[S1E1] It's All Greek To Me
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JAD ABUMRAD: The talented tenth - that it's up to him to lift up the race. Double-consciousness - it's up to him to see himself through the hostile white gaze and manipulate that gaze for his own benefit.
(Singing) In the cotton fields of Dixie is a dear old southern home, where the mockingbirds and moonlight love to sing. Though it's just a lonely cabin, it is mine, though far I roam, in the land where cotton is king.
JOHN MCWHORTER: A lot of the Black Swan material is boring as [expletive], to be honest, because it's just this hoity-toity, white, light classical crap. But I get why he recorded it because the idea is to show that Black people could do that too.
EMMETT PRICE: So Harry Pace, trying to figure out what to do - it's 1921 - Harry walks into a bar called Edmond's Cellar in Harlem. It's the spot. This place is small. It seats maybe 150, 175 on a good day.
SHIMA OLIAEE: But it's hard to appreciate. You know, music of the past can sometimes sound really far away. It's hard to appreciate what an atomic bomb Ethel was. You could argue that from this moment forward, she became the first crossover artist in American history.
There's a scene in the pilot episode of Treme where a British TV journalist is being particularly nettlesome toward John Goodman's hot-headed professorial character, Creighton Bernette. The reporter is trying to play devil's advocate -- though he seems to mean it, too -- and asks Creighton something to the effect of, "Why should U.S. taxpayers help rebuild New Orleans if it's such a backwater; if the food is provincial and the music is dated" Creighton's response to an ignorant question like that is justifiable: In a comically profane outburst, he chucks the microphone into the Mississippi. The scene fades on Creighton trying to send the camera into the delta as well.
PJ: To continue thinking about The Wire, David Simon has often described that show as, and I paraphrase, a Greek tragedy where everyone is screwed by forces beyond their control. Here, the tragedy seems to have already happened; it's the event that everyone is fighting to not let define themselves. This show is seemingly about -- gasp -- hope.
-- And what is death, he asked, your mother's or yours or my own You saw only your mother die. I see them pop off every day in the Mater and Richmond and cut up into tripes in the dissecting room. It's a beastly thing and nothing else. It simply doesn't matter. You wouldn't kneel down to pray for your mother on her deathbed when she asked you. Why Because you have the cursed jesuit strain in you, only it's injected the wrong way. To me it's all a mockery and beastly. Her cerebral lobes are not functioning. She calls the doctor Sir Peter Teazle and picks buttercups off the quilt. Humour her till it's over. You crossed her last wish in death and yet you sulk with me because I don't whinge like some hired mute from Lalouette's. Absurd! I suppose I did say it. I didn't mean to offend the memory of your mother.
-- Bill, sir she said, halting. Well, it's seven mornings a pint at twopence is seven twos is a shilling and twopence over and these three mornings a quart at fourpence is three quarts is a shilling and one and two is two and two, sir. 59ce067264