America The Grotesque

We once had style and grace in this country

The Phantom knows he is rapidly aging. 
 One sure fire sign of the winged chariot hurrying near is the perception that people have become more grotesque and taste putrefied.

Last night, the Phantom attended "West Side Story" at the Ogunquit Playhouse, a stunning production, with astonishing sets, wonderful voices and actors and music, the closest America has got to Andrew Lloyd Weber, not to mention Shakespeare.

Behind him, sat two octogenarians and when the first few bars of "Maria" were sung from the stage, they started singing along, like dogs picking up the howl. A few seats away, down the row, a woman madly texted on her smart phone, the screen glowing in the dark theater and on the other side of the aisle a man sat with his huge, edematous, naked legs protruding from beneath his shorts and flowered shirt. 

The Phantom looked around him and thought, "This is not 'West Side Story,' this is Fellini."

It's not just Maine.

The Phantom unearthed a photograph of his mother, caught by a street photographer as she walked down Fifth Avenue, circa 1940, in hat, gloves, handbag.  She looked wonderful. "Oh, you would never think of going out in public without gloves and a hat," she said. "It just wasn't done."  And the Phantom's mother was not from money--her parents were tailors, living in a fourth floor walk up. But she had style and she was impeccably dressed and fitted out.

This is not mother, but the point remains: Taste was not confined to the rich.

Over the years, Presidents at press conferences point to members of the press corps and call on them by first names:  "John," or "Judy."  Everyone is on a first name basis in America now.

To say, "Mr. Smith," or "Ms. Jones" is to be insufferably stuffy and distant and aloof or, heaven forbid, arrogant.

Heaven deliver America from informality. Look what it has wrought.

Now look at us.

You would not see this in Paris.

Even the Brits would be appalled.

This is America. This is us.