Two Grifters Off to See the World: Watch the Scam Car, Please

The other night, I watched Dirty Rotten Scoundrels, that 1989 classic comedy about two grifters who charm heiresses out of their fortunes.  Although I'd (somehow) never seen it, the casino and train scenes seemed familiar.  But it wasn't until Michael Caine led his wealthy, would-be wife to meet Steve Martin masquerading as his two-fries-short-of-a-Happy Meal brother that I realized it was almost exactly the same as 2019's The Hustle with Anne Hathaway and Rebel Wilson.  It was weird to stumble upon the original of a movie that I didn't even know was a remake.  Even stranger, I'd watched The Hustle last spring, around the beginning of the quarantine.  And that made me wonder: why was the universe sending me its funhouse mirror image three hundred and sixty-five days later?  To tell me that 1) the secret to life is scamming people, 2) Michael Caine is more than Batman's butler, or 3) Steve Martin and Rebel Wilson are just a wig away from being the same person?

Or, the more things change, the more they stay the same?

Yeah, it's probably that one.

Another thing that won't change this spring (or ever) is my disdain, not for trains, but tram cars.  It all goes back to the time I was six and was abandoned on a tram with a mime.  No, that's not true.  But this is the second consecutive post in which I've mentioned mimes.  I just don't like them (tram cars, not mimes.  Wait, no, it's tram cars and mimes).  It haunts/amuses me that trams are probably still running all over the East Coast and beyond, their tinny warning ("Watch the tram car, please!"  "Watch the tram car, please!") as unwelcome as a parole officer at a pig roast.  

That said, this pic of regular cars on a regular road instead of a tram car parting a sea of sunburned suckers on the boardwalk will have to do.     

Because diamonds to doughnuts, if it's a scam -- I mean tram -- car, then it's got its share of scoundrels onboard.  And I don't want to be tricked into a game of eat or be eaten; I want to live and let live.  Like in The Lion King.  

But while we're on the subject of eating -- and doughnuts -- I wouldn't say no to a glazed Krispy Kreme.

Book Report: An Object of Beauty by Steve Martin

It's been awhile since I read a novel.  Steve Martin's latest, An Object of Beauty, was as good a choice as any.  It was intellectual enough to hold my interest, even if its austerity kept me at a distance.  It's heroine, Lacey Yeager, is a denizen of the art world, just as Shopgirl's Mirabelle Buttersfield was.  Yet Lacey is a dealer to Mirabelle's artist, a contrast that says it all.  Where Mirabelle was self-effacing and sympathetic, Lacey is unapologetic and social climbing, as reckless with the lives of others as she is with her own.  That having been said, I don't think we're supposed to like her.  If anything, Lacey's tale is a cautionary one.  Her many machinations render her as salable as the paintings she pushes, an enticing object whose internal value has been eclipsed by money as she's auctioned off to the highest bidder.

Beginning as a basement-dwelling Sotheby's lackey, Lacey devises a web of schemes that eventually catapults her to her very own gallery.  Beautiful, brilliant, and brimming with vitality, Lacey is an interesting enough study to follow throughout Beauty's pages.  Her biographer and narrator, the besotted art writer Daniel Franks, certainly seems to think so.  It is his desire to please Lacey, after all, that leads him to betray his usual mild-mannered nature in an act that ultimately destroys his future.  Yet for all her dynamism, there is something human missing from Lacey.  I wasn't moved or enlightened by her journey as I was by Mirabelle's; at the inevitable end, I didn't even feel sad.  But then, as I mentioned in the beginning of this post, this is not the kind of novel meant to evoke emotion.

Such were my thoughts before I read this quote from Joyce Carol Oates on the back cover:

"At first you think that An Object of Beauty will be a romantic comedy, starring a strong-willed, very smart, and very ruthless heroine-adventuress in the New York art world; then, as its irresistibly rendered scenes unfold, you realize that you are experiencing, from the most intimate of perspectives, the quasi-tragic history of an era.  Like Steve Martin's heartrending Shopgirl, this very different novel will captivate your attention from start to finish.  I was reminded of Edith Wharton's The Age of Innocence - we gain admission to a world of glittering surfaces to which few have access, and we are made to feel the perimeters of this world, the abruptness with which its doors are shut against those who violate its taboos.  An Object of Beauty is the equivalent of any number of 'art histories' of the late American twentieth century in the guise of a doomed love affair."

Whereas I was preoccupied with Lacey and Martin's motivation for introducing her to us, Oates views the protagonist as the art world itself.  To her, the central theme of the book is not Lacey's downfall, but the demise of art in a society shaken by economic ruin.  And in a strange way, that makes sense, especially given Lacey's unpalatableness.  It's easier to think of her as a symbol than as a person, as an ironic pawn of the glossy world she strives to manipulate.  Still, for all its fine writing and critical merits, I found it difficult to warm to a story woven around a villain.  Which is exactly why I could never get into "Mad Men."   

Book Report: Shopgirl by Steve Martin

I recently finished rereading Shopgirl, by Steve Martin (yes, he of King Tut fame). I'd first read it years ago and had found it depressing. This time I felt differently.

I was a little ashamed that I'd once found the heroine, Mirabelle Buttersfield, to be pathetic. But then, upon first meeting her I'd been naive enough to believe that life should fit into neat little boxes of accomplishment and overall well-being to be considered successful. And nothing about Mirabelle fits into anything. A twenty-eight-year-old artist with a master's degree, she works behind the glove counter at Neiman Marcus in Los Angeles, selling "things no one buys anymore." She considers her real calling to be her art, which she works on at night. She has massive student loan debt and drives a truck that's falling apart. She suffers from depression. With no boyfriend and no real friends, she is ripe for a one-night stand with Jeremy, an incredibly immature twenty-six-year-old amplifier stenciler she met at the laundromat. Well, maybe one-night stand isn't the right word. Mirabelle has been out with Jeremy once before, and even as she invites him to her apartment, it isn't so much the sex she's seeking as it is a chance to be held.

Not too much later something odd happens. Mirabelle receives a package at her apartment. Inside is a pair of Dior gloves she sold to a fifty-something millionaire named Ray Porter just days before. Then Ray appears at Neiman's and asks her to dinner. On the surface, this turn of events has all the makings of a modern-day fairy tale. But Shopgirl isn't that kind of story. Instead, Martin plunges us into a slice-of-life tale short on plot and big on character. He exposes Ray Porter's mind, revealing him to be, like Mirabelle, on a journey of self-discovery, albeit via a different path. Ray wants to sleep with Mirabelle, but he doesn't want to be her boyfriend. He wants to be able to sleep with other women and tells Mirabelle as much. In a romantic comedy, such traits would make Ray a monster. But in this story he's a guy being up front with a girl who needs more but pretends that she doesn't, if only to hang on to the small bits of himself that he offers. Despite this lack of commitment, Mirabelle continues to see Ray. She likes to be taken care of, likes having something to look forward to, and given her circumstances, it would be cruel of us to blame her.

As with all doomed relationships, Mirabelle and Ray's plays out far longer than it should, finally ending, not in a scene, but because the end is inevitable. Mirabelle moves to San Francisco, having asked Ray to get her an interview for a receptionist job at an art gallery. As in the way of life, her transition is bumpy. She becomes involved with an artist who treats her badly. Her new job is as boring as her old one, but it has the benefit of putting her in touch with the art world, which is important as she pursues her drawing. Also, Jeremy has resurfaced.

After a chance meeting with Mirabelle at a gallery opening back in LA, Jeremy realized that he missed her, and she, in turn, realized that he'd changed. In the interim, Jeremy had gone on tour with a band in an effort to help sell more amplifiers. He listened to the band's entire library of self-help books on tape, an experience that helped him to mature significantly. Also, he evolved into a businessman of some note, the amplifier gig having been a success. This might all sound a bit tidy, but strangely it isn't. If anything, Jeremy's metamorphosis ties right in with Shopgirl's overarching theme of growing up.

Jeremy contacts Mirabelle by sending her a clumsily-wrapped but appealing Swatch watch in a poignant parallel to Ray's earlier gesture with the gloves. But whereas the gloves symbolized Ray's power over Mirabelle, the Swatch is more of an equal-footing peace offering. Jeremy and Mirabelle's relationship grows slowly, beginning as friendship before finally blossoming into the kind of relationship that Mirabelle has always wanted. The gradualness of it makes it sweet rather than saccharine, believable rather than canned.

As for Ray, he and Mirabelle stay in touch for awhile. Over time, he becomes a friend. He pays off her debts and continues to send her money every now and then - not because she's some sort of kept woman, but because he's come to think of himself as her parent and he knows she needs it.

For all its melancholy, Shopgirl delivers a well-earned happy ending made genuine by all the very real trouble that has come before it.