Midway through my frenzied packing, I came across an essay I had printed out some time back but never read: “Can Poetry Matter?” by contemporary poet Dana Gioia (Bush’s surprisingly good choice for a new head of the NEA). Taking a moment to read it now, I was struck by the truth of the essay’s main thrust: that poetry has lost its audience. Poetry has disappeared from the broader public imagination, Gioia argues, having retreated to the outskirts of ivory-towered academia. Poetry, in short, is now heard only by poets, rather than by a “cultural intelligentsia,” “limited [only] by intelligence and curiosity, [a] heterogeneous group that cuts across lines of race, class, age, and occupation.” And, I am afraid, I am a case in point; though I would probably self-identify as a snotty intellectual, I cannot remember the last time I purchased a volume of poetry.

Gioia further paints the decline of poetry as symptomatic of a more general concern. Echoing Whitman’s lament, “To have great poets, there must be great audiences, too,” Gioia points out that a disappearance of great audiences is slowly killing not only poetry, but other art forms as well, from jazz and serious theater, to classical music and dance. All are increasingly followed only by “subcultures of specialists,” rather than by even a small percentage of the broader population. While I’m too far outside of the would of poetry to comment intelligently on that front, from my position as both a classical and jazz musician (and avid fan of both), it is clear that the disappearance of a broad audience has indeed taken a serious toll on both of those arts over the past decades.

Yet Gioia’s essay is still a largely optimistic one. When, towards the end, he tells us that “if I could have my wish… I would wish that poetry could again become a part of American public culture,” he adds that he doesn’t think such a wish is impossible. “All it would require,” he explains, “is that poets and poetry teachers take more responsibility for bringing their art to the public.” Gioia lays out a handful of proposals for how poets might do this, from using radio as a medium (“a little imaginative programming at the hundreds of college and public-supported radio stations could bring poetry to millions of listeners”) to writing critical prose about poetry that is both free of jargon and more brutally honest in its assessment of quality (“Poets must regain the readers’ trust by candidly admitting what they don’t like as well as promoting what they like. Professional courtesy has no place in literary journalism”).

Such an approach is heartening, and, I suspect, remarkably effective, due to the sheer number of poets, jazz musicians or dancers who would willingly rally behind the idea. If each were to dedicate only a small percentage of their time, say 5%, to effective outreach programs, the fine arts could easily have a remarkable public interest renaissance. Yet while most artists would be happy to donate their time to such an endeavor, few have the initiative to create such outreach programs from scratch. The arts are therefore in desperate need of an organization that can help develop innovative approaches to outreach and rally artists to those programs. In short, what’s needed is not the standard arts non-profit, which focuses on cultivating the arts, but a rather unusual one, focused on cultivating audiences.

I have a bad, bad feeling there may be another 501c3 in my future.

Like much of the country, I recently watched Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. And, like much of the country, I found it, like it’s predecessor, sort of blandly enjoyable.

While watching the film, however, I frequently found myself speculating as to the real-life fates of the three young protagonists. Which is to say, will any of the little Brits ever find acting work once their Potter runs end?

After much contemplation, I was left to conclude that poor Rupert Grint (Ron Weasley) is more or less doomed to immediate disappearance from the world of film, largely due to his inability to actually act (oddly constipated facial gesturing notwithstanding). Further, that Daniel Radcliffe (Harry Potter), who I suspect will look surprisingly incomplete without a jagged scar on his forehead, is likely to slowly fade into Mark Hamill-esque oblivion. But that Emma Watson (Hermione Grainger) might very well turn out to be the next big thing.

Throughout the film, I found Watson so much more believable, so much more subtly emotive, so much more interesting to watch than the other two that it made me almost embarrassed for them. By all indications, she’s similarly shamed the boys on the talk show circuit; while they’ve been rather inarticulate, Watson has produced gems like: “It was unbelievable seeing me as an action figure; in a few months, toddlers around the country will be biting my head off!”

All of which leads me to believe that Watson will follow in the footsteps of actresses like Ricci and Portman, leveraging a fascinatingly precocious maturity and an apparently innate ability to create subtly nuanced performances to make the rather difficult jump from child-star to more adult roles.

[And I say this all now so that when I cast her in a film ten years down the road, I can legitimately say I’ve been a long-time fan.]

I hit the local bookstore this afternoon, returning with four new reads: Harold Bloom’s How to Read and Why, Amir Aczel’s The Mystery of the Aleph, John Barth’s Coming Soon!!!, and Gretchen Rubin’s Power Money Fame Sex.

From what I’ve observed, most people, given such a pile of new books, would finish the first before heading on to the second, the second before heading on to the third, and so on. Which, to me, is nearly inconceivable. Perhaps it’s just a severe undiagnosed case of ADHD, but I find that I can read several books at the same time faster than I can finish just one alone.

Actually, my entire life runs along those lines. People often express surprise at the number of interests I pursue simultaneously, but I’m fairly certain that, were I to focus all my time into one endeavor, I’d actually accomplish less in it than I would while balancing it with several others. I wouldn’t really recommend the approach; it doesn’t logically make much sense and it’s probably the quickest route to stress and ulcers. But I just can’t seem to make myself do things any other way.

Somehow, somewhere along the way, I got hooked on Ally McBeal. And while I hate to admit it, for the past several seasons I’ve watched the show religiously, enjoying it through its prime and suffering with it through its decline. By this evenings episode, truly the nadir of five long seasons, I was more than ready to see the series end; it was less a finale than a mercy killing.

Still, I felt oddly sad to see the show go. And I suspect, come next Monday, I’ll be left with an Ally-shaped gap in my evening. So, bygones, Mrs. McBeal. Bygones. We’ll miss you.

As ongoing film producer education, and as part of my job as CEO of the nascent Cyan Pictures, I watch a lot of movies – usually at least one a day. It is to that, rather than to a love of the series or to high expectations for the film, that I attribute having gone to see Star Wars: Episode II on the day that it opened.

Unlike the critics, who screened the film hell-bent on skewering it sooner and more harshly than their competitors, and the die-hard fans, who frankly would have accepted even a flipbook of line drawings by Lucas as a work of unparalleled genius, I came to the film with a relatively clear and open mind. Having spent the few days since digesting mentally, I’m left with these main thoughts:

1. Sadly enough, the critics are, by and large, correct. Attack of the Clones is less a movie than a marketing event, replete with poor plot, dialogue and acting, and overwrought CGI effects that somehow lack the charm of the more slapdash originals.

2. None the less, I don’t in any way regret having spent $10 on the film. Lucas’ universe is immersively exhilarating and visually stunning, while Williams’ score bridges earlier and later themes in a sort of Wagnerian ring-cycle so beautifully realized it nearly justifies another trip to the theater just to hear the music again in Dolby THX.

Frankly, though, what I or anyone else says doesn’t much matter; everyone is likely to see Episode II anyway, which is why, in less than 24 hours, the movie grossed an obscene $30.1m at the box office, already recouping over a quarter of the cost of the film (the most expensive Star Wars episode to date).

So why bother to write this review? Mainly, as long-winded introduction to these two quirkily erudite articles: Jonathan Last’s The Case for the Empire and Joshua Tyree’s On the Implausibility of the Death Star’s Trash Compactor. Read them both, now. Or else.

I’ve been listening to Wilco’s Summer Teeth all morning – three times through so far, and I appreciate the CD better with each listening. Melodically, the album pulls away from Wilco’s alt-country roots, gravitating towards a Beach Boys-esque thickly orchestrated pop sound. Tweedy’s surprisingly bleak lyrics ride on top, beautiful in their subtlety – witness the ballad “She’s A Jar,” which begins as a tender love song (“She begs me not to miss her”) and slowly degenerates (“She begs me not to hit her”).

Wilco’s newest album, the self-released Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, is set to hit shelves in a little less than a month. Supposedly picking up where Summer Teeth leaves off, the album is already receiving wide-ranging acclaim in pre-release reviews. *Sigh* It appears Amazon will be siphoning off yet one more chunk of my disposable income.

In many ways, Tom Perrotta is the closest thing America has to a Nick Hornby. Both build loosely plotted novels around complicated yet likeable characters. Both have a thoroughly modern, bitingly ironic sense of humor and a solid understanding of vague, aimless, GenX slacker angst. And both can turn a sentence with far more style than the average novelist. Finally, both authors are similarly moviefiable – witness Perrotta’s Election and Hornby’s High Fidelity, two gems. There is, however, one major difference between the two: in recent years, Hornby has become something of a household name in the literary world, while Perrotta has labored on for a surprisingly small cult following.

Joe College, Perrotta’s fourth book, seems destined to change that. Coming off Election’s movie success, and boosted by a solid NY Times review, the novel is almost guaranteed bestseller status. That’s a bit unfortunate, however, as Joe College is probably the weakest link in Perrotta’s bibliography. Don’t get me wrong – as one reviewer points out, Perrotta at 80% is better than most novelists at 100%. But especially in terms of plot, the book pulls up a bit short.

Still, Joe College is worth the read simply to experience the beautifully rendered stream of consciousness of its protagonist, Danny, a Yale Junior trying to reconcile his snotty Ivy League education with his blue collar New Jersey roots. For any Yale alums, the book is even more enjoyable – Perrotta, a Yalie himself, catches the school’s every idiosyncrasy, from weenie bins and the Whiff’s to secret societies and the Jello endowment.

So, in short, read Joe College. But if you haven’t already, do yourself a favor and read Perrotta’s other books first (especially The Wishbones and Bad Haircut). If you move fast enough, you just might still be able to say you were reading Tom Perrotta before he became the next big thing.