A Suggestion for Chris Rock Plus My Oscars Picks; Be Wary of the Gig Economy

Here’s a thought—while everyone expects Oscars telecast emcee Chris Rock to skewer the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences with jokes highlighting the failure to nominate for a second straight year even a single black actor for an award, perhaps a more visible and enduring display of protest Sunday night would be for the entertainer to make his entrance on stage in whiteface. 

Daring? No doubt. Provocative? To be sure. Extreme? You betcha. In bad taste? No more so than the academy’s lily-white nomination list and its mostly white, elderly male membership roster.

Rock could still joke about the “benign” discrimination, but the image of him in whiteface would linger in everyone’s minds far longer than any amusing words he might utter. 

As for the awards, here are my choices for the top six categories:

Best leading actor—Eddie Redmayne (The Danish Girl)

Best leading actress—Brie Larson (Room)

Best supporting actor—Mark Rylance (Bridge of Spies)

Best supporting actress—Alicia Vikander (The Danish Girl)

Best director—Alejandro G. Iñárritu (The Revenant)

Best picture—Bridge of Spies

The Gig Economy: In case you’ve never heard of this term, it’s a modern day euphemism for outsourcing. In other words, hiring freelancers, domestic or foreign, to do work on a job-by-job basis that formerly was done in-house by staff. 

Result? Fewer full-time workers and generally lower fees as freelancers compete for assignments. Lower overhead for companies, lower earnings for workers. For an example of the Gig Economy in practice, listen to Monday’s Marketplace Money Report on NPR: http://www.marketplace.org/shows/marketplace-morning-report/marketplace-morning-report-monday-february-22-2016

Net Net Result? While we in America bemoan the relocation of manufacturing jobs to lower wage overseas locales and hope to combat the drain of good/high paying jobs with training for technology-based work, the Gig Economy might undermine that effort. As explained in the Marketplace Money Report, Instapage paid a Vietnamese techie just $200 to design a logo, a fee that surely was equivalent to a prince’s ransom in Vietnam but wouldn’t fill a pauper’s purse in the United States. 

There’s no holding back the tide of technological advance and the globalization of the world’s economy. I’m fortunate to be retired. My mid-30’s children’s jobs probably won’t be affected, I hope. But my grandchildren? It is not a comforting thought to consider the range of employment opportunities in the year 2036 and beyond. 

Bird Talk: Looking out the kitchen window I can report birds enjoy chocolate babka cake, the remnants of which they devoured in short order since I filled the feeders. Previously they’ve savored shredded matzoh, bagels and assorted other flour-based ethnic delights.

Car Talk: Before buying a car three years ago, I pondered getting a Subaru Forester, even going so far as asking the salesman to commit to rearranging the letters of the car’s rear nameplate to Forseter. Alas, we wound up buying a Ford C-Max hybrid, instead.

End of story, until Ellie and Donny went car shopping after their recent move to Omaha. They chose a Forester but resisted my entreaties to ask the dealership to flip the first “e” and “s” in Forester.

My extended family has often contemplated how simpler our lives would have been had my parents, when Americanizing my father’s family name, chosen Forester instead of Forseter. Or even Forsetter with two “t’s.” At least half the time we’re addressed as Forester. One high school teacher of mine called me Fenster. 

Dad, though, wanted something closer to Feursetzer. So Forseter it became. You get to roll with the punches, so to speak, but I still think it would have been cool to drive around in a Forseter Subaru. 

Copy Talk: Three times (at least) in the last few weeks I’ve been reminded the hardest task for any writer is to proofread his own copy. I won’t resurrect my mistakes other than to suggest that sometimes even a faux pas can turn out to be a slick turn of phrase.

Back on January 21, in a piece titled “The Bride of Frankenstein Is Back,” I wrote “(Sarah) Palin gave birth to the no-nothing Tea Party which only wants to tear down government, or, in her case, find excuses for behavior and commentary beyond the pale.”  

I must admit, I meant to write “know nothing Tea Party.” However, when confronted by a friend with the actual text, I justified it by the Tea Party’s history of saying no to everything. 

Quick thinking on my part, but not very truthful. More like Stephen Colbert’s truthiness standard.

My Ties to Bridge of Spies

Gilda and I have seen lots of movies over the past three weeks, the best of which, in my opinion, we saw Saturday night. Bridge of Spies tells the mostly-true-to-life story behind the exchange of prisoners among the Soviet Union, East Germany and the United States. 

In return for sending convicted Soviet spy Rudolf Abel back to Russia, America received U-2 pilot Francis Gary Powers (shot down during an aerial spy mission over Soviet territory) and student Frederic L. Pryor (charged with espionage in East Berlin). To scrub fact from fiction, here’s a link: http://www.historyvshollywood.com/reelfaces/bridge-of-spies/

(Of the 11 movies we’ve seen, in descending order, my top flicks:

Bridge of Spies

Spotlight

Brooklyn

The Martian

The Revenant

The Big Short

Joy

Creed

Carol

Star Wars: The Force Awakens

Mad Max: Fury Road) 

How could I not like Bridge of Spies? From the History vs. Hollywood Web site I was reminded that the prisoner exchange transpired on February 10, 1962, the same day as my bar mitzvah.

Even without that coincidence I identified with Bridge of Spies. During one of my trips to Dusseldorf for EuroShop, a once-every-three-years massive trade exposition, I made a side trip to Berlin. I traveled on February 16, 1990, just three days before the section of the Berlin Wall near the Brandenburg Gate was to be torn down.

I walked many of the same streets the Tom Hanks character followed in the movie, entering East Berlin through Checkpoint Charlie, then down FriederichStrasse, a main avenue. It was a rainy, sometimes snowy, day. Chilly down to the bones. I had the sniffles, just like Hanks had in the movie.

With their political order tumbling around them, East German border guards were as friendly as a Wal-Mart greeter. And why shouldn’t they have acted kindly? No longer armed, their main job function was to let German nationals pass through while smiling pleasantly at foreigners and directing them to exit where they entered East Berlin. It seemed to be a petty rule, but no more inconvenient than being told in an American department store that gift wrapping could be obtained only in the basement or some other out of the way location.

Along FriederichStrasse I encountered a wide range of visual stimuli. Just as an East German movie character complained that the Russians hindered reconstruction efforts after World War II, I observed many buildings in various states of bombed-out disrepair a full 45 years after the war ended. Intact buildings were generally drab apartment house blocks that made our inner city projects seem stately. 

The disparity between the two sides of Berlin was evident from two cars parked next to each other, one a boxy, eight-foot Russian-made Lada, the other a sleek, four-door Mercedes. Both cars were in front of the Grand Hotel, one of the more impressive hotels I had seen in any major city of the world. In the main lobby burnished wood, marble, chrome, plush carpeting and a majestic central stairway transported any visitor from the gray and gloom of a failed utopian vision to a world of privilege and pomp. The Grand Hotel was not for every, or maybe any, casual comrade. Room rates back in 1990 ran over $200 a night.

Before I left Berlin I chipped away at the Wall. I had stopped at a Woolworth store in West Berlin to buy a small chisel and standard-sized hammer. I soon discovered how pitiful my purchases were to the task at hand. The reinforced concrete gave no quarter. You couldn’t even classify as pebbles the pieces I managed to dislodge.

Standing next to me was a man with a huge sledgehammer and 30-inch chisel. He was breaking off softball-size or larger chunks. He took pity on me and offered me his tools. As I remember it today, my new efforts were hardly more rewarding. He took pity on me once more, and gave the Wall a few choice whacks for me. I left Berlin with a bagful of souvenirs, most of which I gave away to family, friends and colleagues at work. I kept the two largest pieces, one to display in our living room, the other to be mounted on a plaque and hung in my office. It, too, is now in our living room. 

One more tie-in to Bridge of Spies—during a trip to Russia five years ago, Gilda and I saw wreckage of the U-2 spy plane in Moscow’s Central Armed Forces Museum.