Chicago Ex-Patriate

"Infinite" and Beyond

2009-12-18T23:05:00.000-06:00

I was thirteen years old in 1996, and that year I read a major bestselling book. I was years away from having any knowledge of David Foster Wallace's Infinite Jest, which was published that year, as well as years away from having any personal indications that I would eventually major in English and devote my time to reading and writing. The bestseller I read was H. Jackson Brown Jr.'s Life's Little Instruction Book. Looking back, it was a pseudo-religious, "holier-than-thou" collection of tidbits that were at best common sense and at worst cheesy. At that young age, I remember being irked at the instruction to "buy great books even if you never read them." What was Mr. Brown's logic? Was it his goal to have millions of people with impressive bookshelves to show off when hosting guests? Elsewhere, he suggested reading the Bible in the course of a single year, which is fitting when you're not meant to read the books you've purchased with no plans of reading.

I bought Infinite Jest for a college course some years back, and due to time and semester constraints, we spent only two weeks doing a basic study of the opening chapter. Yes, two weeks on a mere fraction of a book that's 1,079 pages. Since then, the book has been a fixture on my shelves, and it has traveled across the country twice during moves, and it came dangerously close to being my own "great, unread" book. I've read almost all of David Foster Wallace's other books (with the final exception being his debut novel, The Broom Of the System) and decided this past September to finally read Infinite Jest. After nearly three months (which seems to be the average, even for the fastest readers) and a few near postponements, I'm happy to say that I've seen this goal to the end.

Any analyses of the text tends to come with two distinct problems. One, depending on the reader, the act of reading the book becomes the focus instead of merely enjoying and studying it. There are scores of websites and online threads which, in addition to having valuable summaries and insights, also serve as a tangible statement: "Yes, we're reading Infinite Jest." This isn't meant to show off, but rather to verbalize the size of the reading. This understanding ("Infinite Jest is long and complex") too often becomes the plot, instead of the plot itself. This brings us to the second problem.

In a sort of paradox, the plot of Infinite Jest is both extremely complex yet easy to break down in a superficial manner. I'll give the superficial one, but I'll gladly acknowledge that this has been given hundreds of times. If you've read the book, you can skip ahead; if not, understand that this will not spoil or sufficiently summarize anything. The book is a study of happiness, pleasure, entertainment, and family relationships. It's set in the future, and the years have been subsidized by corporations (The Year Of the Tucks Medicated Pad, The Year Of the Perdue Wonderchicken). The bulk of the action takes place in the Year Of the Depends Adult Undergarment, which, depending on the chronology, is generally accepted to be between 2009-2015. North America has merged into the Organization of North American Nations (O.N.A.N.), and the U.S. and Canada are at odds over the Great Concavity, a toxic dump located in what used to be the bulk of the Northeast. Québécois Separatists commit acts of stunning and inspired terrorism in the United States, with a dangerously addicting film cartridge factoring into potential future acts. In the metro Boston area, the reader is given an interlocking, wildly complex, and multiple-character driven account of the lives and actions of The Enfield Tennis Academy and Ennett House, a drug recovery/halfway house. The tennis students form a character backdrop for the Incandenza family (the youngest son, Hal, is a student at the Academy; his late father founded it, and his mother is an Administrator). Don Gately, a counselor/former addict, is the focal point of the halfway house, with an equally compelling and messed up supporting cast.

Yes, fans of the book will cry foul at this summary, since it leaves out so much and probably sounds like the kind of description attributed to a high school student writing with Cliff Notes under his desk. All of my book reviews/essays are done with the intention of appealing to people who have either read the book in question as well as people who haven't. With Infinite Jest, it's a case of damned if you do, damned if you don't: giving a full explanation of the characters would simply be too long. On the other hand, not giving enough information leaves out too many narratives and too much of the smaller details.

The Incandenza family (father James; mother Avril; sons Hal, Mario, and Orin) is often tidily described as dysfunctional, and while this is true, what seems to be overlooked is Wallace's theme of dysfunctional fathers. Every father/child (be it male or female) relationship in Infinite Jest is marred by problems, whether these are emotional (the following passage, to me, is incredibly reminiscent of William Gaddis-type dialogue, even if most earlier reviewers fell back on describing Wallace as "Pynchon-esque"):

"...Jim, pick the book up if it's going to make you all goggle-eyed and chinless honestly Jesus why do I try I try and try just wanted to introduce you to the broiler's garage and let you drive, maybe, feeling the Montclair's body, taking my time to let you pull up to the courts with the Montclair's shift in a neutral glide and the eight cylinders thrumming and snicking like a healthy heart and the wheels all perfectly flush with the curb...(Wallace 162)."

or painfully incestuous:

"Matty'd [Pemulis] shrink away: shy are we sone scared are we? Matty'd shrink away even after he knew the shrinking fear was part of what brought it on, for Da'd get angry: who are we scared of, then? Then who are we, a sone, to be scared so of our own Da? As if the Da that broke daily his back were nothing more than a. Can't a Da show his son some love without being taken for a. As if Matty could lie here with his food inside him under bedding he'd paid for and think his Da were no better than a. Is it a fookin you're scared of, then (684)."

These citations are not meant to absolve the mothers of wrongdoing. However, the way the characters are shaped by the actions of their fathers reminds me of a quote by, of all people, George Carlin (not an exact quote): "All the problems of the world can be traced back to what fathers do to their sons." In Infinite Jest, this goes for daughters as well. The first quote is part of a rambling dialogue by James O. Incandenza's father, planting the seeds of competitiveness and masculinity in a father figure who, for the most part of the novel, is seen as a ghost or in post-mortem flashbacks. In their own (sometimes very twisted) ways, the fathers either don't see the problems of their actions, or feel that they're doing good in some way. Therefore, a lot of the issues presented in the novel can be traced back to the dysfunctional fathers.

In a wildly opposite point of view, it's hard to overstate how wildly funny Wallace was as a writer. For all the interlaced characters and actions, for all of the pages of pychosis and visually striking drug problems, Wallace outlined the book as a comedic masterpiece. A small example of this is his gift for writing quick, juvenile, but ultimately hilarious dialogues between the boys of Enfield Tennis Academy. In this passage, some of the players are attempting to figure out if the cafeteria milk is real or powdered:

"'You're saying they mix powered milk and then try and pour it into milkbags, all to allay?'
Schacht clears his mouth and swallows mightily. 'Tavis can't even regrout the tile in the locker room without calling a Community Meeting or appointing a committee. The Regrouting Committee's been dragging along since May. Suddenly they're pulling secret 0300 milk-switches? It doesn't ring true, Jim (630).'"

This is not the most obvious example, but for such a seemingly inane piece of dialogue, Wallace combines both intelligent insights and hilarious ramblings. Perhaps citing such a random snippet is best, since they're spread out throughout the novel. Given its length, that's part of the beauty of Infinite Jest: Wallace provides both the important "big picture" scenes and events mixed in with these smaller moments, all of which combine for authentic characterizations.

After finishing the book, I set out to find some critical essays on the text, and stumbled upon a valuable collection of reviews that came out in 1996. The collection is run by one or more diehard fans, since any review that has even a whiff of criticism is put down (Jay McInerney, for example, is referred to as a "has-been"). I selected two different reviews at random to read, and I was especially taken by this passage from Michiko Kakutani's review in the New York Times, originally published on February 13, 1996:

"Perfect, however, Infinite Jest is not: this 1,079-page novel is a 'loose baggy monster,' to use Henry James' words, a vast, encyclopedic compendium of whatever seems to have crossed Wallace's mind. It's Thomas Wolfe without Maxwell Perkins, done in the hallucinogenic style of Terry Gilliam and Ralph Steadman. The book seems to have been written and edited (or not edited) on the principle that bigger is better, more means more important, and this results in a big psychedelic jumble of chracters, anecdotes, jokes, soliloquies, reminiscenses and footnotes, uproarious and mind-boggling, but also arbitrary and self-indulgent."

At the same time, these sentences are both praises and criticisms of the same idea. In the Boston Book Review, David McLean (in the other review I selected) offers the same argument, but with a dose of optimism and, for lack of a better word, forgiveness:

"What follows is a scattered, non-linear, hilarious, sometimes aggravating collection of voices that somehow manages to hold together to create an aggregate, a world, that works. Wallace has not so much written a novel as created a system that is fueled by his endless imagination, his pure verbal prowess, and a language that looks familiar but feels utterly invented. Critics will debate the efficiency of the system, while others will simply put the book down in annoyance." (italics mine)

Granted, hindsight is 20/20. Later interviews and revelations revealed Wallace to be a writer who wrote fiction because of or in spite of crippling depression (my reading of this book coincided, unintentionally, with the one-year anniversary of Wallace's suicide). Writing was his way of creating order and almost scientific balances. In a strange way, the realization that even the most intelligent, well-read reviewers fell into the "is this book too long?" question is comforting. Then and now, thirteen years later, readers and reviewers struggle, not with trying to understand the book, but to understand the audacity of such an undertaking. The simple answer is yes, perhaps some scenes could have been left out. The more complex answer is no, that Infinite Jest is essential in its entirety. As I mentioned earlier, the readers get the big pictures (the characters, the vision of the future, the philosophical metaphors of the existence of a film, a piece of entertainment that is deathly perfect), along the the smaller slices of the lives, dialogues, and thoughts of even the most minor characters. There will always be a debate as to whether Wallace was indulging himself or creating his word system. Again, with the understanding of hindsight, and given how the book has become almost its own genre by itself, every word is essential. The future will bring more examples of encyclopedic narratives and post-modern showcases, but David Foster Wallace's definite masterpiece will continue to be the example by which all others are judged.

Work Cited:
Wallace, David Foster. Infinite Jest. Copyright 1996 by David Foster Wallace.

2008 In Music: Recap

2009-12-11T23:49:00.002-06:00

We're almost done...I have a feeling that the conclusion of Aught Music will be both satisfactory and bittersweet. However, it's not over just yet. Here are my selections for 2008.

1.) "Librarian" by My Morning Jacket (from the album Evil Urges)

Finding beauty and sexiness in a quiet, alluring librarian? No, this isn't a Whitesnake song. This is a beautiful evocation of the kind of connection that all of us have every now and then, admiring someone from a distance and letting daydreams run wild. My favorite line is one that is only a part of the set-up:

Ramble up the stairwell, into the hall of books...
Since we got the interweb these hardly get used

This almost makes the song a sort of rambling inner dialogue, but it builds into a beautiful love story. The lyrics are a bit more direct than Jim James and company usually go for, but the difference works amazingly well, combined with their atmospheric music.

2.) "Acid Tongue" and "Carpetbaggers" by Jenny Lewis (from the album Acid Tongue)

"Acid Tongue:"

As I've written about Lewis before, I'm utterly convinced she would have been just as relevant and emotional had she been singing in the 1940s or 50s. This song is no exception. The combination of sadness and hope are perfect, with neither one dominating, but blending into an atmospheric haze. It's the soundtrack of sitting in a bar after a bad week and feeling a little sorry for yourself.

To be lonely is a habit
Like smoking or taking drugs
And I've quit them both
But man, was it rough.

"Carpetbaggers:"

I'm sure that most of my co-workers have wished bodily harm against me, since I've played this song dozens of times. It's unbelievably catchy and a piece of alluring storytelling. I can easily imagine the Decemberists covering this one:

They come to town when the war is over
Dirty boots in the middle of the night
Trolling the bars, hitting on the soldiers
Boys give it up without a fight
They say, "Hey, boy, how about your place?
I know you really want to take me home"
Drop the bags off on the bedroom floor
They make love with the lights on

It's also a testament to Lewis's prowess as a vocalist that she can duet with a legend like Elvis Costello and completely overshadow him. That's not to say that he doesn't fit in on this track; but there's no denying that this is a Jenny Lewis song, despite the amazing collaborations on the entire disc.

3.) "Long Division" by Death Cab For Cutie (from the album Narrow Stairs)

As much as I love Ben Gibbard and company, as much as I appreciate their evocative, poetic lyrics and soft accompaniments, it's refreshing to see that they can rock out now and them. Long Division doesn't sacrifice any of the lyrics that Death Cab has been known for since Day One:

The television was snowing softly
As she hunted for her keys
She said she never envisioned him
The type of person capable of such deceit

The atmosphere is still the same as you'd find in their slower numbers. Perhaps this is a case of 'don't fix it if it's not broken,' but a little energy can go a long way, as this song proves.

4.) "Ragged Wood" by Fleet Foxes (from the album Fleet Foxes)

It's so odd that the Fleet Foxes have been compared to 1960s folk acts, when in fact, at least in my opinion, they (almost scarily) sound like My Morning Jacket. However, despite this similarity, they still manage to retain their own style and creativity. This track is uplifting, folksy, and yet has just enough echo and reverb to sound haunting. A lot of criticism in pop music focuses on technology and production overtaking the actual process of singing and creating music. The recording on this track is all about the song, yet there's just a hint of recording manipulations that add just a touch more atmosphere.

5.) "(I Don't Want To Die) In the Hospital" by Conor Oberst (from the album Conor Oberst)

Like a lot of great tracks, this one can either resist strict genre classifications, or it can be viewed as a blend of a few different ones. The opening honkytonk piano is almost too brief, but the rest of the track keeps up a strong, folk-rock tempo. Perhaps I'm way off, but the lyrics can be easily interpreted into a folk-protest song, not unlike a faster Pete Seeger song for the 21st century.

I don't give a damn what the doctors say
I ain't gonna spend a lonesome day
I don't wanna die in the hospital
You gotta take me back outside
They don't let you smoke and you can't get drunk
All there is to watch is these soap operas

I see a ton of excellent metaphors here. I could get into some slightly outlandish hypotheses, but I think anyone can come up with their own views. Or...maybe Conor just really hates hospitals.

As I mention with every Aught Music update, the links go to free listens and downloads. These are just my contributions; there are literally dozens more for each year, selected and written by some impressive writers/music lovers. Check it out while you still can...2009 shall be commencing very soon.

Going On Nerve

2009-12-03T15:18:00.007-06:00

Several weeks ago, a friend of mine shared a link to an article published by the website This Recording. The aim of the article was simple, even if the content was not--to present a list of the one hundred greatest writers of all-time. I immediately skimmed the list, made mental notes of the big names, and sent it to others. Another friend was quick to share his disapproval of the concept, the idea of quantifying creativity and the grouping of vastly different artists. The more I think about it, the more I agree with this critique. I went back and read the piece with more care, and I was dismayed by the fact that the writers were actually ranked from 1-100 instead of randomly compiled. Picking a list of the one hundred best [anything] will never be either complete or strictly unbiased. This month, as we get closer to a new decade, more contemporary lists will be written in a mad dash attempt to celebrate the Aughts, but in actuality, everyone should realize that these lists are opinionated, and it's impossible to assign tangible rankings to intangible works and people.

However, the list on This Recording did have its sharing of redeeming qualities, providing an excellent list of writers who I want to return to or discover more about as I take this blog into 2010 and beyond. I decided to do some studying of the poetry and history of Frank O'Hara (to prove the absurdity of the listings, he was apparently the 83rd greatest writer ever. That, of course, says absolutely nothing). Primarily in the 1950s, he wrote hundreds of poems and inadvertently created works that fit into categories and molds that he passionately resisted. For a better understanding, read the famous opening to his "Personism: A Manifesto," a brief writing that has been defined as a spoof and a spin on somber artist statements.

"Everything is in the poems, but at the risk of sounding like the poor wealthy man's Allen Ginsberg I will write to you because I just heard that one of my fellow poets thinks that a poem of mine that can't be got at one reading is because I was confused too. Now, come on. I don't believe in god, so I don't have to make elaborately sounded structures. I hate Vachel Lindsay, always have; I don't even like rhythm, assonance, all that stuff. You just go on your nerve. If someone's chasing you down the street with a knife you just run, you don't turn around and shout 'Give it up! I was a track star for Mineola Prep' (O'Hara 247)."

His works have a definite individual rhythm, and his dismissal of "expected" poetry norms is, to me, a revelation of a more pure definition of poetics: the use of words and language for emotional effects and a sort of brief storytelling. In some of the overviews of his works that I've read online, some of his earlier poems are described as surreal. While he was a friend of painters and an astute student of art, I don't think the definition of "surreal" applies to his early works. It's more about creative positioning of the words. Some of his early 1950s works can also be viewed as definitions of the poetic form. An excellent example of this is his 1950 poem "Today," which could very well be mistaken as Surrealism in writing. To me, it's more of a sketch, an idea that a poem can be shaped out of any ideas or objects.

"Oh! kangaroos, sequins, chocolate sodas!
You really are beautiful! Pearls,
harmonicas, jujubes, aspirins! all
the stuff they've always talked about

still makes a poem a surprise!
These things are with us every day
even on beachheads and biers. They
do have meaning. They're strong as rocks (6)."

As naturally gifted as O'Hara was (virtually all biographies of him have anecdotes about his penchant for writing poems instantly in the span of just a few minutes of time), there's no doubt of his dedication and studies of the form. As David Lehman writes about O'Hara's "Why I Am Not a Painter:" "What looks spontaneous may really be the product of a calculation, a fabrication...Like a crime, true innovation in art requires premeditation, means, motive, and opportunity."

Granted, this is just an overview of O'Hara. He was just as prolific in writing poetic sketches of New York, friends/lovers/acquaintances, somber reflections, bombastic excitement, and moving elegies and odes. His refusal to adhere to any set style manifests itself in both the ability to categorize his poetry into multiple forms as well as the chance for readers to scope multiple meanings out of his most abstract works. Poetry has so many intentions and definitions, and it's almost unintentionally insulting and simplistic to say that O'Hara's works were celebrations of life and languages. This obviously doesn't tell the complete story, nor is it any kind of substantial insight.

I'll close with one of my favorite poems, "Anxiety," written in 1957. As I mentioned above, some works lend themselves to multiple interpretations. With this one, the anxiety presented can also be a look at struggles with the creative process.

"I'm having a real day of it.
There was
something I had to do. But what?
There are no alternatives, just
the one something.
I have a drink,
it doesn't help--far from it!
I
feel worse. I can't remember how
I felt, so perhaps I feel better.
No. Just a little darker.
If I could
get really dark, richly dark, like
being drunk, that's the best that's
open as a field. Not the best,

but the best except for the impossible
pure light, to be as if above a vast
prairie, rushing and pausing over
the tiny golden heads in deep grass (119)."

Work Cited:
O'Hara, Frank. Selected Poems. Edited and selected by Mark Ford. Copyright 2008 by Maureen Granville-Smith.

NOTE: The text of "Anxiety" is not presented in its original book format due to spacing.

Casual Friday--Poetry VIII

2009-03-13T16:20:00.001-05:00

Writing about Charles Bukowski is never easy, and anyone who reads him (or writes about him) most likely cannot help but be torn between the ideas of Realism vs. blatant psychosis/misogyny. Either way, his writing always strikes some emotion, no matter which direction it aims. This week, I started reading a collection of his poetry entitled Come On In!, and my expectations were not completely met. Poetry is obviously a different medium than the short story, but given Bukowski's style and reputation, I went into the reading of his poetry expecting that difference in form, but with the same messages. I was wrong, and not having my expectations met is a good thing.

In the poems that I've read so far, I've been struck by a vulnerability and emotional range that I haven't found in his stories. Some critics/theorists may be able to see some morality and redemption in his stories, but my belief has always been that his fiction is meant to be taken at face value. His characters are unsympathetic, immoral, and most importantly, do exist in day-to-day life. Normally, if a Bukowski-esque character were to appear in someone else's fiction, it would be to illuminate the idea of bad, especially compared with the generally assumed notion of "good." However, I've felt that Bukowski presents his characters as-is, take them or leave them. His poems can also contain the same shocks and visceral intensity, but there's also an element of regret and understanding that appears at times:

"in the clubhouse"

"he is behind me,
talking to somebody:
'well, I like the 5 horse, he closed well last
time, I like a horse who can close.
but you know, you gotta kinda consider
the 4 and the 12.
the 4 needed his last race and look at
him, he's reading 40-1 now.
the 12's got a chance too.
and look at the 9, he looks really good,
really got a shine to his skin.
then too, you also gotta consider the 7...'

every now and then I consider murdering
somebody, it just flashes in my mind for a
moment, then I dismiss it and rightfully
so.
I considered murdering the man who
belonged to the voice I heard,
then I worked on dismissing the thought.
and to make sure, I changed my seat,
I moved far down to my left,
I found a seat between a woman wearing a
sun shade and a young man violently
chewing on a mouthful of
gum.
then I felt
better (Bukowski 34)."

This is probably the first Bukowski piece that I've read in which a character weighs the outcome of his/her choice and decides not to act impulsively. Granted, the fact that the character has to talk himself out of murder implies serious mental inefficiencies, but given some of the actions that have taken place in Bukowski's work, this almost reads as more or less heartwarming. Given that some of his characters do not think twice about debauchery, extreme alcohol consumption, and sexual assault, a resolution such as this seems encouraging. Bukowski is one of many writers whom readers can fatally interchange the works as well as the author's private life. While it's well-known that Bukowski engaged in some pretty intense behavior during his life, another poem ("Paris in the spring") attempts to clarify these assumptions. Again, assuming that what happens on the page is what happens in the author's life can be wrong, one can't help but wonder if this quote is at least partly autobiographical:

"I only photograph life, said the writer. I might write about a murderer but this doesn't mean that I am one or would enjoy being one (160)."

Work Cited:
Bukowski, Charles. Come On In! Copyright 2006 by Linda Lee Bukowski.

2007 In Music: Recap

2009-11-27T20:33:00.003-06:00

The Aught Music contributors (myself included) are getting close to the end. This week has seen the start of the best tracks of 2008, with the final year set to begin in the next two weeks or so. So, as I say with every update, keep checking the blog out before we reach the conclusion. Free downloads and samples are available with every track, along with some wonderful memories, analyses, and deconstructions. Here are my write-ups for the best tracks of 2007.

1.) "Impossible Germany" by Wilco (from the album Sky Blue Sky)

Even today, I'm still on the fence in regard to my opinion of Sky Blue Sky as a whole. I genuinely like the album, but I don't get the same intangible feelings generated by their earlier works. Also, I remember reading more than one review that classified it as Jeff Tweedy's "happy album." With Wilco's music, there's usually so much more to think about in terms of music and lyrics, so determining or classifying an album by so generic an emotion as 'happy' or 'sad' seems utterly pointless. However, this is my favorite song featured. There's a definite melancholy in the lyrics:

But I know you're not listening
Oh I know, you're not listening

If this is supposed to be "happy," then the reviewers must be borderline suicidal. A lot of Wilco songs seem to deal with strains in communication and understanding between two parties, and "Impossible Germany" is an excellent example of this. Also, despite the well-documented control that Tweedy has over Wilco's sound and production, this track feels like a true group effort.

2.) "Don't Make Me a Target" by Spoon (from the album Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga)

This track is deceptively simple. I went through a few different ideas for a write-up on this one, but nothing seemed to work. More than once, I've written about some songs here sounding like inspired jam sessions, and this one is no different. A little research on Wikipedia proved my hypothesis correct, as it states that Britt Daniel and company went through quite a few trials on this track, attempting to find the best sound. The bass line is blunt, and the lyrics work almost like a protest song against an ambivalent but worrisome opponent. The final two lines offer what sound like some awesome novel titles:

Clubs and sticks and bats and balls
For nuclear dicks with the dialect drawls
They come from a parking lot town
Where nothing lives in the sun.

3.) "Brunettes Against Bubblegum Youth" by The Brunettes (from the album Structure & Cosmetics)

This song never gets old for me. It's a sly wink at pop music, both as criticism and homage. Take these lyrics on their own, separate from the song:

B-a-b-y
I love to call you 'baby'
When we're this spaceship

Sappy? Yeah. Surreal? A little. But the Brunettes know exactly what they're doing, making this an intentional mashup of pop, rock anthems, and a little bit of soul for good measure. However, the kicker is that it doesn't feel like any sort of hipster irony; there's a lot of love here. I've put this track on countless mix compilations for people, yet nobody seems to share my enthusiasm. This always gives me a little boost of energy.

4.) "My Moon My Man" by Feist (from the album The Reminder)

The abstract idea of "cute" depends on personal opinions, and can be used as an insult ("oh, that was cute.") However, Feist is one of the few musicians who can use cuteness as a benefit to their music. She sounds adorable here. While at first glance that may sound chauvinistic, it's anything but—her voice is stunning, her songwriting is terrific, and her sweetness works in stark contrast to the lyrics, which aren't as bouncy as the sound would imply:

My moon and me
Not as good as we've been
It's the dirtiest clean I know

Along with '1234,' this song was inescapable for quite some time. But going back, it hasn't lost any freshness, and Feist, in video and song, always makes me smile.

5.) "No Cars Go" by Arcade Fire (from the album Neon Bible)

Quite a few Arcade Fire tracks, if not all of them, are almost begging to be heard live. "No Cars Go" is no exception. This is the indie-rock answer to the stadium anthems of the likes of U2 and the Rolling Stones. In 2007, I saw them perform this live at the Chicago Theater, and the acoustics of the venue were literally perfect for the rise and sonic atmosphere. The lyrics are simple and beautiful, but the music here always draws my complete attention. The background vocals serve as separate instruments, creating a stunning blend.

6.) "Plasticities" by Andrew Bird (from the album Armchair Apocrypha)

They'll fight, they'll fight
They'll fight for your neural walls
And plasicities
And precious territory

As much as it fits the other songs and atmospheres of Armchair Apocrypha, Andrew Bird's "Plasicities" feels like it would have blended well on his previous work, The Mysterious Production of Eggs. With an amazing "orchestral-pop" backdrop and lyrics that blend art and science, this track represents the best of Mr. Bird. This song is especially poignant. The "they" mentioned feel especially ominous, paired with the battle cry to reclaim space, thoughts, and independence. It's indie pop meets dystopian future landscapes. This may not have been his original intention, but if a track can lend itself to such wild possibilities, that's not a bad thing.

We're almost done!

Substance Misuse

2009-11-17T23:05:00.004-06:00

My recent reading of the graphic novel The Alcoholic was done in the interest of satisfying two slightly different goals. First, as I've mentioned here once in awhile, I'm woefully behind on readings in the graphic novel genre/format. This applies to both major works and less heralded ones. Quite a few of my friends have given me a lot of suggestions in order for me to get a few titles knocked out, and I figured that The Alcoholic would be a decent place to start. The second goal was to familiarize myself with the writings of Jonathan Ames. For someone who has been writing for as long as he has, it seems that a lot of his mainstream and everday attention has been intesified recently. Undoubtedly, this has a lot to do with "Bored To Death," the HBO series that he created. The Alcoholic has its share of brilliance in small flashes, but I do have a few criticisms with the text, ones that I'll address shortly. Normally, I wouldn't have to preface this in any way; I'd simply go about my analysis as I've always done. However, since I'm so new to the form, I had to think about my reaction to the book a little more than usual, to make sure that I wasn't missing anything or looking at the book differently merely because of a format change.

The story tells about the life and substances of a "fictional" writer, Jonathan A., and how his missteps, problems, and social woes can be tied into his alcoholism. The protagonist never hides his disease. He shares his thoughts immediately, after a blackout finds him in a very precarious situation. "I have a lot of problems. Not more than the average person, really, but I have a propensity for getting into trouble, especially when I've been drinking. This one night, I came out of a blackout and I was with this old, exceedingly tiny lady in a station wagon (Ames 6)."

The reader then goes on a dizzying journey of Jonathan's life and relationships, with three people sharing the duties as the most important in his life, for better or for worse. His childhood friend Sal attempts to make love to Jonathan in high school, leading to an unspoken attraction between the two that's marked by their friendship growing increasingly sparse and fractured over the years, with the occasional reunion that goes nowhere. After Jonathan's parents die, he grows closer to his Aunt Sadie, sharing (and hiding) his problems with her, and sharing a relationship that toes the line between genuinely touching and subconsciously incestuous. Whether sober or drunk, he carries a torch for a dead relationship with a younger woman whom he refers to by the name of the current city in which she lives after their relationship ends (San Francisco, Seattle, etc.). Jonathan not only has to deal with his alcoholism, but also with increasing forays into cocaine. Even his respect as a novelist cannot compensate for his substance abuses. It leads to him losing potential teaching jobs and acting with low social decorum.

This might seem like a simplified overview of the plot, but it's difficult to give too much away, especially when the words need to be read in conjunction with the illustrations by Dean Haspiel. Also, since this is a graphic novel, it's imporant to realize that these sketches, both logistically and formally, don't give nearly as much away as it may seem in the above paragraph. Returning to the notion that I don't want any of my critiques to be a result of my simply being a novice to the form, I'll understand if anyone reading this takes my opinions with a grain of salt. That said, I had some problems with Ames's vision of the character. The best, strongest moments in The Alcoholic come when he reveals Jonathan's deepest, most open thoughts regarding his relationships. Sal is the best example. In the early developments of the relationship, as well as Jonathan's subsequent attempts to reconnect with him, Ames's attention to emotional detail is beautiful as well as saddening. There's a definite love between the two, and whether or not they're both gay (Sal definitely is) is besides the point. It's a love, platonic or otherwise, that's nearly tragic in its depiction. Combined with Haspiel's gift of facial nuances (see the image below for a semi-decent example), the full, combined effect truly hits the intended chords. Nothing is embellished on the page.

What hurts the text the most is the constant winking between the author and the reader. Ames names his character 'Jonathan A.," and as Neil Gaman is quoted in his blurb in the book, "I don't know how much Jonathan A. is Jonathan Ames. I'm not sure I want to." Yes, there are two equal hypotheses at play. Perhaps Ames is giving a genuine autobiographical sketch, or maybe he wants the reader to merely think as much. There's also the excellent chance that he's turning the dynamic of "don't confuse the author with the protagonist" on its head. This literary style has the potential to be a great branch in postmodernism. However, I found it more distracting than anything else. The book also sets up what could have been more in-depth plotlines (a shady drug dealer named Art, and the aftermath of September 11th), but these are immediately dropped for other developments. Perhaps more expansion would have taken away from the immediacy of the main plotline, but the effect is jarring.

However, I highly enjoyed my introduction to the art of Dean Haspiel. His drawings are heavy on small details, especially the aforementioned facial expressions. The pictures are an almost flawless blend of noir atmospheres and shadings with almost cartoon-like evocations of the major actions. This is all done in the most serious way, allowing him to capture both the drama of the actions as well as the absurdity of some of Jonathan's more shocking escapades. I know that I have a lot of ground to cover in this genre, and hopefully in due time I'll have some more works to write about as I increase my knowledge of the graphic novel medium. The Alcoholic is not completely lacking in worth, not in the slighest bit. I'm also curious to see how Ames's writings work in longer formats. I'm sure others would be able to suggest better introductions, but this slim volume at least has the foundation for what I'm sure to discover in the future.

Work Cited:
Ames, Jonathan and Dean Haspiel.The Alcoholic. Copyright 2008 by Jonathan Ames and D.C. Comics.

Booked Solid

2009-11-11T22:16:00.004-06:00

As I was reading Bill Simmons's The Book Of Basketball, I realized that writing about it would coincide, seasonally, with my previous post. My review of Lew Paper's Perfect came the day after the 2009 Major League Baseball season ended. Today, I'm looking at a book about professional basketball when the 2009-10 NBA season is less than a month old. This will surely be the last sports book that I'll read this year, and having back-to-back looks at my two favorite sports was entirely coincidental. However, with one season gone and one season underway, I couldn't help but notice this chronological symbolism.

I've spent quite a few months waiting for the publication of The Book Of Basketball, but in spite of my excitement, I realized that I wouldn't immediately call myself a "fan" of Bill Simmons. I read his Page 2 columns on ESPN.com whenever I see them linked, but they've never been an essential part of my online readings. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that I've never read a bad article by him (given my admitted sporadic patronage, I'm sure he has a few duds). My eagerness to read the book stemmed not so much from the author, but rather the subject. As I've mentioned a few times, passionate NBA fans are sometimes hard to find, since the prevailing assumption is that NCAA basketball is superior, and that the professional ranks are easier to criticize. The example I usually fall back on is writer Chuck Klosterman, a writer I deeply respect for his intelligence, humor, and love of NBA basketball. Now, I'm happy to include Bill Simmons in this category as one of my two favorite basketball writers, based on the strength of his latest book. Two weeks after publication, The Book Of Basketball already ranks as one of the best works on the sport, and the research that went into it is commendable on its own.

The title is perfect in all of its simplicity. This isn't a strict history of basketball, nor is it merely a collection of anecdotes and memories. While these are featured prominently, for all intents, this is a book of basketball in every sense, and from every angle. Simmons discusses the evolution of the professional game, analyzing everything from single games, players, drafts, and happenings. He also deftly shows how aspects of the game cannot be immediately compared throughout the eras. This refers mainly to statistics, and how averages from the 1950s and 1960s cannot be adequately compared to the stats of today's game.

"[Celtics guard Bob] Cousy got screwed historically by his first four years (the pre-shot-clock era, when nobody scored more than 75-85 points a game) and the last five years (when they started counting assists differently). Cousy averaged 8.9 assists for a '59 Celtics team that averaged 116.4 points per game; John Stockton averaged 12.4 assists for a '94 Jazz team that averaged 101.9 points per game. How am I supposed to make sense of that? How do we know Cousy wasn't averaging 15-16 assists per game if we applied the current criteria (Simmons 492-493)?"

Refreshingly, Simmons does not shy away from the racial areas of the game. He gives stunning accounts of the racism in basketball, injustices experienced by such legends as Kareem Abdul-Jabbar and Oscar Robertson. "When Oscar's Crispus Attucks High School became the first all-black champion in state history in 1955, Indianapolis rerouted its annual championship parade toward the ghetto, with the implication being, We don't trust the blacks to behave themselves, so let's keep this self-contained. Oscar never got over it. Nor did he get over Indiana University's coach, Branch McCracken, for recruting him by saying, 'I hope you're not the kind of kid who wants money to go to school' (559-560)."
According to Simmons, the rise of pro basketball correlates with the rise in black players, athletes who were able to add speed and creativity to the game even while facing prejudice on and off the court. These realizations and stories are not new; however, basketball history and racism are not as well known as baseball. Baseball players weren't the only ones who dealt with (and overcame) such injustices.

The bulk of the book is devoted to Simmons's excellent idea of the Pyramid, a combination hypothetical revision of the Basketball Hall Of Fame/detailed history and rankings of the best players of all-time. This is not the obvious list that might appear in lesser hands; Simmons has done staggering amounts of research, reading dozens of books and watching hours of seemingly forgotten game films. Even the players ranked in his Pyramid aren't exempt from harsh criticism. All of it is constructive, however. Take his look at former Indiana Pacers guard Reggie Miller, a player recognized as one of the best in the modern game:

"At no point was Reggie considered one of the NBA's top ten players for a single season. Nine of his contemporaries at shooting guard made All-NBA (first or second): Jordan, Drexler, Dumars, Latrell Sprewell, Mitch Richmond, Kobe [Bryant], T-Mac [Tracy McGrady], [Allen] Iverson, and Ray Allen. Reggie only made third-team All-NBA three times ('95, '96, and '98). That's it. And his reputation as a "great" Playoffs player has been slightly overblown. The Pacers were bounced from the first round in his first four trips to the Playoffs (344-345)."

These examples are just a fraction of the topics covered. The Book Of Basketball is the type of book that needs to be read in its entirety for one to fully appreciate its scope and research. Also, Simmons's style might not be for everyone--he's serious when he needs to be, but the statistics and analyses are kept humorous and light, and are marked with hundreds of footnotes that often deal with funny stories or far-reaching pop culture references. This is not to say that this isn't a serious work. As opposed to other sports books, however, Simmons thankfully keeps a lot of cliche and melodrama under wraps. He's a naturally funny writer and is able to mesh this comedy with basketball issues that are never trivialized, unless he does so intentionally. Perhaps I spoke too soon when I claimed that this work is already one of the best basketball books ever written. However, in time, I feel that the research and opinions will still hold up.

Work Cited:
Simmons, Bill. The Book Of Basketball. Copyright 2009 by Bill Simmons.

Not Quite Perfect

2009-11-05T12:46:00.006-06:00

So far in 2009, the book world has seen a stunning wealth of baseball books, spanning an excellent, diverse array of subjects that appear fitting for involved, book-length studies--Thurmon Munson, Satchel Paige, and a joint interview between Bob Gibson and Reggie Jackson. However, the one baseball book that I've read so far this year would, at first glance, seem like a tired subject: a New York Yankees championship team. After the Yankees won their 27th World Series last night, I'm sure that most people (myself included) have had their fill of superlatives and outlandish hyperbole, and aren't interested in books or reviews about the team, no matter what era is being discussed. With baseball season now over, the focus will and should shift completely to football and basketball. However, Lew Paper's Perfect: Don Larsen's Miraculous World Series Game and the Men Who Made It Happen proved irresistable for me. The subject (Don Larsen's perfect game in the 1956 World Series) is well known to baseball fans, but lends itself to wanting more analysis and facts. On top of that, Chuck Klosterman gave the book a strong review in Esquire magazine.

Despite my interest, I nearly stopped reading this book after only half a page. The prologue is entitled "The Moment Of Truth," and begins with this opening:

"The tall right-hander peers down at the catcher from his perch on the pitcher's mound under the fading afternoon sun in the cavernous environs of Yankee Stadium (Paper 1)."

The tired title, coupled with the even more tired description of Yankee Stadium as "cavernous" made me worry that the rest of the book would be filled with obvious metaphors and overwrought attempts to convey the "magic of baseball's Golden Age." Even as someone in my mid-20s who never saw baseball in the 1950s, there are enough books and documentaries that depict baseball at its acme in the mid twentieth century. I kept going, and was happy to find that the book provides extremely detailed biographies of the players on both teams (the Yankees and the Brooklyn Dodgers). For baseball fans, some of these are well-known (Mickey Mantle's alcoholism, the stunning racism expressed towards Jackie Robinson), but Paper does a great job of giving the lesser known players the same amount of coverage as the legends. For example, before picking this book up, I had never heard of Dodgers outfielder Carl Furillo, and Paper's profiles work extremely well, educating the reader on the backgrounds of the players. The chapter on Furillo depicts him as an above-average baseball player, even if he's not as well known as some of the other men from that era:

"Furillo knew all about the trickery of the right-field wall [of Ebbets Field], and he meant to master it. 'He was a workman,' teammate Carl Erskine later said of Furillo. 'I studied every angle of that fucking wall,' Furillo later explained. He would have teammates hit him flies so that he could see how the ball responded to different situations. In time, he knew every quirk. When a sportswriter later asked him how he learned to play the wall so well, he had a simple response: 'I worked. That's fucking how.'(83)."

Paper also does a commendable job as a journalist, showing an unbiased look at both the positives and negatives of the individuals. Furillo made an off-hand, negative comment about Jackie Robinson, and, regardless of his views on race, found himself linked to the racism of the era.

"...Furillo later said that he had no interest in signing the petition that Dixie Walker circulated among the team to say that they did not want to play with Robinson. Having grown up in a small community where Italians were a distinct minority, Furillo knew that ethnic and racial discrimination was not confined to blacks (81)."

Despite these compelling insights, the actual game that's supposed to be the subject seems to be lost at times. Don Larsen gets the same amount of coverage as the others when he should be the primary focus. A lifelong average pitcher dealing with a failing marriage and alcoholism pitches the only perfect game in postseason history? This should be receiving the most attention, despite the excellent backstories of the players on both teams. Paper profiles Larsen in the beginning of the book, and occasionally returns to him. What brings the book down the most is the style that Paper employs at the end of each chapter, detailing every at-bat of the game.

"Jim Gilliam is more concerned with getting on base than retaliating against a knockdown pitch as he steps into the batter's box in the top of the seventh inning of the fifth game of the 1956 World Series. But Don Larsen is not making it easy for him. The Dodger second baseman takes a called strike, watches another pitch go by for a ball, and then fouls off a pitch (224-225)."

Paper is obviously trying to create what feels like a radio play-by-play, and this ends up being incredibly distracting. Personally, I've never been a fan of present-tense writing, and this is made worse by Paper injecting the perceived emotions of the particular players in the various parts of the game. While these emotional assumptions are understandable, it feels like Paper is trying to create fictionalized scenes in a book that is otherwise a strong history text. Overall, Perfect is amazingly well-researched, but is weighed down by these little problems. Had Paper focused more on Don Larsen and strictly adhered to his journalistic tendencies, this pivotal game account would have been so much better.

Work Cited:
Paper, Lew. Perfect: Don Larsen's Miraculous World Series Game and the Men Who Made It Happen. Copyright 2009 by Lew Paper.

2006 In Music: Recap

2009-11-01T11:00:00.003-06:00

After a week off, Aught Music will resume tomorrow with the best tracks of 2007. This has been an amazing project to contribute to, and I'm sure that 2007-2009 will fly by as we approach the end of this year. Here are my contributions from 2006. Just like with my previous updates, click on the links below for free listens/downloads.

1.) "(Do You Wanna) Come Walk With Me?" by Isobel Campbell and Mark Lanegan (from the album Ballad Of the Broken Seas)

With quite a few of my selections for this project, I've written about how some female singers can sound strong and fragile at the same time. Mark Lanegan does that perfectly on this track. He and Campbell sound amazing together on this disc, but I almost wish that this particular song was a solo for him.

I'm not saying I love you, I won't say I'll be true,
There's a crimson bird flying when I go down on you
I'm so weary and lonesome and it's cold in the night,
When the path to your doorway is a pathway of light.

There are very few songs that can be evocations of both masculinity, insecurity, and sensitivity. Lanegan sounds tough, but there's much more being painfully pushed down below the surface. Jeremy wrote about The National expressing masculinity in the twenty-first century on the track "All the Wine." While these are two vastly different songs, I think that "Come Walk With Me" is another chapter in intelligent musical looks at what it means to be a man, fraught with complexities and a myriad of emotions.

2.) "Sons & Daughters" and "O! Valencia" by The Decemberists (from the album The Crane Wife)

"Sons & Daughters":

With this track, three simple adjectives sum it up quite well: moving, simple, and beautiful. Given the winding story arcs and characters featured on the rest of the album, it's amazing that it ends on such a small treasure.

When we arrive, sons & daughters
We'll make our homes on the water
We'll build our walls with aluminum
We'll fill our mouths with cinnamon.

Personally, I'll always hold this song very close. When The Crane Wife was released, my eldest brother was serving his second tour in the Iraq War. For varying reasons, I was much more scared and despondent during that second year, as if the reality of it all had truly hit me. Many a night, I was moved to tears by the closing lines:

Here all the bombs fade away,
Here all the bombs fade away.

He returned home safely, and that Christmas, I put "Sons & Daughters" as the final song on a mix CD that I made for him. I've never explained this significance to anyone until now.

"O! Valencia":

Yes, this story line has been done a million and one times, spanning every medium, and most well known from "Romeo and Juliet" and "West Side Story." So on, so forth, etc. Two lovers find themselves carrying on a secret tryst under the noses of their warring families. However, as familiar as this is, it's hard to listen to it and not root for the lovers to live happily every after, even if it's an obvious lost cause.

All I heard was the shout
Of your brother calling me out
And you ran like a fool to my side.

Both in this song and the official music video, the Decemberists do their usual job of taking a subject steeped in history and nostalgia and giving it a modern spin. It's not nearly as inventive as what they're capable of, but it's a great listen.
(Note: This post was part of a roundtable with Rich Thomas, who writes about his take on "O! Valencia.")

3.) "Star Witness" and "Maybe Sparrow" by Neko Case (from the album The Fox Confessor Brings the Flood)

"Star Witness":

This has one of my votes for the best song of the decade, not just for 2006. As stunning as her voice is, Case earns major credit for her songwriting talent. This is a loose "homage" to the rough Chicago neighborhood of Humboldt Park, and it's staggering how she can take such haunting moments and turn a complex poem into a beautiful song.

Hey pretty baby, get high with me
We can go to my sister's if we say we'll watch the baby,
The look on your face yanks my neck on the chain.

The first time I heard this, I played that last line at least ten times in a row, rewinding my CD a few seconds back. Forgive my hyperbole, but it's a punch in the stomach everytime I hear it. Songs, poems, and books are full of metaphors, but that one is literally perfect, both in the delivery and the context of the track.

"Maybe Sparrow":

I'll be honest: I still don't really know what this song means, or even if it's supposed to mean anything. The album is laced with mythogical animal imagery, so this is appropriate. I love how Case's voice rises, along with the music, to create a stunning chorus:

Oh, my sparrow, it's too late
Your body limp beneath my feet.

I always get very reflective whenever I hear this track. It's so short, yet packs some dizzying arrangements and atmospheres. As I type this, I realize that this description could fit quite a few of Case's songs. It's very difficult to explain, but this track is the one I would use to explain to anyone why Case is my favorite female vocalist. I guess that's the beauty of great music: it moves me in definite ways that, as a writer, I'm at a loss to express.
(Note: This post is part of another roundtable with Rich Thomas, who writes about the album as a whole.)

4.) "It Wasn't Me" by Jenny Lewis and the Watson Twins (from the album Rabbit Fur Coat)

It's amazing how confident and sultry Jenny Lewis can sound, even when a given track is intended to sound lonely and depressing. Her voice barely rises above a forced whisper, and it creates a moody, echoing atmosphere, a sort of modern spin on the torch songs of the classic female vocalists of the early to mid 20th century. As depressed as she sounds, there's a hint of defiance in the lyrics, which are open to varying interpretations.

It wasn't me, I wasn't there
I was stone drunk, it isn't clear
And it doesn't count because I don't care.

The point of view can be interpreted as an intentional distance from any negative situation. Insert the situation of your choosing, and the song will more than likely fit perfectly.

I. Before E.

2008-07-02T17:04:00.001-05:00

A few years ago, I remember taking a class on Shakespeare, specifically remembering the time we spent studying Henry IV, Part One. One of my more intelligent classmates (I will give him that compliment) opened a discussion on Falstaff, a boorish, comic relief providing character. The classmate mentioned how Falstaff reminded him of Ignatius J. Reilly, the anti-hero of John Kennedy Toole's A Confederacy of Dunces. His next action after making this comparison is the sole reason I remember that day. Instead of explaining that Ignatius was also boorish and provided comic relief, he glanced around the classroom with a smug, satisfied smile. He started off with a great literary comparison that was relevant to the subject, and ended it with an atmosphere of "Yes, I'm extremely well-read. If you have not read A Confederacy of Dunces, I'm not going to explain myself. Shame on you."

This anecdote is a great representation of misplaced intelligence. Instead of using his knowledge for good, my classmate used it to elevate himself over other people, merely to look smart. Intelligence (and elitism, to an extent), have been on my mind a lot lately. A few weeks ago, The Daily Show ran a few clips of conservative pundits bashing Sen. Barack Obama for being a supposed elitist. I don't know Mr. Obama personally, but he's obviously educated, and I would imagine he's well-read (I would vote for a candidate based on this, instead of issues of whether or not he or she wears a flag pin). The image tossed about was that Obama is a "tofu-eating, latte-drinking elitist."

I find this shocking, since the message seems to convey that a Presidential candidate can be intelligent, but cannot use it to alienate voters. One would think that candidates (based on image alone) would or should be better off exuding intelligence. However, the pundits seem to think that conservative voters are threatened by that. (I will return to this, since the source of the elitist claims stems not from intelligence, but from comments made about certain groups of citizens). These thoughts alone made me go out and buy a book that I should have purchased long ago--Curtis White's The Middle Mind. This was my third reading of the book, and White does a stunning job of explaining the lack of serious thought and imagination prevalent in modern American culture.

"In this country, conservatives have no particular need for the Middle Mind since they have been quite content to have demagogues like Rush Limbaugh, Chris Mathews, and Bill Reilly do their nasty thinking for them for many years...the Middle Mind is in the business of producing 'content' while seeming to provide an authentic culture (White iv)."

This might seem like an easy jab at conservatives (but liberals are just as much to blame, if not more, according to White). That is part of this books' brilliance. Instead of hitting easy targets, White spreads the blame evenly. In short, conservatives don't think nearly enough, and liberals think too much, in the sense that what appears to be deep thought ends up being transparent or insulting to someone's intelligence. This is what I mean when I mention the former classmate. Instead of explaining himself, he gave an example that would mean nothing to someone who didn't understand his reference. In virtually all of my own readings and essays for Chicago Ex-Patriate, I love making comparisons and contrasts, especially in literature. However, my goal is to make a point and to link that point to similar texts. I like to think that I'm intelligent and well-read, but I know there is a lot of information and literature that I'm not familiar with, and I would be the first one to acknowledge that fact. People who know more about given subjects than I do are fascinating to me. However, people who impart knowledge can be in a tricky position, and that is a part of White's argument. People are either talked down to ("The Middle Mind assumes that the people it takes as its audience don't know anything; it assumes that most people are benevolently stupid [31]") or given empty fillers that pass for culture and intelligence ("The Middle Mind's motto could be Promise him culture but give him TV [33]").

The roots of the elitist claims about Obama did not come about because he mentioned Thomas Pynchon in a speech; he made remarks about residents of small towns in Pennsylvania that many (conservative) people felt made him sound "above" the small town citizens. He referred to them as "bitter," clinging to "guns and religion" because of insecurities about employment and the economy. Once he said this (his intentions aside), people were quick to draw their elitist epees. I could go into the irony of conservatives defending religion and the right to bear arms, and then turning around to bash someone for a statement like that. Perhaps a replacement of the word "clinging" (maybe "focusing?") would have eased the sting.

Interestingly enough, in my research, I found an excellent blog posting by Carl Golden, a Republican (think of this as blog partisanship). He believes that Obama was being honest in a political arena where honesty can be taboo. Again, it wasn't what Obama said, it was how he said it. Like I mentioned above, the elitist claims did not come to light because of intelligence specifically, but the idea of elitism is rooted in that. An elitist (one can be found in any field of study and any political party) believes that he or she is above others, presumably because he or she is more intelligent and understanding on a given issue. I wish I had a specific quote, but I recall someone mentioning that all Presidential candidates are elitist, because they believe they are the best ones suited to run the country.

In conclusion, there should be more focus on intelligence, whether political or otherwise. "One of the great tragedies in public discourse in the United States is that what we need most (powerful intelligence) we forbid (White 59)." It's all fine and good for candidates to appeal themselves to everyone, but intelligence should be celebrated, not alienating.

Work Cited:
White, Curtis. The Middle Mind: Why Americans Don't Think For Themselves. Copyright 2003 by Curtis White.

An Early Christmas

2008-11-13T00:01:00.002-06:00

"Don't you see that this is a fucking symbol?"

This line is spoken early in the film Christmas On Mars, the latest creation by the Flaming Lips (written, directed, and edited by frontman Wayne Coyne). At first, I thought the line was supposed to be tongue-in-cheek, since the viewer is exposed to a barrage of imagery just begging to be analyzed symbolically: light, outer space, birth/creation/female genitalia, death, and isolation, to name a few. In addition, these themes are presented in merely an hour and a half, although this running time feels much shorter. However, as I think about it after my first viewing, I realize that the line should be taken at face value...these are just symbols. Combined with the story, we're treated to a wonderfully structured science fiction yarn. I cannot tell yet if I merely enjoyed it a lot, or if it could be a work of artistic genius. Perhaps time will tell after future viewings.

The Flaming Lips have been working on this film for well over ten years, and its release on DVD has come quite suddenly. The story involves an American space station on Mars during Christmas Eve, awaiting the birth of the first human child in outer space. We meet alternatingly stern and hilarious characters through the eyes of Major Syrtis (Steven Drozd), who witnesses the death of one of his fellow crew members, and is moody and introspective even before more trying events happen. During various mishaps and hallucinations, a silent Alien Super-Being (Coyne) casually walks into the space station:

At first glance, it's comical, but that's the whole point. The alien costume design and the black and white photography/cinematography are made to invoke 1950s space movies and television shows. By the end, astute viewers will catch references to The Day the Earth Stood Still, Solaris, 2001: A Space Odyssey, and probably a few others that I missed. I think I've covered the basic film details without giving too much away; this is truly a film that must be seen to be fully understood and appreciated. However, I think Coyne puts it best in the liner notes: "[This]...is just an elaborate, arty, home movie starring the band with our friends and family."

Another excellent part of the film is the soundtrack, which branches out into new territory for the Flaming Lips. One would think that a science-fiction movie would be perfect for their usual brand of psychedelia, but here they opt for an almost classical sound, mixed with drawn out atmospheres that evoke outer space just as well as the soundtrack for 2001 did many years back. Film scores can be very hit or miss when placed on their own, but the soundtrack for Christmas On Mars stands up very well. I'll leave you with some screencaps, ones that best represent the cinematography of the film. The photography for the film was done by Coyne's wife, J. Michelle-Martin Coyne, and she did an impressive job.

The Highway Of Ideas

2009-01-12T16:53:00.002-06:00

(Note: Now that I'm finally settled in my new apartment, posts and comments on other blogs/sites will be resuming on a regular basis. It has been a hectic few weeks, and I have quite a bit of catching up to do.)

In the interest of getting my first post of the new year completed, I recently checked out The Best American Essays 2008, hoping to find an essay or two to analyze, therefore getting back into a more disciplined posting schedule. There was an ulterior motive at hand as well. For the most part, I classify my posts as "essays," save for the occasional review, link, or announcement. So, what better way to get back on the essay train than by reading a collection of them? Granted, this can seem pretty obvious, perhaps even pointless, to a degree, at least in the sense of being a sort of revelation. There really is no revelation in that statement. It's no different than a painter becoming inspired by an afternoon walk in a gallery, or a woodworker getting ideas from a craft book. While inspiration can seem sweeter when found in unexpected places, sometimes, you have to take what you can get. Luckily, I didn't have very far to go. Adam Gopnik's introduction to the collection was affirming, as well as right, at least in my opinion and situation.

"The ideal essay has facts and feelings, emotions and thoughts, an argument about and an anecdote from, parallel and then crisscrossing, all over it. It is a classical form for short-winded romantics, a way of turning a newborn feeling back into a series of pregnant sentences (Gopnik xv)."

How true this is. My consistency with essays (and this blog, for that matter) sprung from a need to refocus on both kinds of writing, both fictional and non-fictional. Since I was in a fiction-writing dry spell at the time, I felt that essays would jump-start my creative practices, and so far, they have helped immensely. While I do my best to keep memoir essays and anecdotes to a minimum, Gopnik stresses that personal events and emotions are vital to the craft. Journalism (Gonzo aside) requires neutrality, while essay-writing can be more relaxed. As much as I have a tendency to apologize for my own notions of memoir/anecdote additions, I have to realize that their inclusions are not always forbidden. I think this goes back to when I interviewed Chuck Palahniuk while in college. I remember him shaking his head as he commented that "even teenagers are writing memoirs now." As long as my essays stay focused on the main subjects, a dash of personal reflections or asides, appropriately placed, are acceptable.

Gopnik cites three types of essays: review, memoir (already discussed above), and odd-objects. The latter is "perhaps, the, well, oddest of the essay forms, but one that thrives in strange places. This is the kind that takes a small, specific object, a bit of material minutia...and finds in it a path not just to a larger point but also to an entirely different subject (xvii)." Again, these classifications brought me some much-needed solace, since I think that a bulk of my non-fiction is a hybrid of review and odd-object. When I discuss older works, I hesitate to call them "reviews," since the statute of limitations (or, more simply, the "newness") has long passed. For example, writing on Casablanca falls into the essay category. Since the film came out in 1942, and hundreds have already written and discussed it, calling a new look on it a "review" would be greatly outdated. The notion of "odd-object" is one that I feel I've used pretty regularly. While I haven't written about any piece of art strictly as its own metaphor, I enjoy making somewhat odd connections between vastly different works. This may not fit the definition completely, but it's the best of the three categories which Gopnik lists.

With respect to editing and (most importantly) feedback, I'm going to be doing away with an annoying habit that I've developed. Usually, when I post an essay that I'm not particularly proud of, barely a day passes when I add my own comment, either apologizing for or rationalizing the poor effort. While I'm not absolving myself of sometimes subpar writing, I fully believe that "when the essayist goes wrong, it's with too long a trip down the highway of ideas (xxii)." I can think of a few instances in which I either tried to fit too much information into a single, short piece, or I didn't fully express the main theme of the article at hand. From now on, instead of immediately apologizing, I'll let readers take the good with the bad, and to comment favorably as well as negatively if needed. As I mentioned above, more readings and writings are forthcoming. In my haste to get caught up, reading a few pages like Gopnik's introduction has proven very helpful, not to mention affirming. As I'm sure I've mentioned numerous times here, my focus needs to be on quality.

Work Cited:
Gopnik, Adam. The Best American Essays 2008. Introduction copyright 2008 by Adam Gopnik.

Movies and Life: The Self-Involvement Blog-a-thon

2008-07-10T17:30:00.001-05:00

This is my contribution to The Self-Involvement Blog-a-thon that is being hosted at Culture Snob. All of the submissions I've read so far have been wonderful. I run the risk of sounding like an Academy Award presenter when I say this, but this project truly shows it's impossible for films to not impact us day-to-day. This essay recounts my early experiences with Nicholas Ray's Rebel Without a Cause (1955).

"You know something? You read too many comic books."

This line, spoken by Jim Stark (James Dean) to Buzz (Corey Allen) is perfect, especially followed by the derisive laughter of Buzz's gang. While watching Rebel Without a Cause at twelve years old, I knew exactly how Jim felt at that moment. When you're being bullied or picked on, there is nothing you can say to defend yourself. Most of the time, even the wittiest, sharpest comebacks fall on deaf ears. He did not get the satisfaction of talking his way out of the situation. As the film went on, I identified with him, given my own problems with being an easy target.

As it's been said and written many times over, the film does appear dated and occasionally silly at times (especially as a precursor to 1990s television shows starring twenty-somethings as high school students). However, during tough junior high and high school years, I found solace in and a connection to Jim Stark. Sometimes, I found myself secretly wishing that I didn't have loving, supporting parents, just so I could yell out "You're tearing me apart!" ( it's an early scene in the film that still causes me to slightly jump, since it's such a jolt in the dialogue). Life doesn't always imitate the arts to the extent that we would like.

Some backstory: When I was eleven, my eldest brother joined the Army. At that point, I had looked up to him immensely, and quickly moved into his bedroom. The items he left behind captivated me to no end. I have distinct memories of walking into the bedroom and being hit with the atmospheres and emotions of the black and white posters on the walls: Frank Sinatra, Marlon Brando, and a small, crumbled poster on the bedroom door: A wonderful shot of James Dean, unshaven, looking away from the camera as if he couldn't be bothered (there's no doubt it was a posed shot, but remember, I was eleven). The bookshelves were filled with poetry, plays, and a handful of 1950s actor biographies. I was immediately drawn to James Dean: The Mutant King by David Dalton and a stunning collection of Dean photos taken by Dennis Stock. Not much later, my father took me to Best Buy, where I used some birthday or Christmas money to buy Rebel Without a Cause on a Special Edition VHS.

I was immediately hooked. I had daydreams of getting into knife fights ("Who's fighting? This.... is a crazy game") outside planetariums. I wanted a girl who would spurn me, fall in love with me, and kiss me within the confines of a single day (I had the "spurn" part down quite well). I didn't realize this at the time, but I probably wouldn't have minded a sexually ambiguous male classmate following me around like a puppy (Jim Stark didn't seem to mind). I wanted to get drunk and picked up by the police in the early hours of the morning (even though, at that tender age, I had no clue what being drunk felt like). Since the actions were beyond my reach, I happily settled for the looks.

I looked through old coats in my parent's basement and found a red jacket, purely by chance. It wasn't flattering, but I wore it constantly, unzipped halfway, standing in the junior-high parking lot trying to look as melancholy and brooding as a pudgy, thick glasses-wearing kid could look. When my parents weren't home, I'd take one of my father's cigarettes and just hold it in my mouth to complete the transformation. Most importantly, when I'd get picked on, since I was normally too afraid to seriously stand up for myself, I'd shoot deep glares, squinting like James Dean. No, it didn't work, but it felt great, channeling those cinematic influences. Two years later, my eighth grade class put on a play, part of which was set in the 1950s. The girls wore poodle skirts, most of the guys slicked their hair and wore white t-shirts and jeans, and I wore the red jacket, hoping at least one person in the audience would get the Rebel Without a Cause reference. Looking back, I was obviously very nerdy, but it didn't feel that way at all. I was Jim Stark.

As I got a bit older, those movie posters came down and were replaced by posters of Michael Jordan and Sammy Sosa. It wasn't until my senior year in high school that films became a serious part of my life. I signed up for a cinema studies elective, taught by the same English teacher who inspired me to major in English in college. Thanks to that class, I never looked at films the same way again, having been taught how to study and screen effectively. However, my fascination with Rebel Without a Cause was really the start. I didn't know it at the time, but I was mentally dissecting every scene, color, and angle.

Sadly, it seems that today those iconic (a word that is used too often, often inappropriately) images of James Dean's rebellious poses have turned into marketing, still being plastered on t-shirts, coffee mugs, collector's dolls, and wall clocks. I wasn't aware of it at that age. My love of that film went beyond escapism; it was my attempt to inhabit that world and those meanings.

Gods Do Not Answer Letters

2009-01-28T16:01:00.001-06:00

I was stunned this morning to learn about the death of John Updike. The news came sort of by accident (although I would have found out sometime later today), as I was flipping through today's newspaper. As varied and respected as his life's bibliography has been, I have not read any of his novels, and therefore cannot claim to be a fan of his, at least not yet. A few of his books have been on my reading list for quite some time, and I can only imagine that his passing will lead to a renewed interest and study of his work. However, I do consider myself an admirer of his writing, simply based on the two brief essays that I'm familiar with at this time.

This admiration stems from Updike's prolific work as not just a novelist, but as an essayist, a specialty that I've been fond of for awhile. The first passage came to me as a teenager, when I read Baseball: An Illustrated History, by Ken Burns and Geoffrey C. Ward. In the book, they reprinted Updike's account of being a spectator for Ted Williams's final home run at Fenway Park in Boston. The passage is beautiful, combining journalistic reporting with an atmosphere of unrepeatable history. The final line is utterly beautiful in describing the refusal by Williams to give a curtain call following the home run, despite the massive, pleading cheers from the Boston fans. Even as a teenager, long before my interest and studies of writing, I felt that the line was evidence of a great talent:

"Gods do not answer letters."

Just last week, I read "Extreme Dinosaurs," a contribution to National Geographic Magazine, reprinted in The Best American Essays 2008. Updike described various species of dinosaur, with intricate phyical descriptions and ruminations on their evolutionary traits and benefits. As with the baseball essay, he combined reporting with another intangible quality. What made "Extreme Dinosaurs" so compelling was his fascination with the subject. It's not often that a man in his seventies can write a provoking, intelligent article with a childlike enthusiasm for dinosaurs. It's also not often that a writer's skill can be evident in only a few pages of reading, but that's my view of John Updike. I can only assume that my future readings of his fiction will assert that notion, as well as adding new facets to my current (albeit minimal) knowledge of his style. Since "Extreme Dinosaurs" is so fresh in my head, the mental image I have is of an established writer who has seen everything and has nothing left to prove. However, even in old age, he has not lost any spirit, freshness, or passion. I cannot think of a better compliment.

Peaks and Valleys

2009-04-11T18:38:00.002-05:00

(First edition cover)

Note: One of the cited passages is Not Safe For Work.

In the coming months, I hope to read and write about more books, both old and new, that have eluded me thus far. This elusion, at least in the immediate sense, was highlighted by Facebook. Anyone familiar with this social networking site knows the sheer volume of lists and notes changing hands and inboxes with much fervor. Last month, several book lists were sent to me, in order to gauge what people have read of the classics, and I was chagrined to have read only seventeen out of one hundred books on one of those lists. While I'm normally pleased with the consistency of my reading, I figured that I needed to get some important works under my belt. This led to my picking up Henry Miller's Tropic Of Cancer.

Going in, my knowledge of the book was its infamy as a banned book (all the more reason to read it), as well as its role as a major plot point in an excellent episode of Seinfeld. In mentally outlining this essay, I wondered if it would be possible to get the "dirty talk" out of the way early, or if it was simply integrated into the story as a whole, essential to any look at any given passage. There is nothing puritanical in my reasoning. Much like the teenage versions of the Seinfeld characters, it's understandable that some people might want to jump ahead to the sexual parts in lieu of taking everything in. With this analysis of Miller, forgive the unintended sexual puns. In fact, the very title of this essay could be a pun itself. My reasoning behind the essay title is my view of Tropic Of Cancer as a whole. I'll get to this in a minute. First, let's talk about sex. Even for someone not familiar with the work, it's well known that Miller's effort was banned in the United States until 1961 under censorship lows, primarily due to its frank descriptions of sexual acts. Forgive the following gratuitous citation, especially coming from an explicit book that doesn't have the slightest air of gratuity:

"A young cunt doesn't have to have any brains. They're better without brains. But an old cunt, even if she's brilliant, even if she's the most charming woman in the world, nothing makes any difference. A young cunt is an investment; an old cunt is a dead loss. All they can do for you is buy you things. But that doesn't put meat on their arms or juice between the legs. She isn't bad, Irene. In fact, I think you'd like her. With you it's different. You don't have to fuck her. You can afford to like her. Maybe you wouldn't like all those dresses and the bottles and what not, but you could be tolerant. She wouldn't bore you, that I can tell you. She's even interesting, I might say. But she's withered (Miller 114-115)."

Since Tropic Of Cancer is so influential, one can see how passages like these set the stage for any future author known for writing so bluntly--everyone from James Jones in the 1950s, Bret Easton Ellis in the 1980s, Chuck Palahniuk in the 1990s, and so on. Isolated, we can see the shock that would have greeted readers in the early/mid-twentieth century. Today, we can pick out the example of misogyny. However, when put back into the context of the whole novel, we as readers get used to it very quickly and we read sordid passages with the same eye as everything else. For any Miller novice, even one accustomed to novels with graphic sex, it's almost impossible to not read the opening pages like a ten year old, giddy over what the hype is about.

The novel is extremely autobiographical, almost to a fault. We're treated to a vibrant supporting cast, seen through the almost skeptical, tongue-bitten eyes of Henry Miller, the narrator:

"I am trying ineffectually to approach Moldorf. It is like trying to approach God, for Moldorf is God--he has never been anything else. I am merely putting down words...
I have had opinions about him which I have discarded; I have had other opinions which I am revising. I have pinned him down only to find that it was not a dung-beetle I had in my hands, but a dragonfly. He has offended me by his coarseness and then overwhelmed me with his delicacy. He has been voluble to the point of suffocation, then quiet as the Jordan.
When I see him trotting forward to greet me, his little paws outstretched, his eyes perspiring, I feel that I am meeting...No, this is not the way to go about it (8-9)!"

These supporting characters are well-written, but there's never any doubt that they're second to Miller. No matter how many pages are devoted to them, Miller is either right there with them or describing them with, at the very least, a heavy air of opinion. What they do, he often does; what they think, he often opines upon; and whom they sleep with, he often has the chance to do the same.

One of Miller's amazing strengths was the ability to write gripping, dream-like passages in the stream of consciousness style. This at times might appear to be easy, but it takes a great writer to place words,which are supposed to feel random, very carefully. I admire the writing of William S. Burroughs, yet I remember feeling bored with some of the drug-hazed passages in Naked Lunch. Miller writes streams of these random thoughts with skill, literary flair, and attention.

"Coming through the high driveway into the quadrangle a sense of abysmal futility always came over me. Outside bleak and empty; inside, bleak and empty. A scummy sterility hanging over the town, a fog of booklearning. Slag and cinders of the past. Around the interior courts were ranged the classrooms, little shacks such as you might see in the North woods, where the pedagogues gave free rein to their voices. On the blackboard the futile abracadabra which the future citizens of the republic would have to spend their lives forgetting. Once in awhile the parents were received in the big reception room just off the driveway, where there were busts of the heroes of antiquity, such as Moliere, Rancine, Corneille, Voltaire, etc., all the scarecrows whom the cabinet ministers mention with moist lips whenever an immortal is added to the waxworks (277-278)."

Despite all of these compliments, and my newfound understanding of Tropic Of Cancer as an American (or should I say French?) classic, I did find the occasional fault in the book. Since the best of Miller's passages are so memorable, these highs can make the connecting passages and pages unintentionally tedious. Granted, rare is the perfect novel that never stumbles. Overall, its brilliance and captivation come in varying frequencies, rising and dipping noticeably. These dips are simply stretches that don't hold attention very well. However, Miller's greatest skill is his writing on human nature and tendencies. He makes no apologies, does not elevate the good deeds, nor does he frown upon the bad ones. The characters are presented honestly, with any opinion left to the reader or anyone with the most basic understanding of said human nature. The best example of this comes toward the end of Tropic Of Cancer. These words might appear simplistic, but don't be fooled. It says everything we need to know about the lives presented in the novel.

"Human beings make a strange fauna and flora. From a distance they appear negligible; close up they are apt to appear ugly and malicious. More than anything they need to be surrounded with sufficient space--space even more than time (318)."

Work Cited:
Miller, Henry. Tropic Of Cancer. Copyright 1961 by Grove Press, Inc.

Passing a Metaphorical Torch

2009-08-31T21:05:00.005-05:00

Last week, I read Greg Kot's Ripped during some pretty appropriate times. In between chapters, I used some free time to e-mail song files to a friend of mine for the Aught Music blog. In addition to this, I burned a handful of CDs for a co-worker as part of a music exchange. Today, these actions can be done with minimal thought, with most of the concentration being put into which songs to select. However, the more I thought about it, the more I realized that sharing music files and making my own CDs would have seemed almost incomprehensible ten years ago. To say that technology has changed music in the past decade (both conceptually and from a distribution standpoint) is akin to declaring that "the sky is blue" or "Tuesday tends to follow Monday on the calendar." While the remarks are true, there's much more detail and explanation below the surface. In his book, Kot gives a detailed, expansive history of the relationship between music and technological advances in the past decade. Again, said relationship may already seem well-known and documented, but like knowing that the sky is blue, we still need to refer to earth science texts from time to time.

Kot devotes ample discussion to the software developments (Napster, iTunes, etc.) and lawsuits filed by the major record labels. When one thinks of music and technology, these are probably (and rightfully so) the first ideas that might come to mind. However, there's much more to explain. Many of the monopolistic labels and corporations merely assumed that the money would continually come in via physical CD sales and concert revenues. This might seem obvious, but no matter how important the creative process is to music, the bottom line is always a deciding factor.

"With consolidation came pressure to produce profit. The multinationals were effectively run by their shareholders, who wanted a steady flow of quarterly returns to justify their investment. But in an industry supposedly devoted to creating a highly volatile and unpredictable product--music--this was hardly a sound strategy. How to reconcile the whims of creativity with the need for producing profit on a prescribed schedule (Kot 7)?"

The ability to download music for free led (and still leads) to two aspects, one of which is undoubtedly healthy, while the other one is still in a gray area. Kot supplies some anonymous quotes from music downloaders, and their opinions tend to fall into a creative category or a financial one. With a good portion of radio stations only playing mainstream hits, the Internet exposed people to independent and underground music that otherwise may have remained elusive. However, some browsers just didn't want to pay, especially with the rising costs of CDs, even with production costs being lowered. It's a classic example of taking the (potentially) bad (people 'stealing' music) with the good (people discovering new artists). Yet at the same time, there's potential for listeners to actually increase their music purchases when it's available for free.

"Within a week, I'll get four to five albums from friends like that. If I like the band, most of the time it leads to going to a concert. I will buy later CDs from the band or I'll buy previous CDs..."--Adam, college student in Seattle, born 1988 (68)."

These sections of the book are heavy on morals, pros, and cons, but the best sections are the ones I wasn't expecting when I picked it up. Kot details quite a few bands and their debt to the Internet. Some acts have become huge, and it all started with downloads and small yet feverish fan bases doing their part to help. Examples range from well-known (by today's standards) bands like Death Cab For Cutie:

"And in many ways a typical [year] for a struggling independent band with no major-label budget from which to siphon. On tour, the band was making $50 a night, barely enough to cover fuel expenses to get to the next town. Paying for a hotel was out of the question, so they'd shack up with fans, sleeping on floors and couches. That's when it became apparent that something else was going on, something they couldn't control but that was benefiting them in ways they couldn't quite yet fully grasp (73-74)."

...to lesser known musicians who use the Internet and developments to the best of their abilities, such as Dan Deacon:

"'If my album didn't leak [on the Internet] as far in advance as it did, not as many people would have heard it and the shows I did over the summer wouldn't have been as well attended. All these markets that the music industry has ignored are now being exploited by people you would not think of as pop stars (174).'"

Kot closes the book on the expected note, with the rise of bands (namely Radiohead) offering their work for free or for suggested donations. The beauty of his writing is that it's pure journalism. The actions of record labels and file sharers leave themselves open for a myriad of opinions, both postive and negative. Kot doesn't judge one way or another (even though it's obvious that he sides with the listeners), but rather presents the history of the Internet's mark on the music industry. As evidenced in his last book on Wilco (Learning How To Die), he's skilled at documenting individual bands both historically and emotionally, which can be difficult at times given the intangible qualities of the art form. Ripped is a very quick read, but there's no doubt that Kot knows his subject. He can write about artists as different as Bright Eyes and Nine Inch Nails, and his tone never changes, only the necessary details. I've only hinted at a few of the subjects and topics of the book. There will undoubtedly be more concise looks at the varying ideas, but Kot hits his marks, presenting a varied history with detail, but moving at a brisk pace without sacrificing style or major points.

Work Cited:
Kot, Greg. Ripped: How the Wired Generation Revolutionized Music. Copyright 2009 by Greg Kot.

Upend It Like Beckham

2009-08-13T15:14:00.005-05:00

Earlier this year, I felt out of place among a few of my co-workers, in that I wasn't excited about the inaugural season of the Seattle Sounders FC. It's not that I was opposed to it, but when one of my co-workers excitedly announced that she had season tickets, I could do nothing but smile and nod in genuine happiness for her exuberance, but that was the extent. She had played soccer in college and now played on a weekly rec team, so her association with the game was well-founded. Another friend, it turned out, had a brother who covered soccer for Sports Illustrated. I did my best to give it a shot: I read about the Sounders' signings and roster developments in the newspaper and online. Once the season started, I read the game recaps. However, soccer still fell into the category of sports that I simply cannot get into, a category that also includes golf, lacrosse, auto-racing, or X Games-style sports. However, being both American and a non-fan of soccer always seems to carry a sociological and cultural stigma. Simply put, it's difficult to express honest indifference without coming across like a typical "Ugly American."

Merely because of working with his brother, I began to read Grant Wahl's soccer coverage in SI, and recently read what very well could be the most anticipated book on soccer in America, The Beckham Experiment. It chronicles the very up-and-down relationship between David Beckham and the Los Angeles Galaxy of Major League Soccer. I went into the book determined to remain objective, especially since I tend to come away disappointed by sports biographies, even ones concerning my favorite sports, baseball and basketball. If a given book chronicles a specific player, the formula tends to be consistent: it's a look at their accomplishments, but layered with the usual exposes and dirty laundry that are no longer, in our culture, the shocks that publishers and writers want them to be. However, Wahl does some very impressive balancing acts. This is not a tell-all; this is a genuine, journalistic look at the personalities of a successful (yet struggling) sports franchise seemingly "blessed" with one of the greatest soccer stars to ever play the game.

Realizing that the book would appeal to knowledgeable soccer fans as well as people who merely appreciate the sex symbol and Us Weekly side of Beckham, Wahl gives enough information on the rules, regulations, and dizzying corporate facets of an MLS team to educate (let's just say it) people like me, but not so much as to bore the true aficionados. The true focus of the book is on the benefits and problems of Beckham the footballer, not Beckham the international, cultural enigma. However, because Beckham is so famous and so recognized by people who do not follow international soccer, at times it can be next to impossible to discuss his athletic side without at least nodding to his celebrity side. If Beckham wasn't the icon that he is, it's very unlikely that he would have come to Major League Soccer in the first place, at least not with the goals that he, his handlers, and the Galaxy executives had in mind. The initial hope was that his appeal would translate into MLS becoming as popular and lucrative as the NBA or NFL. Despite this hope, the task proved very lofty, even before Beckham set foot on an MLS field.

"Yet the task facing Beckham--to make soccer matter on a regular basis in the U.S.--would be enormous. The greatest player of all time, Pele, couldn't turn soccer into the daily religion that it is nearly everywhere else in the world when he played with the New York Cosmos in the late 1970s. (His league, the NASL, folded a few years after he retired). Nor did the U.S.' hosting of the 1994 World Cup. Since its inception in 1996, Major League Soccer had gained stability and produced competent young players, but it was still losing money and had yet to advance beyond niche status (Wahl 3)."

Whether it's because MLS is still a relatively small league (in stature and finances), or because Wahl had complete insider access to virtually every member of the Galaxy organization, we're treated to some very dynamic personalities, including Tim Lieweke, the CEO of the company that owns the Galaxy, and Simon Fuller, Beckham's manager. It's almost perversely fitting that major executives in sports franchises or athletic managers, no matter which league, always seem to be outlandish personalities, equal parts George Steinbrenner, Al Davis, and Bill Veeck.

However, despite the dozens of people involved in The Beckham Experiment, the most compelling figure in the book is not the man himself, but rather teammate Landon Donovan. Having already established himself as one of America's greatest soccer players, not to mention the leader of the Galaxy, almost from the beginning, he was "asked" to immediately play Scottie Pippen to Beckham's Michael Jordan, with one major difference:

"Let him [Beckham] be the captain. You [Donovan] be the star. [Galaxy President Alexi] Lala's challenge to Donovan was sincere, even if Lalas neglected to mention that the impetus for the captain switch was coming from Beckham's own handlers. But what if Donovan did become the star? What if he--and not Beckham--ended up being the Galaxy's best player? One of the cardinal rules of professional sports is this: Never bring in a new player on a higher salary than your best player if the new guy isn't better himself. It's a recipe for resentment in the locker room. And while Donovan made sure to acknowledge Beckham's lengthy credentials and the special circumstances of American soccer--Beckham could fill stadiums and sell 250,000 jersey; Donovan couldn't--there was no guarantee that Beckham would be the Galaxy's best player (80-81)."

Moments like these define the book. Yes, it's about Beckham's attempt to bring recognition to a sport that doesn't always register with American consciousness. However, the actions and opinions of the people around Beckham--especially his teammates--register strongly, especially given the candid nature of some of Wahl's quotes. In baseball, for example, if a teammate were to call out another teammate publically, the media coverage would be intense. However, since MLS still hasn't attained the status that its members would prefer, public frustrations are vented, and the results are surprisingly...normal. Sports are not always the dramatic, metaphor-laden diversions that they're made out to be. Teams are composed just like any other workforce. Personalities dominate, not everyone gets along, and some people receive preferential treatment, much to the chagrin of fellow employees. Wahl's profiles of players such as Donovan and Alan Gordon are much more compelling at times than David Beckham. MLS players often play for stunningly low annual salaries, and their day-to-day financial struggles and devotion to something (the game of soccer) speak much more clearly than the actions of an international icon.

I still don't consider myself a soccer fan, but Wahl's account of the Los Angeles Galaxy is a piece of excellent reporting. I'm already looking forward to the paperback edition, considering Beckham's angry reception by L.A. fans after his return from the Italian Club A.C. Milan. I'm sure a lot of American sports fans consider soccer "boring," but the management and the day-to-day actions of the MLS teams are just as compelling as the major leagues of baseball, basketball, and American football.

Work Cited:
Wahl, Grant. The Beckham Experiment. Copyright 2009 by Grant Wahl.

Rockying the Free World

2008-11-05T01:52:00.002-06:00

This is my contribution to the "Politics and Movies Blog-a-Thon" that is being hosted from November 4th-November 9th. Please visit The Cooler for more contributions and information.

It is with a reasonable degree of trepidation that I chose Rocky IV for the "Politics and Movies Blog-a-Thon." This film continued the trend of the Rocky series hitting some ups and many downs after the classic 1976 original. The fourth installment was released in 1985, and I find it to be very enjoyable, although campy at times. This notion of camp, coupled with the general agreement that Rocky IV is the most ludicrous of the franchise, makes this choice worthy of justification. The last thing I wanted was for this analysis to come across like an ironic, hipsterish elevation to "great movie" status based on its far-fetched plot. Nor did I want to aim for a Mystery Science Theater joke-fest. To justify this, I'll begin by saying that Rocky IV attempts to highlight some very clear-cut politics, balancing representations of the United States and the Soviet Union during the height of the Cold War. To help out, I read John Lewis Gaddis's book The Cold War to see if writer-director Sylvester Stallone was able to (intentionally or not) mirror on film the emotions and events of that conflict.

"By that time [1940], one historian has estimated, the Stalinist dictatorship had either ended or wrecked the lives of between 10 and 11 million Soviet citizens--all for the purpose of maintaining itself in power (Gaddis 99)." In the 1980s, while the Soviet Union had its problems, it had moved away from the serious megolomania of Josef Stalin. Soviet leader Mikhail Gorbachev wanted to maintain Socialism without violence or force (257). In terms of the film, what better way to live vicariously than through Ivan Drago, the best amateur boxer ever to emerge from the USSR?

He's super-strong, his punches deliver 1,850 pounds of force, and he's ready to take on America's best fighters, with Rocky Balboa at the top of his (well, not his, but his handlers--they do most of the talking for him) list. Before, he settles for an exhibition match with former champion Apollo Creed. This does not go well. What starts off as an exhibition fight turns into a supreme beating, with Creed dying in the ring. In his way of getting revenge, Rocky decides to fight Drago, in Moscow, on Christmas Day, for no cash purse. Talk about American sacrifice. At the start of the film, we're treated to supreme American excess, starting with the Balboa family's robot:

And then James Brown leads a lavish gala before the Apollo Creed-Ivan Drago fight:

Once Rocky and his trainers arrive in Russia, he establishes some shots of the Soviet landscape, some bordering on stereotype, complete with snow and stone faces:

Let's go back a few scenes: During the press conference, a verbal argument erupts between Paulie (Rocky's brother-in-law) and Drago's Soviet publicist. Again, getting into stereotypes, Paulie represents the "ugly American," while the publicist does his best to maintain Drago's equality with the best American athletes, not for a second believing that Drago will lose the fight.

During this argument, Paulie says: "At least we don't keep our people behind a wall with machine guns." This is almost definitely a reference to the Berlin Wall, which, curiously, was not fully supported by the Soviet Union: "The wall dramatized the extent to which the Soviet Union had chained itself to a weak ally--who was able to use that weakness to get its way (138)."

The training sequences then turn into a sort of political mindfuck. In order to clear his head and focus on the fight, Rocky insists on living and training in the barren countryside with no luxuries, while Drago has the best science and technology as his disposal. In other words, Rocky, the great American hero, becomes a representation of Communism. He's living off the land, training by sawing logs and running in snow. In one sense, he's maintaining his Americanness by rolling up his sleeves and working up a sweat. However, he totally blends in with the peasants who live nearby.

In the above scene, he breaks away from Communism by outrunning his KGB bodyguards, who follow his every move.

As the fight begins, more metaphors become obvious. The size of Drago overwhelms the size of Rocky, but as we all know, America will prevail. The bigger they are, the harder they fall. Eventually, Rocky's determination wins over the Soviet crowd, who start to cheer for him instead of their beloved countryman:

With a the sinister Gorbachev look-a-like watching, Drago's publicist confronts the underachieving fighter, incensed that the crowd is cheering for America. This leads to the revelation that Drago does not fight for his country, but for himself. This is all good, however, because after Rocky's victory, even the Soviet Premier stands to applaud him. At this point in the film, the audience should breath a sight of relief. According to Ronald Reagan, "as long as Communists preach the supremacy of the state, declare its omnipotence over individual man, and predict its eventual domination of all peoples on Earth, they are the focus of evil in the modern world (224)."

Sure, there are some discrepancies that could be pointed out. For example, before the fight between Creed and Drago, Creed is wearing his boxing gloves. There's a single frame where he's not wearing his gloves, and then he has them back on again. Also, at the beginning of the film, a lot is made over the fact that the East and West have never met in sports. Um, really? In the case of Rocky IV, it's obvious, because Drago was an amateur before turning professional. Even if he didn't hail from an oppressive regime, it would have been impossible for him to fight professional American boxers. On top of that, American baseball teams played against Japanese teams in exhibition matches back in the early 1930s.

In conclusion, Stallone didn't really create a film with overt metaphors and allusions to Lenin and Stalin, but that wasn't his intention; the United States/Soviet relations provided an easy conflict to paint on the boxing ring. However, it should be considered a political movie for that reason. It caused me to research the Cold War, to learn more about it than I knew before, and therefore increased my political and historical knowledge. And, as Rocky says at the end: "If I can change, and you can change, then anybody can change."

Work Cited:

Production Design Blog-a-Thon-- "Le Samourai"

2008-05-19T11:50:00.003-05:00

Translation: "There is no greater solitude than that of the samurai, unless it is that of the tiger in the jungle...perhaps..." (Le Bushido, The Book of the Samurai)

Le Samourai (1967) Director: Jean-Pierre Melville/ Production Design and Set Decoration: Francois De Lamothe

My first viewing of Le Samourai was two years ago, and I picked it for this project because I remember looking back on it in terms of the overall look and "feel" of the production design. Having watched it again, I'm amazed at just how much the design works on both a literal level and an intangible level. It is credited to Francois De Lamothe, but one has to wonder how much of it was actually done by him, and how much was done by Melville, who always maintained extensive creative control over his films, going beyond writing and directing.

The opening shot above establishes Jef Costello's (the samurai) apartment, a bare, dark studio with very few objects. He is a man who lives by personal principles and an undefined (yet obvious) code of honor, so it's natural that his living space is just for that purpose: living. Scenes throughout the film show what he owns as far as basic necessities:

A bird for companionship (which also plays a crucial part in the plot);

Cigarettes, water, an alarm clock, and a telephone;

And the object he uses the most, his mirror. Everytime he leaves his apartment, he carefully makes sure he looks presentable, playing into his personal principles.

Early in the film, we see his girlfriend's apartment, and it's striking how clean and modern it is compared to his place. Virtually every other scene shows that he lives in a modern world, yet maintains an old-fashioned simplicity in his own world.

This apartment above (where his bosses meet and confer) is extremely gaudy and doesn't seem to match what a gangster's residence would look like on film. However, it's an excellent representation of excess. Some of the houses in Martin Scorsese's Goodfellas follow the same decor.

This is the garage where Jef takes stolen cars to have the license plates replaced. Other than his apartment, it's the only place in the film that seems run-down and shabby. His work as a contract killer takes him to lavish apartments and lounges, yet the places he consistently has to visit reflect the underworld of crime.

Lamps and lights are a constant in the film. As a killer, Jef relies on being hidden and in the background, yet is unafraid to have a spotlight. When he is under scrutiny or being questioned, he maintains a strong alibi, and the lights show that he appears to have nothing to hide. The single lights also remind me of interrogation scenes in countless police/crime movies and television shows.

The police lineup shot below is one of my favorites. In addition to keeping with the theme of spotlights, it introduces another recurring motif: lines. Whether vertical or horizontal, many of the scenes contain straight lines. I initially thought of a scene in Double Indemnity, where as a representation of guilt, Fred MacMurray is covered in the shadows of Venetian blinds, giving the impression of a jail cell. I'm not sure if that idea works for Jef, because he never feels guilt.

If we are indeed meant to think of jail cells in relation to lines, the above scene is the best representation of that.

The above shot shows Jef leaving his apartment for the first time. It might be hard to see in this image, but there is an excellent contrast. His hat and trenchcoat blend in to some of the buildings, but as he keeps walking, there are bright colors in the background. He's hidden and in plain sight at the same time.

The police Superintendent is often juxtaposed with maps of Paris (in another scene, he tracks Jef through the Parisian metro via spies and electronics, all while watching it on a large, illuminated map). As he investigates the nightclub owner's murder, he alternates between being very charismatic and very blunt. In his mind, he owns the city, and he doesn't believe that anybody can hide.

In the above scene, Jef visits the lounge's pianist. Aside from his behavior and the title of the film, these are the only other references to Japanese culture. The pianist wears a Japanese robe, and to her left appears to be a bust of a warrior. To me, this is smart filmmaking....if these were to appear in Jef's apartment, they would draw too much attention and clash with the minimalism of the apartment as well as his samurai code being reflected strictly through his actions.

The metro scenes also provide contrast, being extremely well-lit and lined with colorful advertisements. Jef does his best to lose the spies following him, despite being cornered and unable to hide in the open, vibrant spaces.

The only other film by Melville that I've seen is Bob le Flambeur, and while I plan on watching that one again as well, I don't remember being consciously aware of the production design. The beauty of Le Samourai is that the viewer has little things to process in addition to following the plot and dialogue. It's not a complicated film, but the attention to detail is remarkable.

As far as the costume design goes, it's important to note that most biographies of Jean-Pierre Melville mention his love of all things American. Jef is clearly modeled on American film noir, and he would easily fit into a movie like Out Of the Past or Public Enemy. However, his personality is strictly samurai. He's not loud or abrasive, but succinct and to the point.

The film also maintains a very modern look, and even today, does not appear terribly dated (with the exception of the police equipment). While there's no doubt that it's set in Paris in the 1960s, some films from that era are painfully obvious, whether it be the clothing or the objects in various stores and houses.

This trailer for the film shows how it looked during its initial release, thus showing how important digital restoration can be in relation to production design. While the notes and analysis that I've written here are still apparent, the scenes and cinematography seem less vibrant than they do on the DVD release. It also makes the film look extremely dated, contradicting my ideas in the above paragraph. The small details and backgrounds seem dulled. On DVD, we're seeing the film as it's meant to be seen.

(Note: Forgive the vast amount of blank space at the bottom of this posting. I was having a lot of formatting issues.)

A Curious Adaptation

2008-12-31T21:38:00.001-06:00

(Note: Potential spoilers, depending on your definition.)

Last week, I went to see The Curious Case of Benjamin Button on its opening night. As much as I love film, this was a rarity for me. My excitement stemmed from very hazy memories of enjoying the original F. Scott Fitzgerald story, which I read while in high school. The film version, directed by David Fincher, was very well made, and I was tempted to take the film at face value. However, my curiosity got the better of me--I decided to go online and re-read the original source. Now, with the story fresh in my head, I'm torn between my enjoyment of the film and my (possibly ill-founded?) annoyance at the major deviations between the story and the adaptation.

Naturally, it's understood that every adaptation cannot be one hundred percent faithful to a book or story, and this was a necessity in the case (no pun) of Benjamin Button. Fincher and screenwriters Eric Roth and Robin Swicord had to stretch a few pages into a feature-length film. For the most part, the basic themes are the same--how would someone react, adapt, and live life knowing that he/she is aging in reverse? While this question might seem more philosophical than anything, the story and the film progress naturally. Benjamin has no choice but to accept his fate, and the curious assumption is that middle-age is best, no matter which direction you're heading.

The differences between the story and film are equal parts inspired and unneccessary. The film is set in New Orleans as opposed to Baltimore, with continuous flash-forwards to the present deathbed of Benjamin's love, Daisy (originally Hildegarde, played by Cate Blanchett). This simple name change is puzzling. Is Daisy sexier than Hildegarde? Is it a cheapened homage to The Great Gatsby? In the story, Benjamin falls out of love as he grows "younger," with Hildegarde aging naturally. In the film, they do grow apart, only to be reconnected years later. The setting change also provides a needless backstory of Hurricane Katrina, which gets closer in the present film narrative as Benjamin's story advances. In my mind, this provides no additions to the story, not even a metaphorical one. However, partly related to the setting, the film does boast excellent castings of black actors playing black citizens. Yes, it's a very rose-colored look at 1920s Southern life, and yes, Benjamin's adoptive mother (the wonderful Taraji P. Henson) is more or less a servant. However, the film makes use of black actors and extras because they're people, and not because the script or scenes call for black actors. This is a small step in the direction that people like Spike Lee have been arguing for for years.

I could go on with more potential criticisms of the film/story differences, but I'd like to close with some praises. The production design by Donald Graham Burt is stunning, especially combined with the cinematography by Claudio Miranda. The early scenes feels like old photographs, with dimmed hues and lots of faded brown and beige backgrounds (these descriptions would be much better with DVD screencaps). The overall atmosphere "clears up," so to speak, as the decades advance. In one of the best examples, the 1960s scenes have a definite 1960s film cinematography feel. Also, it's always great to applaud the work of Brad Pitt. While this isn't close to being his best acting effort, I still feel that he's grossly underrated as an actor, since most of the focus seems to be on his personal life. Looking past the makeup and special effects, he does an engrossing job with what he has...that is, he does his best to incorporate the emotions of his various ages without going over the top. It's a nod to his versatility that he can show excellent range where there's the potential to have none.

A Controlled Lack Of Control

2009-03-10T19:50:00.001-05:00

Posthumous accolades can be a tricky road to navigate at times. In relation to deceased artists, the recollections seem to hit a high for roughly two weeks following the person's passing, and then quieting down. Once the reality has set in, once a (for lack of a better phrase) period of healing has been dealt with, more honest assessments can be made. In those two weeks (this is not at all a scientific time frame, nor is it meant to trivialize or quantify someone's death), the tributes can be clouded by honest, raw emotions, almost out of a disbelief of the death in question. One example is the death of Heath Ledger and his following performance in The Dark Knight. At first, the film was hyped because of Ledger's death (whether one wants to admit this or not), which quickly turned into honest praise once everyone saw his incredible performance. This led to sadness, given his talent and what he would have accomplished in the future. These ideas happen to lend themselves easily to David Foster Wallace. After his suicide, I wrote a pretty short tribute to him, under the influence of the aforementioned raw emotions. However, six months later, his work and life have taken on a new focus, thanks to the March 9th issue of The New Yorker.

The magazine ran a wonderful, touching biographical/professional tribute to Wallace, written by D.T. Max. This was followed by an excerpt ("Wiggle Room") from what would have been his third novel (the remaining manuscript is going to be published in the very near future). Max's essay, entitled "The Unfinished," is both a look at Wallace's talent and a look at his crippling depression, which were both related and separate at the same time. In what at first glance appears to be a straightforward essay, the reader is given the most honest, detailed look at Wallace's demons, both his mental illness and his feelings that his writings were never good enough. Granted, rare is the completely satisfied writer, but given his still devoted audience, it's shocking how Wallace's quotes paint the picture of someone who was both talented beyond measure and unequivocally unsure of himself in that same light.

"Wallace, at least, never felt that he had hit his target. His goal had been to show readers how to live a fulfilled, meaningful life. 'Fiction's about what it is to be a fucking human being,' he once said. Good writing should help readers to 'become less alone inside.'"

The debate over what constitutes good fiction will never end, but Wallace's almost generic explanation gives an apt definition. However, the work he left behind goes into the painstaking detail that his quote does not. "Wiggle Room" shows what it's like to be a human being under the constraints of extreme monotony, namely as a tax reviewer. As Wallace was skilled at doing, he takes a serious emotion, expands it in precise detail, and occasionally renders it darkly hysterical.

"Then three more, including one 1040A, where the deductions for A.G.I. were added wrong and the Martinsburg printout hadn't caught it and had to be amended on one of the Form 020-Cs in the lower left tray, and then a lot of the same information filled out on the regular 20, which you still had to do even if it was just a correspondence audit and the file going to Joliet instead of the District, each code for which had to be looked up on the pullout thing he had to scoot the chair awkwardly over to pull out all the way. Then another one, then a plummeting inside of him as the wall clock showed that what he'd thought was another hour had not been. Not even close. May 17, 1985. Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me, a poor sinner."

This piece goes on fluidly to analyze etymology as well as to introduce a ghostly character. Wallace (as Max explains) did a lot of research into the lives and work of tax officials, and the product he left behind is evidence of that, yet it feels spontaneous and real. Max, reminiscent of Wallace's own definition of fiction writing, offers this tidy (yet dead-on) view of Wallace's work: "His prose slid forward with a controlled lack of control that mimed thought itself."

The notion of posthumous writing also showed itself in the same issues of The New Yorker, in the form of a book review written by the late John Updike. The magazine ran tributes to him shortly after his death, and the appearance of this review was strangely comforting. Even though he's gone, there was still something new to publish, since he contributed many reviews to the publication. There was no need to add any other acknowledgements of his death, and the review stands on its own. I might be expanding on this next week, when I write about Roberto Bolano's unfinished, posthumous novel 2666. I've been reading it for quite a few weeks, and as much as I'm enjoying it, sometimes I have the feeling that I'm not making any progress towards the ending. The mere existence of this piece of art, written when Bolano knew full well that he was dying of cancer, makes reading almost imperative, since the author wanted to get the work completed to be read and enjoyed. The same goes for Wallace's final works as well. While it's impossible to know how long his suicide was premeditated, there's the distinct understanding (as evidence by "The Unfinished") that he knew, deep down, that it was a possibility. This post might appear morbid, but in all honesty, there's still a lot of original work to savor, in spite of untimely passings.

Thoughts on David Foster Wallace (1962-2008)

2008-09-17T14:09:00.002-05:00

Like all admirers of his writing, I was deeply saddened to learn of David Foster Wallace's suicide this past weekend. Making it even more troubling was the fact that last week, I was immersing myself in his essays from A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again. There was going to be an essay posted on here about those writings, but I'm holding off for now. Usually I shy away from writing remembrances and tributes to deceased artists, since there's simply nothing to say that hasn't been more eloquently touched on by other writers. It was this logic that made me scrap plans for an essay on George Carlin a couple months back. However, I felt such a deep admiration for Wallace, and I don't think that any writer today can deny his importance.

What I loved the most is that he was the best living writer period in two genres: fiction and non-fiction. I didn't start reading his works until roughly four years ago, and his balance of fictions and creative/critical essays was literally refreshing, in the sense that it made me fall in love with reading and writing all over again. Whenever I reach the apex of my writing skills in the future, I will not have 1/50th of Wallace's talent and seemingly instinctual way with word crafting. This is not an ode or personal self-deprecation in the face of his death; it is fact, plain and simple.

Of course, the news reports of his passing also mentioned that his books were seeing an increase in sales since last weekend. This could be a post in itself, the fact that it always troubles me when an artist/writer/musician dies: the interest in his/her work doubles and triples. Why does that always seem to happen? For example, more Frank Sinatra CDs were sold in May 1998 than ever before. Do these sales increase because of the actual death, the increased media attention, or a combination of both? It bothers me because a person's talent doesn't change because they've died--Wallace's books should have been selling at their current rates before, regardless of his death. However, it's not bothering me as much with him. If it means that more people happen to discover his works because of these sad circumstances, that's worth it. In due time, if not already, David Foster Wallace will be placed among the best ever. Period.

"From Here to Eternity"--Revisionist Film History

2009-04-23T17:33:00.001-05:00

Despite my earlier promise to have more book essays posted (these will be coming in the following weeks), this film piece is something that I've been mentally working on for quite some time. I read James Jones's novel From Here to Eternity in high school, so naturally, my memory of it is hazy at best; therefore, this essay will exclusively examine Fred Zinnemann's 1953 film adaptation. Perhaps the title of this piece is slightly misleading. I'm not so much going against the film as it is generally viewed, but taking another look at the inherent themes. Whether one is discussing books (Ken Kesey, Kurt Vonnegut) or films (Easy Rider, Five Easy Pieces), the general consensus is that the anti-establishment movement had its strongest presence in 1960s and 1970s American culture. This is absolutely true, but I feel that From Here to Eternity is an overlooked precursor to the independent boom of filmmaking in the following decades.

However, at first glance, this is a war film, set in the days before the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. Pvt. Robert E. Lee Prewitt (Montgomery Clift) transfers to Schofield Barracks for "personal matters." Almost immediately, he's under the scrutiny of Captain Holmes and Seargant Warden (Burt Lancaster). Prewitt refuses to join the company boxing team, coached by Holmes, due to the aforementioned personal reasons. The plot plays out literally, with the characters all connected to the events and emotions. Warden is of lesser rank than Holmes, but the obvious leader of the company. After Prewitt's cold refusal to Holmes's request to join the boxing team, Warden frankly tells him: "It's my job to keep him happy, see? The more he's happy, the less he bothers me, and the smoother I run his company." Prewitt's only friend is Angelo Maggio (Frank Sinatra), a fun-loving, happy outcast (in his first scene, he's shown sweeping in front of the main office, undoubtedly a punishment for something). As the film progresses, Warden starts a sudden affair with Karen (Deborah Kerr), the cold, unhappy wife of Captain Holmes. Prewitt falls for Lorene (Donna Reed), a prostitute at a brothel frequented by Maggio (of course, in the film, it's a dance hall, but anyone can look past the mild censorship to gauge the actual setting).

This might seem to be a very quick, condensed summary of the major plot points, but in re-screening the film, it's amazing how quickly everything is established. Since this is a character-driven film, the best way to analyze the anti-establishment themes is to look at the characters individually.

Sgt. Warden: Especially portrayed by Burt Lancaster, he's the ultimate military character--strong, assertive, no-nonsense, and efficient (a wonderful word which is employed in his second scene with Karen). However, his hatred and dislike of Captain Holmes manifests itself in his affair with Karen; to put it bluntly, he has sex with her as a way to rebel against his superior, all while maintaining his assertiveness and professionalism while on base. To take this to the extreme, it's a grudge-fuck towards Holmes. His rebellion only goes thus far; he and Karen do not end up together, only because he's in love with the military.

Private Prewitt: He's the victim of extreme hazing, but steadfast in his duties ("I can soldier with any man"). He does his job as best as he can, despite the unfair obstacles placed in front of him, the hazing and "treatment" designed to make him look like a failed soldier. Despite this, he's vastly independent, or at least he should be, given his solitude. (Spoiler alert) Just in the same way Warden's affair with Karen can be seen as rebellion, Prewitt's decision to return to the base during the Japanese attack can be seen as proof that he really wasn't meant for the Army, but instead to be his own man. He returns, critically injured after a knife fight, to do his job, and ends up dying as a result. I'm not saying that his being a soldier ended up killing him. No matter where the film was set, no matter what the occupation, Prewitt never would have lasted in a place that required submission and conservative views.

Lorene: She's a prostitute, therefore immediately placed on the fringes of a conservative society. She fully realizes this, and claims that she's only doing it in order to save money to start a new life. However, in one of the most intense scenes in the movie, she angrily describes a "safe" and "proper" life: country clubs, a successful husband, and proper children. Her voice and the look in her eyes might suggest that she finds this unattainable, but in my view, she doesn't want to be part of what society expects of her. Granted, she obviously doesn't want to be a prostitute the rest of her life, but she strongly rebukes the notion of 1950s suburban America.

Angelo Maggio: Like Prewitt, he was never really meant to be a soldier, seeing that he spends his time looking forward to off-duty carousing with his friends, his women, and his booze. Without Prewitt, one gets the idea that he's a marginal soldier, doing just enough to not be dishonorably discharged, but not enough to be respected in his outfit. Given his free-spirited ways, and given the context of the film, he'd be a perfect fit amongst the beat generation. His desire to be free from responsibility leads to his going AWOL, therefore resulting in his death (after he's beaten and abused by Seargant Judson). It's the opposite of Prewitt, but with the same results. Prewitt returns to what he thinks he's supposed to do, and he dies. Maggio escapes to do what he's supposed to do, and he dies as well.

Karen Holmes: She falls into the anti-establishment theme by completely and unapologetically rebelling against her husband. Their relationship is purely for show, to create the image of a happily married couple in order to advance his military career. Their home life is full of resentment, bitterness, and the complete lack of any sort of intimacy. He sleeps around, but not because he's a great lover, but mainly to compensate the fact that he will never satisfy his wife, both sexually or emotionally. Even without knowing that she's sleeping with Warden, he knows that Warden is more of a man than he is, whether in the Army or in the civilian world. Karen is content to aid in Holmes's complete emasculation.

These notes would obviously be aided by screencaps or more plot discussions, but since From Here to Eternity is such a classic, the elements I've discussed should be understandable to anyone familiar with the film. I consider it part of the anti-establishment era of filmmaking, because of the characters. It doesn't measure as an "anti-war" film, because the war scenes are so fleeting, and come towards the ending. Therefore, we're looking at a film that's not Platoon or Full Metal Jacket, but a character study of people who do not fit the sanitized view of 1940s and 1950s America.

Thoughts on "Metropolis" (1927)

2009-06-24T15:03:00.001-05:00

With the exception of my brief look at From Here to Eternity, it's been quite awhile since my last film essay. In my quest to get caught up on some of the silent classics, I recently screened Fritz Lang's 1927 landmark Metropolis. I've long counted his phenomenal film M among my favorite films of all-time, and the beauty of going into a screening of Metropolis was that I knew that I couldn't expect these respective films to be anything but drastically different. M is one of the great crime thrillers ever, whereas Metropolis cleared the path for dystopian science fiction films.

In a review of the Errol Flynn film The Adventures of Robin Hood, Don Druker of "The Chicago Reader" wrote a wonderful closing sentence that can easily apply to any new look at a long-studied classic film. He writes: "Movies like this are beyond criticism." Depending on a given film's depth and layers, this can either be an apt summary or a challenge to find new ways to view said film's messages. I hesitate to use one of my own essays as an example, but last year I studied D. W. Griffith's The Birth of a Nation alongside Stanley Fish's opinions on the nature of principles. While I was awed and impressed by Metropolis, I'm hard-pressed, at least at the time of this writing, to find a new way to analyze it.

The film tells the story of the outer and inner workings of a modern Metropolis, with the wealthy (known as "the head") enjoying splendor and excess in the city, while the workers ("the hands") toil in the depths below the streets, out of sight. The leader, Joh Fredersen, rules from his high-tech office, and, aside from his stern demeanor and unquestioned control, does not function as the stereotypical evil leader. His stoic attitude towards problems works to a much stronger degree than flagrant outbursts and yelling. Despite his rule, his character is given enough room for his inevitable redemption. His son, Freder, sees the beautiful Maria giving a tour of the city to some of the children of the workers. He falls for her instantly and does the unthinkable: he sneaks his way below Metropolis to find her, and therefore becomes (in all likelihood) the first "head" in a long time to see the inner workings below the city. He swaps places with a worker and finds that Maria also functions as a deity of sorts, imploring the workers to have faith that a mediator will communicate between them and the elites. Joh consults with C. A. Rotwang, an inventor, who has built a Machine-Man (curiously, in the form of a woman, with his secret goal to give it the likeness of his former lover). Once Joh realizes that his son is among the workers, he insists that the robot be given the same form as Maria, to spread messages of riots, in order to create chaos among the workers.

This is only a snapshot of the plot, to which I'll return with some theories. The film is easily one of the best early examples of special effects and atmospheric cinematography, courtesy of Lang, Karl Freund, Gunther Rittau, and Walter Ruttman. The influence that Metropolis has on virtually every major science fiction film is easy to detect, and one can imagine the novelty that early audiences would have found, not to mention the possibilities of special effects on film. Nosferatu might be more famous for its use of shadows, fog, and light effects five years earlier, and King Kong's special effects six years later may have been the early culmination, yet Metropolis bridges a gap between those two films, showing that visual powers lie not only in effects, but the basics of storytelling and cinematography. Its striking visuals are a combination of the old and the new. I also could not help but notice the amazing similarities between Rotwang and Max Schrek's portrayal of Nosferatu. If Count Orlock had simply been more animated and kinetic, the two characters would have been even more alike.

I'm not entirely familiar with pre-Nazi Germany, so I'm not attempting to mix up two different films, two different countries, and two different ideologies. However, I also happened to notice parallels between Metropolis and Sergei Eisentein's The Battleship Potemkin. The major difference comes with Metropolis's plea for mediation between the leaders and the workers, instead of the all-out anarchy of Potemkin. Could Metropolis be viewed as The Battleship Potemkin with a 'happier' ending? Both films argue for workers' rights, showing both a chaotic outcome and a better, albeit sanitized ending. I found it amusing that the theme of Metropolis, the notion that "the mediator between the head and the hands must be the heart," is really an insult to both sides. The implication is that the hands don't appreciate the intelligence of the head, and that the head assumes that the hands are content with thankless, backbreaking labor.

The characters of Maria, both the human and the robotic substitute, are curious depictions of women in society. Perhaps it's a nod towards women's rights (in the 1920s) that a woman assumes the role of the peacemaker and positive influence on the working class. On the flip side, the robotic version works as an early precursor to the 'femme fatale,' as her erotic dance late in the film incites the wealthy men into a lustful, rape-intended frenzy. Then again, this can be flipped yet again as a criticism of the men, simply viewing a woman as a tempting sex object. This dance sequence is both unsettling and revolutionary, as the quick jumps between the dance and the aroused men grows faster, along with a terrific shot composed of nothing but eyeballs, a pulsating blob undoubtedly sending the images of her dancing directly to the groin. I haven't seen any documentaries or read any texts regarding sexual depictions in the history of cinema, but the dance sequence is an essential example.

Some of the scenes from Metropolis are lost, yet it's amazing that enough of the film remains to tell a cohesive story (aided with recreated plot subtitles). The influence on future science fiction films is easy to recognize, and overall, this is one of the best films ever, silent or otherwise. However, I feel that my appreciation will be even greater once I familiarize myself with the context of 1920s German society. The social and psychological questions and depictions are quite clear, but as is the case with The Birth of a Nation and The Battleship Potemkin, I'm positive that even more can be gathered when framed alongside the sociology and day-to-day history of the era.

The Underrated Blog-a-Thon, Day Two

2009-03-24T14:18:00.002-05:00

Critically Underrated (My Day Two Essay)

When creating the collage image for announcing The Underrated Blog-a-Thon, one of the pictures I used was of Milkman Dan, a recurring character in Max Cannon's alternative comic Red Meat. I didn't have a set intention to write about the images I used, but my goal was to have them be a sort of brainstorm for myself and potential contributors. However, after recently visiting the Red Meat website, I realized that it needs all the attention it can get.

The main webpage and subsequent archived comics have a very sobering plea from Cannon, not just for himself but for artists and cartoonists who support and supply independent and alternative newspapers with their creations. With the economy in such turmoil, alternative papers may very well cut comics, even ones with rabid fanbases. This is also not a case of "oh well, I can just read the comics online." Cartoonists, as Cannon mentions, rely on the newspaper revenues and advertising to help fund their sites. This should hit home for people who prefer strips like Red Meat and Get Your War On as opposed to Family Circus and Marmaduke. The major papers and syndicates do have the occasional great comic strip, but this is a plea for the hundreds of independent artists and their livelihoods.

I first discovered Red Meat in Chicago, when the highlight of my Thursdays was picking up the latest issue of The Onion. Quickly, my habit became reading Red Meat before any of the other articles and features in that paper. When I first visited the website, I was overjoyed to find that Cannon had the complete collection of his work available for free viewing. The comic follows the exploits and adventures of many varying characters, ones who even at their most grotesque, retain an innocent nostalgia, reminiscent of wholesome postcards and vintage advertisements. A recent popular phenomenon consists of calendars, books, and greeting cards with actual vintage images containing updated captions and modern, irreverent word bubbles. The beauty of Red Meat lies in its originality. Even with the hint of those vintage illustrations, the actions and dialogue are original, witty, and have a tendency to border on disturbing.

The face of the comic is Bug-Eyed Earl, a creepy old man with a penchant for regaling the readers with his tales of psychosis and debauchery. His stories are matter-of-fact, and while some of his actions are downright sickening, there's a strange innocence to his demeanor. As unsettling as he is, his recollections of dead relatives in the kitchen, public nudity, and anti-social behavior come across with an "aw, shucks" mentality.

My personal favorites are shown above: Ted Johnson and Milkman Dan. Johnson could easily be the father figure in any mainstream comic, with his outlandish ideas, disastrous family trips, and his parenting skills that combine old-fashioned values with off-kilter behavior. You will probably never see Dagwood locking Blondie in the attic, and having the punchline be as hilarious as Cannon usually makes them.

Milkman Dan is the epitome of psychotic, in addition to his unashamed substance abuses. His all-American job and visage conflict greatly with his sexual deviance and anti-social dealings with his bosses and neighborhood associates. His greatest nemesis is Karen, a little neighborhood girl with wits and depravity that mirror his own. The two characters stop at nothing to humiliate and psychologically scar each other, yet these actions are presented in such a fashion that they could easily be best friends as opposed to mortal enemies.

This is merely a sample. Cannon has blessed us with Wally, the Tobacconist (with hints of dementia and incontinence); The Old Cowboy (equal parts philosophical and mentally challenged); Johnny Lemonhead (probably the greatest victim in the history of American comics); and others who live in an absurd, dangerous world that does not seem too far-fetched at times.

I've shared this comic with quite a few people, and most of them do not share my enthusiasm, another reason I feel that Red Meat falls into the "underrated" category. However, even if it's not this particular one, everyone has a favorite underground/independent strip that could very well be on the verge of collapse. As Cannon quotes a friend, very simply (but also very urgently): "If your local paper stil runs the cartoons, please shoot them a quick e-mail and let them know how much you appreciate it."

NOTE: If any submissions come in today, I'll be updating this post later tonight. Thank you!