Last night I watched Bruno, Sacha Baron Cohen's mockumentary about a flamboyant gay German fashionisto who wants his own television show. All of his characters--Bruno, Borat, Ali G--want their own American show, and they participate in any event that involves them. Each scene that ensues places him and an unknowing celebrity or private citizen in a situation that make all of the active participants look ridiculous. I remember someone taking umbrage with Bruno's homophobia, but that person, along with GLAAD and PETA and the ACLU, doesn't understand the implicit irony of the whole thing. Yes, Bruno is a caricature, but his exaggerated stereotypical attributes are not strictly a homophobic cartoon of homosexuality. His depravity and shamelessness are as much, if not more, statements about Germany. (I've said it before, but that country's due for a roast.) Or, for that matter, the befuddled reactions of American rubes. It doesn't matter, because he doesn't care.
Baron Cohen's brazen shamelessness and chutzpah are trademarks of all of his characters. In the same way, sort of, I do not care about reactions to me or my words. What's the old adage? Sticks and stones? Well, prove it. I've become impermeable to anyone else's criticisms, so I instantly ignore anything hurled at me that I can otherwise ignore. In this respect, I envy the senile (I was repeatedly taught that this means simply "old," but I think everybody now, reluctantly in the case of some editors, accepts the popular definition of "old person plagued by Alzheimer's."), because nothing gets through their cranial shell. Unfortunately, I have to process what enters my head. Then, I disregard it.
I've said it before, but this does not connote or condone rudeness. It may seem like a fine line, but the distinction is important. Once someone reacts in a way that reveals their true core, I see nothing wrong with poking him until this core is visible, if it's rotten. I have been besieged by MS, and there's nobody to blame (unfortunately, MS is not genetic, so my parents are safe, in this regard). I wish I could take the limitless obstacles of the disease out on somebody, but I can't. Hence, it's not really an option. So I concede the reality of the situation, and thus forgo a number of possible rants aimed at someone else.
The embattled target invariably cries that he (or "she" or "they") is being unfairly focused on, like an insect with a magnifying glass poised inches from its body. I grasp this reaction. It turns from justified anger to undeniable insanity, though, when the "target" sees things that aren't there. Isn't that the definition of "crazy"? At one point, a middle-aged man in an orgy becomes incredulous and then indignant at Bruno's contextual advances toward him. If anything, the swinger looks defective by virtue of being a swinger. Bruno only inserts himself into the mix to underline this, as well as to instigate a reaction that reveals the target's true self, which, in this case, is a homophobic hick who is also sexually perverse.
Like Germans. When someone describes something as "German," odds are that they're talking about something prurient. Conversely, they may also be referring to efficiency and precision.
Context means everything.
R
