It’s about a subtle facial expression, sometimes barely perceptible, but we all know it’s there. And it’s potent.
I’m referring to the raised-eyebrow syndrome that seems to have afflicted the Trujillo household. I’ll explain through the following narration:
My wife, Bonnie, was brought up reading Victorian novels, and now as a senior citizen, she enjoys various offerings on Channel 5, the PBS station, which shows “Masterpiece Theater” on Sundays and a complement of classical movies and mini-series based on the works of George Eliot, Jane Austen, Charlotte and Emily Bronte. An extremely popular series, Downton Abbey, also occupies my wife’s time — and sometimes even mine.
Those are Bonnie’s tastes, not necessarily mine. Yes, I read some of these comedy-of-manners works as part of my English major at Highlands during the Dark Ages, and I claim Wuthering Heights, by Charlotte Bronte as one of the greatest books I’ve read. But I don’t have a Top 10 list; I usually say that the last book I read is my favorite.
Currently, I’m reading “Sunny: Ward of the State,” by Sonja Heinze Coryat, who used a local address and phone number. “Sunny” is a literal page-turner. For my part, I agree with a former Highlands professor, Ray Newton, who said, “Finishing a good book is like saying good-bye to a good friend.”
He’s right. I enjoy the trip more than the destination, and like a good glass of tea, I like to nurse it along. So, if it takes me five weeks of savoring to finish an average-sized novel, does it matter? “Sunny,” with a 2005 copywright date, is one of those. It reminds me of “The Jungle,” by Upton Sinclair, in its description of hard times by new arrivals to big cities. The trouble is, I read far more than my standard allotment last night, and I fear — yes fear — that I’ll end the book too soon. Then what? Do I wait for a sequel?
But I digress.
A movie critic at once lamented Americans’ often unrestrained lust for violence in much of today’s fare and compared it with the sedate prose of the Victorian age. The critic alluded to the rank violence of some American network TV programs, emphasizing that viewers’ appetites aren’t whetted unless 17 people lie in the street, their bodies riddled with bullets.
By contrast, the critic wrote, some British offerings rise or fall on the basis of whether the protagonist raises an eyebrow. Sometimes that gesture is enough to tell us who among the whodunit crew is guilty.
Because of Bonnie’s addiction to Masterpiece Theater and others of its genre, the rest of us Trujillos have devised a kind of rating system. Here’s how it works:
Benjie, the youngest Trujillo sibling, might wish to invite his mother on an outing, say, to Gallinas Canyon. I suggest Ben ascertain Mom’s level of involvement in the Channel 5 TV program that’s on. “Can you tell how many eyebrows have been raised?” I’ll ask Ben.
One raised eyebrow, in the fashion of Hercule Peroit, Agatha Christie’s Belgian detective, means he’s solved the murder mystery. Two raised eyebrows? Well, that’s too much for the average viewer to fathom.
“It looks like a two-raised-eyebrows program, Dad,” Ben said.
“Well then forget it. She’ll never agree to join us with so many eyebrows raised. Or maybe they’re having a Botox party on TV.”
All of this eyebrow raising reminds me of what used to be called the Legion of Decency, a rating system, sanctioned by the Catholic Church, which gave grades to current movies, ratings such as “Morally objectionable in part for children,” all the way to “condemned.”
I have no doubt that for some, a condemned movie was really a recommendation, a must-see. Just don’t watch that movie in your hometown, where you might be recognized.
But all that’s changed over the years; words and scenes that used to cause people to wince and walk out of movie houses, in the pre-TV era, now are tolerated.
Only a few days ago, a woman guest on the Tonight Show with Jay Leno, entered the studio in full digitus impudicus mode, her middle finger raised for several seconds, as the audience rose to welcome her. Classy?
The seven-second delay employed by most networks allows the operators to censor (bleep) inappropriate words for the TV audience, and a filter attempts to disguise the flipping-off finger of some guests.
But the studio audience sees and hears all, even if we at home are spared the experience. What a contrast between much American fare and that offered across the Atlantic!
Whereas movies and live TV appearances here often are laced with coarse language and gestures, the Brits are oh-so circumspect.
Ruth Marcus, a syndicated columnist, expressed it in far more eloquent terms than I ever could.
This is what she wrote, in part, about Jane Austen:
“Her characters inhabit a world of genteel decorum and entrenched convention, with rules of behavior as rigid and minutely choreographed as a Netherfield ball. The closest they edge to rudeness are exclamations along the lines of ‘Nonsense, errant nonsense, as ever was talked!’ — Mr. Knightley’s reproof when Emma Woodhouse dares suggest her friend is too good for a farmer’s marriage proposal.”
The jaded tastes of many of us in America might make it difficult even to understand that Victorian discourse. More likely, it would be clear to some of us only if it were sprinkled by much coarser language, that which ought not appear in a family newspaper.