Tag: Reaganomics

Trump Brings Back the Worst of the 80s

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Although some could argue that Ronald Reagan’s oppressive regime in the 1980s is part of what fueled better pop culture than the schlock of the moment, one thing that could never be improved was Donald Trump. A man who did become part of the pop cultural lexicon of that era despite being a New York-confined Patrick Bateman type. For whatever reason (apart from The Art of the Deal), he managed to infiltrate the mainstream consciousness—more than likely because, in those days, it was the height of “aspirational” to be rich. Not that it still isn’t, it’s just more “cloaked” behind “earnest,” “let’s save the planet” messaging.

Trump, obviously, never gave a fuck about that. And still doesn’t. Nor did he ever care about reading, though he did feign being very taken with the “excellent” Tom Wolfe during both men’s heyday. “Excellent” was the word he used to describe the quintessential 80s author in a 1987 interview with Pat Buchanan and Tom Braden when asked what books he was reading. But, of course, 1) he wasn’t actually reading any and 2) Trump couldn’t resist the urge to ultimately say, “I’m reading my own book because I think it’s so fantastic, Tom.” That book was the blatantly ghostwritten The Art of the Deal, released, incidentally, in the month that followed The Bonfire of the Vanities landing on bookshelves everywhere. Indeed, that was the main reason Trump was on the show.

Oddly, Trump’s book (an oxymoron, to be sure) was the thing that made him become a household name in America, as opposed to just being limited to the niche jurisdiction of New York City and certain parts of New Jersey. As for his abovementioned interview, some have speculated that Bret Easton Ellis used this bizarre moment for Bateman/American Psycho inspiration. For it does smack of Bateman saying whatever the fuck comes to his mind just to see if anyone’s actually paying attention (e.g., saying he’s into “murders and executions mostly” instead of “mergers and acquisitions”). A moment where, in one instant Trump is declaring he’s well-versed in all literature Wolfe but hasn’t yet read The Bonfire of the Vanities, and, in the next, claiming to be reading Wolfe’s “last book.” Which would have been, what else, The Bonfire of the Vanities. He certainly wasn’t talking about From Bauhaus to Our House. And yet, even when caught in a lie, Trump always counted on touting generalities with confidence as a means to deflect from his total lack of knowledgeability.

So it is that he keeps repeating such generalities as, “He’s a great author, he’s done a beautiful job” and “The man has done a very, very good job.” Finally, realizing that there might be some people out there not falling for his bullshit, he relies on the excuse, “I really can’t hear with this earphone by the way.” (Or, as Mariah would put it, “I can’t read suddenly.”) Trump, in this and so many other ways, has brought back the “art” of the flagrant lie-con that was popularized by some of the 80s’ most notorious swindlers, like David Bloom and Jim Bakker. Everyone wanting to adhere to the “fake it till you make it” philosophy so beloved by the U.S., and which it was essentially founded upon. A “philosophy” that Trump has taken “to heart” his entire life. Except for the fact that, as Tony Schwartz, the true writer of The Art of the Deal, eventually said, Trump doesn’t actually have a heart. More specifically, “Trump is not only willing to lie, but he doesn’t get bothered by it, doesn’t feel guilty about it, isn’t preoccupied by it. There’s an emptiness inside Trump. There’s an absence of a soul. There’s an absence of a heart.”

And it can be argued that this absence began to extend to the collective of America in a more noticeable way than ever during the Decade of Excess. Uncoincidentally, it was the decade when neoliberalism came back into fashion in a manner as never seen before, courtesy of the “laissez-faire” policies of Reagan and, in the UK, Margaret Thatcher. With such an emphasis on “me first” and “getting ahead at any cost,” it was no wonder that a man like Trump, emblematic of the Wall Street monstrosity that would come to be embodied by Gordon Gekko, was so “revered.” His “lifestyle” coveted. Of course, it was harder then to debunk myths, like the idea that anything about Trump was “self-made.”

In the backdrop (or foreground, depending on who you ask) of Trump and Reagan representing the worst of the 80s, there were, needless to say, so many amazing things about that decade: the birth of MTV, and with it, a new generation of visual artists (including the 1958 Trinity, Madonna Prince and Michael Jackson), Square Pegs, Golden Girls, Pee-Wee’s Playhouse, They Live, E.T., Dirty Dancing, Flashdance, Footloose (a whole rash of dancing movies, really), any John Hughes movie, the eradication of smallpox, the aerobics craze and Jane Fonda’s Workout, Pac-Man (and the rise of video games in general, culminating in the release of Game Boy in 1989), the early days of the internet and personal computers, the first female vice presidential candidate (Geraldine Ferraro), the fall of the Berlin Wall… So many great, memorable things that should outshine the ickier moments today—like the rampant homophobia in response to AIDS, the Challenger explosion, Irangate, the Chernobyl disaster, New Coke, the rise of the yuppie, the death of vinyl (though it would have the last laugh) and George H.W. Bush managing to win the 1988 election so as to take more “Reaganomics” policies into the 90s.

And now, Trump wants to bring all the worst of the decade back. The homophobia, the religious overtones (complete with satanic panic), rampant misogyny, the worship of money, the rollback of environmental regulations and, maybe most affronting of all, Hulk Hogan. The latter, like Trump, experienced his own heyday in the 80s, when interest in pro wrestling and the WWE reached an all-time crescendo. And, also like Trump, Hogan has a reputation for, let’s say, embellishing (read: fabricating) his lore. Because he found his success by being an over-the-top wrestler, Hogan never seemed inclined to shed his performative persona. As a result, many will remain forever haunted by Hogan at the RNC a.k.a. Trump rally ripping his shirt off to reveal a Trump/Vance tank top as he screamed, “Let Trumpamania [unclear why he wouldn’t just say ‘Trump Mania,’ but anyway] run wild brother! Let Trumpamania rule again!”

As many pointed out, it was like seeing the plot of Idiocracy fully realized. A trajectory that can now be rightfully pinned on the “ideals” of the 80s. For while it was the best of times, it was also the worst of times—and those are coming back with a vengeance if Trump manages to win the presidency yet again. On the plus side though, it seems that CDs are making a comeback to align with this potential return to the Decade of Greed.

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Genna Rivieccio

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July 30, 2024
Pee-wee’s Big Capitulation: As “Weird” As Pee-wee Was, He Was Still A Material Boy of the 80s

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Perhaps it’s difficult to imagine a world in which “weird” isn’t a sellable commodity. It certainly wasn’t an effortless sell in the Reagan 80s. Not until a then little-known persona by the name of Pee-wee Herman released a movie called Pee-wee’s Big Adventure. The year was 1985, and the director was also then little-known Tim Burton. A man who would, in addition to Pee-wee, go on to make “weird” “his thing.” And in the 80s, it seemed no one (at least not at the executive level) was yet fully aware of the kind of profitability that could signal. Until the surprise hit of Summer 1985 was Pee-wee’s Big Adventure (released the same year as Back to the Future and The Goonies, each with their own product placement machinations). It was to mark Burton’s first feature-length film, and one that he was given the opportunity to direct because Paul Reubens liked what he saw in Burton’s first two short films, Vincent and Frankenweenie.

As it turned out, there was no better man for the job, with the surreal, offbeat tone of the narrative (which takes a page from Vittorio De Sica’s The Bicycle Thief [obviously with a more comedic slant]) perfectly suited to Burton’s already well-established style, complete with musical accompaniments from Danny Elfman. Needless to say, it was a style that would serve a plot like this for the better. Because the more over-the-top and bizarre it was, the easier it became to ignore a lack of “realism” and get invested in the loss of this man-boy’s bike. To feel his pain…and his joy when the red cruiser is at last found again.

His obsession with it, some might argue, is purely sentimental. And after all, he’s sure to tell his nemesis, Francis (Mark Holton), “I wouldn’t sell my bike for all the money in the world.” This after Francis tries to buy it off him because his father said he could have anything he wanted for his birthday. Pee-wee is the first to burst the rich kid’s bubble, giving him a lesson on how some things aren’t for sale. And yet, more than an emotional attachment to the bike, it’s obvious that he values it because of the status it gives him because it’s so sought-after. It’s about the way it makes him feel. So, for as absurd as the movie might come across, there’s nothing more rooted in realism than that. Perhaps few films of the 80s are able to better embody the importance an object can have to a person. Become a very extension of that person (presaging how phones would do the same thing). Which doesn’t seem coincidental considering the decade it was released.

At a time of ramped-up consumerism, “synergy” was becoming an increasing buzz word in the realm of advertising. And in the 80s, cross-promotional items from movies were the name of the game. From Rambo lunchboxes to Slimer from Ghostbusters-themed Hi-C packaging (bless your resilient little guts if you imbibed the “Ecto Cooler”), the only thing better than tie-in products, for corporations anyway, was getting their wares placed in the film itself. With 1982’s E.T., Hershey’s set the trend for the pervasive product placement viewers would barely notice anymore after so many hours spent absorbing media in that fashion. Pee-wee’s Big Adventure would prove no exception to the 80s movie rule. Starting with the Murray bicycle itself, Pee-wee’s odyssey is as much a consumerist one as it is a quest to unearth his bike.

The ease with which companies got in bed with movies was, in part, spurred by Reagan’s deregulation policies, which themselves were the brainchild of big business and a collective of nefarious think tanks that banded together in the 1970s to present theories about how newly-enacted environmental and consumer protection laws were serving as nothing more than senseless red tape to slow down economic progress and give more fuel to stagflation. With everything suddenly in favor of “servicing the corporation,” there appeared to be no calling into question the “ethics” of presenting these products so flagrantly. And, after all, weren’t the movies just doing viewers a solid by reflecting the America they lived in right back to them? An endless parade of adverts all shouting the same thing, “Buy me!” Or, to use a subliminal message from They Live, “Obey.” Obey what, exactly? Society, capitalism and the status quo.

What’s more, Reubens and Burton are adept in the language of how to make someone appear left out for not having the “right” product. Or at least a product of a similar vein to the “hottest thing.” So it is that, just after Pee-wee’s bike is stolen, he’s forced to wander the strip mall street on foot, like some sort of peasant, while everyone else around him is on a bike. Even the motorized toys. Thus, he’s now been cut down to size, made “lesser than”—when only twenty minutes ago, he was the peacocking bike rider trying to outperform the tricks of the kids around him riding on less cumbersome wheels. The underlying message: you are what you own. Property is the thing—this being why it’s such a standout moment to see that one of the crowning additions to Pee-wee’s bike is an engraved plate that reads, “Property of Pee-wee Herman.” And what’s more essential to capitalistic adherence than owning property? Property that becomes so easy to confuse with “characteristics” of ourselves. So it is that Pee-wee’s identity is as entrenched in the bike as it is in making random, off-color laughing sounds. His refusal to accept any substitutes also speaks to the concept of brand loyalty. Nothing else will compare to or ever be as good as the bike Pee-wee had before. He wants what he wants, and nothing else will do.

In 80s America, this type of mentality was at an apex, with “nothing but the best” philosophies at play as a means to further distinguish Western capitalism from Soviet communism (and yes, the Soviets do get accused by Pee-wee of stealing his bike). Pee-wee, for as “different” as he is, still falls prey to that pervasive mentality. The vestiges of which continue to endure to this apocalyptic day. For, as the Pee-wee’s Big Adventure-influenced movie, Barbie, puts it, “Ideas live forever.” And capitalistic ones are all but impossible to deprogram people of. This, in part, is why Pee-wee Herman cannot exactly lay genuine claim to a phrase like, “I’m a loner, Dottie. A rebel.” For, in the end, he capitulates to not only being a slave to an object—his bike—but also to giving in to a monogamous relationship with Dottie. Because, the truth is, even the biggest “weirdos” just want stability and nice things. Surrendering to the warmth (becoming much more literal every day) provided by material trappings.

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Genna Rivieccio

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August 1, 2023
Monetize (And Monetize And Monetize) Your Talent: Air Explores the Birth of a New American Dream: Passive Income

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If Air seeks to emphasize one thing, it’s that you should always leverage your talent to secure the utmost profit. That’s certainly what Michael Jordan did back in 1984 as a rookie who made an unthinkable negotiation with Nike. One that would, for the first time in history, allow an athlete like Jordan to earn a percentage of every pair of Air Jordans sold. After all, it was his name on the sneakers, his name spurring all the sales. So why shouldn’t he get his cut? This question is present throughout the narrative thread of Air, which revolves entirely around the lead-up to making this landmark deal. Marking Ben Affleck’s fifth directorial effort following Gone Baby Gone, The Town, Argo and Live By Night, Air is a much more blatant nod to the “American dream.” You know, the one that pertains solely to bowing down to capitalism a.k.a. “getting this money.” Ironically, it’s also distributed by Amazon, which Nike no longer sells their shoes through in a bid to “elevate consumer experiences through more direct, personal relationships.”

Sort of the way Jordan wanted to elevate the consumer experience of his adoring fans by giving them “a piece of himself” through a shoe. Fittingly enough, both Nike and Michael Jordan are quintessential American dream stories, with the latter being a shoestring operation (pun intended) co-founded in 1964 by University of Oregon track athlete Phil Knight (Affleck) and his coach, Bill Bowerman (though Alex Convery, the writer of Air, doesn’t bother to mention his name). It was Knight who sold the company’s (then known as Blue Ribbon Sports) first shoe offerings (made by Onitsuka Tiger, a brand that, for whatever reason, agreed to let Knight be the U.S.’ exclusive distributor) out of the back of his car at track meets most of the time. Steadily, Blue Ribbon Sports kept making a name for itself as a leader in distributing Japanese running shoes. But it was in 1971 that Bowerman fucked around with his own innovation by using his wife’s waffle iron to create a different kind of rubber sole for the benefit of runners. One that was lightweight, therefore conducive to increasing speed. This was also the year the company rebranded to Nike and was bequeathed with its signature swoosh logo by graphic designer Carolyn Davidson. With the “Moon Shoe” and the “Waffle Trainer” released in 1972 and 1974 respectively, Nike sales exploded into a multimillion-dollar enterprise.

Jordan’s Cinderella story comes across as having slightly fewer hiccups in his rise to prominence, the main one being his slight by the varsity high school team when he was a sophomore at Emsley A. Laney High School in Wilmington, North Carolina. Written off as too short for varsity, Jordan waited patiently to grow four more inches and asserted himself as the star of Laney’s JV team. After getting his spot on varsity, it didn’t take long for a number of colleges to offer him a scholarship. He settled on University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, quickly distinguishing himself on the basketball team there and having no trouble eventually catching the eye of Sonny Vaccaro (Matt Damon, rejoining his true love onscreen), Nike’s then basketball talent scout (at a time when such “lax” job roles were still in existence). Convinced of Jordan’s status as a once-in-a-generation talent, he begs and pleads with Knight to use the entire basketball budget to offer Jordan an endorsement deal.

Alas, although named after the Greek goddess who personifies victory, Nike was anything but victorious in being a basketball shoe contender with the likes of Converse and Adidas as 1984 commenced. After all, the company had been built on running shoes. That had always been their bread and butter. Nonetheless, Vaccaro still can’t figure out why basketball players are so averse to putting their faith in Nike. But, as Howard White (Chris Tucker), the VP of Nike’s Basketball Athlete Relations tells Sonny, “Nike is a damn jogging company. Black people don’t jog. You ain’t gonna catch no Black person running twenty-six miles for no damn reason. Man, the cops probably pull you over thinkin’ you done stole something.” Which isn’t far off considering the need for shirts like, “Don’t Shoot, It’s Just Cardio” (tragically inspired by the death of Ahmaud Arbery).

Rob Strasser (Jason Bateman), the VP of Marketing for Basketball, is more naively optimistic during a meeting in which he says, “Mr. Orwell was right. 1984 has been a tough year. Our sales are down, our growth is down. But this company is about who we really are when we are down for the count.” That said, Strasser and Knight both insist they have a strict 250K budget to attract three players. Sonny tells Strasser he doesn’t want to sign three players, he wants to sign just one: Jordan. He paints Strasser the innovative-for-its-time picture, “We build a shoe line just around him. We tap into something deeper, into the player’s identity.” This being something that would become the subsequent norm with endorsement deals, not just from sports players, but every kind of celebrity.

To this end, it’s of no small significance that Air opens with Dire Straits’ “Money For Nothing,” a song that derides famous ilk (namely, rock stars) who get money for doing no “real” work, like those who have to fritter their hours away in a minimum wage job at an appliance store (the site where Mark Knopfler overheard a man making derisive comments about the people he was seeing on MTV and then turned the rant into “Money For Nothing”). Jordan, too, might be seen that way by some, at least for making millions (billions?) for doing nothing other than allowing a shoe with his name and silhouette on it to be sold. And as “Money For Nothing” plays, Affleck gets us into the mindset of what the 80s were all about: consumer culture melding with pop culture. For it was in the 80s that the potential for endorsement deals, fueled by Reaganomics’ love of neoliberalism on steroids, were fully realized and taken advantage of.

Sonny, seeing something entirely American in Jordan, crystallizes his feelings about him to Phil by insisting that he is “the most competitive guy I’ve ever seen. He is a fucking killer.” And that means he’s going to kill for Nike, profit-wise. As Sonny chases down a meeting with Jordan, who has made his disdain for the company abundantly clear (especially as he “loves” Adidas), it’s through his mother, Deloris (Viola Davis, who, although Jordan had no involvement in the production of the film, was offered as a suggestion by him to play the part), that Sonny finds his “in” with Michael. Much to the consternation of Michael’s agent, David Falk (Chris Messina), who distinctly warns Sonny not to contact the family.

But Sonny has no interest in following rules, if that hadn’t already been made evident. And when he finally does land the pitch meeting with Jordan, he’s sure to tell him and his parents that Michael’s trajectory is “an American story, and that’s why Americans are gonna love it.” He then adds, as a coup de grâce in terms of flattery, “A shoe is just a shoe…until somebody steps into it [words Deloris will remind him of later when bargaining for Michael’s cut of the profits]. Then it has meaning. The rest of us just want a chance to touch that greatness.” And that, in the end, is how Jordan makes four hundred million dollars a year in passive income from a shoe.

Even if it was an initial struggle for Deloris to lock down that income. Indeed, when Sonny tells her that Nike will never go for her and Michael’s demand and that the business is simply unfair in that regard, Deloris replies, “I agree that the business is unfair. It’s unfair to my son, it’s unfair to people like you. But every once in a while, someone comes along that’s so extraordinary, that it forces those reluctant to part with some of [their] wealth [to do so]. Not out of charity, but out of greed, because they are so very special. And even more rare, that person demands to be treated according to their worth, because they understand what they are worth.”

With such an ardent speech about getting money, getting paid, it highlights that, more than just being a movie about how capitalism allows companies to exploit those making the most money for them, Air is about how capitalism indoctrinates the human brain so much as to make it believe that everything has to be about money. That the greatest art of all is not the art or skill itself, but how to get the most one possibly can for it. So it is that Bruce Springsteen’s always cringe-y hit, “Born in the U.S.A.,” plays while viewers are given epilogues to each person’s financially profitable fate. Funnily enough, Strasser had specifically mentioned to Vaccaro earlier in the film that one of the songs most beloved by Republicans (Reagan himself famously cited it for his presidential “cause”) is not about the hallowed notion of the American dream at all. In fact, as he tells Sonny, he was listening to it on his way to work most mornings (it had just come out during the year Air takes place), and he was all “fired up about American freedom…but this morning, I really focused on the words. And it is not about freedom. Like, not in any way. It’s about a guy who comes home from Vietnam, can’t find a job and I’m just belting it out enthusiastically.”

There’s something to that analogy in looking for the deeper, perhaps unwitting meaning to Air. It isn’t really about the beauty of the American dream, but how ugly and petty it makes everyone pursuing it for the sake of as many pieces of paper as possible.

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Genna Rivieccio

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June 13, 2023