July 9,2013
By the time the fourth season of The Wire rolled around, it had already become a cocktail party cliché to say that the show operated like “a Dickens novel.” In many ways, this was totally apt, considering the show’s serialized nature, its liberal political conscience, and its sprawling canvas. But David Simon found his literary reference point centuries earlier—centuries, even, before Shakespeare. The Wire, he said, was essentially a Greek tragedy.
“The ancients valued tragedy, not merely for what it told them about the world but for what it told them about themselves,” he said. “Almost the entire diaspora of American television and film manages to eschew that genuine catharsis, which is what tragedy is explicitly intended to channel. We don’t tolerate tragedy. We mock it. We undervalue it. We go for the laughs, the sex, the violence. We exult the individual over his fate, time and time and time again.”
In his Baltimore version of Olympus, the roles of gods were played by the unthinking forces of modern capitalism. And any mortal with the hubris to stand up for reform of any kind was, in classical style, ineluctably, implacably, pushed back down, if not violently rubbed out altogether.
“The ancients valued tragedy, not merely for what it told them about the world but for what it told them about themselves,” he said. “Almost the entire diaspora of American television and film manages to eschew that genuine catharsis, which is what tragedy is explicitly intended to channel. We don’t tolerate tragedy. We mock it. We undervalue it. We go for the laughs, the sex, the violence. We exult the individual over his fate, time and time and time again.”
In his Baltimore version of Olympus, the roles of gods were played by the unthinking forces of modern capitalism. And any mortal with the hubris to stand up for reform of any kind was, in classical style, ineluctably, implacably, pushed back down, if not violently rubbed out altogether.
Sometimes I wonder what Kim Sears thinks. It's hard to imagine being Andy Murray, playing for Great Britain's first Wimbledon men's singles title since 1936 — hard to imagine the pressure of that moment, the ambient crackle of having 60 million people look at you not just as an athlete to root for or against but as some kind of living test of national destiny. It's hard to imagine because most of us, day to day, are not followed by solemn voices intoning that the hopes of a country are resting on our shoulders. Our empathy for anyone who is in that position is probably doomed to remain theoretical, like the laugh lines in a Jonathan Franzen novel, or Manhattan if you've never seen Manhattan.
It's easier to imagine being someone who cares about that person. After all, as fans, we're already accustomed to a certain kind of highly charged powerlessness. It's only a medium-size leap between that feeling and putting yourself in Andy Murray's box during Sunday's Wimbledon final between Murray and Novak Djokovic. Being Kim Sears,1 say, or Judy Murray.2 Going through the agony of watching someone you love endure a terrific struggle, knowing the outcome will change their life, knowing you're helpless to affect it. Trying to stay composed through the stomach-punch of Djokovic breaking your loved one's serve in both the second and third sets. Figuring out what to do with your hands as the anticipation tightens. And then — finally — the flute riff of pure joy that shoots up your spine when Djokovic's backhand ducks into the net and you realize he's done it, Andy's done it, he's won Wimbledon, he's lifted the curse, he's made history.
Lorde - Royals
Cumulus - Do You Remember?
Today's Photo:
Earthbound
Cumulus - Do You Remember?
Today's Photo:
Earthbound
Get On The Bus (Remix)
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