When I was 13, I surreptitiously rented “Almost Famous” from the local video store. I was so relieved when the video clerk didn’t follow the store policy of not renting out R-rated films to anyone under 18. I watched it three times in one sitting, idolizing Penny Lane and the ease with which she carried herself. She was everything my stringy-haired, brace-faced, scrawny, and awkward 13-year-old self wasn’t but desperately wanted to be.
I’ve watched “Almost Famous” at least once every year since then. Eight years later, I’m still in awe of Penny Lane. However, my favorite character is now William, writer and director Cameron Crowe’s alter ego. Sometime last year, while watching the movie yet again, I suddenly became aware of my intense and visceral identification with him. But what could have pulled my loyalties away from Penny Lane, with her crop tops and fur coats?
As I aged, I came to appreciate “Almost Famous” less as a visual spectacle and more as a Bildungsroman of sorts. One of the watershed moments of William’s maturation is his realization that Russell—his rock star idol—is not quite the golden god he purports himself to be, but a person, and an extremely flawed one at that.
Though the movie ends happily, by the end, the sparkle that once gleamed in William’s eyes as he listened to records in his sister’s bedroom is completely gone. Having witnessed Stillwater gamble away its groupies for $50 and bad beer, I doubt he can ever appreciate the music in the same way. Although the collapse of my childhood idols was not so immediate or so exciting, it is still jarring to recognize that a childhood hero no longer holds the same significance that he once did.
For me, these sad little epiphanies usually occur when I reread a book I once loved. In high school, I adored Charles Bukowski’s novels. When I picked up “Women” last winter, however, I suddenly understood why people lambast Bukowski as a misogynist. The style that once engaged me now seemed sparse and unfulfilling. Obviously the book hadn’t changed—I was the one who had changed. Granted, Columbia’s core affected the way I read and other classes have introduced me to new writers. Yet a part of me is nostalgic for that time when I read, not with a critical eye for style and rhetorical devices, but earnestly, when I equally appreciated “The Perks of Being a Wallflower” and “Rabbit, Run.”
Just as William’s adoration of Russell waned after witnessing his fallacies, my respect for Malcolm Gladwell likewise dwindled as I came to realize that his conclusions are less than stringent. After “The Tipping Point,” I was obsessed with Gladwell. His analysis of social epidemics appeared so innovative and groundbreaking. One afternoon, I even followed him for 15 minutes in lower Manhattan. However, his subsequent releases—“Blink” and “Outliers”—dismantled my adoration. Sure, I was still drawn in by the charm of his colloquial style, but his conclusions seemed less solid—and are almost fabricated, according to Steve Pinker. Needless to say, I’ve become much more suspicious of Gladwell’s investigative findings. Though I could attribute to my lost faith to the fact that I read book reviews now, I can’t help but ruefully remember my naïve openness. Life was much less complicated when I believed that Gladwell was a groundbreaking sociologist.
Even today, people have difficulty distinguishing the artist from his art. Apart from the recent hubbub over Roman Polanski, Knut Hamsun and Martin Heidegger have frequently been discounted on the basis of their Nazi sympathies. A recent book by Emmanuel Faye has once again stirred up the Heidegger controversy, as Faye demands that Heidegger be reconsidered as a “dangerous” philosopher. Having known quite a few people who have read “Being and Time,” I doubt the book plants fascist and racist ideas in reader’s minds.
Although I am on the “Free Roman Polanski!” team, I myself still struggle to look at the art in isolation. If Salman Rushdie had written only “Midnight’s Children,” his reputation as a literary genius would have been cemented. Yet I cannot deny that his penchant for tall and leggy beauties makes me respect him less. I truly want to like Rushdie, but since Padma, he’s sometimes had questionable taste in arm candy.
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