Kitsch Matters

Danger is always exciting. In The Sheik, a 1921 silent film with Agnes Ayres and Rudolph Valentino, Algerian "Sheik Ahmed" abducts a strong, independent British lady and takes her to his camp. She resists his forceful advances until she's kidnapped by a rival sheik. When Sheik Ahmed rescues her, she decides he isn't so bad after all and they fall in love. The film was based on a popular romance novel by Edith Hull, which apparently sparked an extended trend in sheik (or sheikh) fantasies. Elvis incorporated the theme into his farcically campy film Harum Scarum about a singer who is kidnapped and trapped in an imaginary Middle East. The sheikh, the infamous 'bad boy,' still runs rampant in the world of romance novels. Bitch Magazine recently published an article about the subject (thanks to my sister for this), pointing out that the Arab men in these stories are perceived as menacing yet desirable. The website Sheikhs and Desert Love lists all the books published in this genre to date. Some of my favorites titles are Beauty and the Sheikh, Cobra and the Concubine, Bed of Sand, and Arabian Love-Child. Who knew suspected terrorists could be so sexy?

Hitting the Wall

I've wanted to see this film since it came out, but after it left the theater it was tough to get ahold of. Tonight I finally watched the much-acclaimed Head On, or "Gegen die Wand" by Turkish German director Fatih Akin. Having not known much about the premise other than that it was about a Turkish immigrant community in Germany, I was unprepared for the movie's full impact. Watching it was like standing on the sidewalk and being grabbed by someone reaching out the window of a passing bus, hanging by the wrists and watching the ground moving below, waiting to hit the pavement. The first part takes place in the dark underworld of Hamburg, where the two main characters are living grimy and tragic lives. Sibel, the rebellious daughter of a strict Muslim family, and Cahit, a washed-up alcoholic with violent tendencies, have both hit rock bottom. They meet in a mental ward after they've both attempted suicide, and are thrown together by Sibel's determination to marry a Turkish man in a last-ditch effort to appease her stubborn and abusive family. What follows is an unpredictable love story.

The topic of a cultural "homeland" pops up throughout the film. Sibel and and Cahit speak only in German to each other, and when Sibel's family comments on Cahit's poor grasp on the Turkish language, he says he "threw it away." More than anything though, the sense of being caught between cultures comes out in the claustrophobic mood of the film. Stephanie Zacharek wrote in Salon, "Head On isn't strictly a culture-clash movie, possibly because for Akin (who was born in Germany of Turkish parents), the issues of displacement for any Middle Easterner living in Europe are a given -- they're almost too basic to be the subject of a movie." Turkey isn't really in the Middle East, but I agree with the rest of this statement. Akin is telling his story from the inside-out, not the outside-in. And instead of being the focus of the plot, Sibel and Cahit's displacement is more like a cloud of doom that hangs over their self-destructive lives. But it somehow also leads them forward, and after a dramatic turn of events, Sibel finds herself in Istanbul cleaning hotel rooms.

Akin manages to communicate addiction, poverty, and the struggle for female autonomy in a bald, visceral way. I don't think I've ever watched a movie that made me writhe with the same kind of discomfort. Watching Head On forces its viewers to understand what it's like to die violently and then try to live again.

Silverlake-ification

On the fourth of July I sat on a hill overlooking Northeast Los Angeles. The air was warm and hazy with smoke from illegal fireworks, which continued to pound across the valley. The lights shot up from narrow residential streets while my boyfriend and I stared in bemusement. As fairly new residents, we wondered how this madness could ensue without someone being seriously injured or starting a fire. We were joined by a Spanish-speaking family with two young girls who were apparently unfazed by the bursts of light below. The girls sat on cinder blocks and began to squabble, and one of the women told them to keep their hands to themselves. When the youngest began to cry and complain, the family headed back up the road. The booms went late into the night, but as far as I know no major fires broke out. Most of the residue was removed by street cleaners the next day, when I was left wondering why such massive patriotic displays aren't taken as evidence of U.S. loyalty in immigrant communities.

As a young white resident of a mostly Latino neighborhood, I am participating in a gentrifying trend that I'd rather not be implicated in. The "yuppified" areas of L.A. are spreading further and further east. First it was Silverlake and Echo Park, now it's Hollywood, Downtown LA, Eagle Rock, and Highland Park. Gentrification is a delicate phenomenon; crime rates go down, but rent prices go up and long-time residents are forced to leave. Here's an LA Weekly article from last summer. Since moving to the Northeast, I've been trying to figure out how to break out of the "gentrifying white girl" mold. I started learning Spanish. I tried to interact. After seeing the film Quinceañera, I became determined not to be one of the stereotypical people who move in without appreciating what they're pushing out. But sometimes I wonder - does it matter that I care? Even if I'm more culturally sensitive than most, I still have a gay athletic-wear designing neighbor with a pair of brindle boxers that I take to the dog park everyday. Did my landlord do a service by beautifully restoring our 1910 duplex even though his hard work probably alienated the working class neighbors? These questions gnaw at the back of my mind. What I do know is that the cost of housing in Los Angeles County is dangerously high. People are moving east because the closer to the ocean you are, the more you pay.

Last month the LA Times published this story about L.A.'s "ethnic enclaves" as untapped tourist gems. The accompanying photo shows the mural on a corner near my house, and the article describes Highland Park's blossoming Latino art scene. Visitors bring in much-needed income, but as Highland Park's hip and artsy reputation spreads, I understand why some fear it will be the new Silverlake.