This halftime show told us almost everything we need to know about the world today.
I tuned in halfway through because I was writing. I later learned that a K-pop group had appeared with Madonna, an opening act for those eager to dissolve themselves into a meaningless Other. A Spanish singer appeared somewhere too, presumably with something beautiful and a guitar.
The spectacle lasted eleven minutes. Ordinarily, fairness would require watching the whole thing before judging it. But since FIFA has little interest in fairness platforming Madonna - I too, see no reason to extend fairness.
The three performances I saw captured contemporary Western culture perfectly: talent mixed with compulsive eclecticism, despair beside hope, and no coherence.
Justin Bieber, remarkably, seems to have become a human being. His performance was an act of gratitude to God, a gentle message of praise and worship.
Then came Shakira, cavorting at 49 while looking no older than 21, surrounded by African dancers moving with brutal, frightening, and strangely unsynchronized pace.
The show ended with children holding signs that read LOVE. Nothing can be said against that final chord. Perhaps, apart from Bieber, it was all the show needed. They might just as well have brought out Itzhak Perlman with a violin.
To an adult viewer, the American halftime show resembles a visit to the dentist: forced, unpleasant, and endured only because something important comes afterward. At a universal occasion like a World Cup final, it feels almost degrading.
Americans wonder why the world looks down on them. Sometimes the answer is simple: they do not know when to shut up, stop selling, and let a great occasion speak for itself.
