50 / CHRONICLESndupee or a duper — an improbablenidealist who believes in this novel, withnits mushy message about nuclear holocaust,nor just another powermongernseizing an opportunity to establish herselfnin Hollywood? While Mamet maynhave deliberately failed to clarify thesenpoints, he also fails Ip^convince us thatnKaren ever could have sold Bobby onnthe novel over Charlie’s more commerciallynviable project. And that failurenis simply poor dramatic construction.nUnder Gregory Mosher’s appropriatelynvulgar direction, both Mantegnanand Silver give winning performances.nBut the production suffers from morenthan just Madonna’s flat and uncomprehendingndelivery. Mamet’s characteristicnstammers and syntactical repetitionsnhave by now become a devicenthat detracts from the verisimilitude thenplaywright is after. The calculation is asnobvious as the pretension of calling an7 5-minute sketch with three scenes anthree-act play. Pretentious too are thenPOP CULTUREnThe Grammys’nGrowl i Jnby Gary S. VasilashnIt is encouraging to see that MichaelnJackson is still capable of somethingnmore than Pepsi comniercials. That hendidn’t pick up an award is, as many havensuggested, a backlash against the successnoi Thriller. But the correlation is not asndirect as it seems. The real problem isnthat Jackson is not the least bit reticentnwhen it comes to empying his enormousnsuccess. He ..-‘SSf the MalcolmnForbes of the music v^orld: instead ofncollecting Faberge eggs and makingngrand tours on a motorcycle, Jacksonnbuilds a zoo in his baclcyard and travelsnwith a monkey.nThe rock industry likes to pretendnthat it is, if not quite penniless, at leastnas down-at-the-heels as its Reebokwearingnfans. Jackson’s extravagancenexplodes this fiction, and his colleaguesndon’t like him giving the game away.nMajor donations to thg United NegronCollege Fund rather than to thenSandinistas don’t help Jackson much.nmassive red drapes in lieu of a morensubstantial set design. While the effectnmay be mistaken for art, it probablynreflects Madonna’s salary more thannan aesthetic decision.nAside from an implicit acceptance ofnMamet’s reputation, it’s difficult tonaccount for the reviewers’ hospitablenreception to Speed-the-Plow. It fails toncapture the Hollywood personae withnthe depth and sustained character analysisnthat David Rabe achieved innHurlyburly. It fails to evoke the insanitynof working on a specific film thatnJonathan Reynolds engendered innGeniuses (recalling his participation asnan on-location writer in the making ofnApocalypse Now). It doesn’t even providenthe succinct statement on today’snmovies that Lanford Wilson profferednas a throw-away line in Burn This,nwhen an incidental character says,n”Movies are some banker’s speculationnabout how the American adolescentsnwant to see themselves that week.”nAt best, what Speed-the-Plow offersneither.nO Grammys, where was thy Sting?nOr Paul Simon? Or Bruce Springsteen?nOr Smokey Robinson? All werenbig winners: Best Pop Vocal, Malen(“Bring on the Night”); Record of thenYear (“Graceland”); Best Rock Vocaln(“Tunnel of Love”); Best R&B Vocal,nMale (“Just to See Her”). Nonenshowed.nCertainly, excuses can be made tonexplain their truancy. Sting, who hasncaught flack for mixing rock and jazz,nobviously figured he wouldn’t win.nSimon’s “Graceland” was Album ofnthe Year last year, and he wasn’t sillynenough to think that a single of thensame name would win in ’88. ThenBoss, the Hulk Hogan of rock and roll,nwas out on the road with the realnAmericans and couldn’t be bothered.nSmokey had never won a Grammynbefore, so he undoubtedly decided tonspare himselfnThe only positive thing that can bensaid about this lack of participation isnthat it seems to indicate that there is non”$64,000 Question”-style fraud involved:nthe winners had not beenntipped off. Still, it makes me wondernhow important the awards really are tonthose who receive them. A gold stickernon the disc package is nice, and therennnis a humorously cynical portrait of twonlackey producers clawing their way upnthe studio ladder. But it does so bynunleashing all of the stereotypes in andnout of the industry—cliches suggestingnthat greed is the only motivationnHollywood tolerates, and vulgarity isnthe only style it knows.nWith Speed-the-Plow as evidence,nperhaps the worst comment on Agate’snprophetic epigram is that in the processnof trying to win back the audiencenfrom the movies, the theater wouldnsuccumb to the tawdrier methods ofnthe medium it sired. “If it’s not quitenart, [or] it’s not quite entertainment,n[then] it’s here on my desk,” saysnBobby in the play’s opening moments.nWhat Mamet describes is also herennow on Broadway, where it will remainnat least at long as Madonna is in it.nDavid Kaufman writes from NewnYork City.nare often Grammy winner specials atnstores following the show, boostingnsales. But as for the acknowledgmentnof one’s peers, it doesn’t seem tonmatter.nOne scene with Bono, the singingnscimitar of what USA Today calls then”social rockers” U2 (it sounds likennew-wave tea dancing), was indicative.nThe singer, whose voice, views, andnmanner have a grittiness uncommonnamong the general run of today’s musicians,ntalked about “soul” during hisnacceptance remarks for Album of thenYear, The Joshua Tree. Bono notednthat without soul. Prince would merelynbe a “song-and-dance man,” andnSpringsteen just a “great storyteller.”nAnd U2: “We would probably be gettingnbetter reviews in The VillagenVoice, but …” and with that. Bononquickly jerked his gaze from the mainnfloor crowd up to the balcony and said,nsomewhat penitently, “That’s a joke.”nHe lowered his head and muttered,n”Sometimes they don’t understand.”nAlthough it would be inappropriatento make too much of this, it does seemnevident — and odd — that the mannwho is so active in promoting AmnestynInternational, the organization that’snagainst repressive regimes, would feel itnnecessary to make an apology for ann