We’re drowning in quirk. It is the ruling sensibility of today’s Gen-X indie culture, defined territorially by the gentle ministrations of public radio’s This American Life; the strenuously odd (and now canceled) TV sitcom Arrested Development; the movies of Wes Anderson; Dave Eggers’s McSweeney’s Web site; the performance art, music, and writing of Miranda July; and the just-too-wacky-to-be-fully-believable memoirs of Augusten Burroughs.
It’s been 20 years of beneficent, wide-eyed gazing upon the oddities of our fellow man. David Byrne probably birthed contemporary quirk around 1985— halfway between his “Psycho Killer” beginnings with the Talking Heads and his move to global pop—when he sang the song “Stay Up Late”: “Cute, cute, little baby / Little pee-pee, little toes.” (As it happens, Byrne appeared on July’s recent book tour.) Jon Cryer’s “Duckie” Dale in Pretty in Pink came a year later, and quirk was on its way.
As an aesthetic principle, quirk is an embrace of the odd against the blandly mainstream. It features mannered ingenuousness, an embrace of small moments, narrative randomness, situationally amusing but not hilarious character juxtapositions (on HBO’s recent indie-cred comedy Flight of the Conchords, the titular folk-rock duo have one fan), and unexplainable but nonetheless charming character traits. Quirk takes not mattering very seriously.
Quirk is odd, but not too odd. That would take us all the way to weird, and there someone might get hurt. Napoleon Dynamite became a quirk classic by making heroes of Napoleon and Pedro, boy-men without qualities who team up against an alpha blonde to elect Mexican- immigrant Pedro class president at an Idaho high school. Napoleon seals the deal with a dance so transfixingly, transportingly wrong that it becomes a kind of deus ex machina. Pedro wins. (Indeed, inappropriate dancing is a big quirk trope, inasmuch as it provides a dramatic moment at which value systems can collide. See, for example, 7-year-old Olive’s unwittingly hypersexualized routine to Rick James’s “Super Freak” that brings the dysfunctional family together in last year’s Little Miss Sunshine. This itself called out to the unwittingly only-slightly-less-hypersexualized preteen dance troupe Sparkle Motion in the 2001 quirk-noir Donnie Darko, a movie in which Jake Gyllenhaal takes orders from a giant rabbit.)
|VIDEO: Watch Napoleon Dynamite's "transfixingly, transportingly wrong" dance routine|
In Garden State, Zach Braff’s generation-defining 2004 movie about 20-something adult-onset agita, quirky Sam (Natalie Portman) shepherds sullen, affectless Andrew (Braff) off the well-trodden path of bourgeois conformity onto the slightly-less-trodden-upon fescue along the side of the road. After burying her pet hamster, they end up at a houseboat situated at the lip of a Newark quarry, where the inhabitants happen to be antique dealers. Random. The antique dealers have a piece of jewelry that belonged to Andrew’s dead mother. Andrew finds newfound purpose in life—purpose-lite, really.
The avatar of contemporary quirk is undoubtedly Ira Glass, the 40-something host of the long-running radio show This American Life, which recently completed its first season as a documentary series on Showtime. The TV show hews closely to the radio format (full disclosure: two of its executive producers are working with me on another project). Glass introduces each episode of the TV version from behind a deco desk placed somewhere nonsensical, like a parking garage or the Utah salt flats. It’s a wryly funny visual gag: Throwback to older medium introduces TV show as if he’s come from the first days of TV.
Famously, the radio show tells multiple stories around a theme, with Glass, the pleasantly nasal narrator, gently prodding the action along and summing it up in ways that correct yet almost always redeem the people—white and middle-class, to a disconcerting degree—who populate his stories. “Ours really is a ministry of love,” Glass told Entertainment Weekly earlier this year, in that non-ironic ironic way favored by the self-styledly quirky.
It’s easy to fall in with TAL. The rhythms are lulling, and everyone involved appears to be—is—smart, idiosyncratic, charmingly self-effacing, well-meaning, much as most of us would like to be seen. Glass tells stories, and who does that anymore? The radio show has birthed and nurtured a slew of alt- culture stars (John Hodgman, Sarah Vowell, David Sedaris), and it thrives as the voice of a generation too young to buy into the broader public-radio mission (“This is the sound of Guatemalan basket weavers; their way of life is threatened …”) and too smart or old for the braying of commercial radio. It’s the sound of Austin, Boulder, Berkeley, Red Hook, Madison, Cambridge, Adams Morgan—of people who tend to think of themselves as engaged, aware.
TAL, as has been apparent for years, is really the opposite of documentary reportage. It’s more like sociology, wherein the paradigm is set and specific circumstances are nipped, tucked, torqued, and squeezed until they fit the theme. Radio listeners can’t really fight through Glass’s scrim, so they have to take his word that the story is what he says it is. In the harsh light of television, however, the affectations of the radio show become glaringly clear. You can see how determined Glass is to bestow small breakthrough moments on his protagonists, whether they’re aware of them or not. We’re told, for instance, that the religious father of a lapsed-Mormon woman has come to a tentative understanding with his daughter after seeing her boyfriend play Jesus in a photo shoot. But mostly, she still just seems pissed off, and he remains a doctrinaire bore. Then there’s the rancher who loves his one-of-a-kind, tourist-attracting bull (“Chance”) so much that he clones him (creating “Second Chance”). The man is said to have learned a gentle lesson about unintended consequences after the clone gores him in the testicles. But actually he doesn’t seem to have learned much of anything. He still believes Second Chance will be bankable, once the bull gets the testicle-goring out of his system. Mostly, the rancher seems either economically needy or a bit touched.
In a short introductory piece, an elderly guy who visits his wife’s grave three times a week, but also brings along a TV set for company, is seen as just another piece of this magically odd tapestry we call America. There almost certainly are some depths here—the loneliness of losing a spouse, the poignancy of aging, perhaps a touch of senile-onset dementia—but we’re directed to see him as simply quirky, a guy doing his thing, man. “Well,” Glass says, “it’s This American Life.”