Atlas Took A Dump

Are all you fags and fagesses ready for the nationwide release of the Club For Growth funded film adaptation of Atlas Shrugged?

No? Atlas isn't the only person who can shrug, you say?

Okay, fine. But David Weigel saw it and claims it's not bad. Although his definition of "not bad" involves a comparison to Syfy Channel monster movies. Unless John Galt is a 50 foot CGI mosquito flying through the skies while Dagny and Hank make wild, uninhibited, pure and reasonable love upon his back, I can't imagine this qualifies as "not bad." [the best bit of Weigel's review is the horrified reaction of one audience member at Mr. Rearden's hair: "Rearden would never have a faux-hawk!"]

And, I'm sorry, but I actually read this book. The idea of having to sit through two hours of what promises to be only "Part I" of this riveting story of boring rich people sitting around board rooms clenching their jaws and railing against looters is really too much for me to handle.

Also, can you imagine the odor of the theater? You know that smell that strikes you in the face like the fist of Atlas himself when you step into the cavernous science fiction room at Powell's Books? That mixture of burning hair, unwashed skin, decaying 1960s paperbacks and acne-pus? It would be exactly like that but worse, because there'd be teenage economists there, too. If there's a species of nerd that is most likely to smell terrible, it's surely the Randian, so full of his awkward and simplistic interpretations of her meaningless and empty philosophy that both social skill and basic hygiene escape him entirely. I'm gagging just thinking about it!

While reading stuff about this groundbreaking movie I ran across this funny quote that seems to have no proper attribution, but is clearly the truest thing ever written about Ayn Rand's masterpiece:

There are two novels that can change a bookish fourteen-year old’s life: The Lord of the Rings and Atlas Shrugged. One is a childish fantasy that often engenders a lifelong obsession with its unbelievable heroes, leading to an emotionally stunted, socially crippled adulthood, unable to deal with the real world. The other, of course, involves orcs.

Maybe John Galt was an orc?

In any event, what I really wanted to talk about is the title of this novel. Atlas Shrugged is, without doubt or reservation, one of the great titles for any novel ever. Its evocation of utter destruction brought on by a mere indifferent shrug is beautiful. It carries with it the entirety of Rand's philosophy: that the world is held upon the shoulders of great men and that if we antagonize these great men with taxes and regulations they will simply walk away, letting the world come crashing down. So great a title is it, that the actual novel is rendered redundant, meaningless and impotent. I can't think of another title that even comes close to the thorough destruction "Atlas Shrugged" rains down upon its text.

Which brings me to the one big problem I have with the title. It doesn't quite mean what people seem to think. The image is of Atlas shrugging and walking away, the Earth falling down (from a cosmological perspective it's hard to imagine what this would actually entail, even under Greek cosmology), shattering into ruin and rubble as if struck by a world-wide earthquake. But, of course, Atlas does not hold up the Earth. He holds up the heavens. If he dropped them, huge fiery meteors would come crashing down into the Earth, burning it away.

Now, one could certainly argue that this hardly changes the metaphor: in both cases, Atlas's indifference causes the collapse of civilization. And that's true. But I'd argue that there's a very different cant to plummeting Earths and plummeting heavens. The earthquake is a metaphor for social unrest and revolution, the earth itself rising up against its oppressors. The sky falling carries with it, for me at least, a sense of oppression from on high. It seems more willful, more vengeful, less a matter of "going on strike" than a matter of holocaust. The John Galts of the world (who are, of course, plutocrats and tyrants, not great heroes) come off not quite so well with this image.

Which suits me just fine. There's no reason to led mythological fidelity interfere with a great title, especially when the result is even better when you know the truth about what, exactly, Atlas was balancing on his sexy, objectivist shoulders.