the human condition at its most riotous and painful. Though what is most painful, and not at all funny, is the way Allen continues to repeat situations and gags from previous scripts and make references to his own work, to a point where it has gone beyond amusing to grating.

Kenneth Branagh and Judy Davis occupy the two principal roles (Allen does not act this time around) in what is otherwise an elaborate ensemble piece. Branagh plays a middle-aged travel writer who cruelly dumps his uptight wife of 16 years and takes up celebrity journalism, believing that a life of screwing models and partying with teenage movie stars will satiate a lifetime of unfulfilled desires. Davis, as the jilted wife, inadvertently and uncomfortably becomes enmeshed in celebrity culture herself, as her TV-producer boyfriend (Joe Mantegna) helps her break out of her shell to become a hack gossip reporter on a local newscast. Both actors clearly relished their roles and their bold performances gave the film most of its depth.

Davis in particular is a standout. It’s clear why she’s recently Allen’s actor of choice and is perhaps one of the best results of his split with Mia Farrow, who could not play such nervous characters with the sly wit Davis brings to her roles. She is a joy to watch, as she transforms from a frazzled, greying English teacher who is so uncomfortable in her own skin that she feels immense guilt for finding pleasure in life, to becoming the ditzy TV personality with an outrageous blond makeover. Some of Allen’s most acerbic lines seem written for her voice, which drips with cynicism: “I’ve become the type of person I always hated, but you know, I’m really happy.”

Assuming his mentor’s nervous stutter and jittery mannerisms, Branagh took his role in this film very literally. Basically, he does a toney Woody Allen impression, a schtick that would have looked trite coming from another American comedian, but having a charismatic, English Shakespearean actor pull off such a peculiar giddy performance is perversely exciting.

           

Branagh is himself an auteur of sorts, best known for his grand screen adaptations of Shakespeare, and director of DEAD AGAIN and PETER’S FRIENDS. His first stab at both writing and directing was 1995's A MIDWINTER’S TALE, which itself was a small, pretentious black-and-white film that garnered comparisons to Allen by the handful of people who actually saw it. Having displayed this reverence for Woody, Branagh must have found it irresistible to now play Woody in a film directed by Woody, and in black-and-white no less.

Perhaps it would have been more appealing to see Branagh invent a distinctive character. Yet you could also argue that he brings realism to a role that Allen could have only played as slapstick.

Take for instance a scene in a nightclub that draws a subtle parallel with Allen’s PLAY IT AGAIN SAM, where in both films its characters try desperately to pick up beautiful women by dancing with affected suave personalities. Allen played the scene for straight laughs in 1972 and, because of his nerdy looks, could never do it any other way. Today, Branagh does the same routine with stark authenticity. In that singular moment, he becomes someone we have all known, the narcissist whose behaviour is so pathetic and transparent that it’s both comical and sad to watch.

True to that narcissism, Branagh trades in his Volvo for an Aston Martin, an affectation that he believes will help him score with the chicks. Driving him further down the road of shame is his lack of journalistic ethics. With his notepad barely open, he’s attempting to either screw or pitch screenplays to his interview subjects. Branagh is perfect as the flawed, desperate character whose infantile behaviour eventually destroys himself and the people who love him. The final frames of the film are poetic. A chance meeting with his ex-wife shows him that she has become exactly the person he left her for; beautiful, famous, and content. As he sits silently with the look of a bitter, broken man, a fleeting image before him brings his story full circle and elegantly sums up his life and mental state. It’s a deft piece of writing that required a skilled actor.

The title is a bit of a misnomer, though, since most of Allen’s films relate, in one way or another, to the phenomenon of celebrity. The stock lead character in most of his films is commonly a writer, director, or performer of some kind. CELEBRITY itself has only little more to do with the subject than ANNIE HALL or PURPLE ROSE OF CAIRO. In fact, this movie could have been called HUSBAND AND WIFE, as its story covers the same territory of Allen’s HUSBANDS AND WIVES (with one less couple and half the urgency). The themes of philandering, emotional turbulence, bad behaviour, and insecurities of being single are reworked over a new setting.

This is not a satire on celebrity status. Celebrity culture provides the backdrop, and while questions are mischievously posed about why people who do little of much use become famous, this is more of a motif than commentary. I don’t believe Allen is capable of making any significant comment on the subject and it’s just as well he didn’t try.

It’s difficult to criticize a filmmaker who has crafted one film per year for three decades with such a high degree of artistic success. The prolific output is admirable, but it must be pointed out that his films of late have suffered from writing that appears rushed and poorly constructed. CELEBRITY, like DECONSTRUCTING HARRY before it, is a good film that could have been excellent if Allen had the patience to spend time refining his script before rushing into production.

Re-hashing themes and situations from previous stories is both his trademark style and the reason he can quickly churn out scripts. He works, it seems, within an insular world of New York's cultural elite that bears little resemblance to anyone’s reality except his own. It’s quaint how you will never find one of his characters using a computer (typewriters only) and there will always be a reference to somebody’s analyst. Allen’s narrow focus has often been a forgivable and delightful quirk because he usually draws something original, sometimes profound, from his familiar stories about angst-ridden Big Apple intellectuals.

But CELEBRITY marks a new and annoying low in Allen’s penchant for self-reference. A defining example is a portion of dialogue that is re-written from one of his films of two decades ago, in a segment about a woman who is “polymorphously perverse.” It’s the first time I’ve noticed Allen blatantly plagiarize himself and I was bothered when I recognised the dialogue but couldn’t immediately place its origin. (A quick scan of the memory bank the next day and a review of the DVD confirmed the source as ANNIE HALL.) “Where have I heard this before?” is not the sort of thing anyone should be thinking while trying to enjoy a movie.

Allen draws attention to his body of work in other subtler ways. In a scene where Joe Mantegna takes Davis to a posh premiere of a foreign film, he comments about the fictitious Greek director, “He’s one of those pretentious assholes who shoots everything in black-and-white.” The joke is meant to appear as self-deprecating, although it serves the opposite. The filmmaker in question is probably someone Allen would admire in real life, and the comment is his reminder to the audience that he’s the only major American director who regularly shoots in the colours of cinema’s origins (his sixth time in 19 years). He’s an indulgent artist who compensates for his pretensions by making films about other indulgent artists.

There are other brief but distracting moments that made me question Allen’s comedic judgment, mostly awkward bits of screwball comedy that seem inappropriate for the tone of the film. For instance, a scene in which Branagh faces his worst fear – a confrontation with an esteemed book critic who hated his two novels – and faints. Fainting is a farcical device that does not happen in real life to healthy adults. It’s a writer’s cop-out. Allen could have found a more poignant way to end the scene had he paused and given it some thought. What’s more puzzling is that this is the second film in a row in which Allen has a character sigh, roll the eyes, and flop to the ground simply because they were flustered. That happened in DECONSTRUCTING HARRY, which also featured some stale jokes about lawyers and aluminum siding salesmen residing in Hell. A writer of this caliber believing that people could actually laugh at such hackneyed material is evidence that he needs to read what comes out of his typewriter before he rushes it in front of a camera.

Despite my reservations about Allen’s slipshod writing, I still enjoyed CELEBRITY a great deal. There is a strange nuance to it that’s absorbing. The glamorous settings and black-and-white cinematography (by Sven Nykvist, who has previously worked with both Allen and his idol Ingmar Bergman) captured the mood of two people immersed in a world where they are out of place and out of touch.

On its own merits, this is a relatively good film. As a fan of Woody Allen, though, it’s difficult to watch without thinking of his superior films such as MANHATTAN or HUSBANDS AND WIVES. CELEBRITY reminds us that Woody Allen is indeed a great talent, but that ultimately he has nothing new to say about the themes he’s treated more effectively in better works.

~~~~~~~

Post script, 2012: Out of the few people I know who've seen this film, I'm the only one who found it even remotely enjoyable despite its flaws. I saw it twice in the cinema, and both times the friends I was with just shook their heads. At the second screening, there was only one other couple in the audience (it wasn't a word-of-mouth sleeper hit, obviously), seated severals rows ahead of us. At the end of the film, one of them turned toward us and hollered back, "What the fuck was that?! Did you like that? I mean, seriously, what THE FUCK!"

The movie that tried to make AIDS funny

This is a film review I wrote in 2003 for the now-defunct gay movie site Outrate.com. The editor not only cut my review in half, he took out the parts I felt were most essential to my point. So I didn't write any further pieces and eventually forgot that Outrate existed. (According to the Wayback Machine, the site vanished around 2005.) It wasn't just Outrate I forgot about, but my review. So it was a pleasant surprise to re-read this when I stumbled upon it while cleaning out some folders on my laptop. I had been thinking about starting a blog to unload some of my unpublished writing, so I figured this little discovery would be a good place to start.

JEFFREY

Directed by Christopher Ashley

Written by Paul Rudnick (based on his play)

With Steven Webber (Jeffrey), Michael T. Weiss

113 minutes, 1998, USA

Originally written April 2003

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

JEFFREY wants to be a touching romantic comedy about AIDS, but it also asks, what kind of movie would Woody Allen make if he were gay and untalented? The opening shot of fireworks over Manhattan, the strangers who stop and give advice while Jeffrey ruminates on the sidewalk, the talking to the camera, the hyperventilating neurotic, the old-time jazz soundtrack; it's all lifted from ANNIE HALL and MANHATTAN, among others. Not that homage can't be done successfully, but in this case it's done with so little flair that it's only a reminder of how great Allen's films are and this one isn't.

The Woodyisms, however, are overshadowed when the film starts to develop some misguided attitudes toward HIV and AIDS. Made in 1995, JEFFREY was released at a time when, for those HIV-negative, we were adjusting to living in a state of constant anxiety and were getting somewhat perturbed with this fatal annoyance hovering over our every sexual decision. Gays weren't that visible in the mass media, and much of JEFFREY's popularity could be attributed to seeing for the first time a film convey our frustration and angst around AIDS, regardless of how poorly.

The story begins with a string of Jeffrey's fretful sexual conquests, rendered unpleasant by broken condoms, fussing over the accuracy of each other's HIV tests, and partners who are so over-protective they practically wrap their whole bodies in plastic. Having come to the conclusion that sex is no longer fun, Jeffrey's response is to give up sex completely and live a life of absistence.

This decision is not only unrealistic, it's unreasonable. Jeffrey's problem isn't HIV, but that he chooses partners who are just as neurotic as he is. Monogamy would be an option, or finding partners who are emotionally grounded as well as safe, or not having anal sex if broken condoms are a concern. A mild dose of anxiety is one of our best defenses against getting HIV, but the film would rather have us believe that this isn't a cautionary instinct, but a problem. Of course, if Jeffrey wasn't neurotic, we wouldn't have a comedy. Then again maybe a flat-out farce was never the right vehicle to explore the complex issues around how we react to AIDS.

Jeffrey finds his new life of chastity in jeopardy when he encounters Steve at the gym. With the muscles and tough, sexy looks of a fitness-magazine model or a porn star, Steve attempts to lay a fat kiss on Jeffrey on the weight bench. Now, we know that when sparks fly, they do fly fast, but no one in their right mind would risk losing their gym membership by making out with a patron in the middle of the facility (that's what the showers are for). The fact that Steve would make such a vulgar move in public less than a minute after "hello" would be enough to frighten the most experienced slut. Jeffrey does indeed run away, not because he's given the creeps, but because he panics. Turns out he thinks this douchebag is the Mr. Right he's been searching for all his life.

Just before all faith is lost in this mess, we're introduced to Patrick Stewart in his first film role after becoming universally known as Captain Picard on STAR TREK: THE NEXT GENERATION. One of Stewart's gifts on STAR TREK was that he could make bad dialogue credible by delivering it with such earnest conviction that even the worst episodes became somewhat engaging; there was a fascination with seeing bad television done as Shakespeare. Stewart brings the same presence to Jeffrey, playing Sterling, Jeffrey's best friend and a flamboyant queen.

Sterling serves two purposes in the story. One is to re-introduce Jeffrey, by chance, to Steve. Their chemistry is affirmed by dead dialogue, such as when Steve proclaims, "If I don't touch you soon, I may explode," and Jeffrey's assertion, "You could change me, you could change the world." The world? Really?

(While I point out the film's amateurish script, it's also worth noting that the writer, Paul Rudnick, has actually written some sharp satirical pieces under the name Libby Gelman-Waxner in PREMIERE magazine, and has written several popular novels and plays.)

Steve quickly reveals that he's HIV-positive. As if Jeffrey wasn't a wreck to begin with, he's now in a tailspin. As Woody Allen once wrote (and Rudnick could never deliver such a line), "I hear 50 thousand dollars worth of psychotherapy dialing 911."

Sterling's more important purpose, though, is to act as a foil to Jeffrey's fear of HIV. His partner, Darius (a bemusing airhead and the only other satisfying performance of the film), is fighting AIDS, and together they make an example of how an HIV-negative person can have a fulfilling relationship with a positive man. Love, apparently, conquers all fears.

However, it's a mixed message. Jeffrey grills Sterling as to how he can't fear contracting HIV, having lived with an infected man for two years (you'd think this conversation would have happened much earlier in their friendship). Sterling's response is, "We have safe sex," which would be a reasonable enough reply if he hadn't followed it with, "It's the best!" as if safe sex were a product he was selling, like laundry detergent.

Later in the film Sterling proclaims, "HIV-positive men are the hottest!" What it is about the virus that makes infected men so much hotter is not explained, nor should it be. While it's commendable that a film would try to combat negative attitudes about positive men, it's a ridiculous message that gives us yet another stereotype, by forming a blanket value judgment of a group without considering them as individuals.

And the broader message seems to be that, since HIV makes you a hot guy, maybe you should go out and get it, too. I don't think Rudnick intended to say as much, but it's prescient of today's safe-sex backlash. In today's culture, Jeffrey wouldn't abstain, but would end his neurosis once and for all by snorting a line of meth, barebacking and getting infected.

JEFFREY is padded with several vignettes and fantasy segments that detour from the story. Rudnick uses these sophomoric skits to turn his film into a smorgasbord of issues, which might have been somewhat more amusing in the 1990s atmosphere of political correctness, but by today's standards look anachronistic. The film deals very superficially with gay bashing, transsexuality, sexual compulsiveness, and even nipple piercing. There is one genuinely funny scene where Jeffrey imagines what it would be like to get sex advice over the phone from his parents, but after 50 minutes of flat jokes and pointless asides, the ability to enjoy the film has been extinguished.

The film's insult is not in the stale humour, however, but when it tries to smack us over the head with its cast-iron message.

Such as the passage where Jeffrey turns to the church for spiritual guidance. Jeffrey cries out to the priest, "Why did God make the world this way? Why do I have to live in it?" Perhaps if Jeffrey were the one dying of AIDS, he'd have a right to ask that question. The fact that he's healthy and only contemplating dating an HIV-positive man, it's offensive that the film asks us to sympathise with his unjustifiable anguish.

The dramatic climax comes when Jeffrey is late for a hospital visit and misses Darius' last moments before dying. Sterling is in grief but finds Jeffrey's condolences hollow and eventually asks him to leave. "Darius thought you were the saddest person he ever knew," Sterling reveals. "He had a fatal disease yet he was a thousand times happier than you." Jeffrey has a different take. "I don't want Steve to die on me the way Darius died on you. Is this what you want for me?"

It's a powerful scene that succinctly portrays two honest reactions to AIDS. But then the script dips once more into the well of cliché and sanctimony; the ghosts of Darius and some of Jeffrey's relatives appear in the hospital corridor to deliver another pious life lesson. Jeffrey is taught that all of his opinions were wrong and Sterling's opinions were right, and he should pursue Steve after all.

There would be a touching comedy-drama here if only Rudnick had let the audience understand the characters' faults, fears, and strengths without judgment. Which brings me back to Woody Allen. If his work is to be aped, Rudnick should have taken a closer look at MANHATTAN or HUSBANDS AND WIVES to see how complete and honest Allen is with his portrayal of people who struggle to find comfort in love, and find it a journey and not some breakthrough that follows a sermon.

Having said all that, I am open to the fact that maybe I didn't fully understand this film. Consider this: Jeffrey announces that he's moving back to Wisconsin, presumably to escape the urban AIDS crisis. When he changes his mind in the closing reel, Steve contemplates taking Jeffrey as his boyfriend. But he's concerned: "You were going to run away. How do I know you won't leave me?" Jeffrey's response: "Because I'm gay and I live in this city. I am not an innocent bystander."

If that sounds as convincing to you as it did to Steve, perhaps there's a whole level of meaning to this movie that I couldn't grasp.

~~~~~~~