Inside
NCR In the
air: whispers of grace, media disgrace
In the July 18 issue I wrote harshly
of the Orange Order, the group that has been the cornerstone of
Protestant/Unionist domination over Catholics in Northern Ireland for
generations. I wouldn't withdraw a word of it, for Orangemen have been remote
and sometimes proximate causes of division and hate over the years, raising the
question whether the one who pulls the trigger is always the most guilty.
Then, to everyone's immense surprise, the Orangemen announced they
would not, this year, march as planned through several exclusively Catholic
areas. Never mind that they had little business marching down those Catholic
streets at any time (such marches led to major havoc a year ago and often
before). In the light of the pent-up animosities and traditions of spite that
bind the province down in hopelessness, this gesture was a shocker. While the
Orangemen claimed benevolent motives and their enemies saw only cynical
self-interest of some enigmatic kind, it was hard not to sniff the faintest
whiff of goodwill in the air.
Then a few days later, Gerry Adams of Sinn Fein, the political
wing of the IRA, suggested it would be a good time for an IRA cease-fire. Two
days later, July 20, the IRA did just that, renewing the 1994 cease-fire they
interrupted 17 months ago in the face of John Major's refusal to play political
ball. Only the foolhardy would suggest to either side that the Orange gesture
had anything to do with the IRA gesture. Goodwill oozes very slowly and
cautiously to the surface in old conflicts like this.
And yet, something profound happened, inducing an imperceptible
warm glow from weary Northerners of all stripes. Societies sometimes get a jolt
of magic or grace and rise above themselves, as they did in Eastern Europe and
South Africa in the past few years -- leaping barriers that they themselves and
others like them had previously been unable to leap for decades or
centuries.
There is still a tight lid on euphoria in Northern Ireland -- so
many old heartaches on the road they all traveled. While Britain's Tony Blair
is trying to seat everyone at the peace table, the ineffable Rev. Ian Paisley
has gone off in a huff. But something is in the air there, at the very time of
year when animosity usually runs highest.
May the wind be at their back.
I didn't know Versace, the clothes
designer, well. In fact I'd never heard of him. He designed for the beautiful
people, which sort of ruled me out. I'm sorry he got killed -- as I'm sorry so
many others get killed whom one never hears about -- but baffled by the amount
of interest his demise has created.
For the first day or two after his death, the media didn't know
how to play Versace. I surfed the networks the first evening. One said he was a
famous designer for the rich and famous. But another hinted at clouds hanging
over him. He was so rich, this report hinted, there were rumors he may have
been laundering money for the Mafia. And other shady stuff. Never having heard
of him, I was neutral on the issue. I never heard this money-laundering angle
mentioned again. The media got their act together and seemingly figured there
was more money in a Versace canonization.
Overnight, the dead designer grew wings and soared. A fellow from
the Museum of Modern Art flitted from one news show to another and told us what
an artist this man was. He made clothes into entertainment, this fellow said,
though this didn't sound like a new concept to me. The more the media learned
that Versace dressed the stars and Princess Di and Mike Tyson, the bigger he
got.
"Of course I don't make clothes for boring people," he had said
with pride, in an interview somewhere. He didn't define boring. The TV showed
him over and over walking down ramps to a fast beat. He was the first to use
rock music at his fashion shows, an expert said, probably the expert from the
museum. He was always in the company of those girls, usually taller than he,
very plastic and unreal, wearing his stuff. I'm no judge, but I'll bet you
wouldn't want your mother to wear any of it. Very "revealing" -- that's
"revealing" with a leer.
Let's face it: Versace's death was a godsend to the media. Not
since O.J. Simpson had they anything this juicy. Lavish lifestyle, it was
hinted, decadent and stylish and artistic, which the man from the museum seemed
to be saying were the same thing. And great wealth. And then the murder. And
sex everywhere. And the fugitive on the run, Andrew Cunanan, maybe wearing
men's clothes, or maybe women's -- this Cunanan was potentially another
godsend, a killer with charisma. Until his sensational death. The suspense left
one breathless.
Unfortunately, this was not the diet of the tabloids (though
presumably that too) but of the mainstream media and the evening newscasts. The
newscasts of those newscasters who would, they often tell us, lay down their
lives for the First Amendment and freedom of the press.
It's not just politicians -- as many aver -- who have lost the
sense of shame. So have many of us in the media.
And we the people?
-- Michael Farrell
National Catholic Reporter, August 1,
1997
|