Just back from a few days in New York where, among other things, I drank (or tried to) some of the most horrible-tasting things that have – surely – ever come to market. But they were in the name of health, and – following the metric that if it tastes horrible it’s got to be good for you, I decided to try them. I think I thought that if it’s being sold in cute packaging for $10 a pop they’ll find a way to sneak some sugar or no, agave or local Manhattan bee honey, or Connecticut sap, into it to make it just a little fun. In a world saturated with health-food that’s clearly not healthy (like those protein balls that are really just dates and chocolate rolled together, or Atkins bars made primarily of chemicals and glycerol), I just couldn’t believe that these things too – billed as they were as Booster or Gravity or Solar and so on – wouldn’t also be secretly consumer-friendly. Ie sweet and/or good.
I was wrong. Consumerism in New York – always at the forefront when it comes to things people can shove in their mouths – is now so developed that customers have passed from wanting pleasure, to wanting its opposite. Or, suppliers have anticipated that – sated on what tastes nice – New Yorkers are ready for what hurts. The credo of no pain no gain – usually adopted in exercise regimes and the restriction of food in diets – has now landed on the food itself. Yuck.
My first taste of the new climate of consumer de-sovereignty (after all, would a consumer who was king really buy something this horrible?) took the form of a really sexy bottle with a really sexy – minimalistic – label in a really sexy shop that advertised its wares as raw, gluten, soy and everything else free. I marvelled at the raw coconut pie and the raw granola and the mandatory kale. Then I moved to the drinks….they all had Himalayan salt, lemon, myrtle and mint in them. Sounds good, I thought – no sugar, or any of its healthier substitutes, either. I bought one at $6 and while I like to feel that I’m being healthy, and will drink down almost anything in a neatly packaged refrigerated bottle, I was stopped in my tracks after two gulps by the strong sense that I was drinking soap. The liquid was simply not of the kind or type that constitutes the edible. It also, weirdly, managed to taste like the colour brown. Minty brown soap. I hastily switched to a Diet Coke, but later – parched as I trooped through lower Manhattan – I had no choice but to give it another go. I downed it, and that experience forced on me the expression of someone who has just drunk something so gross – cod liver oil, for instance – that regurgitation, or at least a gag or two, are real possibilities. My eyes watered, my mouth drew apart at both ends.
Later, curious about just how bad it could be, but also – secretly – on the lookout for a brew that would transform me suddenly into a sparkly paragon of slim health, I strolled into a store advertising “cold-pressed” juice. Its bottles were also in a trendy rectangular shape with a Dr Hauschka-style labelling thing going on: white background, lots of black letters. I found one with no sugar, called Gravity. It was green though somewhat translucent since, as the Lithuanian-born shop girl said, cold press means the bulk of it settles to the bottom. This bulk was something called algae-c, something very very healthy from Oregon. There was also kale (natch), celery, myrtle (again!), lemon, mint and (again!) Himalayan salt.
It cost $11.
Reader, I bought the Gravity.
And, for my money and for the sheer promise of drinking kale and algae, I was motivated to finish it.
At first, it tasted like salad dressed with lemon juice alone.
That was ok. But then you don’t drink salad undressed with anything other than acid.
My mouth soon caught on to this and staged its revolt. The image of lemony kale leaves marching down my throat, heading straight to my system without the trouble of having to be broken down (as the Lithuanian girl promised) produced a strange simultaneity of self-congratulation and utter revulsion. Worried I’d gag or maybe barf in public, I stopped at half way and put the rest of the drink in my friend’s fridge. She’s a New Yorker so maybe she can handle these things. As of yet, I am not evolved enough to do so. Chocolate milk, please.
Too many people, such as Allison Pearson of the Telegraph and everyone who has remained silent, seem to think that Allsop has a point.
Not only does she not have a point, her comments are the sort that bolster massively counter-productive, psychologically harmful pressure on women. Yes, that’s right – was she really motivated by helping women get more out of life? – Allsop has just voiced the carefully managed nightmare of women the Western world over. IE: I might want a child but I’m terrified of the toll it will take. Or: I want a child but I am single.
Here’s the thing. Allsop and her ilk- plumply delectable dollops of wealthy femininity – probably have little experience of the realities facing most educated single women, women who have cultivated both high levels of self-respect and a critical faculty. Women who have disregarded other women’s urgings to settle for Mr Alright (Lori Gottleib) and just won’t want to overcome the repulsion- sexual and intellectual and emotional- that goes with being with someone you don’t respect, love and to a lesser degree desire.
They seem to think that “presentable men” grow on trees, that every woman delaying having babies is solely interested in a false notion of “when the time is right”, rather than the all-too-real fact of the matter. A lot of women delay having babies because they are single, because the men that present themselves are not suitable, or just not there at all – because things have changed, and we live in cities, and women are allowed to get stuck into the non-domestic world, and to stand up for their interests and their integrity outside of the home. Men have not always caught up to this with their own levels of supportiveness or ability to not only handle but be drawn to female ambition; and the ones that have are not necessarily available. And many men are too busy enjoying a porn-fuelled, extended Peter Pan bachelorhood.
Let us not forget that having a child with someone, or – as Pearson puts it so glibly in her own words to young women – “I tell them that, if they have a presentable male on the premises, they should go home that same night and have unprotected sex”- is a rather massive commitment. And that “presentable male” may for these women mean a nice public school-educated banker, but will not for most women be someone she should link both her and a child to forever.
Pearson gets out all the old stuff about eggs dying and drying up after 35; about her feeling that she was “lucky” to get pregnant late.
Lucky? Maybe- but that’s hardly statistical evidence so much as relief for having escaped a giant oppressive myth about female fertility. Just ask sensible American psychologist Jean Twenge, who recently rubbished statistics saying that one in three women between 35 and 39 will take more than a year to get pregnant along with all the other sickening myths put forth to make women feel terrible when life gets in the way of motherly bliss: after all, noted Twenge, almost all these myths are based on statistics are based on data from French birth records from 1670 to 1830. Wonderful.
And now, because of the relentless urge of privileged lady journalists to rubbish feminism’s gains and try to get women back into the home (Pearson recalls with regret her keen-ness to hit her 5pm deadline when she should have been breeding; forgetting the clout and cash her career has won her and how useful it’s been in raising her kids), people like me – 31 and about to start an exciting job – are made to feel like quavering wrecks marching towards a grave of barren hell.
It would be better for everyone to put forth stats that not only reflect reality but the potential for a better, less pressurised inner and outer life, for women. For instance: in parts of Stockholm, the average age of first-time motherhood is 38. Or just personal anecdote: I cannot count on two hands the number of women I’ve met who have had children later, as late as 40, and are blissfully happy with it all. Mown down by exhaustion? Perhaps. Mature, wise and compassionate? Yes – and these are, surely, the best qualities for a parent.
Allsop and Pearson need to change their tune; the world is not populated any more by women swimming through baby boomer privilege, grateful to be admitted to or encouraged to go to university. At last, biology is beginning to follow, not lead, but if people like this keep making their voices heard, a generation of women will begin to doubt it.
I’m having some of those days. Not one. Some. You know? Do you though? I don’t know: it’s been pretty damn annoying and I’m just not sure you appreciate just how annoying.
So hear this. Yesterday I tottered out to the street to grab my bike and cycle to the station, and found that my velo – my lovely funny purple bicycle with red velvet seat – had been stolen. I was now going to miss my train, in addition to being plunged into mourning, so wasted about 20 minutes asking at my local yoga studio if they’d seen it. No. They’d ask, but no. So I walked to the station, angry at the slow boredom of pedestrian travel after the two-wheeled sort, found the next train was not for 45 minutes and the next direct one not for an hour and a half, and began wasting more time, desultorily browsing the uninspiring English-language mags at Relay, and foolishly not buying a sandwich so that later, at my destination, a Polish-border town called Schwedt, I was reduced to bad, bad things to eat. Later that evening, I set out to meet someone, and – viciously tired of walking on terrain I knew so well by bike – I decided to be constructive, not negative, and to rent a Deutsches Bahn City Bike.
Here we go. Are you ready for this?
Had rental gone as planned, I’d have been on time for my next appointment. But it didn’t: after registering thousands of my details twice (one wrong button at the end and I was shunted back to the beginning) and then my card details, I selected a bike. “The bike is unlocked!” said the screen. So I went to get it, but there was no such bike. Machine error. It was obviously a different station or at the bottom of the Spree or being sold off in a drug-squat. So I went back to the machine and chose another one, one I could actually see. “The bike is unlocked!” it chirruped, with me still thinking it had realised it had fucked up, not me, and that I was not going to be charged. I walked to this bike, but it was not unlocked. I went back to the machine, now really running late, and stuck my credit card in again. “! You have no more bikes allowed! ” it read. Suddenly I realised it thought I had taken two bikes, and that – as would become apparent after the 30 minute free period – I had nicked them and would have to pay, probably around €600 apiece.
So I dialled the customer help number written in red on the screen. A very very loud German woman said, in German, something that didn’t sound like: “hello, can I help you? Don’t worry, you haven’t lost all your money on two phantom bikes and a broken machine”. Alas, after trying another 4 times, as well as another number from the website (it was actually the same number), Simon was able to tell me that it was a recorded message saying NOT IN SERVICE. Odd for a system that I happen to know breaks down often, but there you are.
As I was walking to meet him, though, ringing and ringing this number and being told NOT IN SERVICE by the German woman, and becoming ever more stressed at how much money I might lose and how much time I might have to spend in dispute, and why didn’t I note down the false bike numbers, as well as thinking about how I was now running late DESPITE my best efforts…A BIRD SHAT COPIOUSLY ON MY HEAD. I was in the most urban, treeless street in Mitte, but would you believe, the one tree, and the one bird, happened to decide to unload a massive meal on my head at the precise moment I was walking by.
I mean guys, do you really need any more proof that the universe is out to get me?
I think you do. And here it is: TODAY, just one day after the above happened, leaving plenty of time (having no bike) to get somewhere for a 13:30 apt, I set out by foot to a train station. Simple: one line, the S5, to Zoo Station, according to my subway app. Only when I got there, there was no S5. The line doesn’t seem to exist. Still, I bought a ticket (that’s €2.60 thanks), standing on the platform trying to work out where it could be. Then an S1 went by. After walking through a tunnel to the U-bahn and then returning, I realised the S1 was my best option, and went straight to my destination.
There are few maps on platforms in Berlin that show you where trains go. true, different trains pass the same platform. But by the time my slow brain figured out that the S1 was the best bet, there was a four and then a seven minute wait for the next trains – but they didn’t go the right way at all. At last: another S1, OUT OF SERVICE. Time ticked by. I had left lots of time but now…and then, after the out of service train, a seven minute wait for an S2, no S1 in sight.
I had to go and find a taxi, since I had a ten minute walk on the other side, and I predicted- given the past few days- that I”d get lost and go round in circles and that my 3G, which has been loading at the speed of ice melting in Siberia for the past two weeks, would mean my map wouldn’t load at all. I wasted money on a subway ticket, yes. But worst was that I hadn’t been able to zoom in and out and in and out of the subway map, tracing the train to the terminus flashing on the screen to guess its number, in time, and LET THE GODDAMN S1 PASS BY STILL THINKING AN S5 EXISTED.
Isn’t all this so annoying? Do you get me? Now let me say that throughout the deeply irritating sequences of events that have plagued me yesterday and today, I formulated angry descriptions. “When people hear about this”…I spluttered inwardly, “then…”
Then what? Then they’ll feel really terrible for me, of course. And immediately see the way the universe is uniquely predisposed against ME. ZOE STRIMPEL. But as I said the stories to myself that I wanted to unload on others, I could already see their bored expressions. But come on! Couldn’t the sheer annoyingness of all this make for a really good narrative? I mean, there must be novels out there where this kind of thing forms the substance of the plot; the ups and downs of the character, the nucleus for something profound.
But then I couldn’t picture it. I have never read a book like that.
And then I realised: nobody cares, or will care. The levels of irritation and stress caused by these banalities, hitting me as they did at a particularly doubtful juncture in life, are not conveyable through the events that created them. To make a good story there needs to be more; to make an individual feel furious, there’s plenty.
I’ve been spending a great deal of time reading Alexandra Richie’s history of Berlin, Faust’s Metropolis. It’s a sweeping chronicle of Europe’s most fearsome city since its first settlers, a story of countless wars, despots and almost endless violence, in which life is built up and destroyed as regularly as waves crashing on a beach. The desire of Berlin’s (all-male) leadership to conquer, destroy, taunt, control and lie is astounding, from the early Christian conquistadors right through to Erich Milche of the SED. It’s no coincidence that what is now Europe’s most responsible country is run by a woman.
Berlin had ups and downs – times of relative tolerance and cultural glory. But one feature runs through its history with particular tenacity and strength: the thirst for and play of power. Germans clustered around rulers, from heads of state of army generals, hero-worshipping them. In the 20th century they worshipped or died. Dictators (usually short, deformed men with terrible moustaches) are defined by their obsession with power for its own sake. But in few places has the almost erotically-charged fixation with power – personal and military – held such sway as in Berlin.
Well, times have changed in Berlin. Students are more concerned with defending Lampedusan refugees and the rights of sex-workers than imbibing the spirit of the Germanic earth. “Deep” and “house” has replaced “blood and soil” as the rallying call of the youth. Now the “volk” spend their weekends in scruffy clubs, marketed through subversive messages like “love techno, hate Germany”. (This is the slogan of the collective behind About Blank, a club in a post-industrial, former Communist stronghold with a big garden and an amazing sound system, one of Berlin’s most revered clubs.)
But – even when violence is out of the question – some things will never change and the dynamics of power is one of them, with a leader and followers.
Today, during a session of daytime “cappuccino” clubbing at About Blank, the presence of power and worship seemed strong to me. The clubbers were all dressed up in respectful uniform for the occasion: vintage high-top sneakers, square or round sunglasses, very high-wasted faded jeans for the women, bizarre irregular hair arrangements for the men. Admittedly it wasn’t too stringent a uniform: I wore my cycling leggings from Dorothy Perkins and some Nike trainers and looked more like an American tourist looking for Unter den Linden than someone accustomed to getting past bouncers at hidden clubs.
Some had been at this same “party” since Friday night; nearly 48 hours. They swayed and some looked bleary, barely hanging onto awakeness, despite the drugs. But mostly it was a jolly affair, in good spirit. Above all, the power of the DJs in Berlin is phenomenal. People cram into industrial-size clubs all round the city for entire weekends without leaving, first doing anything to get by the bouncer (the Berghain bouncer is so powerful and mysterious, with seemingly random and self-determined decisions, rather like a despot, that he has his own agent), then bobbing and swaying in formation before the Grand Ruler of the Night and the Party – the music-spinner.
The DJ controls the crowd and the crowd cleaves devoutly to the DJ’s mysterious moves – he or she exerts control over their bodies, their mood, their vocal chords, their pockets, their whole weekends.
Furthermore, the culture of exclusive leisure is a ruler in itself, determining who has cultural capital and who does not. The new urban aristocracy are not people born into posh or rich families; they’re the people who know where the best parties are happening, and this means, where the parties are happening with the highest density of people who define themselves by their clothes: either inspired by the cutting-edge art world (the high jeans, the slanty hair); the politically-charged dreadlock wearers; the deeply scruffy-on-purpose; the glamorous. All were there; a very small proportion of clubbers looked neutrally-apparelled, or clad in Zara or H&M.
The tyranny of cool is alive and well; and while DJs, bouncers and exclusive nightclubs have no profound or sinister relation to the politically-powerful power-mongers of Berlin’s long history, the adherence – bodily and financial – that they command from seas of young people bobbing about before is a curious example of how power never disappears, it only shifts, and in this case, gets its groove on.
Everyone said I should watch Her, because of the themes of dating and technology, and of those things being shown in The Future. Although it sounded dumb, and really old hat (doesn’t anyone remember the 2002 movie Simone, or S1m0ne, about the beautiful simulacra created to replace a stroppy Hollywood star? Or The Fifth Element, which also revolves around a beautiful woman – Milla Jovovich – from another, man-made world?) But quite a few people said it was good – the New York Times basically called it the best goddamn thing since Goethe.
Her takes place in an actually really lovely-seeming LA of the future – everything is spotless, tall, ergonomic, prosperous and eco-friendly. Residents live in high rises with spacious apartments offering panoramic views and take plush, light-filled trains everywhere rather than the fuming cars of today. People drink vegetable juice and fresh fruit and – while they are inevitably absorbed in their beautifully crisp and clever technological devices – they do seem capable of human intimacy.
The problem starts with a rather inaccessible character named Theodore Twombly, played by an actually kind of not-hot, hipster-nerdified Jochim Phoenix, as the star. How old he is, where he comes from, what his past is and where he’s going are all left mysteries. He wears nice sweaters and pants, though. Do we care about him? Not really: he could be any number of self-absorbed products of late-late capitalism, as already depicted in numerous films. (Lucky then that the imagery of his world is so captivating; creamy sweeps of elegant civic land, intriguing use of wood and fascinating telephones.)
Twombly works as a letter writer for a company called yourletters.com or similar, dictating his compositions into a screen from which they emerge as handwritten masterpieces of the heart. Judging by his designer flat – or is urban planning just so spectacular in the future? – he makes a good living composing the poetry of other people’s sentimentality. (Is the implication that in this world people have lost the skill even to compose epistolary messages? He doesn’t actually pick up a pen, after all).
Ok, so Twombly is harmless, even talented and has a few friends, but he is both sex-starved and very sad about his ongoing divorce from his ex-wife. The two grow increasingly connected.
Here’s where the whole thing veers off. Feeling particularly lonely one morning after an unpleasant episode of phone sex with a stranger the night before (in Her‘s world, women are very happy to participate for free in random sex services), Twombly looks up at a big advert for a new bespoke operating system, one that’s meant to know and learn about you. Next thing we know, he’s bought it, downloaded it, answered a few questions (his relationship with his mother is one, but it cuts him off mid-ramble), and chooses the voice of the new OS to be a woman. What rises from the screen are the beautiful husky playful tones of Scarlett Johansson, who we never see, of course, because she doesn’t have a body – a point that recurs and recurs. She’s amazing; funny, responsive, intimate, curious, clever, constant and before long, lusty. They start having phone sex and fall in love, making their relationship official. She’s also keen on reorganising his emails and files; a secretary and girlfriend in one.
Now, Her does a great job of taking seriously the idea of a functional machine-human relationship. It offers a two-hour chance for reflection on what really is the difference between a relationship between a highly intelligent machine and a human, and any other disembodied entity – the Internet in general; paid-phone sex services; cybersex pals; chatroom paramours, Second Life partners. These are the everyday relationships we have already. Less everyday affective bonds have been documented, or fictionalised, between men and mannequins, robots, pretty much anything that can be assigned the meaning of woman or feeling. It’s not new to consider a man falling in love with either an idealised figment of his sexual imagination or a service-care-sex giver. What is interesting here is that it has evidently begun to be seen as a normal and acceptable arrangement; a sexuality, if you will. “I’m dating my OS”, Theodore says to his friends and colleagues who note his happy expression. Some of the comments in reaction – particularly those of his ex-wife – don’t sound so different from those in relation to people who spend a lot of time on their laptops on porn or internet dating. “He’s dating his laptop”, she yells to a waitress after he lightly criticises her.
These days, the two words “I’m dating” can be followed by an increasingly choice of words, from “my trainer” to “a guy” or “a girl” or “a trans-bi woman” or “five guys” or “three girls and seven guys”. We know ever more about kinks and fetishes and the internet has accommodated them with specialised sites of all kinds. Why not be OS-Positive or OSexual? The acceptability of the statement “I date Operating Systems” seemed a plausible development. Even better, Jonze’s presentation of the OS, named Samantha, is so complimentary – albeit relying on a very vague lexicon of computer engineering futurism – that one is asked to check one’s dystopian assumptions. Maybe having the option to date OSs would be a good thing – after all, Samantha helps Theodore explore his emotions (yawn) after the divorce, to see the world in a new way, keeps him company in lonely hours, offers extremely sensible administrative solutions, reminds him of meetings, and even sends his letters to a publisher, winning him a contract. Wonderful! When she finally “departs” – presumably because the product is being withdrawn though the commercial element of all this was preposterously ignored – it is done with more grace than the average breakup. It’s also worth noting that because of the sound technology and earpieces, Samantha could come on double dates with Theo and his friends and talk and joke with the characters, only once ever striking a wrong note when saying she was partly glad she didn’t have a body so she wouldn’t get old and die.
For all these invitations to think progressively about the future of technology and the human need for love, Spike Jonze is a bit backwards, I can’t help but feel. That he completely fails to engage with the commercial backbone of products such as Samantha (for she is a product, after all) is almost unforgiveable and makes the film far more toothless than it could have been. Twombly does not seem to pay for her and the whole thing is left unbranded. What about a subscription fee? What about choosing his package? (It seemed like an expensive one). What about the fact that she lives in the Cloud, making her eventual disappearance a matter of withdrawal of the service due to losses rather than the poetic retreat into the OS heavens with her new friends, as it is depicted? What about Twombly’s devastating realisation that she’s talking to hundreds of other people and conducting relationships with them too? The word “customer” is not once used, though it would have framed the whole affair usefully for Twombly, who seems to forget he’s paying for Samantha. It’s more convenient for Jonze to skip this part though, because it might raise irritating questions of the overlap between “love” and “money”. Or maybe Jonze just forgot that women like Samantha -or rather- those WITH bodies – don’t exist. Perhaps in his world they do, or should exist, and come for free.
Gender is mostly old-school. Yes, Samantha voices her needs and sleeps around (after a fashion). And yes, there is a female computer programmer mentioned. But ultimately, the OS is a bedroom-voiced woman who plays secretary, genius PA, life coach, shrink, nurturer, sex partner and friend – with the occasional outbreak of womanly irrationality over Theodor’s occasional “distance”. The only other women in the film are a sex-crazed date who won’t sleep with Theodore if he won’t promise to call her; a droopy friend from college who speaks exclusively in psychobabble, the one-dimensional lawyer girlfriend of the (token) male PA at Twombly’s office and – most bizarrely – a woman who desperately wants to play the “body” part in the sex drama of Twombly and Samantha.
The characters themselves are hemmed in by old, boring narratives of self. Who am I? What do I feel? Why do I sometimes do this or that? What do I want? How do I balance all these conflicting feelings? In offering some genuinely interesting glimpses of a potential future, Jonze falls into the trap of giving it a dystopian gloss in the form of the emptiness of the characters, who are ultimately so dispassionate and self-obsessed that you can’t help but think that the best person for the job of taking them on would indeed be a computer. For the humans we know today, it could just be too boring.