By Reginald Rose When did I become fascinated by titles with lowercase letters, I wonder? I'm not sure that it matters - it's just an observation. I'm sure it has something to do with my bad poetry. Who was that sentence for, I wonder? Am I seeking someone's approval? Where is this introspection coming from? Twelve Angry Men, the musical was recently being performed at a theater in the Twin Cities. We didn't make it down to see it, but I had a copy of the play in my library. It had been on the shelves for a while now, unread and ignored. That's probably why the men are so angry. Most men don't mind being unread so much, but my goodness! Watch out if you ignore us! We get angry. I've seen the play before. I've read the play before. This was the first time I took interest in the play out of my own volition. I have not seen the musical rendition. It must be incredible or excruciating. There can be no in between. I don't want to write about the play. I can add nothing to it. Nor can I take anything away from it. It is what it is. Seeing it makes the dialogue come alive. Reading it, while dealing with the limitations of my own inner voice creates some tension, gives the play a greater depth. What, I wonder again, would a musical of it do? Do I really want to find out? I want to write about the introduction in the edition I have: Penguin Classics, hardback, copyright 2006. I love Penguin books. It is a dream of mine that one day one of my grandchildren will pick up a copy of something I wrote in that famous black cover. I'm less keen on hardbacks - though a short book like this doesn't present the normal issues a large one would. I'm certainly not a fan of 2006 and have no desire whatsoever to write about that year, thank you very much. What caught my eye the other day when I read this particular copy was the introduction by David Mamet. I'm going to include large swathes of quotations in a moment. As you read them I want you to picture a glass of water sitting on my desk. Is it half-empty? Is it half-full? As I write (as you read) let's decide together. Rule no. 1 - Don't drink the water before you finish. It will spoil everything. "There are, I think, two Americas. There is that which we decry on reading the newspapers. 'Those fools,' we say, of the group not of our political bent, 'how in the world can they believe the nonsense they are spouting?' This introduction was written sixteen years ago. Newspapers are dead, of course. Just sub out the word 'newspapers' with your favorite Internet news source and it feels very in the moment. Sadly, Mr. Mamet, the fools we have today are not your father's fools. What wouldn't we all give to go back to 2006 and remember how the fools on the other side of the aisle, while still fools, were still someone David Mamet notes we would consider smart. "How can intelligent people act that way?" He asks. "This is the America of 'them,'" he declares. The America of them. The other, the they. This is the America we know intimately just a short sixteen years later. I wonder if there is an amended introduction out there somewhere. Would David Mamet write the same hopeful introduction? "And then there is the America we participate in - that fairly friendly and reasonable group of diverse interest and talents, happy to pitch in, the America of 'us'." Have we lost this America of us? I took a sip of my water without thinking. The glass is definitely half empty now. Is that what happened to us? We got distracted by what we were doing and carelessly ruined everything? Am I just projecting? "This nonabstract, this real America, is a rather pleasant place. When we are not being actively divided - by religion or politics - we rest here in the default position of unity." I miss the nonabstract America. I miss the diversity in the unity. I miss seeing past the voter, the activist and the unreconstructed reactionaries. I miss the real America of 2006 (not exactly 2006, but you get my point). The problem is with everything that has changed in the last sixteen years I'm not sure I share Mr. Mamet's optimism when he notes, "Over time, we see, the reasonable often find a way to unite the seemingly irreconcilable claims of passion." Time has ceased to be relevant these past sixteen years. Now everything is in the moment, a snap, a post, a tweet. Next, we move on to the next moment, snap, post or tweet. From frozen moment to frozen moment we move across the interconnected world. Along the way our hearts grew cold. We stopped going to places where we could see past the voter, past the activist, past the unreconstructed reactionary into the eyes of our fellow American. The eye being a window to the soul we could catch glimpses of what potential America has. Sixteen years ago I didn't mind hearing about what potential I had. America and I have both moved past the age where potentiality matters.
Categories