Customer Reviews

Red Lobster, White Trash, & the Blue Lagoon: Joe Queenan's America

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1 star:		(15)

 

 

I picked up Queenan's "Red Lobster" book after hearing a favorable review on NPR and was thrilled to discover that someone was finally willing to expose the utter classlessness of the staples of "unculturalized" Americans. And they are all here - Red Lobster, The Olive Garden, Kenny G, Robert James Waller, Stephen King, et al. Queenan observes in a most deft manner how these sacred cows achieve success not my being excellent, but by appearing to be excellent. In short, they sell it and there's always a fool to buy it.

It's a worthy endeavor because let's face it - Kenny G is NOT jazz. Not even smooth jazz. Andrew Lloyd Webber IS incredibly overrated. The Olive Garden is not a "fancy restaurant" no matter how much your Aunt Meg dresses up before you take her there. And the main problem is not the entities themselves, but the fact that most Americans ALLOW this continued celebration mediocrity due to sheer laziness. In truth, every twenty or thirty-something female who tearfully devoured "The Bridges of Madison County" probably never bothered to pick up a copy of "Madame Bovary." If she had, she would certainly see that she'd been ripped off by a hack.

Of course, some of this comes down to simple opinion. As Queenan criticizes Rush (the band, not the talk-show idiot), he admits to not even being able to remember a single Rush song - and loses a little credibility for taking an easy stab at art rock. But upon finishing "Red Lobster," I was disappointed on two levels. One, for all his cultural snobbishness, Queenan never once sells his side of the equation. What is so much better about HIS tastes, other than the fact that they help him perpetuate the appearance of a refined New Yorker? There's not a hint. Two, in his observations, Queenan seems completely lost on the concept of guilty pleasures. I consider myself a fairly intelligent guy, but I also have those moments when I listen to Kiss and watch an episode of Hawaii 5-0. Why not? It doesn't define me, but boy is it ever entertaining!

That said, this is a good read, especially for anyone who had to suffer through a single note from Yanni in any circumstance.

My pointed sense of cynical humor just about matches Joe Queenan's to a tee--I thought I'd just reveal that bias now and get it out of the way. "Red Lobster" is a surgical expose of Queenan's foray into pop culture, but let's face it--it's also snobbery to the nth degree. Insightful snobbery, sharply written snobbery, downright enjoyable snobbery--but snobbery nonetheless. For that reason alone, "Red Lobster" is not going to be everyone's cup of tea.

But it sure as hell was mine. Queenan's skewering of pop culture icons is pretty thorough and pretty hysterical (I just wish he waited for the "Titanic" phenomenon before he wrote this book), but it's almost unrelenting. However, he's forced to admit that at least a couple of those things he expected to hate really aren't that bad after all--chiefly because those things don't pretend to be anything more than they are. Queenan doesn't have a problem with simple, chinzy and shallow--just as long as it isn't pretentious.

That is Queenan's real gripe with most pop culture--shallow stuff wrapped up as high art. The best chapter by far deals with literary hacks, and delivers the finest backhanded complementary essay I've ever heard in my life! His tirades on such things are often poisonous--but come on. In your heart, you know he's right.

Queenan set an extremely peculiar task for himself in writing this book: he would spend a year reading books, watching movies, and listening to music that he desperately wanted NOT to read, watch, or hear. Masochism on this scale is rare even in the back rooms of adult bookstores.

Although Queenan is a good writer and actualy made me laugh out loud a couple of times, there are two fatal flaws that doom the project.

He's certainly not the first to tackle the subject mattter. Early in the 20th century H. L. Menken made the statement that "Nobody ever went broke underestimating the intelligence of the American middle class," and used the term "booboise" to describe this group. Then in 1964 Susan Sontag's "Notes on Camp" came on the scene.

Worse yet, he confuses fact and opinion. He uses the terms "good" and "bad" in describing popular culture, terms that are more properly used in the realm of morality.

Billy Joel and Phil Collins are singers. That is a fact. Billy Joel and Phil Collins are bad singers. That is an opinion. Queenan's, not mine.

His targets are so easy. Michael Bolton, THE CELESTINE PROPHECY, the musical CATS, Kenny G., Joan Collins, Joe Pesci, Renaissance Fairs, Molly Ringwald, CANNONBALL RUN 2.

Along the way he finds some things that he enjoys more than he expected to. Sizzler Restaurants, CHILD'S PLAY, and Barry Manilow are unexpected sources of pleasure to him.

Although I'm often in agreement with Queenan's opinions, there's no real need for him to express them. What is admired in the arts is very much a product of the time in which the art is produced. Edward Bulwer-Lytton, who opened his novel PAUL CLIFFORD with the immortal phrase, "It was a dark and stormy night," was highly admired in the 19th century; today his name is on a prize given by San Jose State University for authors who deliberately produce the worst writing they can for the competition.

Queenan sets himself as the authority, oops, make that The Authority, the supreme arbiter of taste. This could be fun in a magazine article; at 194 pages he wears out his welcome.

As I read, I finally remembered where I had heard this particular cricket perched on my shoulder. The 1960's. A Houston station would broadcast a double feature of 1950's horror movies. My mother would sit up and offer a running commentary on the acting, writing and directing of these movies (she taught Drama at the college level so they may have really grated on her). I ignored her and kept on watching. Finally, around midnight she'd weary of this and go to bed. I could get another bottle of Coke and more Doritos and watch the second feature in peace.

If the publishers really wanted to have fun, they should go to a NASCAR Race or Untimate Fighting Championship and find a good old boy with his gimme cap on backward. Pay him to watch Bergman films (Ingmar, not Ingrid), listen to string quartets and read Umberto Eco for a year. That could be fun.

I liked the first half of this book. I liked parts of the second half of the book. I just wish that it had gone a bit deeper then the "I saw this awful show/play/movie and it was bad...." approach. The latter chapters could best be described as more of the same.

I did find the book to be at times laugh out loud funny and I generally agreed with his observations about the general dirth of real culture in much of what passes for entertainment. But, ripping Branson for lack of culture is an easy lay-up. Same with John Tesh, much of Vegas, and the people who think Red Lobster qualifies as a fine dining establishment. (I did laugh out loud at his commentary on the looks he got for wearing shorts and t-shirt to the Red Lobster.)

The book is average. There are enough parts that are funny to overcome a little drag at the end. For that reason, I'd recommend it's worth a read, and a quick read at that, for those who simply don't understand the popularity of authors like VC Andrews (my favorite section of the book) and what passes as popular music. What could have made the book a bit stronger, in my opinion, is some perspective on these shows/concerts/movies from the people who seemingly enjoy it.

Perhaps he could have even added a bit of history on our country's cultural evolution. I for one would have liked to understand how we've reached a point where PBS would view a John Tesh concert as a major fundraising broadcast.

Queenan takes a look at contemporary America circa 1999 and makes belabored, uninsightful, derisive remarks about what he sees and he laughs at his own wit, expecting you to laugh along. I would if it was funny.

If you've ever read any of his articles you pretty much know the tone here. That's his whole schtick.

Anyway, if you are interested in knowing that Joe Queenan thought Cats sucked or are in the mood for a 3rd rate Dave Barry wannabe (w/o the laughs) this is the book for you.

Then this book is for you. A professional writer, Queenan can't find a stronger word than "suck" for everything he dislikes? That sucks.
Although Queenan occasionally puts together a real humdinger of a doozy of a quip, for the most part, his course in suckiness consists of holding himself superior to the lowbrow population that determines so much of American culture. Throughout the book there seems to run an undertone of bitterness that Queenan himself hasn't become the household name that Billy Joel, the Eagles, Cats, or even James Michener has. And because he holds these in such contempt, Queenan reveals himself to be worse than those people who visit Branson, eat at Red Lobster, and read Jackie Collins novels. While those people enjoy their lives and probably don't mind if Queenan enjoys his effete, psuedo-intellectual existence, there is one main difference. The former group is willing to let Queenan join in their experiences, welcoming him to enjoy their pleasures. But my guess is that if the tables were turned and some of the great unwashed were to try to take part in Queenan's haughty society, there would be nothing but rejection and scorn. I pity a man who cannot enjoy a variety of levels of entertainment. His world is far poorer than mine. I can relax to "Peaceful, Easy Feeling" or "Piano Man" one evening, and still watch or read "King Lear" the following evening with equal pleasure. Not so the superior Queenan. Sad.

Joe Queenan's pen has always had a large amount of poison in it and in Red Lobster, White Trash & the Blue Lagoon, it spills out in buckets. The premise of the book is that Mr. Queenan is immersing himself in pop culture phenomenon like Cats to find out why something so bad is loved by millions. He goes to Andrew Lloyd Weber plays, listens to music like Michael Bolton, goes to Red Lobsters and heads out to the entertainment wasteland in Branson, Missouri. The description of his journey out to Branson is priceless and classic Queenan. He eventually becomes addicted to these things and he tries to climb out of this entertainment death pit. If you enjoy a cynical writer and someone not afraid to offend, then Joe Queenan is your man.

In "American Culture, American Taste," a more scholarly study of leisure preference, historian Michael Kammen laments the handing of cultural leadership from societal tastemakers completely to the public, then slavishly served by mass culture and easily manipulated by advertising. This has resulted in gradual homogonization, "dumbing down" of all art forms.

In "Red Lobster.." Kammen's cultural famine becomes columnist Joe Queenan's acerbic Admiral's feast. Queenan, former Philadelphian and TV Guide employee (like yours truly), not to mention self-professed highbrow, searched Broadway to Branson, Paris to Cleveland for the pandering, crass, and schmaltzy in books, film, food, theater, and TV. His is a fun, fast read with handfuls of name checks, infuriating depending on how much your preferences clash with Queenan's often sneering opinions.

Queenan saves special criticism for the overwritten books of Deepak Chopra and Robert James Waller, overcooked meals at TGI Fridays and Taco Bell, overwrought music of AC giants John Tesh, Billy Joel, and Kenny G (missing the horrid Bette Midler but praising her former employee, Barry Manilow), and overdone sequels to movies that shouldn't have had a I, let alone a II-VII. His most vicious vitriol is for overproduced Broadway plays like "Jeckyll & Hyde" and "Cats," (from which Queenan enters and exits his lowbrow luau).

You'll disagree with Queenan, often and vocally. His opinions of doo-wop music and the films of Mel Brooks miss the point and, for doo-wop at least, are borderline racist. The same for his views of Branson except for Andy Williams (who receives Queenan's highest praise: "no schmaltz whatsoever"). But "Red Lobster" remains entertaining regardless of your entertainment choices; his takes on live audience reactions, and his praise of older performers, may have you asking, "Why did I like...?" He won't change your mind, but despite offensive language and annoying prose style, he will have you using it. Read it, then write your own sequel.

This is a very funny book. (A good thing, I suppose, since Mr. Queenan makes his living as a humorist!) The author is intelligent, observant, and witty. He skewers the bad and the merely mediocre in various categories: film, television, theater, music, restaurant chains, etc. One caveat- Mr. Queenan ranges far and wide in his quest for the Holy Grail of garbage. He is bound to hit on some things that you happen to like. If that's going to bother you, you may not like this book. If you can shrug it off and just get your jollies from the bits you agree with, then you should enjoy this book. As an example: Mr. Queenan administers a well-deserved thrashing to His Satanic Majesty, Phil Collins. On the other hand, he equates (unfairly, in my obviously subjective opinion) Billy Joel with Mr. Collins. He also doesn't have much good to say about Cat Stevens, Yanni, Kenny G., Toto, John Tesh, Travis Tritt, or Garth Brooks. In the realm of the family restaurant, he trashes Red Lobster and The Olive Garden, but likes Sizzlers and Bob's Big Boy. Well, you get the idea. If you enjoy most popular culture, this book probably isn't for you. If, on the other hand, you think most of the stuff out there is not going into any time capsules for the edification of aliens, you'll have a good time. Here's a "test sentence" to see if you like the style. The victim of this particular rant is Michael Bolton: "And having to sit there and listen while this Kmart Joe Cocker mutilates 'You Send Me' is like sitting through a performance of 'King Lear' with Don Knotts in the title role." Or, try this one: "Red Lobster, I quickly learned, was a chain geared toward people who think of themselves as a little bit too upscale for Roy Rogers." I think the above excerpts give you a pretty good taste of the flavor of the prose. One other red flag might be worth waving: although Mr. Queenan doesn't actually use what are so quaintly termed "dirty words," he does cruise around the outskirts of that particular linguistic neighborhood (using equivalent slang terms, for example). Again, as with "sacred cows," if not-so-poetic license of this sort bothers you, you may want to stay away. Otherwise, get a copy of this book, grab your towel and sunblock, and hit the beach and settle in for a fast, funny read. And, oh yes, don't forget your Phil Collins CD's...

I'll tell you why -- because Queenan systematically and remorselessly attacks EVERY pop culture icon. He does it in a very, very funny way, but make no mistake, at some point he WILL light into your personal favorite movie or book and make a very strong case that if you watch/read it again, your IQ will drop by 5 points.

If you can take the heat, you'll enjoy the book. But if your ego can't take a little bruising, you'll want to leave this one on the shelf.

A few samples from the index should give you an idea what I'm talking about:

Aykroyd, Dan -- capriciously insulted, 42; capriciously insulted, 48

Bolton, Michael -- likened to ebola virus, 7-8

Branson, Missouri -- as cultural penal colony, 166

Cats -- stunning appeal to gawking midwestern huckleberries, 7

Clancy, Tom -- made fun of for no good reason, 142

Collins, Joan -- command of sixth-grade French of, 29

And my personal favorite:

South, the -- entire hilarious chapter cut out of book by domineering editor

In summary, well worth the cover price, but only if you can laugh at yourself.