It seems to be documentary-film week around this place, so let’s roll with it.

A few weeks ago, Dexter first sent me the trailer to “Oxyana,” a new doc about the opiate culture in a West Virginia town called Oceana. The filmmaker, Sean Dunne, was director of “American Juggalo,” and “Oxyana” is his first feature. It seemed worth keeping an eye on.

Then I watched the trailer.

You get a sense of what it’s about at a molecular level – the heart-stopping beauty of the mountains, the primitive music, and the rural poverty-porn imagery. But a couple of the sound bites brought me up short: The 23-year-old claiming “half (his) high-school class” is dead of overdoses, and the unseen one who claims he’s seen 9-year-old children shooting dope.

Both of these claims, I’d wager, are exaggerations. Evidently there were more. From an interview Dunne did with a West Virginia public-radio reporter:

Lilly: “Also in the documentary, there were people that spouted out percentages, numbers, information about homelessness, overdoses, hepatitis C cases, babies born on methadone and so on. How did you verify that information?”

Dunne: “That’s the thing. This isn’t a film that is meant to be informational in that way. It’s meant to be immersive. It’s meant to show the up close and personal of what drug addiction looks like. These are stories from the people down there. These are their perspectives. These are people dealing with this every day. We didn’t question those things we just we were a vessel to their voice.”

Oh, spare me. Don’t bother me with the facts. Here’s just one of the distortions:

Some of the statistics that went unverified by the production crew included, things like, 70 to 80 percent of people in the town have hepatitis C because of intravenous drug use.

According to the Office of Epidemiology and Prevention Services between 2007 and 2011 Wyoming County saw less than 5 chronic hepatitis C cases.

To me, this is just another version of the cheap reporter’s trick of underlining the most tragic facts in a story with Albomian bombast. Believe me, the horrors of opiate abuse in southern Ohio, Kentucky and West Virginia are easily portrayed with simple facts that don’t require passing along whoppers about hepatitis C.

A film blogger on a PBS site makes the point:

But not everyone does it so well. And when I watched Oxyana, I was bothered by the lack of context and long, languid shots of that dirty old town and its beautiful blue hills.

I sometimes didn’t know what I was watching. Or didn’t know why I was watching what I was watching.

After the film was over, in the Q&A, Dunne spoke of how he went to West Virginia a few times to film, with one trip lasting several weeks (maybe it was a couple of months.)

But how the hell are you going to make a truthful document of a complex problem that’s destroying real lives if you’re skimming the surface, with a few drive-by days of filming?

Yeah, what he said.

I think what has happened is, the technology for this sort of filmmaking is now ridiculously cheap; you can make a beautiful-looking film with a DSLR, consumer-level software and whatever talent you bring to things. But telling a story is not nearly so easy. It requires skill, empathy, intelligence, wisdom and a lot of other things. You can’t do it by just turning your camera on a beaten-up poor West Virginian and letting him or her talk, unchallenged. Calling it “immersive” is just excuse-making.

Oh, am I grumpy today? Maybe so. Here’s some comic relief: Apply for an Indiana marriage license as a same-sex couple? Risk jail:

Currently the state’s electronic marriage license application specifically designates “male applicant” and “female applicant” sections for gathering required background data.

“In Indiana the law clearly states that one man and one woman are the only two who can apply for a marriage license and can have a marriage ceremony performed,” Coffey explained.

Those who were to submit false information on the marriage license could face up to 18 months in prison and a potential fine of up to $10,000.

Don’t think it would happen, but who knows? This is Tippecanoe County we’re talking about.

Is it Wednesday already? Really?

I was reading some of your comments about watching cable-news coverage of the plane crash, and reflecting that this was one breaking-news story I didn’t watch live. I guess it was a conscious decision, except that it was one of those days when it didn’t seem worth spoiling a lovely summer evening to watch cable news.

And based on what some of you were saying about the bleating idiots doing standups on a weekend plane crash, I’m glad I did.

I wonder if it’s the summer that’s doing it. I feel every day passing, and I’m less likely to say, sure, let’s watch the plane crash. It seems so much more efficient to check the NYT for the important facts, feel briefly bad for the people on the plane, and then not miss Wolf Blitzer, et al, repeating the same old bullshit.

Is this how normal people do it? I should try to be more normal.

Today wasn’t one of those magical summer days, unless you enjoy thunderstorms, which I do, but not that much. Alan came home sick, and it rained. I stared at a blinking cursor, and didn’t get out for a bike ride. Which means?

Bloggage!

This is a wonderful story, as Hank noted in his recommendation, one that starts as one thing and ends as something else. Miss Teen America goes out for a wilderness camping trip. Read and enjoy.

So, a bunch of people saw “Louder Than Love” over the weekend, and afterward a Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall of Fame guy suggested a Kickstarter to save the building. Poisonous nostalgia strikes again.

R rated, but only words, and funny ones: The comment section for every article ever written about intimate grooming.

Weiner-Spitzer. Because Weiner-Spitzer.

Sorry for the lameness. Didn’t sleep well last night. I plan to sleep fabulously tonight.

Hey, I just realized I took a long weekend, and didn’t post a word. Sorry about that. It wasn’t my plan, but there’s something about a long holiday weekend that makes blogging seem like a waste of time. I took Friday off, too, which was a wonderful non-day day hereabouts — did coffee with a friend, the gym, not much else — and so: No blogging.

Forgive, please.

One thing we did do was watch some movies. Two Detroit docs, in fact, both of which should have an audience beyond the Wayne County borders. “Burn” was the first, and you’re going to have to look hard for it, as it doesn’t appear to have had any sort of theatrical release outside of maybe the major cities. (You can watch it on iTunes, however. Probably Netflix too, if not now, eventually.) Subtitled “One year in the battle to save Detroit,” it’s a deep-embed piece on Detroit firefighters, currently some of the hardest-working, and shat-upon, people in the municipal work force.

Which is not to say that others aren’t hard-working and shat-upon. Just that firefighters, and police, risk their lives to do their jobs, most days.

If you’ve never been here, it’s hard to describe the essential weirdness of a city that’s emptied as quickly as this one has — hundreds of thousands just between the last two census cycles. Very few people are buying houses, relative to the ones who are leaving them behind. That leaves thousands, tens of thousands, standing vacant. First they’re stripped of metal, then architectural details, then bricks. Drug dealers move in, homeless people move in, animals move in. And, very likely, eventually they burn. A firefighter describes the varieties of arson — for profit, for thrills, for revenge.

Into these infernos rush Detroit firefighters, who are known for their skill and aggressive tactics. The problem is, what they’re rushing to save is, in large part, not worth saving. All these houses are essentially piles of tinder waiting for a spark. The scenes in the firehouse are contrasted with the offices of the new fire commissioner, who moved from Los Angeles to take this thankless job. How do you manage a force to cover 139 square miles of broke-ass city? How do you deploy your equipment, all of which is falling apart?

Forget your fantasies about public-safety workers retiring at 50 with a fat pension — a lot of these guys are true graybeards, kept on because the department isn’t hiring and what else are they doing to do? (Answer: Their side jobs, which most of them have.) One guy, whose final year is sort of a throughline in the film, states at one point that he has 11 days left, the sort of declaration that would be a death sentence in a fictional drama about a fire department. He’s old enough that his job is, basically, driving the truck and connecting the hose. Which he does well, considering he’s already 60 years old.

“Burn” is distinguished by its use of technology — helmet cams take you into the middle of the fires. The list of camera operators is long, which appears to attest to how many photogs were shlepping around town with various characters. The result is an impressive look at life in Detroit, and maybe in the rest of the world soon enough, when we hit the wall of revenues vs. expenditures, and privatization can’t quite make it work.

On the other hand, you can’t help but notice how much effort is expended fighting fires in buildings no one gives a shit about. And you notice how put out the guys are upon hearing of a new let-it-burn policy for those houses. Firefighters live to fight fires, it seems, and it doesn’t matter where, exactly, they are.

Anyway, for a $4.99 rental? You could do worse.

Elsewhere we saw “Louder Than Love,” a considerably more homemade film, about the brief, glorious run of the Grande Ballroom. (And yes, I expect Prospero to shout out in 3, 2, 1…) The Grande was one of those happy accidents, an inner-city venue that caught a wave, from 1967-70, hosting the greatest bands of the era passing through, while nourishing a few locals like, oh, the MC5. I went in not expecting much and was entertained, but there was a lot not to like, too. I grow a little weary of sex/drugs/rock’n’roll stories that don’t acknowledge there were a few casualties along the way, but there are none to be found here. The audience, at least some of whom were Grande audience members, laughed and clapped approvingly at every drug and sex reference, flattered and happy to be so.

Which is another way to say: I grew tired of people saying, “Wow. That was totally awesome.”

On the other hand, there were some wonderful artifacts, most notably an apparently contemporaneous recording and film of the Who playing “Tommy” at the Grande, before it was released. It was amazing to see Keith Moon spinning his sticks and calling, “A son! A son! A son!”

At the end of both films, though, I was left thinking that documentaries are great, but they’re not journalism. You have to keep that in mind.

And here is a WSJ review of a current book on the Detroit rock scene, then and now, probably behind a pay wall. It’s a little WSJ-ish, but it’s almost an exact counterweight to “Louder Than Love” and its cheerful boosterism.

But if you just need a little more rock ‘n’ roll, Michael Heaton talked to David Spero, a former manager of Joe Walsh who spent some time on the road with the Eagles:

“Glenn (Frey) was always two people. When he was being an Eagle . . . let me put it this way, he used to wear a T-shirt that read ‘That’s Mr. Asshole to you.’ But when he wasn’t being an Eagle, he was pure fun. So funny and so much fun to be with.“

Oh.

What else was the weekend? Fireworks, hamburgers, the usual. Oh, and Kate? Is home. It’s like she never left, but maybe that’s just the laundry basket talking. We’re still getting the download. I think she had a great time.

I hope your weekend was wonderful. At the one-third mark, the summer is going pretty well.

One question for the journalists. Is this Sun-Times front page merely clueless, or offensive, or what? Am I the only one who found the R/L thing pretty damn blockheaded, considering the airline? Just wondering:

At the dawn of my career, a smart colleague observed that our industry was ripe for a shakeup. We hadn’t really changed that much since the Civil War, he observed, and while it would take time before his speculation happened, it wasn’t so much in the grand scheme of things.

Every so often I think the same thing about TV news. (I also think I’ve written this before. Have I? Well, I’m old. We repeat ourselves.) It’s been the same for, like, EVER, especially the local variety. Co-anchors: Male and female. Reporters: Gene Eric Ethnic and older white guy. Weather: Panic-stricken. Sports: Duuuude. And so on.

So when I read this piece on Romenesko, a list of consultant-approved words and phrases “to help reflect and promote urgency and a ‘happening now’ feeling in a newscast,” well. Been there, heard that:

* we do have some breaking news right away
* rapid developments
* this story is rapidly changing
* you saw it here first just minutes ago
* we are going to be covering this live for you
* breaking overnight

In other rapid developments, a story you must read — how a bassist who had been fired from both Soundgarden AND Nirvana became a Special Forces soldier:

So in 1993, while living in a group house in San Francisco with the guys in Mindfunk, Everman slipped out to meet with recruiters; the Army offered a fast track to becoming a Ranger and perhaps eventually to the Special Forces.

…Everman started waking up early while his bandmates slept in; he went biking, swimming, got in shape. One day, with zero warning, he resigned. He put all of his stuff in storage. He took a flight to New York and went to an Army recruiting office in Manhattan. A couple of weeks later he was on a flight to Georgia. “Was I nervous?” he asked. “I was a little nervous. But I knew.”

When he arrived for basic training at Fort Benning, his hair was cut, his nose ring was removed; he was as anonymous as every other recruit. At 26, he wasn’t an old-timer, but he was close to it. Training had been going on for about a month when Cobain committed suicide and Everman’s rock past was discovered, which gave more ammunition to the drill sergeants. There was a lot of “O.K., rock star, give me 50.” Everman insists he didn’t expect anything else.

Finally, how to drink past the age of 28. It was more like 26 for me. But we all hit that wall.

Holiday eve! I hope we all feel the freedom on Thursday.

Too many years ago, back when Knight-Ridder was a going concern, the mandarins of the chain had a nationwide reporting project going, called Real Voters, or some such. I think this was 1992, when Bill Clinton, George Bush and Ross Perot were running. The idea was to use the vast resources of our chain to tap into the wellspring of the people’s wisdom, etc.

One of our reporters wrote a piece on three different couples. The young couple were worried; the old couple were worried; the middle-aged couple figured things would work out. And no, I don’t think this was a function of their age. The latter couple had seen a lot of shit, figured they’d see more, but they had jobs, a house and a decent life, and they were grateful.

I recognized them from the photo. I passed their house several times a week. They often sat in their garage, door up, in lawn chairs, drinks in hand, watching the world go by. They looked content with the world.

I think it was the garage-sitting that did it. Nothing like a seat among the comforting odors of the lawn mower and garden tools to instill a deep feeling of calm. At least in a Midwesterner. I know there are parts of the country where a garage is a rarity, but not here. I’ve waited out thunderstorms in a garage. I’ve sheltered in them. And I’ve enjoyed hospitality in quasi-garages converted to man caves.

Which is why my mouth dropped when I read this story in the DetNews, about “concerns” in Dearborn over too much use of garages as social spaces. It pushes cars out, “clogging side streets.”

Oh, puh-leeze. Garages are indeed social spaces in Dearborn, and have been for some time. Arab-Americans bought the little houses there, raised big families in them, and needed extra space for the usual reasons — to get away from someone bugging you, to invite in neighbors without going to a whole lot of trouble, and especially for smoking hookahs, which is very much a part of the social scene there. Those things put out more smoke than a three-alarm fire; you really wouldn’t want one in your house.

See this very amusing video, “Arab-American Cribs,” for an illustrative glance.

Of course there are toxic comments on the story — it does involve Arabs, after all — but a surprising number of supporters. Detroit was known for years for big families in small houses. Some people just got used to chillin’ in the garage.

Some good bloggage before I finish dinner:

American health care, THE GREATEST IN THE WORLD. Well, at least as it pertains to the bill. Especially for maternity care:

When she became pregnant, (Renée) Martin called her local hospital inquiring about the price of maternity care; the finance office at first said it did not know, and then gave her a range of $4,000 to $45,000. “It was unreal,” Ms. Martin said. “I was like, How could you not know this? You’re a hospital.”

Midway through her pregnancy, she fought for a deep discount on a $935 bill for an ultrasound, arguing that she had already paid a radiologist $256 to read the scan, which took only 20 minutes of a technician’s time using a machine that had been bought years ago. She ended up paying $655. “I feel like I’m in a used-car lot,” said Ms. Martin, a former art gallery manager who is starting graduate school in the fall.

Like Ms. Martin, plenty of other pregnant women are getting sticker shock in the United States, where charges for delivery have about tripled since 1996, according to an analysis done for The New York Times by Truven Health Analytics. Childbirth in the United States is uniquely expensive, and maternity and newborn care constitute the single biggest category of hospital payouts for most commercial insurers and state Medicaid programs. The cumulative costs of approximately four million annual births is well over $50 billion.

And though maternity care costs far less in other developed countries than it does in the United States, studies show that their citizens do not have less access to care or to high-tech care during pregnancy than Americans.

Sigh.

Neil Steinberg, stripped of most of his columns, makes his single count. On gay marriage, so be advised it’s satisfying for supporters, less so for others.

Finally, I mostly ignore my old newspaper, mainly because its content embarrasses me, most days. But spurred by Alex’ posting of a link over the weekend, I looked up the columnist who replaced me. Taking his cue from a right-wing website, he wonders if the military can survive “the pinup police.” The subhead is particularly witless, which I assume he didn’t write: Who will inspire the troops, now that they can’t ogle Betty Grable?

This is all pegged to an order by Chuck Hagel that military facilities be purged of materials that can be degrading to women. What a world these people live in, that they imagine barracks draped with Betty Fucking Grable. (The paper’s illustrations also included Rita Hayworth, as I live and breathe.) I’d like to post what I imagine is a more typical contemporary pinup — a Hustler Beaver Hunt winner spreading her shaved labia, with a buttplug inserted just for laffs — over the paper’s copy desk, and see how many people find it beautiful and inspiring.

I was embarrassed by this column, yes. But also pissed off. And ashamed that there’s a 20-year interval on my resume that says I worked for this fishwrap.

It’s one-third over — in the June/July/August sense of the word — but I am enjoying this summer tremendously. Don’t want to jinx it. I’ve been out plenty, seen friends, seen some music, done some things I haven’t done before, eaten lots of vegetables. The weather’s been nice, and even the rain is cooperating (for now).

Today I and two friends took a bike ride through Midtown, Mexicantown and Downriver. We were out two hours and saw, among other things:

** the studio where parts of “Hot Buttered Soul” were recorded (now closed);
** part of the Koch brothers’ pet coke stash (suspected);
** a seagull rookery;
** a steel mill;
** the Iron Coffins’ Detroit clubhouse;

…and a lot more I’m probably forgetting. When it was all over, a cold Oberon. Tonight? Fireworks.

I hope your season is going as swimmingly.

By the way, I can’t swim yet. Not until my eye doctor signs off on it. Truth be told, I’m not missing it. (Yet.)

My trip up north was interesting, and I’ll tell you more about it as the stories gel. It was pleasant to come back downstate — to terrible weather, but a little more balance in the media. The Free Press makes a case I expect we’ll hear a lot more of in coming weeks and months: Excluding gays from full participation in public life is an economic-development issue, and we’re not just talking about weddings.

Thanks to Roy for pointing out the obvious about the week’s other culture-war story: It’s not “liberals” who are beating up on Paula Deen and causing her economic pain, but, duh, corporations. When Walmart and Target are doing the heavy lifting, how is it liberals’ fault?

Look, straight people getting married! “We’re almost a minority now.” Um, no.

More on the growing trend of employers of low-wage employees paying them via debit-card.

And into the holiday week we go.

Garlic scapes = pesto fodder. So glad to be back in the
world.

I’m in northern Michigan again, with very unreliable wi-fi and all the rest of it. But I have enough to tell you I heard the news of today’s SCOTUS decisions entirely via Christian/talk radio, and may I just say: Boy, that was different. If you are, like me, pretty much all-NPR-all-the-time, you should give it a try sometime.

Their take: It’s the end of the world as we know it. If I were a Secret Service agent, my hair would be gray by now. The focused hatred of the president is hard to fathom. Also: Alex Jones makes Glenn Beck sound like Eric Sevareid.

Back when I can be back.

On edit from McDonald’s wifi: I’m having a problem in which all comments, even from trusted regulars, are going to moderation. (And the obvious spam is not being auto-spammed.) Might be a delay or two in today’s discussion, but I’ll keep up as I can.

I’m rolling out of town as you read this, off on what we used to call “assignment.” (Actually, we still call it that.)

But if you’re sensing this is yet another lame-ass phone-it-in, why…you’re right!

I do have one piece of bloggage, this Detroit Jalopnik roundup of what breaking news is like these days, at least as it pertains to the Detroit fireworks. Long story short: Someone set off a string of ‘crackers at the larger civic explosion-fest. Some spectators thought it was gunfire and set off a brief panic, which TV — always, TV — jumped into with both feet. What, we verify? is the new code of journalism, along with hey, nice tie.

I will post when I can for the remainder of the week, but I don’t know when or what that will be. If I’m not here, enjoy the rest of it. I’ll be back for sure on Monday.

Count me among those who were underwhelmed by most of the just-concluded “Mad Men” season, but blown away by the finale. It’s a hard thing to do, to drag out an unpleasant story for 10 or so hours and then turn on a dime and make you see why it had to go like that. It certainly wasn’t perfect — I could see a million squandered opportunities to flesh out lesser characters and bring them to bear on the main plot lines, but ultimately, eh, that’s showbiz.

I think it was hearing Judy Collins singing “Both Sides Now” over the credits, a song that applies to most of the main characters (especially Peggy), and is sort of sentimental, but worked more or less perfectly.

I’m easy to please in these matters. I loved it. Now to wait another year.

“Low Winter Sun,” the show they’ve been promo-ing during the last few episodes, is being shot in Detroit as we speak. The executive producer is renting on a one-block-long oasis street called Harbor Island, one of those little-known places that never gets mentioned in the national stories about the decline of Detroit.

Speaking of which, this Michael Barone piece in RealClearPolitics is a perfect example of the form — the ignorant Detroit essay. You’ll never guess what caused our current predicament. Ready? Lean in close: Liberals. I know, I’m as amazed as you are. Deadline Detroit runs down the inaccuracies.

If you didn’t see Sherri’s link to Ta-Nehisi Coates’ piece on Paula Deen, it’s here. And it’s good.

For those of you paying attention, it’s looking like Wendy may stick as the dog’s name. I got her a dog-park pass today, which catapulted her quality of life well beyond that of many Detroit children. That’s the unfortunate truth around here: A Grosse Pointe dog will live better than thousands of human beings in the city next door. She has: a comfortable place to sleep, high-quality food, focused attention, medical care and, now, a pass to a restricted park reading “Wendy Derringer.” She’s looked at life from both sides now. I ask you.