Upper Middlebrow

The UMBers sit down with a play that Bagg has read a million times and that Dukes is visiting for the first time. The lads discuss what this work is like for a first-timer and then put on their acting shoes to read some dialogue. Dukes wonders if this script is something that only works when the play is staged, and we get some help from a more contemporary pair of scriptwriters.

After Dukes summarizes the plot of Beverly Hills Cop for Bagg, the UMBs get down to business. The second half of The Kite Runner fulfills its promises. Everything is excellent, but again, the lads feel that things are a bit too perfect, and still prefer the rare moments that upset the balance.

Bagg and Dukes haven’t read this 2003 bestseller, and confess to a little snobbishness about a book that is ubiquitous at airport books stores. But…it's really good! Despite being impressed by the novel’s depiction of a childhood event that impacts our protagonist’s entire life, the UMBs wonder if the novel’s narrative physics are a bit TOO perfect.

The UMBers tackle Ray Bradbury’s 1950s classic novella and are impressed by how much influence this book has had on other writers and the intellectual landscape. The lads rattle off at least five or six other works they’ve read that owe Fahrenheit an allusive debt. Both find the prose and dialogue somewhat clunky, but in a role-reversal it’s Dukes this time that thinks Bradbury may have intended the clunkiness for artistic effect, while Bagg is merely triggered by it. Regardless, both agree that this book (and its enduring popularity) are a product of its socio-political moment, when fears of fascism and censorship rippled through American society.

The lads marvel at Margaret Atwood’s delicate prose and “lighter than air” narrative, in which sparse poetic writing conveys an alternative future vividly. But is the ending a bit of a deus ex machina, and if so, is that a problem? Or does that serve to reinforce the ideas at the heart of the book? Dukes and Bagg have a spirited but generally glowing read of Atwood’s 1985 masterwork.

The Handmaid’s Tale is set in a speculative near future that feels disturbingly familiar. The lads marvel at Atwood’s ability to vividly describe a speculative world without any obvious expository passages. Offred’s observations, musings, and memories effectively build the world, without ever taking the reader away from her point of view.

Bagg and Dukes finally get around to reading Toni Morrison's The Bluest Eye, and both are impressed by Morrison's craft, purpose, and ability to keep both functioning at a high level while delivering an eminently readable yarn. They stop to smell the dandelions and begin discussing why and how this book has ended up on banned and challenged lists all over the United States.

We spend a few final minutes with Steve Zaillian's Ripley, wondering if the resemblance between Inspector Ravini and Peter Seller's Inspector Clouseau is intentional, and considering what the overall effect of the luscious high-contrast black and white footage has for viewers. Dukes posits that this style is a new way of shooting, rather than a throwback, but Bagg thinks that there is a disconnect between the visual and narrative effects.

Dukes and Bagg wonder if Tom Ripley’s “disguise” (as himself) is meant to be as clumsy as it appears and if the show is wandering too close to the (admittedly wonderful) Pink Panther series. Nonetheless, the omniscient desk clerks, grumpy dog walker, and appearance of a delightful fellow “art dealer” provide the second half of the Netflix series enough delightful moments to make it worth the time.

Bagg and Dukes return to the source material that launched Upper Middle Brow, in the production of Ripley, directed by Steve Zaillian and (quixotically) available on Netflix. The mini-series is unspeakably beautiful to look at and, as we analyze in this episode, listen to. We think it may rise to the level of cult classic, but wonder if Netflix is the right space for this deliberate psychological portrait.