“You are the main trouble with this university”: body-text fonts, pt. 39: ITC Galliard

More Thurber (“University Days,” in My Life and Hard Times):

The typeface is the ubiquitous ITC Galliard, implemented successfully or not depending on the paper, the ink cartridge, the positions of certain celestial bodies, etc. Just look at all those Library of America volumes with their uniform design. In some, the text is beautiful and legible; in others, it’s too dark or too light.

Compare with this sample from Hammett:

Of course the scan quality also affects these samples, but my point is that the print quality varies greatly – even from page to page. I admire Galliard’s letters but never have been tempted to make them the basis of a printable document. Printing body text set in Galliard would be like playing the lottery.

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P.S. regarding the passage in the first sample:

It’s a joke, of course. But as I age, I find myself agreeing rather often with General Littlefield, especially when I use social media. I catch myself thinking that this or that individual pip-squeak is the main trouble with this country (this church, this fanbase, this social class, etc. – and yes, this university, or universities in general).

As far as I can tell, this attitude is indefensible. But the feeling is so strong, it would be illuminating if some philosopher could put together a half-plausible rationalization for it. (Not for scapegoating, which I take to be primarily concerned with types or groups rather than individuals.)

“Buck, your time has come”

From James Thurber, “More Alarms at Night,” in My Life and Hard Times:

My father was sleeping in the front room on the second floor next to that of my brother Roy, who was then about sixteen. Father was usually in bed by nine-thirty and up again by ten-thirty to protest bitterly against a Victrola record we three boys were in the habit of playing over and over, namely, “No News, or What Killed the Dog,” a recitation by Nat Wills. The record had been played so many times that its grooves were deeply cut and the needle often kept revolving in the same groove, repeating over and over the same words. Thus: “ate some burnt hoss flesh, ate some burnt hoss flesh, ate some burnt hoss flesh.” It was this reiteration that generally got father out of bed.

On the night in question, however, we had all gone to bed at about the same time, without much fuss. Roy, as a matter of fact, had been in bed all day with a kind of mild fever. It wasn’t severe enough to cause delirium and my brother was the last person in the world to give way to delirium. Nevertheless, he had warned father when father went to bed, that he might become delirious.

About three o’clock in the morning, Roy, who was wakeful, decided to pretend that delirium was on him, in order to have, as he later explained it, some “fun.” He got out of bed and, going to my father’s room, shook him and said, “Buck, your time has come!” My father’s name was not Buck but Charles, nor had he ever been called Buck. He was a tall, mildly nervous, peaceable gentleman, given to quiet pleasures, and eager that everything should run smoothly. “Hmm?” he said, with drowsy bewilderment. “Get up, Buck,” said my brother, coldly, but with a certain gleam in his eyes. My father leaped out of bed, on the side away from his son, rushed from the room, locked the door behind him, and shouted us all up.

We were naturally enough reluctant to believe that Roy, who was quiet and self-contained, had threatened his father with any such abracadabra as father said he had. My older brother, Herman, went back to bed without any comment. “You’ve had a bad dream,” my mother said. This vexed my father. “I tell you he called me Buck and told me my time had come,” he said. We went to the door of his room, unlocked it, and tiptoed through it to Roy’s room. He lay in his bed, breathing easily, as if he were fast asleep. It was apparent at a glance that he did not have a high fever. My mother gave my father a look. “I tell you he did,” whispered father.

A textbook example of “gaslighting.”

June’s poem

“Lochinvar,” by Sir Walter Scott.

Thurber’s drawings can be viewed here (The New Yorker) or here (Fables for Our Time and Famous Poems Illustrated).

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O young Lochinvar is come out of the west,

Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;

And save his good broadsword he weapons had none,

He rode all unarm’d, and he rode all alone.

So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,

There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

He staid not for brake, and he stopp’d not for stone,

He swam the Eske river where ford there was none;

But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,

The bride had consented, the gallant came late:

For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,

Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he enter’d the Netherby Hall,

Among bride’s-men, and kinsmen, and brothers and all:

Then spoke the bride’s father, his hand on his sword,

(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,)

“O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,

Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?”

“I long woo’d your daughter, my suit you denied; –

Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide –

And now I am come, with this lost love of mine,

To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.

There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,

That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.”

The bride kiss’d the goblet: the knight took it up,

He quaff’d off the wine, and he threw down the cup.

She look’d down to blush, and she look’d up to sigh,

With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye.

He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar, –

“Now tread we a measure!” said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face,

That never a hall such a galliard did grace;

While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,

And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;

And the bride-maidens whisper’d, “’twere better by far

To have match’d our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.”

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,

When they reach’d the hall-door, and the charger stood near;

So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,

So light to the saddle before her he sprung!

“She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur;

They’ll have fleet steeds that follow,” quoth young Lochinvar.

There was mounting ’mong Graemes of the Netherby clan;

Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran:

There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee,

But the lost bride of Netherby ne’er did they see.

So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,

Have ye e’er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

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Eat your heart out, Benjamin Braddock …

Warmth; the philosophy of spying; Thurber; you can’t go home again

Eighty-two degrees (F) today. That’s more like it!

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Something you don’t often see: a philosophy book about spying. And it looks like a good book. (The reviewer is C.A.J. Coady, whom I’ve previously mentioned and who is known for philosophizing about “dirty hands” in governance.)

From the acknowledgments:

I read my first spy novel, Ian Fleming’s Goldfinger (in French translation), about thirty-five years ago. Since then, spy fiction (be it in novel, movie, or TV series form) has been one of my favourite genres, alongside crime fiction. Over the last four years, I have had to read spy novels, watch spy movies and sit through years’ worth of television series. Of all my books so far, this one has been the most enjoyable to research and write, though at times and for reasons that will become apparent throughout, uncomfortably so. Unless I decide to write on the ethics of policing, it is unlikely that I will ever again combine my research with my love for so-called popular culture and so have the chance to indulge in the latter entirely without guilt. Partly for this reason, my elation at having finished this book is tinged with regret.

I’m glad the author admits this in the very first paragraph! It reminds me of the quip:

I am voting for George Bush because I liked his daddy.

I liked Daddy Bush because I liked Ronald Reagan.

I liked Ronald Reagan because he was in the movies.

I like movies.

Maybe someone who likes to watch movies about the Mafia can write a book about the ethics of belonging to the Mafia. (I’d hope the thesis would be an unqualified or negligibly qualified condemnation of belonging to the Mafia.)

For what it’s worth, I’ve met at least two philosophers who were spies.

They didn’t tell me they were spies.

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Karin & I have been reading aloud about James Thurber’s quasi-fantastical hometown – Columbus, Ohio – in his My Life and Hard Times, one or two chapters each night. Our mistake last night was to read Thurber and then the Old Testament. “The Car We Had to Push” and “The Day the Dam Broke” did not prepare our hearts for Leviticus 15.

Re: my own hometown – sad news.

1996, the best year in movie history, pt. 29: Freeway

In Ecuador, the bus companies pamper their clients. A steward will walk down the aisle and give each traveler a packet of crackers and a cupful of lukewarm sodapop. Then he’ll put on a movie. If it’s a long trip, he’ll put on two or three movies.

These are the most popular genres:

• Vietnam POW rescue movies
• martial arts movies (featuring Jackie Chan, if I’m lucky)
• horror movies (Gremlins and My Bloody Valentine are the best ones I’ve seen on the bus)
• cop movies
• gangster movies

Speed has been shown on the bus many, many times.

On one trip, the steward began to play Grease. It took all of five minutes for the passengers to start clamoring for him to turn off that porquería (or maybe they used a stronger word). Which he did.

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Freeway is hands-down the best movie I’ve seen on the bus. The other passengers with whom I saw it loved it, too. They laughed. They cheered. The only passenger who disliked Freeway was my mother.

I can understand why she didn’t like it. Some viewers would be put off by the disturbing illustrations that go along with the opening titles (they show a hungry wolf chasing after teenaged girls). Distasteful, also, are the scenes of sexual molestation, prostitution, drug use, pornography use, prison violence, and murder; the constant swearing; and the lurid, simplistic plot, lifted from the story of Little Red Riding Hood. All of this is played for laughs.

Somehow, the passengers on the route between Santo Domingo and Quito weren’t offended by those things.

Freeway satirizes people’s fascination with depravity. To accomplish this, it goes all-in on the depravity. It stacks the deck against the heroine, laughing at her; then it laughs along with her as she turns the tables against her privileged enemies, exposing their hypocrisy.

As I recall, the bus riders laughed hardest at a scene near the end. The heroine poses as a hooker and then threatens her john with a gun, forcing him to disrobe and locking him in the trunk of his car.

There are funnier scenes. Some of them are funny at the heroine’s expense. But I think the bus riders got the movie’s main point.

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Vanessa Lutz (Reese Witherspoon) is a teenager of low social standing. Very, very low. She can barely read. Her mother is a prostitute. Her stepfather is a drug addict. Certain plot developments force Vanessa to seek out her grandmother, who lives in a trailer park in Stockton, California (Vanessa lives in San Diego). Vanessa’s car breaks down as soon as she drives onto the freeway. Another motorist (Kiefer Sutherland) pulls over. He drives a black SUV, and his name is Bob Wolverton. Vanessa accepts his offer of a ride. Unfortunately, Bob turns out to be a bad samaritan: he is the “I-5 Killer,” an abductor and murderer of low-class young women.

VANESSA: Are you the guy who’s been killing all them girls on the freeway, Bob? [Bob chuckles.] Why are you killing all them girls, Bob?

BOB: ’Cause I have absolutely reached my -⁠-⁠-⁠-⁠ing limit with people like you, Vanessa.

VANESSA: What kinda people am I supposed to be?

BOB: The alcoholics, the drug addicts, the fathers who -⁠-⁠-⁠- their daughters, the drug-addicted -⁠-⁠-⁠-⁠-⁠-⁠-⁠-⁠-⁠-⁠ing whores with their bastard -⁠-⁠-⁠-⁠ing offspring.

VANESSA: Hey, I ain’t no trick baby!

BOB: We call them garbage people, and I assure you, you are one of them.

Vanessa must survive her initial encounter with the wolf, make her way to her grandmother’s house, and confront the wolf one last time.

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Some versions of the Red Riding Hood tale include a woodsman who may or may not end up saving Red Riding Hood from the wolf. In Freeway, the woodsman is a police detective (Dan Hedaya). He’s the only adult who treats Vanessa with respect. The other adults are oppressive authority figures. Bob Wolverton works as a counselor for troubled youth; he gets his kicks stroking the wounds of children’s souls. His wife is a snobbish harpy (a “Karen” in today’s vernacular). Vanessa also meets prison guards who’d as soon torture as rehabilitate her; family members unconcerned about her wellbeing; and social workers and police who’d wash their hands of her as quickly as possible. The detective’s partner treats her as contemptuously as Bob Wolverton does. The parallel is clear: the others may not be serial killers, but they’re murdering Vanessa in other ways.

Or they would murder her if she weren’t such a badass. Reese Witherspoon exults in the role, gleefully hurtling her enemies’ venom back at them:

Holy -⁠-⁠-⁠-⁠! Look who got beaten with the ugly stick! Is that you, Bob? I can’t believe such a teeny weeny little gun made such a big mess out of someone! You are so ugly, Bob! And, hey, I heard you have one of those big -⁠-⁠-⁠- bags that’s like attached to where the -⁠-⁠-⁠- comes out the side. You’re just a big old -⁠-⁠-⁠- bag, ain’t you, Bob! You just think of me every time you empty that -⁠-⁠-⁠-⁠-⁠-⁠-⁠-⁠-⁠-⁠ing thing, -⁠-⁠-⁠-⁠-⁠-⁠-⁠-⁠-⁠-⁠er! …

Them’s some big ugly -⁠-⁠-⁠-in’ teeth you got, Bob!

But she also shows flashes of pious compassion:

This is a crucial question, Bob. Do you believe in the Lord Jesus Christ and take him for your personal savior?

And of remorse:

Oh God. God, that was so -⁠-⁠-⁠-⁠in’ bad.

The detective notes that all of Vanessa’s peers hold her in high regard. By the end of the movie, so should the viewer.

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Of course, there’s no holding Bob Wolverton in high regard, but at least Kiefer Sutherland plays him with gusto. He’s respectable-looking, with a sudden leer that recalls the devil (his father, Donald Sutherland, also grinned devilishly in National Lampoon’s Animal House).

There are other fine actors I haven’t named. They must have been attracted to the script of what’s essentially a B-movie. In its acting and writing, Freeway oozes bravado; otherwise, it’s a rather plain production. If anything, that plainness works in its favor.

Tone-wise, the movie isn’t far from the stories of Flannery O’Connor – especially, “A Good Man Is Hard to Find” and “Revelation” (with its parade of freaks and lowlifes on their way to heaven). See also James Thurber’s “The Little Girl and the Wolf.”

This is one of my favorite movies of the year.

P.S. Roger Ebert, in his admiring review, offers this statement of “Ebert’s Law”: A movie is not about what it is about. It is about how it is about it. This is a helpful principle to keep in mind when judging a movie like Freeway. Unfortunately, the review gives away a lot of details, so you might postpone reading it until after you’ve seen the movie.