The Death of Olivia Newton John

Last week, Olivia Newton-John died and, for the record, it was a sad moment for me. Ms. Newton-John’s is one of those iconic faces that emerge from the fog as I started becoming aware of the culture around me at the dawn of the 1980’s. There was Pac-Man, E.T., the “Jaws” theme, the Mandrell Sisters, “The Dukes of Hazzard,” Kenny and Dolly, the Smurfs, Debbie Harry and:

Newton-John as Kira in Xanadu
Lou Ferrigno/Bill Bixby in/as The Hulk
Marc Singer and Tanya Roberts in The Beastmaster
Sam J. Jones, Brian Blessed (and Freddie Mercury’s voice) in Flash Gordon

Looking back at most of those shows, they were not what one could call, well, good or high art.

Nevertheless, I watched them and, given the fact that I still remember them, I must have watched them lots of times. And that means my (poor?) mother must have watched them with me lots of times, too.

My mom never had, and still doesn’t have, snobbery about films and TV shows. If the people are nice and are doing nice things, she’s supportive. If nasty people are doing nasty things, she awaits their come-uppance after hissing. If the adventure makes your heart skip a beat, she’s willing to suspend her disbelief. While my snob reflex is complaining about cheap emotional manipulation, my mom gladly enjoys the feeling she was engineered to feel. And because of this, she winds up enjoying a great many things from a great many genres. And this has always been so.

Luckily, despite the fact that these shows were, well, not all that great, and because my mom was quite tolerant of their, eh, foibles, I got to appreciate some great, bad movies. I suppose that’s where my tolerance — if not outright enjoyment — of camp ("Mommie Dearest"), failed ambitious movies (Lynch’s Dune), and howlingly bad movies comes from (the aforementioned, Flash Gordon).

I suppose I want to say: I loved watching sci-fi and fantasy shows (of dubious merit) as a kid, with my mom, in that quaint house in Cypress, Texas at the dawn of the decade that would define my childhood. And I’m glad that the memories of enjoying camp nonsense together with my mom featured the glorious feathered blonde hair, the dentist’s dream smile, and china-blue eyes of Ms. Newton-John (and a space-disco psychedelic soundtrack by ELO). And I’m sad that ON-J’s death means that someday those memories will be washed in time. But for a brief moment, let us shine like neon in Xanadu.

What can we say about Xanadu? The plot is ridiculous:

Michael Beck is caught somewhere between John Travolta and Beck’s character “Swan” from “The Warriors” playing some sort of a graphic artist who literally runs into a muse (Newton-John). An unlikely coincidence has Swan bumping into a millionaire developer (Gene Kelly!) who will build the ultimate musical palace. They do. Things happen there that make no sense. It makes no sense. Don’t try.

Yet the ELO soundscapes are beyond disco-indulgent perfection. ON-J sits atop their melodies like an Australian/English Koohinoor diamond. Surfing atop the mushy plot is ON-J’s octave-shattering performance surrounded by beautiful dance choreography (I suspect Mom’s favorite part) and…roller skating (which is fun, don’t overthink it).

While I now have the pretensions of hipsterism and appreciation of “le serious sérieux,” I can’t deny that, for sheer trashy and nonsensical spectacle, it’s fun. During the dull parts (e.g. Kelly/Beck’s envisioning a synthesis of musical styles to visions to The Tubes), go make popcorn; or, during the weird Burgess Meredith outro, start cleaning up the living room. It didn’t take itself seriously, and you shouldn’t take it seriously, and you shouldn’t even watch it seriously. Just hop on your couch and go to a dreamworld of ridiculous magic for a bit. If it’s fun and makes you smile or makes your heart happy, what’s wrong with that? Mom, by her example, taught that.

And you know where tolerance of nonsense like Xanadu gets you in life? It can occasionally get you a glimpse of the best part of humanity in this rotten, crummy world.

Many years later, when Lauren and I were living in Austin, we went to the karaoke place (“The Common Interst”) around 45^th street on a surprisingly busy night. A student from the nearby School for the Blind had her name called up, and the DJ left the booth to take her by the hand and lead her up the stairs to the stage. And that was fucking beautiful.

The DJ’s maneuver there was so unusual that the busy bar quieted down. The gunslinger and paternalism of Texas culture (“It’s called respect, ma’am”) required at least a fair, respectful hearing for someone who was brave enough to put their voice on the line in a crowded bar, alone, on a busy night who couldn’t see the audience.

The young woman stood on stage clasping her cane and the mic pole in one hand and rested her other hand atop the mic. The piercing blue key light lit up her eyes as the music started to (“Holy shit, it can’t be” screamed my childhood memory) play Xanadu.

The thrumming disco beats and the multi-octave ballet moved the adept vocalist inexorably to the closing high B (nearly two octaves above middle-C) and that glorious creature ("She won’t; she can’t; she…") hit it.

The silent bar’s background had become muffled crying. My eyes darted over to the bar where mascara were running in muddy black rivers. I saw a Sam Eliot döppelgänger stanching his eyes with a pinched thumb and forefinger. I shot up in my chair to start giving her a standing ovation. The rest of the venue did the same. She was perfect. It was like Kira from the movie had touched her, the magic was real.

Xanadu was camp, but at that moment was profoundly real. And ON-J had showed us how beautiful it could be. I hope her legacy will be about all the silly fun, smiles, and beauty she brought with her art. Vale.