All That Jazz

Damien Chazelle’s La La Land is going to win Best Picture at this Sunday’s Academy Awards.  That’s not a prediction:  That’s a fact.  As Oscar wagers go, this is a slam dunk to end all slam dunks.  No ’bout-a-doubt it.  If you enter an office pool this year, go long on La La.

We know this for two reasons.  First, Chazelle’s movie is unabashedly about Hollywood’s all-time favorite subject:  itself.  And second, it’s a live-action musical propelled by an original soundtrack—something Hollywood seldom even thinks of doing, let alone executes with passion, charm and finesse.  As with 2011’s The Artist—a black-and-white silent film bubbling with cheeky nostalgia about the glory days of the old studio system—La La Land is a once-in-a-decade novelty whose very existence is such a miracle of ingenuity that the Academy couldn’t ignore it even if it wanted to—and why on Earth would it want to?

That said, La La Land was not the best picture of 2016.  Nor, for that matter, is it the most deserving among the nine nominees in that category.  To be sure, this will hardly make a difference:  By my estimation, the Academy gets it right about once every five years, and since it did exactly that 12 months ago, we can expect quite a long wait until it happens again.

And I’m totally fine with that.  After 15 years of taking movies seriously—and obsessing over the Academy Awards in the process—I’ve come to realize that the Academy’s opinions needn’t align perfectly with mine every year.  Just as I learned to live with (and vote for) a presidential candidate with whom I agreed “only” 90 percent of the time, I don’t need my tastes in cinema validated by 6,000 anonymous industry professionals in order to achieve inner peace.

In truth, I’ve flirted with this I-don’t-care-what-the-Academy-thinks attitude for a while now.  Indeed, if I had any sense, I would’ve thrown in the towel a decade ago when the Academy chose Crash over Brokeback Mountain—a decision that looks even dumber in retrospect than it did at the time.

My problem is that I’m a natural elitist who believes the Oscars should mean something and should reflect some sort of objective truth about what constitutes cinematic greatness.  That such a thing doesn’t actually exist has never prevented me from wishing otherwise—just as the inherent worthlessness of paper money has never prevented anyone from using it to buy a Volvo.  The value of golden statues is like God:  It exists because we say it does.

As far as I’m concerned, the true purpose of the Academy Awards is simply to highlight a handful of terrific films that most American moviegoers probably wouldn’t have discovered on their own.  If cinema itself is a window into the lives of others—a “machine that generates empathy,” as Roger Ebert put it—the Oscars are the most visible means of pointing people in the right direction.

The best movie of 2016 was Moonlight, an intensely personal project that, by dint of its miniscule budget and largely unknown cast, could easily have opened in 20 theatres for one weekend and then disappeared forever.  If its eight (!) Oscar nominations lead another million people to seek it out—in addition to the $21 million in revenue it has generated thus far—I will consider the Academy to have done its job with gusto.  Same for the Best Actress nomination for Isabelle Huppert in Elle, a demented tour de force that most Americans wouldn’t have touched with a 10-foot pole but now might give a fair shot.  And ditto, especially, for the trio of masterpieces in the Best Documentary field—Raoul Peck’s I Am Not Your Negro, Ava DuVernay’s 13th, and Ezra Edelman’s O.J.: Made in America—all three of which deserve the widest audience possible and whose inclusion in Sunday’s telecast is entirely to the benefit of both Hollywood and society as a whole.

Of course, the Academy can’t get everything right, and this year was no exception.  As ever, the list of unjust omissions is longer and more enticing than the list of worthy nominees, and if your only interest is to bitch about Hollywood’s perennial wrongheadedness, you have plenty of material to work with.

What I would prefer, however, is not to make the perfect the enemy of the good, and to accept that a gang that gives eight nominations to Moonlight is not entirely irredeemable.

For context, allow me to present the year 2002, which I consider the genesis of my life as a semi-serious film buff (and the first time I watched the Oscars).  For whatever reason, 2002 was an extraordinary year for cinema, producing such visionary, enduring works as Minority Report, Spirited Away, 25th Hour, Adaptation., and City of God.

Of those five modern classics, how many were nominated for Best Picture?  You guessed it:  Zero.  The Academy was offered an embarrassment of riches and it chose to embarrass itself.  Provided a golden opportunity to embrace any number of challenging, thoughtful, innovative films, Oscar voters decided to turn their backs and play it safe.

And what sort of movie did they ultimately choose for Best Picture?  A musical!  Specifically, an adaptation of Kander and Ebb’s Chicago, directed by Rob Marshall and starring a group of A-list actors with minimal experience in musical theatre.  Why did Chicago win?  Presumably through a Hollywood consensus that appreciated the novelty of a movie musical—then, as now, an exceedingly rare event—and was understandably dazzled by the catchy songs and hypnotic choreography.

As they say:  The more things remain the same, the more they remain the same.  Given the choice, the Academy will err toward fluff when something much more daring is called for.  The good news is that, outside of the movie industry itself, the recipients of these eight-pound gold trophies ultimately do not matter in the grand scheme of cinema.

The Oscars come and go, but the movies are forever.

Playing It Straight

What ever happened to acting?

That’s what I wondered after reading Matt Damon’s controversial new interview this week in the Guardian.  Asked whether it’s still difficult to be openly gay in Hollywood, Damon—who is openly straight—responded in the affirmative, then offered the following advice:

I think you’re a better actor the less people know about you period.  And sexuality is a huge part of that.  Whether you’re straight or gay, people shouldn’t know anything about your sexuality because that’s one of the mysteries that you should be able to play.

Rarely has a beloved celebrity been so right while also being so very, very wrong.

Damon was asked the gay question because of his recent performance as Liberace’s boyfriend in HBO’s Behind the Candelabra.  The implication is that it’s much easier for a straight actor to play a gay character than the other way around.  That is, audiences are more willing to accept a straight person “acting” gay than a gay person “acting” straight.

Historically, this hypothesis has proved true beyond dispute.  Pick any moderately-successful recent film with gay themes and/or prominent gay characters, and you’ll find they all have one thing in common:  heterosexuals.

Just in the last year or two, for instance, we have had Benedict Cumberbatch in The Imitation Game, Jared Leto in Dallas Buyers Club, John Lithgow and Alfred Molina in Love is Strange and Mark Ruffalo in The Normal Heart.  (That last one was technically a TV movie, but who’s counting?)  Before that, of course, there was Heath Ledger and Jake Gyllenhaal in Brokeback Mountain and Sean Penn and James Franco in Milk.

Know how many same-sex relationships those actors have had in their collective lifetimes?  You could count it on the fingers of two fists.

Taken in isolation, this doesn’t necessarily strike me as a problem.  The names I just listed include some of the finest performers working today and I wouldn’t trade those performances for anything.  A straight person is allowed to be gay in a film.  As a wise man once said, there’s a reason they call it acting.

But that’s only one half of the issue.  The other, much more challenging part is the natural follow-up:  Where are all the gay movie stars?

Why is it that, in a supposedly liberal Hollywood in a supposedly gay-friendly epoch of American history, virtually all of the great gay and straight roles go to heterosexuals?  Is it because the major studios still treat gays the way they treat black people and women over 40—namely, as an inessential niche commodity?  Or is it simply that there are no bankable gay actors available to fill these roles?

In the Guardian interview, Damon cited the British thespian Rupert Everett as evidence that “coming out” can actually damage an actor’s career—that is, by precluding him from ever again being cast as a strong heterosexual lead, out of fear that audiences won’t buy such a character if they know the man playing him is a queer.  (“It’s tough to make the argument that [Everett] didn’t take a hit for being out,” Damon said.)

The implication is clear:  If you’re an aspiring gay actor interested in success above all else, you’re better off staying in the closet forever.  Just like in sports, high school and the Republican Party.

It’s worth noting—to use Damon’s own example—that Rupert Everett came out in 1989, which was an entirely different universe from the one we currently inhabit.  It would be ridiculous to suggest that a closeted actor’s fears of coming out today are identical to those of a quarter-century past.

That is, until you take a look at today’s Hollywood and realize how shockingly little has really changed.

Here’s a simple challenge:  Name any successful openly gay film star in, say, the last decade who has achieved his or her success in mainstream cinematic fare, post-coming out.

The list is achingly short and comes with several key caveats.  Almost without exception, the members of this elite club are either British, female and/or primarily involved in television or theater—artistic arenas that, for various reasons, are much more sexually equitable than film.  Even a certified A-lister like Neil Patrick Harris—who has proved, more or less single-handedly, that an “out” entertainer can conquer just about every artistic medium simultaneously—has yet to become anything resembling a cinematic leading man, and neither has anyone like him.

Which is all to say that Matt Damon has a point.  If being openly gay is not a hindrance to success in Hollywood, the evidence is pretty damning nonetheless.

That’s the bad news.  The question is whether this could ever change.  Should closeted actors continue to feign straightness to advance their careers, or are truth and self-respect more important?  It’s all well and good to trump honesty and equality above all else, but when those values necessitate risking your very way of life—and a lucrative one at that—it is not irrational to hedge your bets.

And besides, for all the flak Damon has drawn for suggesting that actors should conceal their true selves from the public—up to and including their sexual preferences—the idea is not without real merit.

Personally, I think it’s kind of neat for a great actor to be utterly penetrating on the screen and a total mystery in real life.  I like the notion of actor-as-chameleon—someone, like Meryl Streep or Daniel Day-Lewis, with a superhuman ability to assume the character of anyone else but whose own character remains largely, if not purposefully, unknown.

As a rule, I frankly don’t care what my favorite movie stars do in their spare time, just as I’m not much interested in what my favorite politicians or athletes do in theirs.  While this is hardly a prevailing view in our hyper-voyeuristic culture, it’s one I would recommend all the same.

However, to advocate, as Damon did, that America’s entertainers actively withhold basic information about their personal lives in the interest of objectivity is completely insane in the context of today’s world.  While I don’t for a moment think Damon meant to come off as homophobic, the logic of his theory leads us to no other conclusion.

To wit:  When, in the entire history of forever, has a well-known heterosexual person been compelled to hide the existence of an opposite-sex spouse for the purpose of appearances?  Under what possible circumstances would this be seen as a reasonable request?  Is it not utterly demeaning to both parties to carry on their relationship behind closed doors because, hey, audiences might get the wrong idea when the next big movie is released?

It’s completely idiotic and unworkable, and a huge insult to the intelligence of American moviegoers, most of whom—I dare say—are capable of holding opposing ideas in their heads at the same time.  You know, ideas such as “Matt Damon normally makes love to a woman, but for two hours on HBO, he will make love to Michael Douglas, because that’s what actors do.”

In fact, while straight couples are never expected to keep their private affairs under wraps, gay couples are frequently under pressure to do exactly that.  Whether the pressure is external—say, having to conceal a relationship to get into the army in the “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” days—or internal—such as wanting to avoid an international incident with relatives at Thanksgiving—the practice of hiding major components of your day-to-day life in the interest of self-preservation has been a part of the gay experience since time immemorial, and one that most members of the gay community would be happy to put behind them once and for all.

As of late, this has certainly begun to happen in the entertainment industry, as it has in most other walks of life.  Closeted actors are coming out in greater numbers than ever before, and audiences have taken it in stride, recognizing that actors (for the most part) are human beings who are entitled to personal happiness like everyone else.

If Matt Damon wants to implore his colleagues to stop revealing so much about themselves to the press and online, he is welcome to try.  For all we know, it might restore a degree of majesty and class to this great art form, creating icons instead of mere personalities.

But let’s not kid ourselves that there is a straight line (so to speak) between being a great actor and being unknowable in real life.  Many of the greatest stars of all time had private lives every bit as lurid and public as those of today, yet audiences could somehow tune them out once the lights dimmed and picture started.

The way Damon talks, you’d almost think he was from Mars.

Oscar Soapbox

Would it be considered a lost cause to complain about the mixing of politics and the Oscars?  Is it just too late in the game for us to do anything about it?

Probably.  But every losing issue needs somebody to argue it for the last time, and on this occasion, that person might as well be me.

From this year’s Academy Awards, broadcast a week ago Sunday, arguably the most admired moment came from Patricia Arquette, the winner of Best Supporting Actress, who devoted the final chunk of her acceptance speech to call for equal pay for women.  “We have fought for everybody else’s equal rights,” said Arquette.  “It’s our time to have wage equality once and for all and equal rights for women in the United States of America.”  The remarks yielded howls of approval inside the Dolby Theatre and wide support on the interwebs in the hours and days thereafter.

Indeed, I can’t say I have any quarrel with the substance of Arquette’s remarks.  While I think the specific issue of wage equity is slightly more complicated than it appears—not every case is a matter of out-and-out discrimination by an employer—it’s just about impossible to dispute the principle of equal pay for equal work.

Here’s my question:  What does this have anything to do with the Oscars?

In theory, the Academy Awards are nothing more than the recognition of the film industry’s best work in a given year, as determined by members of the industry itself.  Acceptance speeches by the winners are meant to be exactly that:  A show of gratitude for having been singled out by one’s peers.  And—as has become the practice—an opportunity to thank everyone who helped get them there in the first place (which, as we know, tends to be everyone the honoree has ever met).

As such, Oscar speeches, at their best, are exercises in humility—ironic as that sounds, considering that the speakers are effectively being crowned kings and queens of the universe, or at least of the American culture.

To that end, my own favorite moment from last Sunday was Eddie Redmayne winning Best Actor for his performance as Stephen Hawking in The Theory of Everything.  Although I thought Michael Keaton slightly more deserving of the honor for his work in Birdman, I sort of hoped Redmayne would win, anyway, because I figured (from his previous wins this year) that he would react exactly as he did:  By jumping up and down like a giddy schoolgirl, completely overwhelmed.

There’s a certain feigned modesty that many British actors have turned into a shtick, but with Redmayne—33 years old, with no major starring roles until now—you sense that the gratitude is real.  That he works hard and takes his job seriously, but never in a billion years expected to wind up on the Oscar stage, and knows precisely how lucky he is.  That in a Hollywood overstuffed with jerks and prima donnas, Redmayne is one of the good ones.

That’s what the Oscars are all about:  Giving a moment in the spotlight to stars whose very existence elevates show business to something pure, noble and joyous.

And joy, it must be said, was oddly hard to come by during the balance of the Oscar telecast.  We had Best Song winners Common and John Legend lamenting the continuing racial injustices in the American legal system (and elsewhere).  We had Dana Perry, producer of the documentary short Crisis Hotline: Veterans Press 1, invoking her son’s suicide in a plea for more public discussion of the subject.  We had Imitation Game screenwriter Graham Moore citing his own brush with suicide and begging today’s tortured young people not to give up hope.

Sheesh, what an unholy string of letdowns.

Surely, these are all deathly important issues that deserve a thorough public airing, as they all surely have in recent times—albeit some more visibly than others.

But is the Dolby Theatre on Oscar night really the proper setting for them?

Can’t the Oscars just be the whimsical, frivolous, bloated Hollywood orgy we all think we’re tuning in to on the last Sunday of every February—curled up, as we are, on the couch with a tub of microwave popcorn and a cosmo?

We deal with the discomforting horrors of real life at all other moments of the year.  Why can’t the Oscars, of all things, be a temporary respite?  Arguably the single central function of movies, after all, is escapism.  Shouldn’t the event that celebrates movies follow suit?

Movie stars can, and do, stake out public opinions on any issue that interests them.  But must they do so at the very moment when most of us would just as well not be reminded of the fraught and complicated real world to which we must return in the morning?

I know this is a line of reasoning with holes large enough to drive a tank through.  I know movies are not only about escape.  I know the Oscars represent the largest audience that any artist will ever have.  I know that the Academy is, itself, a highly political organization and that Oscar voting is subject to the same cynical political maneuvering as any presidential election.  I know that the gripes about sexism and racism are as germane to the film industry as to any other.

And I know that, barring a totalitarian freak-out by future Oscar producers, winners are going to continue to say whatever the hell they want when they get up on that stage, even if it means talking over that infernal orchestra and harshing the buzz of everyone at home.

There is no escape from facing the hard facts of life—not even at silly award shows, which you’d think would be immune to them.  Apparently they’re not.

So instead, we are left with the second-best option:  Awarding trophies only to artists intelligent enough to climb on their political soapboxes in an articulate and entertaining fashion, as (it must be said) nearly all of them did last week.

Or we could just give everything to Eddie Redmayne.

Oscar Elitist

The Academy Awards are this Sunday.  If you’re not excited, it’s your own damn fault.

The Oscars are perennially the most-viewed TV entertainment event of the year—more popular than the Grammys, Emmys or VMAs—yet they are also, unfailingly, the most criticized.  People carp about who was “snubbed” the moment the nominations are announced.  The show itself is derided for its bloated length and nauseating air of self-importance.

And again and again, the Academy is scorned for being out-of-touch with the typical American moviegoer, ignoring most (if not all) of the year’s biggest blockbusters in favor of low-grossing independent films that, in many cases, never even open in theaters outside major U.S. cities.

Rarely has this been truer than this year, and never have I been happier for it.  This has been a great year for the Oscars.  It’s just a shame more Americans don’t have the good sense to realize it.

It is very curious, indeed—and more than a little depressing—that 2014’s eight Best Picture nominees comprise one of the strongest fields in memory, yet also one of the least-seen.  Clint Eastwood’s American Sniper is far and away the most lucrative in the group, having grossed more than $300 million in the United States alone.  However, the remaining seven nominees have earned less than $300 million put together, dragging the per-film average in this category down to its lowest figure in nearly a decade.

In truth, this economic fact does not bother me all that much.  To be honest, I hadn’t the slightest idea how any of the Oscar movies have done at the box office until I looked them up.  Except to write this column, I really couldn’t care less.

And why is that, ladies and gents?  Because there is absolutely no correlation between how much money a movie makes and whether that movie is any good.  I’ve never once inferred a movie’s quality based on how many people go to see it.  I don’t understand why anybody would.  As a strategy, it would only begin to make sense if all of America had similar tastes and could distinguish, as a group, between worthwhile entertainment and utter dreck.

It’s an absurdity on its face.  It would be like conducting a nationwide poll to determine which type of salsa to put on your tacos, or asking ten random strangers at the mall what you should get your wife for her birthday.  Are you really that susceptible to the whims of the masses?

This is not to suggest that gazillion-dollar commercial behemoths can’t also be excellent films from time to time.  Nor would I ever want to deny someone an enjoyable evening at the movies.  After all, it is equally true that a great many small-budget art house offerings are every bit as boring and stupid as they look.  When I say there is no relationship between money and quality, I mean exactly that.

All I want is to rebuke this idea that the Academy’s apparent disinterest in box office success is inherently a bad thing.  It’s not.  I’m positively thrilled that the Oscars take themselves seriously enough not to care whether all—or any—of America agrees with them about what constitutes great cinema.  I’m delighted that this has made the Oscars as “irrelevant” as they’ve ever been.  If it means honoring a slew of films like the ones under consideration this Sunday, I hope the trend continues indefinitely.

For instance, buried among the more talked-about works on this year’s roster is a little movie called Whiplash.  It was filmed in 19 days on a $3.3 million budget by a little-known 29-year-old director named Damien Chazelle, and it’s one of the most exhilarating movies I’ve seen in years.  It’s a simple story about a teenage conservatory student who wants to be the greatest jazz drummer in the world, and a teacher who knows virtuoso talent when he sees it.

The twist—and the film’s mad stroke of genius—is that the instructor is a raging psychopath who conducts band practices like the CIA conducts interrogations.  He is played by J.K. Simmons as a petty tyrant who justifies his extreme behavior as a way to weed out the true, committed artists from those who “don’t have what it takes.”

But what really makes Whiplash so exciting and so frightening is how the drummer, played by Miles Teller, shows that he may well be the diamond in the rough that Simmons has been searching for, and is prepared to endure the abuse—physical and psychological—that is required to prove it.  The movie’s final sequence—a compression of raw kinetic energy of jaw-dropping skill and intensity—brings all its threads together in a manner that is simultaneously funny, absurd and altogether electrifying.

Whiplash is clearly one of the gems of 2014 cinema, yet hardly anyone has seen the damned thing.  It’s as satisfying a theatergoing experience as one can hope for, yet precious few are even aware of its existence.

What a shame that a movie with such potentially broad and deep appeal has been relegated to the fringes of the national consciousness.  And what a tremendous relief that Academy voters nominated it for Best Picture anyway, thereby assuring it a considerably higher visibility in the long run than it otherwise would have had.

In a just world, Whiplash would not need an Oscar boost in order to garner the wide popular acclaim that it deserves.  Nor would Wes Anderson’s The Grand Budapest Hotel, an utterly delightful confection whose lead performance by Ralph Fiennes is one of the funniest you’ll see.  Nor would Ava DuVernay’s Selma, which deftly and compellingly shows how the particular racial tensions in Ferguson, Mo., can be traced at least as far back as the Deep South in 1965, leaving us to wonder how we will resolve our present conflicts without a figure like Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., to lead the way.

But we don’t live in a just world, so instead we depend on the Academy to tell everyone which movies they should seek out.  (We also depend on critics and bloggers, but who ever listens to them?)

The Academy does not always do this job well.  Those who are still sour about this year’s omissions of, say, DuVernay for director or The Lego Movie for animation can rest assured that worthy films and performances have been overlooked every year since the dawn of cinema, often inexplicably.  As widely noted, this year’s nominations contain an appallingly low number of non-white people, but then again, this has pretty much always been the case.

But on the curve on which Hollywood must always be graded, this year’s Oscar harvest is markedly stronger than usual, and a validation of the Academy’s worth in anointing the year’s best movies, even if the rest of the country disagrees with them.

The purpose of the Oscars is not to be popular.  It’s to be right.

Marriage Marketing

Who knew Hollywood could be more morally persuasive than Jesus Christ?

Yet that is what Cardinal Timothy Dolan, the archbishop of New York, seemed to suggest last Sunday when asked to explain the remarkable success of the gay marriage movement in the United States in the last decade, both in terms of legislation and increased public approval.

Asked by “Meet the Press” host David Gregory, “Why do you think the church is losing the argument on [gay marriage]?” Dolan offered the following:

Well, I think maybe we’ve been out-marketed.  Sometimes we’ve been caricatured as being anti-gay, and as much as we say, ‘Wait a minute, we’re pro-marriage, we’re pro-traditional marriage, we’re not anti-anybody.’  I don’t know.  When you have forces like Hollywood, when you have forces like politicians, when you have forces like some opinion-molders that are behind it, it’s a tough battle.

Yes, that must be it.  The Catholic Church’s failure to halt America’s steady cultural march out of the Middle Ages can be understood as a simple PR problem.

Surely, the great majority of the American public would naturally adhere to church doctrine on matters of homosexuality if they knew the truth.  But alas, they have been hoodwinked by a vast left-wing conspiracy that has brainwashed them into thinking the “all men are created equal” bit in the Declaration of Independence and the Equal Protection Clause in the 14th Amendment are meant to be taken literally.

Those poor, misguided fools.

Sarcasm aside, I do wonder whether Cardinal Dolan truly means what he says, and whether he realizes how ridiculous such a statement makes him look.

To begin:  “Sometimes we’ve been caricatured as being anti-gay.”  Well, that depends on one’s definition of “caricatured.”

Yes, in recent years the Catholic Church has undeniably accrued a reputation of being hostile to gay people and gay relationships.  Where does this impression come from?  Could it be the innumerable pronouncements from various pulpits about homosexuality being a sin against God’s will?  Or perhaps the 1986 letter written by future Pope Benedict XVI calling homosexuality a “tendency ordered toward an intrinsic moral evil”?  Or maybe it’s good old Leviticus 18:22, which intones, “You shall not lie with a male as with a woman; it is an abomination.”

With these facts in mind, at least one of the following three things must be true:  1. Being anti-homosexuality is different from being anti-gay; 2. Regarding homosexuality as sinful is not necessarily to oppose it; or 3. The above quotations are simply not to be taken seriously.

Presumably, Cardinal Dolan would introduce a fourth possibility, which is to assert what is roughly the current policy of the Republican Party:  He is not against homosexual thoughts; he is only against homosexual acts.

In other words, his objection to same-sex attraction is strictly limited to when it actually occurs in the real world.  Gay people are fine so long as they keep their romantic impulses to themselves and remain celibate and emotionally unfulfilled for the entirety of their natural lives.

What could possibly be anti-gay about that?

If it’s true, as many Catholic preachers suggest, that gay people are to be condemned for their sinful thoughts but also welcomed into the brotherhood of man—“hate the sin, love the sinner”—well, Dolan and company will forgive those of us who find the invitation just a wee bit patronizing.

As for the central question—Why has the idea of same-sex marriage become so popular?—allow me to pose an alternative explanation to Dolan’s theory of superior marketing.  That is, people became more accepting of non-traditional families when they discovered that—stop the presses!—some members of their own families were gay all along.

As it turns out, a same-sex relationship is nothing more than an extension of the “traditional” families the Catholic Church claims to want to preserve, protect and defend.  The values that gay married couples wish to promote and personify—responsibility, devotion, stability—are identical to those of straights.

Same-sex marriage is not an instance of transgressing against mainstream society.  Rather, it is an attempt to assimilate oneself into it.

Therein lies the irony and the tragedy of the matter:  In the time the church worked so hard to earn its anti-gay bona fides, it could have just as easily—and just as coherently—joined forces with the gay rights cause in the interest of promoting family values as passionately as possible.

It would be a marketing match made in heaven.