Rating: 
Summary: Don't ever judge people by what they buy...
Review: In "Cute, Quaint, Hungry and Romantic", essayist and cultural critic Daniel Harris proposes a simple thesis: consumer choices and their underlying aesthetic expressions are crucibles of self-deceptive individuality actually embedded in unseen, and often ignorant, mass-market conformity.Claiming to avoid the usual critiques that define our spending habits and material acquisitions as blatant attacks on the bad taste of the average American, Harris instead claims that this work approaches "consumerism" from the vantage-point of the immediate, sensual, tactile and "experienced" world. Consumerism rooted in the senses. In this regard, Harris succeeds magnificently. He captures the often pathetic, frequently silly, and always magical associations between what we feel, what we think, and the way our product choices define for ourselves a sense of self. Along the way, Harris reveals the inherent contradictions that inhabit our pathetic need to make a "me" out of what is purchased. This is hardly a groundbreaking hypothesis. Where he departs from the usual and typical is in identifying the insidiously clever way that advertisers pander to our individual and collective, self-created, personas by masking the true nature of the very stuff we wear, listen to, watch, eat and take into our homes. Broken down into delightful chapter heading such as, "Cuteness", "Coolness", "Deliciousness", "Glamorousness", etc., Harris' book exploits the that what is marketed as "cute" is often grotesque, "Coolness" is almost indistinguishable from awkward "nerdiness", "Delicious" food advertising almost never articulates bodily hunger, and the glamour of the fashion and cosmetic industries are couched in images and rhetoric that, perversely, prey on our fears of ugliness rejection. In this sense, the book is a delight. But Harris, immersed in an urban culture where commercial images and messages are the fabric of our existence, fails to make the case for a complete and inseparable link between what we are and what we buy. His work seduces us in theory. However, it is entirely restricted to the interplay between the advertiser and the consumer. This approach gives far too much credit to the psychological acuity of the advertising industry and far too little to the unpredictable, untidy and complex interior landscapes that govern our minds and bodies. Bromides against the so-called banal "Americanism" of modern culture always seem to fall into this trap. Being an "American Consumer" does not abrogate the universal experience shared by all living people, be they American, Finns, or Chinese. And whereas we are sometimes the unwitting cast in a play written by others, we are also the dynamic authors of that play. Is the media so brilliant that it can read and control our inner selves, like the Wizard of Oz, hiding safely behind black curtains, manipulating our every impulse? And does Harris unmask them and free us from their nefarious grasp? Buy this book and decide for yourself. As for me, I remain unconvinced. Living, breathing people are far more elusive, clever and complex than anyone can claim to know. "Cute, Quaint...", is a good, entertaining, solid read that is one-dimensional, at best.
Rating:
Summary: Witty, Intelligent, and Accurate
Review: In this amusing and intelligent collection of essays Daniel Harris examines how consumer trends and choices have become an indispensable bromide for middle class Americans. Harris convincingly argues that consumer trends provide middle class Americans with a framework within which they can develop their identity and their sense of self. The irony of this is that while people may feel they are being different they in fact continuing to be just like everyone else. For example, in his chapter on coolness, Harris points out that many middle class Americans purchase clothes which they associate with inner city gangs and violence. By dressing like a gangster, the average suburban office worker can feel like he too is hip, indifferent, potentially violent, and not to be messed with. The clothes make him feel like something of a warrior when in fact his pockets are frequently stuffed with expensive gadgets and he is hardly exposed to any danger or hardship at all. The chances are that he is working his regularly and buying what the market tells him to buy. Similarly, in the chapter on zaniness, Harris shows how purchasing choices such as buying funky tee shirts or collecting kitsch make a person feel eccentric and unusual. By buying something that is marketed as "different", this person can feel unique when in fact, he or she may as well carry a state-sponsored sign around saying, "look at me, I am unique" while continuing to work, shop, and pay taxes like every body else. The underlying theme of Harris's argument is that we need the illusion of empowerment that these market-driven decisions provide us with. By buying clothes that make us feel that we are special, it is that much easier for us to continue being components of a machine. Harris's book is not perfect, as several other reviewers have already pointed out. For example, as amusing as his anecdotes were, I felt that they rambled on a bit more than necessary and that some chapters were not as interesting as others. I also began to develop a sneaking suspicion that Harris is or was an avid kitsch collector himself and that this book is as much a self-indictment as a social critique. But altogether "Cute, Quaint, Hungry, Romantic" is superbly written and never tries to be more than what it is: an intelligent and witty series of essays about why we buy the things we buy.
Rating: 
Summary: Predictable
Review: The "Conquest of Cool," or the colonization of anti-corporatism by the corporations, is correct if not particularly original. I think that Marx said that the bourgeois would sell the rope at his own execution. Even our seemingly most private moments, like walks on the beach or eating birthday cake, not to mention Christmas or Mothers day, have already been packaged by Hallmark and Merrill Lynch before they are ever experienced, creating a strange kind of deja vu that we can only combat with irony, which generates its own returns per marketing dollar. Harris documents this with a spleen and persistence which is tiresome and boring. The best chapter, the first, on cuteness, enumerates the many varities of anthropomorphism and transvestism that are used to sell toilet paper and cereal. But cute hasn't been sold to us: cute couldn't be sold to us if we didn't already like big needy eyes and pudgy figures, even if "cute" is a kind of deformity (would beauty then be computer generated symmetry, like the new Betty Crocker?). Nor is "cute" contemptible simply because it is a form of the grotesque. Harris is a gay man, and I think I can suggest that his spleen for "cute" and his sexual choices are not unrelated without being vicious. The chapter on quaint is also well done, and it can take a while to untangle the kind of perverse logic that leads people to buy processed and bleached Pepperidge Farm white bread. What the book lacks is any sense for the political aspect of the styles, whether quaint or cool cute, that are being sold. For instance, David Brooks of Bobos in Paradise is much more attuned to the twisted egalitarianism at work in selling the chrome bathroom fixtures at Restoration Hardware or the camping tents at REI. And if he took a look at Communist (or Fascist) propaganda, he would see that "cute" and "quaint" and kitsch are in fact the apolitical kernel of their ideology. The book itself is another shrink-wrapping of anticoporate ire, but that irony seems to be lost on this particularly humorless author.
Rating:
Summary: Cleverly rethinks the familiar, but ultimately unsatisfying
Review: There are some thought-provoking ideas here about the aesthetics of pop culture, and interesting mini-histories of topics such as changes in the shape of popular teddy bears. Harris's short essays are entertaining and well-written, but fall far short of the academic lit-crit standards to which they aspire. The subject matter is clearly inspired by Susan Sontag's wonderful essay "On Kitsch," but Harris never lives up to Sontag's reading breadth or intellectual relentlessness. Links to other theory, besides a shallow few pop-theorists, are nonexistent. The essays, in exchange for their commendable brevity, don't explore their subjects very deeply, yet sometimes contain so little core content that they manage to be repetitive even in the few pages they are allotted. Many of Harris's examples seem ad-hoc: why did he pick this specific movie to dwell on for a few pages, instead of another one that may disprove his point? He often quotes without attribution, confusing the reader with quotation marks around sentences or passages whose original sources remain unattributed. And lastly, despite the year 2000 copyright, many of these essays are clearly ten to twenty years old. They talk about "new" phenomena such "Miami Vice," "L.A. Law," and touch-tone telephones. Lastly, Harris is a bit of a lit-crit Holden Caulfield. To him, everything is fake, stupid, and contrived. He doesn't like anything or anyone. Do you eat hamburgers? Harris will tell you that you're a stupid fawning corporate slave. Do you shun hamburgers? You're also a stupid fawning corporate slave. This gets tiresome after a while, especially in light of Harris's tendency to over-state his argument, and exaggerate some minor aspects of relatively benign things. What is genuine or admirable? Nothing at all, it seems. (And that kind of nihilism Harris would probably also condemn.) But this is a fast read, and therefore may be worth your time. Its small insights -- such as the ethic of "post-counterculture" present in the film Thelma & Louise -- make the whole book worth it. Not a masterpiece, but wortwhile anyway.
Rating:
Summary: Flawed, but still a great read
Review: There's a certain kind of book for which equivalence of opinion matters less than presentation. Daniel Harris's book falls into that category; it throws out a multitude of arguments, some rational, some purely bitter, some laughably overboard, yet it's all still *interesting*, and maintained my interest even when I thought Harris was overdoing it. A diatribe against the "cuteness factor" of stuffed animals might be something of a passe topic, but when it ends with a hilariously-entertaining listing of the way in which these artifacts subvert reality--including their ignorance of how real animals eat the "struggling young of competing species"--it at least puts a new spin on this sort of topic. While many of Harris's points seem obvious and overdone, there's enough insight contained in several sections to make this worthwhile even as a serious review. The analysis of the aesthetic of cleanliness was a particular eye-opener, for example, as Harris makes the argument that "clean" is no longer described as the mere absense of filth; things now must be disinfected, spotless, gleaming, and (especially) lemon-fresh. Interesting stuff. Verdict: Not necessarily the most scholarly tome, and the factual errors (c'mon, he even messes up the "Gremlins" rules!) might diminish its factual value. But still a great read, presenting many intriguing viewpoints on the aesthetics of consumerism.
Rating: 
Summary: Fun and thought-provoking
Review: These essays are quirky, witty, obnoxious, and fun -- all at once. Daniel Harris is an exceptionally fine essayist whose gaze on consumer culture is like a laser beam. (Where else can you find sitcoms described as "laughter vomitoriums"?) If you have a wry attitude about consumer culture, you'll enjoy this book.
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