Barry Ancelet is one of the lions of Cajun culture, adding an academic layer to what has historically been a rather unacademic culture. The other day, I was reading an essay of his on the portrayals of Cajuns in film. (A redesign at UL’s web site has momentarily killed it off, but it lives on in the Wayback Machine.)
The essay traces how Hollywood and the TV studios have viewed Cajuns — how we went from noble, romantic primitives to dangerous, violent criminals by the early ’80s. There were a variety of reasons. The swamps of south Louisiana proved a decent stand-in for those of Vietnam, so it was easy to turn Cajuns into proto-Vietcong. (A la 1981’s Southern Comfort.) Cajuns were at a peak of national interest, thanks to Paul Prudhomme, so they were natural subjects for a national show seeking some intrigue. And let’s be honest: Hollywood isn’t particularly known for its sensitivity to racial or ethnic minorities — particularly those small enough to be unable to rally boycott campaigns and the like.
Anyway, one of the instances he cites is none other than an episode of “Knight Rider,” that classic talking-car schlockfest starring everyone’s favorite failed burger eater. In the episode (“Ring of Fire” to the completists), Michael Knight and KITT head down to Louisiana to rescue a comely Cajun lass.
Thanks to the magic of BitTorrent, I was able to find a copy. There are stereotypes a-plenty: the beautiful girl who can’t be convinced to leave her hellhole of a small town and doesn’t know what a “computer” is; the randomly brutal sheriff; the backwoods Cajuns who sic hounds on their enemies and are willing to arrange deaths in exchange for better access to mink poaching; et cetera.
In “Knight Rider” land, hot Cajun 13-year-old girls are apparently available for purchase when they come into town. In the late 1970s! The town is run by a threatening Southern gentleman in a seersucker suit — the kind you don’t see in the parts of the South where Cajuns are, I can safely say. (I do enjoy his penchant for clam metaphors, if not his use of the phrase “ain’t nothin’ but Cajun trash.” He also looks strangely like Salman Rushdie.)
But the funniest part is the accents, which are uniformly horrendous. We’re talking laugh-out-loud funny to anyone who’s ever set foot in my part of the country. The poor comely lass sounds like she saw a Serge Gainsbourg video once and decided Serge + mental retardation = “Cajun.” (Her name is Layla Charon Callan, which is exactly the sort of completely non-Cajun name Cajun women get in Hollywood.) And most of the menfolk sound straight-arrow Southern, like they’re from Alabama or something — except for once in a while when they seem to remember they’re supposed to sound French or something and throw in a “mon cherie.” The more backwoods-y Cajuns dress like Davy Crockett and sound strangely Mexican.
Anyway, Ancelet quotes the lead bad guy (an escapee from a chain gang who has returned to seek vengeance against his wife Layla):
She refuses, insisting on doing what is right, so he beats her up. She protests and his response is, “Well, you know how us Cajun men are.”
The scene in question doesn’t actually include that line. (And it also doesn’t make strict narrative sense, since he’s technically not a Cajun but a “Southerner” who does Cajun-y things like get everywhere in a pirogue.) The mistake is forgivable, considering Ancelet wrote in the era before Tivo and DVDs. But the scene does include this memorable exchange, as Bad Guy prepares to rape and/or murder our short-bus heroine:
He: Do you remember when it was good between us?
She: It was never good between us!
He: Cajun memories are short! You need to be reminded!
You know us forgetful Cajuns!
Actually, the most overtly offensive line is also from the main bad guy: “Cajuns aren’t nothin’ but animals!” Video below (although YouTube seems not to like it).
There’s tons of other great stuff, like the bit about Cajuns’ “killing instinct” and how the more civilized Michael Knight (!) lacks it. And how KITT does a voice analysis on Layla and describes her as “approximate age 18 years, limited educational background indicated by broken speech pattern.” And how KITT advises that small towns in the South don’t like outsiders. (Especially those with talking cars.) And how the architecture in the “Cajun” small town is straight out of Oktoberfest and Solvang. (Which might explain the mountain range in the background.)
And this final exchange, after Knight has vanquished the bad guy. Knight tries to convince the hottie to leave south Louisiana. She says no. Earlier in the episode, Layla had said she’d heard of the outside world only through her transistor radio. (Or, as she put it earlier: “I am Cajun. If I leave the bayou, I will die!” That’s up there with “More traps — quicksand — very much danger!” as my favorite Laylaism.)
Knight: Some day [holding a transistor radio], your outside world here’s gonna get your curiosity up. When it does, don’t be afraid to go out and take a look for yourself.
She: [in childlike “French” voice] You teach me not to be afraid! Maybe some day.
That means I get to spend the next year thinking deep thoughts among the Cantabs up in Cambridge. It also allegedly means that I am a “working journalist of accomplishment and promise,” although I have been unable to find a second source willing to go on the record supporting that claim. I plan to spend the next two months slowly getting my cold weather gear out of storage.
How does this affect you, Dear Reader? This here site will continue, perhaps even enlivened with what the money people call additional “content.” For Dallasites, there will be at least one (and perhaps 15) going-away parties before my departure in August. And for those of you on Eastern Daylight Time, there will be a new edition of the famed crabwalk.com Northern Tier Listening Tour, as my trusty Mazda makes its journey up I-95 to Boston. (Previous installments occurred in 2002 and 2004.)
— Seth Godin’s The Dip. Most business/career books don’t ring true to me, since writing careers share little of the traditional corporate superstructure. Talk of sales forces and client happiness and advancement paths don’t make as much sense in a career where (a) you’re a drag on the bottom line, not adding to it, (b) your job is often to make the people you deal with mad, and (c) advancement within the company doesn’t necessarily mean more money, more prestige, or more fun. But Godin has a few lines on newspapers that made me sit up:
If you work at a big city newspaper . . . circulation is dropping . . . Every day you stay is a bad strategic decision, because every day you get better at something that isn’t useful — and you are another day behind others who are learning something more useful.
I don’t completely agree — since while newspapers may go the way of the Mascarene coot, reporting and writing are skills easily transferable to other lines of work — but there’s more than a smack of truth there.
I know and respect many copy editors. Hell, I’ve dated a copy editor. But this copy-editor discussion thread — in which everyone bitches about why this is a shameful, unacceptable headline — is Exhibit A for why newspapers’ days are numbered.
Exhibit B is this quote from a slot editor: “On what grounds do you guys figure that readers are the best (or even good) judges of headlines, just out of curiosity?” Ugh.
Here’s a journal kept by a team of scientists who did some archaeological digs on the island a few months ago. (The dates on the top are what you need to click through.) Excuse the francophone misspellings. Plus: Baby turtles!
Anthony Mitchell, among the 114 people that an official said were killed in a plane crash over the weekend in Cameroon, was a dogged Associated Press correspondent from Britain with a passion for Africa and for uncovering challenging stories. He had been on assignment to investigate the criminal trade in endangered species for food.
Mitchell, 39, had just spent a week in the Central African Republic, where he visited markets that sold elephant meat and chimps and gorillas to international smugglers. His stories were to be published before an international conference on the topic next month.
Intra-African airlines can be scary. Easily the freakiest flying experience I’ve ever had was a Sosoliso Airlines flight from Enugu to Lagos when I was in Nigeria for these stories. That plane felt tenuous the whole way. Six months later, one of Sosoliso’s four planes crashed, killing 109. I can’t say for sure if it’s the same plane I flew on, but my plane still had Yugoslav insignia on the side; the plane that was downed was a Macedonian castoff.
Just got back from Los Angeles. Was 10 feet from the Governator.
The Press Club of Dallas is suing its former president for allegedly faking the judging of the Katie Awards, one of the region’s top prizes for journalists.
The suit, filed Monday in Dallas County District Court, also claims that Elizabeth Albanese was involved in “dishonest and fraudulent” activity with the club’s finances during her 19 months as president.
Last month, The Dallas Morning News reported that Ms. Albanese has a history of mental illness and a criminal history in three states under the name Lisa Albanese, including charges of theft, forgery and circulating false documents.
Also, am heading to L.A. (not La.) tomorrow for a conference. I won’t have a car, which seems almost unpatriotic in Los Angeles. So any suggestions of things to do in downtown would be appreciated. And I’ll be back in California in a few weeks, this time around Lake Tahoe and Sacramento. Suggestions, again, appreciated.
Joshua Benton is the director of the Nieman Digital Journalism Project at Harvard University, among other things. Before that, he was a staff writer and columnist for The Dallas Morning News. (More.)
