14.12.1987


LIVING WITH THE FEAR OF THE FRIER TAG

At their most desperate to be publicly identifiable, this city's thousands of either locally acclaimed, or self-proclaimed, celebrities seem to operate a kind of angst-ridden fan club for themselves.

Many cities have an ambiance of narcissism. But only Tel Aviv preens before a dusty mirror, reflecting a self-importance that derives from paranoia.

The angst in the undercurrent of any major Tel Aviv occasion is propelled by the need to be taken seriously. Israelis are terrifically serious about themselves, though happy and indeed eager to make fun of others.

It's the rare Tel Aviv comic who stands up on the Beit Liessin stage and makes fun of himself, rather than cripples Arabs, Iranians, Anglos, and the easy prey called the Israeli politician. Wit is sardonic, humour is well-planned, and maybe fun is all about not thinking about what's going on across the country, in the territories.

Tel Avivians who were not invited to the weekly Ha'ir's seventh anniversary party the other night were supposed to think of themselves as frierim (suckers). Many who went also worried that they might be considered frierim to be there.

At the party, held in the new central bus station, which like any good major terminal is just maze-like enough to guarantee that a traveller will get slightly lost before setting out on a journey, all this and more was evident.

As soon as the babysitter shift ended at midnight, and parents of toddlers-or the fantastically wealthy whose presence was required for business purposes and whose idea of a good time is an expensive restaurant or a drive behind the wheel of a Mercedes-left the cavernous station to the devisors of Tel Avivian fun, the frier syndrome took over.

There were people who announced to friends at 1 a.m. that they were leaving, and at 2 a.m. were still seen wandering the ramps back and forth past terminal shops that were temporarily displaying wares ranging from performance and poster art to strictly commercially painted T-shirts.

There was a feeling that if you left now you'd be missing something, that if you left you'd not be seen and therefore, in a slightly absurd way for a city in which people still maintain elementary school friendships, not exist.

Women could be overheard explaining that if they were in London their miniskirts would be shorter, "But here they're such animals". There were many scenes in which former lovers, friends or spouses appeared to be ignoring each other. Participants in the shop-window exhibitions either hung around like proud parents or had the deliberate ill manners not to b e present at all.

A common refrain was "If a bomb fell, it would wipe out the entire world of..."and the word entire would be followed by the self-applause of all the various forms of media-advertising, fashion, journalism, electronic or print, politicians, etc.

Nobody paused to think that if indeed that had happened it would have been page one in The International Herald Tribune for a day and within three days-or at least until the retaliation-it would turn into an inch on the inside pages. Proportion is inappropriate for the braggart, which is the way many people who fear the frier tag offer up a defence.

Spontaneity was not the overriding characteristic of the affair. A couple of weeks before, almost exactly the same crowd crowded into the Tel Aviv Museum to celebrate the 10th anniversary of movies at the museum. The Ha'ir affair was a bit better, as if the museum affair was a dress rehearsal, and because at the Ha'ir celebration, the heavy drinkers, if so inclined, could practise for when Yona Mordechai's central bus station becomes just that, and there will be people passed out in the corners. Nobody passed out on the floor of the museum.

As always, Tel Avivians behave as if they have the most fun watching other Tel Avivians, and as always, they complain that watching is all there is to do.

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