What price eternity?

In 1951, Henrietta Lacks died of an incredibly fast-growing and invasive uterine cancer. She is still alive today, making vital contributions to our understanding of cancer and cellular biology. How a dead, uneducated black woman continues to live and provide valuable scientific insights, and why her children and grandchildren have not benefited from her legacy, is the subject of Rebecca Skloot's new book, The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks (which you can buy from Amazon here).

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It's just a _____!

I didn't intend to write a separate post on this topic. I'm no authority on philosophy and can't claim that I adhere to some superior standard of rationality in daily life. I wanted to leave the "just a game" thing alone, and let my comments on the relevant post at Dan Bruno's site be my final word. But then someone left a comment at my Tin Man post, attempting to blunt the criticism with the idea that it was just entertainment. Now, despite the fact that I happen to think that some things really do fit into this category, the use of this phrase as an argument annoys me, because it is no argument at all. So here's my position. It's probably not art, but you might be entertained.

"It's just a game," or "It's just an action flick," and other statements of their ilk almost always betray a mental sloth, an unwillingness to actually engage the arguments presented. When someone responds to an argument in this way he displays a fundamental disinterest in the discussion, but also a foolish pride in that disinterest. Because he does not view the subject as worthy of discussion, he concludes that this viewpoint must be valid for everyone else, and proclaims it as a fact. However, even if it is true that some games are "just games", then that must be proven, not simply asserted. The statement incurs a burden of proof, and anyone unwilling to try meeting that burden probably shouldn't be saying anything at all.

Leaving aside for the moment the question of just how that statement can be proven, everyone ought to know that proving it doesn't put a close to the discussion. That a particular game is "just a game" doesn't preclude meaningful and interesting discussion about the way the game is made or the values that went into it. An example of this came up in the comments to Dan's article. Few people would dispute that a golf simulator is "just a game", and I am not one of them. Nonetheless, Michael Abbott says some very interesting things in comparing the presentation of the Tiger Woods games to Hot Shots Golf, and about simulations generally. Of course, we can also address the quality of the entertainment experience, i.e. its artisanship, which I tried to do in the Tin Man piece: I thought it didn't actually do a very good job of entertaining me because of its inconsistency. Even if everyone in the universe agrees that Ballistic: Ecks vs. Sever is so far from being art that it might not even deserve italics, we can still discuss whether the boom mike drops into the scene and what that does to the entertainment value of the film.

This brings me to another point: the failure of a piece of media to achieve anything artistically is a valid criticism of its entertainment value. We all accept that different people are entertained by different things. Gamers, whose tastes are often fragmented along genre (or even subgenre) lines should be especially aware of this. The other night I came across this fundamentally fair review of Baroque, which sent commenter Gen Eric Gui over the edge. His problem was that the author did not judge it strictly on its merits as a Roguelike, and he really likes Roguelikes, and thus loved Baroque. Everyone who has ever discussed games with any regularity has had a conversation just like that. Well, here's what I really, really like: games that do something interesting artistically. That plays a significant role in deciding whether a game (or book or movie, for that matter) entertains me. There's not some mystical wall dividing art on one side from entertainment on the other. Art does entertain, or at least it can; otherwise we probably wouldn't have it. So when considering whether a piece of media succeeds as entertainment, it's reasonable to ask whether it has some artistic merit that can help entertain people who get turned on by that sort of thing. Tin Man didn't have it, or at least not enough. Neither, in my opinion, did Baroque.

So does it matter that something is "just a game"? I think it does; achieving some kind of consensus on that point gives us a good idea of where to direct our mental energies. If it is true that a particular game (movie, etc.) is entirely without artistic merit then we ought to focus our discussions of it on the artisanal aspects of its construction. Halo probably isn't art, but it contains art, as well as artful design, from which much can be learned. Shadow of the Colossus is art, and we could do worse than discussing its artistic qualities, in addition to or instead of studying its artisanship. Directing the discussion into a particular area, however, shouldn't exclude efforts to see whether there is some merit.

Here we get to the question of how we can prove, or at least support, the statement that something is "just a game". I have to admit, I use a pragmatic rather than an analytical standard here. My experience is that it's virtually impossible to prove that a particular piece of media (let alone an entire medium) is art. My standard therefore is not analytical proof, but simply whether the premise "X is a work of art" leads us anywhere interesting. In plenty of cases, including Halo (Roger Travis' view notwithstanding) and sports simulations, I think it doesn't. We can say very interesting things about these games, but those things don't need the premise that the game is a work of art. In contrast, I think you would need to accept that No More Heroes or The Two Thrones are art in order to fully appreciate them. That doesn't mean that we have to uncritically accept every attempt at artistic discussion, but we are obligated to reply, with more than just "nuh-uh, it's just a game".

Sometimes a game is just a game, and I honestly don't have any problem with that. Plenty of games (and other media) are very entertaining without having much artistic merit at all. But the statement that a work is just entertainment is not a rebuttal of reasoned argument to the contrary, nor is it a valid way to deflect criticism. And really, because artistic content is (or at least can be) part of the entertainment value, it's not any kind of response at all. "It's just a game" isn't a response that's automatically invalid, but saying those words doesn't make them true. It's a statement that must be substantiated and shown to be relevant, just like any other argument. If you're not willing to go through with that, then perhaps you don't really have anything to say at all.

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[Insert poop joke here]

It's rare for me to be reading just one book at a time. Usually I bounce back and forth between at least two—one that I read at my desk or on the couch, and one that I read in my "inner sanctum". It's an unusual book that has me so interested that I'm willing to go searching for it every time I want something to read (or need to use the can). Yet for the time it took to read it, Carl Zimmer's Microcosm: E. Coli and the New Science of Life was essentially glued to my hand. Perhaps it would have been more appropriate, given the subject matter, to only read it on the throne, but it was just too good to be read in mere 15-minute snippets.

First isolated from baby diapers by a German physician in the 19th century, Escherichia coli (and its Mr. Hyde, Shigella) is most famous today for making people sick. Inside our bodies E. coli is a pioneer—one of the first species of bacterium to set up shop inside us, though hardly the last, and in normal circumstances it can provide a protective effect. At the heart of this seeming contradiction is the fact that E. coli has enormous diversity. Much of the fun in reading Microcosm lies in coming to understand how that could be so, given that this lowly microbe mostly reproduces by binary fission.

As a structural biologist, I frequently use liters of E. coli—primarily a strain called BL21(DE3). One thing Zimmer notes is that E. coli is absolutely essential to modern molecular bioscience. Its ability to produce the DNA and proteins we need for research makes this lowly bacterium one of our greatest investigative tools. Biomolecular NMR as we know it owes as much or more to the humble microbe (and its willingness to grow thickly in nutrient-poor media) as it does to men like Wüthrich and Bax.

Those who, like myself, primarily know E. coli as a tool for bioscience will recognize several names along this little tour, and learn a great deal about how it came to be such a powerful resource for us. Many will be surprised to learn how controversial some activities we take for granted (transfection of exogenous genetic material into bacteria, for example) were 20-30 years ago. Readers who have very little biology background need not fret, of course. Carl Zimmer is an excellent writer who introduces all the material carefully. Only some very basic knowledge about DNA, proteins, and bacteria is necessary. Zimmer will carry you the rest of the way, from bacteriophages and flagella all the way to synthetic biology, GM crops, and gene circuits.

Whether you work with E. coli every day or just cringe when you hear those words on the evening news, Microcosm will be an engaging, rewarding, and informative read.

While you wait for a chance to go to the bookstore (or for delivery, if like me you use Amazon all the time) check out Carl Zimmer's blog, The Loom, at ScienceBlogs.

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"You may have left me before / but you can't leave me behind."

The two or three of you that have perused my link section have probably come across the oddly-named Ray Bradbury's Love-Camel, Eric's teamblog about pop culture. In a moment of insanity, he invited me to cross-post my own economy-priced cultural musings, and I've decided to do so until the comments get too mean or he returns to his senses.

As it turns out, my first post for rblc is actually inspired by Eric's post yesterday about Blankets, which reminded me of one of my favorite graphic novels, and so even though it was a little early for me to hit it on the decadal rotation I went home last night and re-read Stuck Rubber Baby by Howard Cruse. Although it's a work of fiction, Cruse admits that it is heavily influenced by his time in Birmingham in the sixties, and this shows through in much of the plot and also in some of the characters. The inspiration for Sutton Chopper, for instance, will be immediately obvious to anyone who remembers any part of their Black History Month lessons. But Stuck Rubber Baby is not about the Civil Rights Movement, except to the degree that the characters' reactions to it help define their relationships with each other. This story is about a young man coming to terms with his homosexuality in an extraordinary and difficult time, and the mistakes he and others make in the course of that effort.

This isn't a subject that everyone wants to read about, and I'll forgive you if it turns you off, while warning you that you are missing out on a wonderful story. On the other hand, both civil rights and gay coming-of-age are hardly topics lightly served by literature; it's tempting to dismiss this book (if you haven't read it) as a retread of overdone themes. Yet Cruse manages to avoid the all-too-easy trap of populating this kind of story with saints and sinners. Despite the enormous cast, almost every character who appears on more than one page comes across as realistically mixed. You will find something to criticize in every protagonist (especially the main character), and also something to like, or at least a basis for forgiveness, in the villains. The saintly black preacher unleashes a sarcastic, acid tongue, and the obese bigot who commits one of the book's worst acts comes across as genuinely remorseful and ashamed at the end.

The black-and-white art reflects this sensibility. The characters are highly detailed, and the lines used to draw them are very curvy. This style allows Cruse to create very expressive faces, and yet at the same time it seems to highlight physical imperfections. These characters are not supermen, nor are they ostentatiously ugly. They simply seem real—not in the trivial way one associates with photorealistic artwork, but rather the deeper reality of memory and emotion. Even the sexual content works, a rare example of art avoiding pitfalls I have mentioned before.

Who knows how much of this tale is drawn from Cruse's experience and how much is entirely made up? The strength of Stuck Rubber Baby is that you simply can't tell. This story, though it is fiction, feels real, almost frighteningly so. It has no perfect heroes, no perfect villains, and the last page holds no happy ending... only the impression that someone else's memories, with all their joy and sorrow, have been made your own.

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Playing it safe

Is it really such a big deal that Dumbledore was crushing on young Gellert back in the heady, free-loving days before the war? Does it really change anything about the books? Heck, does it even change anything about the fans' perceptions of the books? Rowling commented, "God, the fanfiction," but that just shows she's never heard of rule 34. The body of fanfiction based on the Potter novels is so vast as to be beyond the comprehension of any sane man, and at least a quarter of it is probably porn. Rowling, imaginative as she may be, could not possibly conceive of anything that fanfic writers have not already turned into treacly, overwrought prose riddled with misspellings, atrocious grammar, and cell-phone language.

I don't doubt that this will add more fuel to the fire of fundamentalists already out to burn the books for daring to mention witchcraft and to promote tolerance. And I have already been subjected to a diatribe accusing Rowling of using this to "drum up publicity" for the books, which is patently ridiculous. For one thing, Harry Potter has so thoroughly permeated popular culture that it is almost certainly impossible to publicize it further. For another, J.K. Rowling is already wealthier than the Queen of England. If your personal wealth overmasters that of a family that spent centuries sucking dry the marrow-bones of indigenous peoples then you hardly need the extra publicity a gay controversy will give you.

Even in the context of the books, this is a minor fact. It fills out the story of Dumbledore's fascination with Gellert, but this is hardly necessary as the books themselves give a strong account of his feelings. It casts an interesting light on his relationships with Snape and Harry, but it doesn't really make any more sense of them. While it might be interesting for the fans to know that Rowling thought of Dumbledore as gay, knowing this doesn't really add much to the depth of the story.

I've even seen some comments saying that it was brave of Rowling to admit that Dumbledore was gay. Well, it fits her books' themes of tolerance. But "brave"? For admitting that a secondary character was gay months after the final volume of her series wrung its billions from the best-seller list? Not a chance. "Brave" would apply if Harry had secretly crushed on Oliver Wood, gotten beaten up for glancing one too many times at the other blokes in the Quidditch showers, and shyly asked Ron to be his date at the Yule Ball. But Rowling never took such chances.

For all that can be praised about the Potter books, it's important to realize that Rowling always played them perfectly safe. The teenage romance was chaste and hardly emotional. The abuses Harry suffered in his adoptive home were never of a kind that truly threatened his well-being. Neither Harry nor any of his friends was ever truly tempted by evil. She rarely played with ambiguity — with very few exceptions, Harry's foes were completely unhinged monsters or obstinately ignorant to the point of irrationality (or, like Umbridge, both). Neither Harry nor the reader was ever remotely tempted to take their side. I'm not criticizing her for this — were I lucky enough to be in her position I might take the same approach. But let's not make the Potter novels into something they're not. And let's not give Rowling's pronouncements about them more than the momentary notice they're due.

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