http://womenshealthnews.wordpress.com/2009/02/18/about-this-i-have-some-concerns/
http://womenshealthnews.wordpress.com/2009/02/22/expanded-commentary-on-sb1065hb890-forced-drug-tests-for-pregnant-women/
Read it and weep. Really. Sorry this isn't artsy.
Thanks Rachel from Women's Health News.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Student's Spill It
I went to Gail Griffin's non-fiction class's reading today. It was really enjoyable. A lot of really beautiful pieces. The best part was coming in after warming in the sun, sitting in the back, and absorbing each carefully written and poignant work. It was inspiring. So was the camaraderie among the class and Gail.
Glad I choose to take another English class for my last quarter here. Bravo.
Glad I choose to take another English class for my last quarter here. Bravo.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
A New Generation of Theatre Kids: Pushing for 3D in the age of ADD
By Jackie Rogers
“And the pe-ople, in the hou-se , all went to the uni-ver-sity
Where they were put in box-es and they came out all the same,
And there's doc-tors, and there's law-yers, and busi-ness ex-ecutives
And they're all made out of ticky-tacky and they all look just the same”
“Little boxes”—This song was Malvina Reynold’s anti-suburbia anti-conformist reaction to driving across California in a housing boom of 1962. Resurrected as the ironic theme song for a television show about a suburban weed-dealer mom, it’s been covered by over thirty nationally-known artists and countless others on YouTube, evidently invading everyone’s brain with the same infuriatingly catchy tune.
At the Sunday matinee of the 45th season of the Festival Playhouse at Kalamazoo College, student- recorded 30-second covers played over and over in between each of the seven student written, acted, and directed ten-minute plays.
When did the theatre, dah-ling, start riding on the anti-establishment train? No complaints. A resurgence of a cool factor for stagecraft would be welcomed by many of us afraid of what the occupation of earth by technology could mean for the future of art and entertainment. Some neuroscientists have started suggesting that speed and multiplicity of simultaneous electronic media is changing how our brain’s work.
Students in college now are part of the first wave of the completely plugged-in generation, those who can’t imagine life without their laptop or, at the very least, daily access to the internet, and they are reclaiming the stage. A good ten-minute play has just as much character and composition as the more common longer versions. Feeding more flighty attention spans doesn’t mean skimping on substance; for the aspiring playwrights it instead meant the more difficult task of exposing the substance of the work in a concentrated and poignant way.
And this makes sense. Art imitates experience and this generation doesn’t expect an old-fashioned gentle wooing. People’s lives and relationships are shaped by technology, even indirectly, as explored poignantly in Emilia LaPenta’s “Missed Connections.” The pressures of making life-altering decisions are intense, immediate and imminent, as in Matt Jones’s “Clap Switch.”
It’s still true that a lot more people see film than theatre in America. Visual effects, instantaneous scene change, gigantic screens, the zoom lens —it all makes for a more thundering sensory experience. What then, for the campus popularity of playwriting and stagecraft?
It’s not as if 3-hour monologues are suddenly becoming all the rage. Young playwrights are using theatre to remind people of the three-dimensional world by acknowledging and working with diminishing attention spans. Almost all the plays were felt as quick but meaningful; sometimes even stimulating bursts of energy, significant ten-minutes of fun and pleasingly amateur production in the dusty Balch Auditorium.
Before and after rocking back and forth to the mocking nursery rhyme-like melody, these seven “K” student playwrights, even more student actors, actresses, and mostly student directors entertained and converted members of the flat-screen fanatical generation to the joy of real 3-demensional entertainment.
“And the pe-ople, in the hou-se , all went to the uni-ver-sity
Where they were put in box-es and they came out all the same,
And there's doc-tors, and there's law-yers, and busi-ness ex-ecutives
And they're all made out of ticky-tacky and they all look just the same”
“Little boxes”—This song was Malvina Reynold’s anti-suburbia anti-conformist reaction to driving across California in a housing boom of 1962. Resurrected as the ironic theme song for a television show about a suburban weed-dealer mom, it’s been covered by over thirty nationally-known artists and countless others on YouTube, evidently invading everyone’s brain with the same infuriatingly catchy tune.
At the Sunday matinee of the 45th season of the Festival Playhouse at Kalamazoo College, student- recorded 30-second covers played over and over in between each of the seven student written, acted, and directed ten-minute plays.
When did the theatre, dah-ling, start riding on the anti-establishment train? No complaints. A resurgence of a cool factor for stagecraft would be welcomed by many of us afraid of what the occupation of earth by technology could mean for the future of art and entertainment. Some neuroscientists have started suggesting that speed and multiplicity of simultaneous electronic media is changing how our brain’s work.
Students in college now are part of the first wave of the completely plugged-in generation, those who can’t imagine life without their laptop or, at the very least, daily access to the internet, and they are reclaiming the stage. A good ten-minute play has just as much character and composition as the more common longer versions. Feeding more flighty attention spans doesn’t mean skimping on substance; for the aspiring playwrights it instead meant the more difficult task of exposing the substance of the work in a concentrated and poignant way.
And this makes sense. Art imitates experience and this generation doesn’t expect an old-fashioned gentle wooing. People’s lives and relationships are shaped by technology, even indirectly, as explored poignantly in Emilia LaPenta’s “Missed Connections.” The pressures of making life-altering decisions are intense, immediate and imminent, as in Matt Jones’s “Clap Switch.”
It’s still true that a lot more people see film than theatre in America. Visual effects, instantaneous scene change, gigantic screens, the zoom lens —it all makes for a more thundering sensory experience. What then, for the campus popularity of playwriting and stagecraft?
It’s not as if 3-hour monologues are suddenly becoming all the rage. Young playwrights are using theatre to remind people of the three-dimensional world by acknowledging and working with diminishing attention spans. Almost all the plays were felt as quick but meaningful; sometimes even stimulating bursts of energy, significant ten-minutes of fun and pleasingly amateur production in the dusty Balch Auditorium.
Before and after rocking back and forth to the mocking nursery rhyme-like melody, these seven “K” student playwrights, even more student actors, actresses, and mostly student directors entertained and converted members of the flat-screen fanatical generation to the joy of real 3-demensional entertainment.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Cash for Culture?
Is the "stimulus" really going to fork over the $ to fund "the arts"? Usually, its the first to go...what do you think? Has any politician ever seen funding the arts as beneficial and said it on the record in the middle of a financial crisis?
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/01/26/arts/26nea.html
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/01/26/arts/26nea.html
Women writing about sex, check out this book review
It starts with this..."Do female novelists write about sex less often, and less skillfully, than men?" uh........
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/03/04/books/04garn.html?_r=1&ref=arts
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/03/04/books/04garn.html?_r=1&ref=arts
Monday, March 2, 2009
But We Accessorize! Myths of Women's Empowerment on TV (working title..........)
A beautiful well-dressed smart and successful woman can’t find a date in the big city.
An even wealthier woman’s husband isn’t interested in having sex…with her.
And still another boasts 200 pairs of shoes and a date with a billionaire…who asks her out through his secretary.
Oh, the life of the mythical modern woman.
She is and has (almost) everything: the brains, body, bank account, and sometimes, the boyfriend and baby. She lives the dream. Now is the generation pressured to meet women’s potential for equal pay, equal treatment, equal power. Samantha Jones (Kim Cattrall) says in the pilot episode of Sex and the City, “…this is the first time in the history of Manhattan that women have had as much money and power as men.” While this statement is no doubt a fantasy itself, it successfully propelled millions of viewers into the imaginary world of a generation of urban Cinderellas righteously empowered by their cash and sexual prowess.
Yet, its still there, the same old gospel: women are built up and then let down by men. Carrie Bradshaw (Sarah Jessica Parker) sets up the hugely successful Sex and the City episodes by saying the following about financially stable, successful, attractive woman in New York City “…they travel, they pay taxes, they’ll spend 400 dollars on a pair of Manolo Blahnik strappy sandals…. and they’re alone.” Sex and the City’s huge fan base found the show groundbreaking because it bluntly talked about orgasm, sexually transmitted diseases, experimental sex, abortion, and infidelity. The ecstasy! Suddenly men are the objects!
But is power characterized by an ability to purchase sex appeal and “have sex like men” truly revolutionary? And is it really so progressive that women are interested in sex and control?
The journey through woman’s personal life is nothing new to television. Comedic television shows since the late 1960’s have attempted to capture the experiences of single women as lead or title characters, from That Girl and The Mary Tyler Moore Show to Laverne and Shirley, Three’s Company, Living Single, and Murphy Brown, and more recently Friends, Less Than Perfect, and Will and Grace. These shows were developed over a time when the television comedy form was evolving from the standard sitcom to a format where relationships became the main plot device.
The problem now is how these relationships in the new “post-feminist” television series are dependent on rigid ideas of masculinity and femininity; a focus on the irresolvable differences between men and women. How can women crack the nature of the beast?
Television show producers still think American women want to know why the modern woman fails at completely punching through the glass ceiling with their stilettos. The image is that where men are, women want to be. Women no longer need a Prince Charming, but if they want him they have to sacrifice something. Oh, and they really want him.
Sex and the City ended in 2002 and four years later, Lipstick Jungle (by producers Oliver Goldstick from Ugly Betty, Timothy Busfield from ‘The West Wing’ and Candace Bushnell from ‘Sex in the City’) portrays women who again (almost) have it all. Higher-income, higher-powered, and similarly high-styled Manhattan women talk the difficulty of balancing business, love, and cosmetics in their high-paced city lives. Sound familiar?
In the first five minutes of the pilot, #8 on NYC’s most powerful woman list says to her friends, “I find it offensive that women feel as if they have to apologize for our success. There are no flukes, there is no luck, there is just talent and the ability to bounce back when you’re knocked down.” Better, right? Almost. The same episode opens with a series of close ups: four-inch pumps, leopard boots, silver ballet flats that are supposed to represent the true fabulousness of their power walk. Gag. What is truly offensive is the unrelenting meshing of women’s power and materialism. What is truly offensive is that for every story on Hilary Clinton’s policy or Michelle Obama’s success there are two about their shoes and matching accessories.
The message is that since marriage and motherhood can no longer define femininity, what remains to distinguish women from men besides a passion for Prada? Women’s purchasing power is being twisted as a need to purchase their empowerment.
What is ultimately discovered is that these shows defy some conventions but reinforce society’s master narratives on gender and power. While empowerment never receives a direct mention, the characters clearly believe that spending $400 on strappy sandals is an important decision; one about a woman’s power to choose in what to strut. Economic independence is real and powerful thing. But the idea that women partially achieve empowerment through an acceptance of a “natural” female preoccupation with appearance is a mind-numbingly archaic inference that a woman’s currency is sex, her rate of exchange her beauty.
Women having money of their own used to be about something else—being financially independent represented liberation from patriarchy on multiple levels. The heart-breaking reality is that the greater pressure and potential for women to seek that independence (and more and more women doing so) is being twisted back around. These shows are focused on women’s battle with an emotional dependence on men. Relevant as that may seem too many women, throw in rampant consumerism and the same beauty ideals of the 1950’s and it’s the same patriarchal mass media blitz, just with a savvier disguise. While it appears that modern TV is boldly and progressively telling women the real glamour in life is achievement, the wealthy sexual women who saturate primetime are literally buying the same patriarchal product line.
A series of TV shows for and about modern women that argue fashion as feminist is troubling. While the message of female financial independence can be considered modern and progressive these shows greatest flaw is the degree to which it validates class and wealth snobbery. An ideology of “empowerment” for women that doesn’t challenge the divide between the haves and the have-nots is deeply misguided and useless.
An even wealthier woman’s husband isn’t interested in having sex…with her.
And still another boasts 200 pairs of shoes and a date with a billionaire…who asks her out through his secretary.
Oh, the life of the mythical modern woman.
She is and has (almost) everything: the brains, body, bank account, and sometimes, the boyfriend and baby. She lives the dream. Now is the generation pressured to meet women’s potential for equal pay, equal treatment, equal power. Samantha Jones (Kim Cattrall) says in the pilot episode of Sex and the City, “…this is the first time in the history of Manhattan that women have had as much money and power as men.” While this statement is no doubt a fantasy itself, it successfully propelled millions of viewers into the imaginary world of a generation of urban Cinderellas righteously empowered by their cash and sexual prowess.
Yet, its still there, the same old gospel: women are built up and then let down by men. Carrie Bradshaw (Sarah Jessica Parker) sets up the hugely successful Sex and the City episodes by saying the following about financially stable, successful, attractive woman in New York City “…they travel, they pay taxes, they’ll spend 400 dollars on a pair of Manolo Blahnik strappy sandals…. and they’re alone.” Sex and the City’s huge fan base found the show groundbreaking because it bluntly talked about orgasm, sexually transmitted diseases, experimental sex, abortion, and infidelity. The ecstasy! Suddenly men are the objects!
But is power characterized by an ability to purchase sex appeal and “have sex like men” truly revolutionary? And is it really so progressive that women are interested in sex and control?
The journey through woman’s personal life is nothing new to television. Comedic television shows since the late 1960’s have attempted to capture the experiences of single women as lead or title characters, from That Girl and The Mary Tyler Moore Show to Laverne and Shirley, Three’s Company, Living Single, and Murphy Brown, and more recently Friends, Less Than Perfect, and Will and Grace. These shows were developed over a time when the television comedy form was evolving from the standard sitcom to a format where relationships became the main plot device.
The problem now is how these relationships in the new “post-feminist” television series are dependent on rigid ideas of masculinity and femininity; a focus on the irresolvable differences between men and women. How can women crack the nature of the beast?
Television show producers still think American women want to know why the modern woman fails at completely punching through the glass ceiling with their stilettos. The image is that where men are, women want to be. Women no longer need a Prince Charming, but if they want him they have to sacrifice something. Oh, and they really want him.
Sex and the City ended in 2002 and four years later, Lipstick Jungle (by producers Oliver Goldstick from Ugly Betty, Timothy Busfield from ‘The West Wing’ and Candace Bushnell from ‘Sex in the City’) portrays women who again (almost) have it all. Higher-income, higher-powered, and similarly high-styled Manhattan women talk the difficulty of balancing business, love, and cosmetics in their high-paced city lives. Sound familiar?
In the first five minutes of the pilot, #8 on NYC’s most powerful woman list says to her friends, “I find it offensive that women feel as if they have to apologize for our success. There are no flukes, there is no luck, there is just talent and the ability to bounce back when you’re knocked down.” Better, right? Almost. The same episode opens with a series of close ups: four-inch pumps, leopard boots, silver ballet flats that are supposed to represent the true fabulousness of their power walk. Gag. What is truly offensive is the unrelenting meshing of women’s power and materialism. What is truly offensive is that for every story on Hilary Clinton’s policy or Michelle Obama’s success there are two about their shoes and matching accessories.
The message is that since marriage and motherhood can no longer define femininity, what remains to distinguish women from men besides a passion for Prada? Women’s purchasing power is being twisted as a need to purchase their empowerment.
What is ultimately discovered is that these shows defy some conventions but reinforce society’s master narratives on gender and power. While empowerment never receives a direct mention, the characters clearly believe that spending $400 on strappy sandals is an important decision; one about a woman’s power to choose in what to strut. Economic independence is real and powerful thing. But the idea that women partially achieve empowerment through an acceptance of a “natural” female preoccupation with appearance is a mind-numbingly archaic inference that a woman’s currency is sex, her rate of exchange her beauty.
Women having money of their own used to be about something else—being financially independent represented liberation from patriarchy on multiple levels. The heart-breaking reality is that the greater pressure and potential for women to seek that independence (and more and more women doing so) is being twisted back around. These shows are focused on women’s battle with an emotional dependence on men. Relevant as that may seem too many women, throw in rampant consumerism and the same beauty ideals of the 1950’s and it’s the same patriarchal mass media blitz, just with a savvier disguise. While it appears that modern TV is boldly and progressively telling women the real glamour in life is achievement, the wealthy sexual women who saturate primetime are literally buying the same patriarchal product line.
A series of TV shows for and about modern women that argue fashion as feminist is troubling. While the message of female financial independence can be considered modern and progressive these shows greatest flaw is the degree to which it validates class and wealth snobbery. An ideology of “empowerment” for women that doesn’t challenge the divide between the haves and the have-nots is deeply misguided and useless.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Show Me the Cohesion: good effort doesn't bring pieces together at Oscars
The night began showy enough.
Count ‘em, FIVE former supporting actresses: the lovely Tilda Swinton, Eva Marie Saint, Goldie Hawn, Angelica Huston, and Whoopi Goldberg, each introduced one of the 2008 nominees after stepping onto the gorgeous stage.
Even the first winner oozed pure Hollywood darling. Penelope Cruz, achingly charming, gave a lovely speech that started cute, “Has anyone ever fainted up here? I might be the first,” included a nod to writers of strong female roles, and ended with an acknowledgment of the unifying power of the Oscars and a message of love and hope in Spanish.
A smart use of host Hugh Jackman’s showman skills charmed throughout and former winners added some oomph by presenting each of the four major individual awards the rest of the evening—truly the most worthwhile change to the show’s organization.
In the second half hour, the grins were still stretched from ear to ear, and as Steve Martin and Tina Fey took the stage to present Best Original Screenplay the deep sweet breaths of relief that were being held, exhaled. The Academy is on top of it! They picked people that can entertain! The winner — the beautiful Dustin Lance Black (give him some screentime!) for Milk delivered a sincere, emotional, and politically relevant acceptance that included a promise of equal rights. Moving, significant, and appropriate, it started a series of similar calls throughout the evening and the characteristically unprincipled film industry appeared, for much the better, as if it had a new conscience and authenticity.
But as the marathon of all awards show moved into the second hour, it began to trudge. All the energy and entertainment that held hopeful attention in the opening ‘best picture’ song-and-dance medley promised more than what would actually be delivered in the rest of last night’s eighty-first annual Academy Awards.
Oh, there were some fun moments, like Jennifer Aniston’s appearance (why, despite her beauty and fame, does she always look like she doesn’t belong among A-listers?) that had us chanting “show Brad, show Brad….” and Jack Black is sure to kill even if no one knows why they’re laughing. But the fun moments did not cut out the painful ones, such as Hugh and Beyonce’s tribute to musicals that despite Beyonce’s incredible talent as commander of attention in any crowd, felt like an overwhelming and overworked collision of showtunes and starpower.
Most of the rest of the night stretched long and hard for maximum entertainment value but fell short of being as enchanting as the setting, the highlights being the 100,000 Swarovski crystal curtain, and an elaborate backdrop for the art direction awards. Queen Latifah sang an acceptable “I’ll Be Seeing You” for a strangely detached “In Memoriam.” More love for Paul Newman please!
Even as the night ended with a gorgeous and eloquent Kate Winslet, an awkward but charismatic Sean Penn, and the adorableness of the entire Slumdog story, it almost wasn’t worth the long wait.
A huge round of applause to Penn, Lance, and Josh Brolin who connected the Oscars with a substantive call for equal rights, but its surprising that politics would upstage such an eager and ardent effort of glittery Hollywood performance.
Count ‘em, FIVE former supporting actresses: the lovely Tilda Swinton, Eva Marie Saint, Goldie Hawn, Angelica Huston, and Whoopi Goldberg, each introduced one of the 2008 nominees after stepping onto the gorgeous stage.
Even the first winner oozed pure Hollywood darling. Penelope Cruz, achingly charming, gave a lovely speech that started cute, “Has anyone ever fainted up here? I might be the first,” included a nod to writers of strong female roles, and ended with an acknowledgment of the unifying power of the Oscars and a message of love and hope in Spanish.
A smart use of host Hugh Jackman’s showman skills charmed throughout and former winners added some oomph by presenting each of the four major individual awards the rest of the evening—truly the most worthwhile change to the show’s organization.
In the second half hour, the grins were still stretched from ear to ear, and as Steve Martin and Tina Fey took the stage to present Best Original Screenplay the deep sweet breaths of relief that were being held, exhaled. The Academy is on top of it! They picked people that can entertain! The winner — the beautiful Dustin Lance Black (give him some screentime!) for Milk delivered a sincere, emotional, and politically relevant acceptance that included a promise of equal rights. Moving, significant, and appropriate, it started a series of similar calls throughout the evening and the characteristically unprincipled film industry appeared, for much the better, as if it had a new conscience and authenticity.
But as the marathon of all awards show moved into the second hour, it began to trudge. All the energy and entertainment that held hopeful attention in the opening ‘best picture’ song-and-dance medley promised more than what would actually be delivered in the rest of last night’s eighty-first annual Academy Awards.
Oh, there were some fun moments, like Jennifer Aniston’s appearance (why, despite her beauty and fame, does she always look like she doesn’t belong among A-listers?) that had us chanting “show Brad, show Brad….” and Jack Black is sure to kill even if no one knows why they’re laughing. But the fun moments did not cut out the painful ones, such as Hugh and Beyonce’s tribute to musicals that despite Beyonce’s incredible talent as commander of attention in any crowd, felt like an overwhelming and overworked collision of showtunes and starpower.
Most of the rest of the night stretched long and hard for maximum entertainment value but fell short of being as enchanting as the setting, the highlights being the 100,000 Swarovski crystal curtain, and an elaborate backdrop for the art direction awards. Queen Latifah sang an acceptable “I’ll Be Seeing You” for a strangely detached “In Memoriam.” More love for Paul Newman please!
Even as the night ended with a gorgeous and eloquent Kate Winslet, an awkward but charismatic Sean Penn, and the adorableness of the entire Slumdog story, it almost wasn’t worth the long wait.
A huge round of applause to Penn, Lance, and Josh Brolin who connected the Oscars with a substantive call for equal rights, but its surprising that politics would upstage such an eager and ardent effort of glittery Hollywood performance.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Help! Final Proposal
I would like to explore how certain sexual and material ideas of women’s power are explored and confirmed in recent popular television shows and films that cater to a female audience. The general idea is that there have been progressive strides in the number and content of shows that cater to women, and even though a lot of these shows have explored power in the context of being a “modern woman,” it is questionable whether or not this exploration has been guided more by women’s perspectives or the economics and profitability of spinning established gender roles into a deceivingly modern package. I could use some guidance in narrowing the scope of the shows and films, as ideally, I would love to include commentary on sexuality (the “L” word etc.) and class (or lack of variety, except maybe Ugly Betty?) as related to the portrayal of women’s power. Other shows I was thinking of are: Lipstick Jungle, Gossip Girl, Gray’s Anatomy, Desperate Housewives, Weeds—all with women at the center powering through life…and films: Devil Wears Prada, and many others that are probably more recent… any suggestions of a more focused angle I can take?
Friday, February 20, 2009
Loving Movies, Loving Life
Pauline Kael certainly believed that film criticism had a lot to show and tell.
Her film criticism, constructive or destructive, was about discovering quality, in film, and in the addition or connection it had with life. Oscar Wilde said “without the critical faculty, there is no artistic creation at all, worthy of the name,” and that sort of self-importance certainly exists in Kael’s work. Reading Kael, there is a sense that the criticism of film was an exploration of a connection, or the possibility of connection, she wanted herself and others to experience at the movies.
In Afterglow, a last interview with Kael, she remarked, “I love writing about movies when I can discover something in them—when I can get something out of them that I can share with people” (95-96). Unique to Kael was how much she cared, how much it broke her heart to not only see poor films, but a barrage of what she called “first-rate intellect” praising bad stuff. To criticize movies, to Kael, was to criticize “mass culture,” and to hold contempt or joy in the way world was working. Film was a tunnel through which to view life and culture. Watching film was to relate to those things that make life what it is, difficult or pleasurable; criticizing film was to take on a personal relationship with the film and, through that lens, with everything it connected with the world outside the theater.
In “Canaries in the Mineshaft,” Adler is deeply critical of Kael and literally picks apart her voice, word choice, sentence structure, and overall positive reputation. After quoting a few Kael reviews that make some severe accusations about the character or nature of the films she’s reviewing, Adler remarks that “each marks a kind of breakthrough in vulgarity and unfairness” (343). Adler objects to being superfluously critical, absolutist, dramatic, and overly and personally presumptuous, for the sake of having a noticeable opinion.
Its true Kael was unique; her unfocused content and unfixed point of view identified her as an outlier, extending an idea that film could touch the world around us, could be identified as worthwhile by our own critical eye, not just at the movies but in life. Her passion for films seems to be equal to her passion and general enjoyment of directing others though her own thought process.
This smattering of self-absorption is alluring.
There is no doubt that readers are free to self-indulge while reading Kael’s reviews. She storms into your conscience and demands some substance, an appropriately decisive and serious attitude about the implications of any given film, and a feeling that subjectivity and individual voice is vital and valid in its self-importance. Kael wants to criticize her world, our world, her frustrations, our frustrations, using film as a medium (sometimes for better, sometimes for much much worse) and in our heart of hearts we want to her to too. Like watching a Steven Spielberg film, it’s easy to jump on the melodramatic ride. Her overstatements make it easy to join in the fun, and as right as Adler is about much of her flashy (sometimes meaningless) prose her value as entertainer is irrefutable.
Readers experience her as she experiences the film; she is part of the show and its endearing. Kael doesn’t demand others to encounter films as energetically and indulgently as she does, but she certainly convinces us to try.
Her film criticism, constructive or destructive, was about discovering quality, in film, and in the addition or connection it had with life. Oscar Wilde said “without the critical faculty, there is no artistic creation at all, worthy of the name,” and that sort of self-importance certainly exists in Kael’s work. Reading Kael, there is a sense that the criticism of film was an exploration of a connection, or the possibility of connection, she wanted herself and others to experience at the movies.
In Afterglow, a last interview with Kael, she remarked, “I love writing about movies when I can discover something in them—when I can get something out of them that I can share with people” (95-96). Unique to Kael was how much she cared, how much it broke her heart to not only see poor films, but a barrage of what she called “first-rate intellect” praising bad stuff. To criticize movies, to Kael, was to criticize “mass culture,” and to hold contempt or joy in the way world was working. Film was a tunnel through which to view life and culture. Watching film was to relate to those things that make life what it is, difficult or pleasurable; criticizing film was to take on a personal relationship with the film and, through that lens, with everything it connected with the world outside the theater.
In “Canaries in the Mineshaft,” Adler is deeply critical of Kael and literally picks apart her voice, word choice, sentence structure, and overall positive reputation. After quoting a few Kael reviews that make some severe accusations about the character or nature of the films she’s reviewing, Adler remarks that “each marks a kind of breakthrough in vulgarity and unfairness” (343). Adler objects to being superfluously critical, absolutist, dramatic, and overly and personally presumptuous, for the sake of having a noticeable opinion.
Its true Kael was unique; her unfocused content and unfixed point of view identified her as an outlier, extending an idea that film could touch the world around us, could be identified as worthwhile by our own critical eye, not just at the movies but in life. Her passion for films seems to be equal to her passion and general enjoyment of directing others though her own thought process.
This smattering of self-absorption is alluring.
There is no doubt that readers are free to self-indulge while reading Kael’s reviews. She storms into your conscience and demands some substance, an appropriately decisive and serious attitude about the implications of any given film, and a feeling that subjectivity and individual voice is vital and valid in its self-importance. Kael wants to criticize her world, our world, her frustrations, our frustrations, using film as a medium (sometimes for better, sometimes for much much worse) and in our heart of hearts we want to her to too. Like watching a Steven Spielberg film, it’s easy to jump on the melodramatic ride. Her overstatements make it easy to join in the fun, and as right as Adler is about much of her flashy (sometimes meaningless) prose her value as entertainer is irrefutable.
Readers experience her as she experiences the film; she is part of the show and its endearing. Kael doesn’t demand others to encounter films as energetically and indulgently as she does, but she certainly convinces us to try.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
For Diane
To clarify, I think Glenn and all the English Department are wonderful. It wasn't personal, but I was surprised and disappointed at the focus of the introduction. I though it was a little inappropriate. Perhaps it was supposed to make aspiring writers, especially seniors, feel more relaxed about widening the scope of their education, or those of us who aren't English majors feel inspired. But that wasn't the message I heard right of the bat, and I was bothered. Reviews are for sharing our reactions, no? Sorry to offend.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Talk to us Pauline!
Pauline Kael certainly had a lot to say. And it was not simply about film as a traditional art form—commentary on the mechanics of direction, acting, production, point of view—these elements are not why Kael is considered one of the most notable film critics ever. Criticism, constructive or destructive, is an addition to an ongoing conversation about something’s quality. Oscar Wilde said “without the critical faculty, there is no artistic creation at all, worthy of the name,” and that sort of self-importance certainly exists in Kael’s work. Reading Kael, there is a sense that the criticism of film was often her criticism of common culture—an exploration of the deeper intellectual and emotional journey one could experience. Something unique about Kael was that his ride was not always obvious but almost always, indirectly, about her personal relationship with the film and everything that she felt it was connected with outside the theater.
In “Canaries in the Mineshaft,” Reneta Adler comments that films are unique in that there is an assumption that everyone goes to the movies, or should for cultural literacy. Films are seen as a reflection of an overall state, a common culture, and thus can be critiqued in relation to the big ideas, an overarching authority. Adler is deeply critical of Kael and literally picks apart her voice, word choice, sentence structure, and overall positive reputation. After quoting a few Kael reviews that make some severe accusations about the character or nature of the films she’s reviewing, Adler remarks that “each marks a kind of breakthrough in vulgarity and unfairness” (343). Adler objects to being superfluously critical, absolutist, dramatic, and overly and personally presumptuous, for the sake of having a noticeable opinion.
Its true Kael was unique; her unfocused content and unfixed point of view identified her as an outlier, extending an idea that film could touch the world around us, could be identified as worthwhile by our own critical eye, not just at the movies but in life. Her passion for films seems to be equal to her passion and general enjoyment of directing others though her own thought process.
This smattering self-absorption is alluring.
There is no doubt of some feelings of reader self-indulgence in reading Kael’s reviews. She storms into your conscience and demands some substance, a sense of higher mindedness, an appropriately decisive and serious attitude about the implications of any given film, and a feeling that subjectivity and individual voice is vital and valid in its self-importance. Kael wants to criticize her, our world, her frustrations, our frustrations, using film as a medium (sometimes for better, sometimes for much much worse) and in our heart of hearts we want to her to too. Like watching a Steven Spielberg film, it’s easy to jump on the melodramatic ride. Her overstatements make it easy to join in the fun, and as right as Adler is about much of her flashy (sometimes meaningless) prose her value as entertainer is irrefutable.
Readers experience her as she experiences the film; she is part of the show and its endearing. Kael doesn’t demand others to encounter films as energetically and indulgently as she does, but she certainly convinces us to try.
In “Canaries in the Mineshaft,” Reneta Adler comments that films are unique in that there is an assumption that everyone goes to the movies, or should for cultural literacy. Films are seen as a reflection of an overall state, a common culture, and thus can be critiqued in relation to the big ideas, an overarching authority. Adler is deeply critical of Kael and literally picks apart her voice, word choice, sentence structure, and overall positive reputation. After quoting a few Kael reviews that make some severe accusations about the character or nature of the films she’s reviewing, Adler remarks that “each marks a kind of breakthrough in vulgarity and unfairness” (343). Adler objects to being superfluously critical, absolutist, dramatic, and overly and personally presumptuous, for the sake of having a noticeable opinion.
Its true Kael was unique; her unfocused content and unfixed point of view identified her as an outlier, extending an idea that film could touch the world around us, could be identified as worthwhile by our own critical eye, not just at the movies but in life. Her passion for films seems to be equal to her passion and general enjoyment of directing others though her own thought process.
This smattering self-absorption is alluring.
There is no doubt of some feelings of reader self-indulgence in reading Kael’s reviews. She storms into your conscience and demands some substance, a sense of higher mindedness, an appropriately decisive and serious attitude about the implications of any given film, and a feeling that subjectivity and individual voice is vital and valid in its self-importance. Kael wants to criticize her, our world, her frustrations, our frustrations, using film as a medium (sometimes for better, sometimes for much much worse) and in our heart of hearts we want to her to too. Like watching a Steven Spielberg film, it’s easy to jump on the melodramatic ride. Her overstatements make it easy to join in the fun, and as right as Adler is about much of her flashy (sometimes meaningless) prose her value as entertainer is irrefutable.
Readers experience her as she experiences the film; she is part of the show and its endearing. Kael doesn’t demand others to encounter films as energetically and indulgently as she does, but she certainly convinces us to try.
NYT Defense: Dargis Reviews "Confessions of a Shopaholic"
Manola Dargis’s review of “Confessions of a Shopaholic” is soft. At least, after reading her review of “He’s Just Not That Into You” last week, I expected her to take a harder line against another film that makes fun of women using qualities that generally deflate and classify men and women into a mismatched binary. Dargis begins and ends with references to the economy, which is notably suitable to filmmakers creating this type of film. We are in the middle of a climate of crisis, and it is no secret that when things go downhill economically, the seeds holding the more traditional values (and supposedly more comforting) start sprouting, or spewing, a surplus/excess of material that “Confessions” fits into neatly. With all its “bright bauble and designer doodad” focus, I am surprised that Dargis didn’t write about the sense of hollowness that films about women and materialism must create, or about its effectiveness in leaving viewers partially numb to reality but at a price of mental vacancy. Then again, I guess the fact that I expected something different than she delivered is good. She focuses more on the story, even though it falls into a predictable pattern, she finds something worth noting—that the women, or main woman in this case, isn’t treated entirely as a fool. I wonder if being a chief woman movie critic at the NY Times, reviewing all the “women” movies, Dargis feels that any change in portrayal, any respect given to women in these types of gender-boxing films, is worth noting and seeing.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Higher Than Thou
Kalamazoo College, a self-proclaimed “institute of higher learning,” hosted Bob Hicok on Wednesday, an award-winning poet from Michigan. The evening began with Hicok’s introduction by faculty member, Glenn Deutsch, who heavy-handedly emphasized Hicok’s blue-collarness, trying to tell the story of a man who made himself with his own talent. It appeared as if the college, or maybe more fairly the English department faculty, was showing how cool it was (especially as writers) by being self-deprecating. That kind of narcissistic amusement with one’s own advantage was thankfully not also a part of Hicok’s touching reading of his work.
His first poem of the evening, “life,” instantly dove deep into a skepticism of a world that pushes for higher forms of participation in structure, and Hicok voiced clear dissatisfaction in what requires “rededicating [him]self to gestures.” Yet he avoided sounding cynical and it was easy to listen and to feel the movement, the shifting of authority, of authenticity, from the “institution of higher learning” to the Hicok’s personal and individual experience.
His messages were clear, the mood and tone set in every poem and in every pause in between. After his second poem, the insomnia inspired “Busy day of my Nights” he gripped the podium and admitted, “I hate poetry readings.” The presentation was touching, emotive, and funny—he filled the space mostly with comments about filling the space so that nervous giggles were suddenly soothing, expected, and part of the experience.
All his poems, all that was his presence—gestures, diction, humility, created a feeling of being witness to and living with and through him the true and relatable human experiences he described. The relevance of his work made the introduction perhaps more discomforting, with its unnecessary emphasis on the differences between reader/poet and listeners. Why we connect those who can pair clarity and humanity with blue-collar, self-education, is where a true lack of sophistication and a form of emotional immaturity lies. But, thanks to Hicok’s oozing sincerity, this disappointment mostly vanished by the time the last poem, “A Primer,” an ode to place and Michigan, was read. It is a testament to the English department, despite the crude and objectionable posturing, that the Kalamazoo community had a space for Hicok to come and to personally share his powerful considerations of life with emotional and intellectual authenticity.
His first poem of the evening, “life,” instantly dove deep into a skepticism of a world that pushes for higher forms of participation in structure, and Hicok voiced clear dissatisfaction in what requires “rededicating [him]self to gestures.” Yet he avoided sounding cynical and it was easy to listen and to feel the movement, the shifting of authority, of authenticity, from the “institution of higher learning” to the Hicok’s personal and individual experience.
His messages were clear, the mood and tone set in every poem and in every pause in between. After his second poem, the insomnia inspired “Busy day of my Nights” he gripped the podium and admitted, “I hate poetry readings.” The presentation was touching, emotive, and funny—he filled the space mostly with comments about filling the space so that nervous giggles were suddenly soothing, expected, and part of the experience.
All his poems, all that was his presence—gestures, diction, humility, created a feeling of being witness to and living with and through him the true and relatable human experiences he described. The relevance of his work made the introduction perhaps more discomforting, with its unnecessary emphasis on the differences between reader/poet and listeners. Why we connect those who can pair clarity and humanity with blue-collar, self-education, is where a true lack of sophistication and a form of emotional immaturity lies. But, thanks to Hicok’s oozing sincerity, this disappointment mostly vanished by the time the last poem, “A Primer,” an ode to place and Michigan, was read. It is a testament to the English department, despite the crude and objectionable posturing, that the Kalamazoo community had a space for Hicok to come and to personally share his powerful considerations of life with emotional and intellectual authenticity.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Documentary Reviews
After watching and reviewing "Taxi to the Dark Side" I am really interested in watching and reviewing more documentaries. Check this review out.
What do you think?
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/02/11/movies/11grea.html?ref=movies
What do you think?
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/02/11/movies/11grea.html?ref=movies
Monday, February 9, 2009
Hollywood and Bollywood: A recipe for bliss
by Jacqueline Rogers
She is smiling in brilliant orange. Amidst the dirty streets a goddess in flowing layers of mango-colored fabric is smiling and serene. Radiance flows from the oranges, saffron’s, purples, and blues of people passing where she stands, the train station in Mumbai’s chaotic streets. But this is a world of contrast, of contradiction; this is a story of love versus the self-preservation of poverty and the poverty of self-preservation. Look up for a moment and darkness looms; anger and violence ready to destroy the warm smile, a darkly grinning brother ready to sacrifice love to fight for control of his pithy life.
For anyone who has dismissed Bollywood, reconsider with the charm it adds to Slumdog Millionaire. Slumdog Millionaire is just as colorful, dazzling, and admired as the films created in Mumbai (Bollywood is hugely popular in other parts of the world. It sold 3.6 billion tickets last year; Hollywood 2.6 billion) but its clever structure avoids many of the clichés and corniness that have long kept Bollywood movies out of American popular culture. Directors Danny Boyle and Loveleen Tandan seem to have tailored this hybrid of Bollywood and Hollywood for American viewers on tough times.
Charming British actor Dev Patel plays Jamal Malik, an 18 year-old orphan from the slums of Mumbai, who is just one question away from winning a fortune of 20 million rupees on India's “Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?” Arrested on suspicion of cheating, he is taken to suffer in a dingy police station and tells them this incredible story, moving from the slums of Mumbai and back again for the girl he loves and keeps losing, Latika. The film moves from game-show question to flashback, leading a journey of Jamal’s tragic and vibrant life to show how he, a slumdog and chai-wallah, came to know the answers to the Millionaire show’s questions.
The story is partly predictable but its convention only comforts. Everywhere else in the film is the adventure; Boyle and Tandan manage to keep a taste of India at the film’s center yet westernize the overall production, with producer Christian Colson. The brilliant colors are pure India, as are most of the film’s young and talented stars, three for each of the main characters as the story builds from childhood to late adolescence. The strongest element in the film is the visual, and cinematographer Anthony Dod Mantle captures Slumdog’s playful and shadowy spirits with a vibrancy and variety of angles that doesn’t feel too contrived. The richness of the different perspectives coupled with a fun and heart-pounding music selection keeps eyes and ears dilated, eager for more life and intensity to resonate from the screen.
At times, slight tension can be felt in the attempts to reconcile Western drama/comedy and Indian Bollywood magical realism. The storyline sometimes begs a question of plausibility. Luckily, the weakest storyline moment of the film is intelligently placed in one of the more endearing montages, when the brothers magically become fluent in English while scamming Western tourists at the Taj Mahal.
Some criticism claims an irresponsible romanticism of slums and poverty, but, a bit sadly, is almost the point. It is not unlike Nike ads idealizing American black ghetto life to sell an image of rags-to-riches basketball superstars. Slumdog relies on the predestined being reassuring. It's the American dream packaged for some Indian spice. Hollywood and Bollywood, the perfect recipe for a depressed public. India still occupies a space in the American psyche as achingly raw and beautiful, magical, a land of elephants. Right now, it's what is digestible. And Boyle and Tandan made Slumdog gobble-able—like a starving pack of economically depressed wolves, we are ready to tear into anything joyful.
Bollywood films, for many Americans, have run along a thin line of simplicity that can feel insulting. But in this case, the formulaic fairytale is welcomed in the beauty and spirit of India. Slumdog Millionaire releases a sort of poignant exuberance that the American film industry has not produced in what feels like decades. Slumdog is neatly packaged bliss-in-a-box and brilliant in its energy and its timing—America sure needs something to smile about.
She is smiling in brilliant orange. Amidst the dirty streets a goddess in flowing layers of mango-colored fabric is smiling and serene. Radiance flows from the oranges, saffron’s, purples, and blues of people passing where she stands, the train station in Mumbai’s chaotic streets. But this is a world of contrast, of contradiction; this is a story of love versus the self-preservation of poverty and the poverty of self-preservation. Look up for a moment and darkness looms; anger and violence ready to destroy the warm smile, a darkly grinning brother ready to sacrifice love to fight for control of his pithy life.
For anyone who has dismissed Bollywood, reconsider with the charm it adds to Slumdog Millionaire. Slumdog Millionaire is just as colorful, dazzling, and admired as the films created in Mumbai (Bollywood is hugely popular in other parts of the world. It sold 3.6 billion tickets last year; Hollywood 2.6 billion) but its clever structure avoids many of the clichés and corniness that have long kept Bollywood movies out of American popular culture. Directors Danny Boyle and Loveleen Tandan seem to have tailored this hybrid of Bollywood and Hollywood for American viewers on tough times.
Charming British actor Dev Patel plays Jamal Malik, an 18 year-old orphan from the slums of Mumbai, who is just one question away from winning a fortune of 20 million rupees on India's “Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?” Arrested on suspicion of cheating, he is taken to suffer in a dingy police station and tells them this incredible story, moving from the slums of Mumbai and back again for the girl he loves and keeps losing, Latika. The film moves from game-show question to flashback, leading a journey of Jamal’s tragic and vibrant life to show how he, a slumdog and chai-wallah, came to know the answers to the Millionaire show’s questions.
The story is partly predictable but its convention only comforts. Everywhere else in the film is the adventure; Boyle and Tandan manage to keep a taste of India at the film’s center yet westernize the overall production, with producer Christian Colson. The brilliant colors are pure India, as are most of the film’s young and talented stars, three for each of the main characters as the story builds from childhood to late adolescence. The strongest element in the film is the visual, and cinematographer Anthony Dod Mantle captures Slumdog’s playful and shadowy spirits with a vibrancy and variety of angles that doesn’t feel too contrived. The richness of the different perspectives coupled with a fun and heart-pounding music selection keeps eyes and ears dilated, eager for more life and intensity to resonate from the screen.
At times, slight tension can be felt in the attempts to reconcile Western drama/comedy and Indian Bollywood magical realism. The storyline sometimes begs a question of plausibility. Luckily, the weakest storyline moment of the film is intelligently placed in one of the more endearing montages, when the brothers magically become fluent in English while scamming Western tourists at the Taj Mahal.
Some criticism claims an irresponsible romanticism of slums and poverty, but, a bit sadly, is almost the point. It is not unlike Nike ads idealizing American black ghetto life to sell an image of rags-to-riches basketball superstars. Slumdog relies on the predestined being reassuring. It's the American dream packaged for some Indian spice. Hollywood and Bollywood, the perfect recipe for a depressed public. India still occupies a space in the American psyche as achingly raw and beautiful, magical, a land of elephants. Right now, it's what is digestible. And Boyle and Tandan made Slumdog gobble-able—like a starving pack of economically depressed wolves, we are ready to tear into anything joyful.
Bollywood films, for many Americans, have run along a thin line of simplicity that can feel insulting. But in this case, the formulaic fairytale is welcomed in the beauty and spirit of India. Slumdog Millionaire releases a sort of poignant exuberance that the American film industry has not produced in what feels like decades. Slumdog is neatly packaged bliss-in-a-box and brilliant in its energy and its timing—America sure needs something to smile about.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Slumdog Millionaire Enchants and brings some needed Bliss to the US
For anyone who has the desire to experience a bona fide Bollywood film, Slumdog Millionaire is not your answer. Slumdog Millionaire is just as colorful, dazzling, and admired as the films created in Mumbai (Bollywood sold 3.6 billion tickets last year; Hollywood 2.6 billion) but its clever structure avoids many of the clichés and corniness that have long kept Bollywood movies out of American favor.
British actor Dev Patel plays Jamal Malik, an 18 year-old orphan from the slums of Mumbai, who is just one question away from winning a the fortune of 20 million rupees on India's “Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?” Arrested on suspicion of cheating, he is taken by the police and tells them the incredible story of his life: from the slums of Mumbai and back again, and of the girl he loves and keeps losing, Latika, played by the beautiful and mostly convincing Frieda Pinto. The film moves from game-show question to flashback, leading a journey of Jamal’s dynamic, tragic, and vibrant life to show how is it he, a slumdog and chai-wallah, knows all the answers to the game show questions.
Amazingly, directors Danny Boyle and Loveleen Tandan (co-director India) manage to keep a taste of India at the films center yet westernize the overall production, with producer Christian Colson. The brilliant colors are pure India, as are most of the film’s young and talented stars, three for each character as the story builds from childhood to late adolescence. Slight tension can be felt, however, in the attempts to reconcile Western drama/comedy an Indian Bollywood magical realism. The storyline begs the questions of its level of plausibility. Luckily, the weakest moment of the film is intelligently placed in one of the more endearing montages, when the brothers magically become fluent in English while scamming Western tourists at the Taj Mahal.
The strongest element in the film is the visuals, and cinematographer Anthony Dod Mantle captures Slumdog’s playful and shadowy spirits with a vibrancy and variety of angles that doesn’t feel too contrived. The richness of the different perspective coupled with a fun and heart-pounding music selection keeps eyes and ears dilated, eager for more life and intensity to resonate from the screen. Bollywood films, for many Americans, run along a thin line of being annoying with characteristic simplicity and perky humor that this modernized rags-to-riches fairytale does well to avoid. Instead, Slumdog Millionaire releases a sort of poignant exuberance that the American film industry has not produced in what feels like decades. Slumdog is brilliant in its exuberance and its timing—America sure needs something to smile about.
British actor Dev Patel plays Jamal Malik, an 18 year-old orphan from the slums of Mumbai, who is just one question away from winning a the fortune of 20 million rupees on India's “Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?” Arrested on suspicion of cheating, he is taken by the police and tells them the incredible story of his life: from the slums of Mumbai and back again, and of the girl he loves and keeps losing, Latika, played by the beautiful and mostly convincing Frieda Pinto. The film moves from game-show question to flashback, leading a journey of Jamal’s dynamic, tragic, and vibrant life to show how is it he, a slumdog and chai-wallah, knows all the answers to the game show questions.
Amazingly, directors Danny Boyle and Loveleen Tandan (co-director India) manage to keep a taste of India at the films center yet westernize the overall production, with producer Christian Colson. The brilliant colors are pure India, as are most of the film’s young and talented stars, three for each character as the story builds from childhood to late adolescence. Slight tension can be felt, however, in the attempts to reconcile Western drama/comedy an Indian Bollywood magical realism. The storyline begs the questions of its level of plausibility. Luckily, the weakest moment of the film is intelligently placed in one of the more endearing montages, when the brothers magically become fluent in English while scamming Western tourists at the Taj Mahal.
The strongest element in the film is the visuals, and cinematographer Anthony Dod Mantle captures Slumdog’s playful and shadowy spirits with a vibrancy and variety of angles that doesn’t feel too contrived. The richness of the different perspective coupled with a fun and heart-pounding music selection keeps eyes and ears dilated, eager for more life and intensity to resonate from the screen. Bollywood films, for many Americans, run along a thin line of being annoying with characteristic simplicity and perky humor that this modernized rags-to-riches fairytale does well to avoid. Instead, Slumdog Millionaire releases a sort of poignant exuberance that the American film industry has not produced in what feels like decades. Slumdog is brilliant in its exuberance and its timing—America sure needs something to smile about.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Wilde-ly Witty: Critics are a catch
"Criticism is itself an art."
This is one of the main arguments in Oscar Wilde's critical dialogue. The Critic as Artist defends criticism as an art, as well as a "record of one's own soul," with witty dialectical dialogue (betwen Ernest and Gilbert) and thoughtful arguments. This theoretical dialogue uses prime examples to discuss many elements, such as criticism as an art form, the true definition of a critic, criticism's value over art, and more.
ERNEST. But what are the two supreme and highest arts?
GILBERT. Life and Literature, life and the perfect expression of
life.
I love this. Their dialogue is so indulgent and full of life. I could hear their voices in my head as I read along. I think Wilde uses this form to write about because it mirrors the conversation between critic and artist that has existed (well, at least) since the Greeks. It would be hard to talk about criticism and have a lot of authority without having a critical voice for your own argument built in. This type of writing helps both the reader and writer fill in the holes of the argument as well as humanize the whole process of thinking about the subject.
Along with the central theme of the importance of the critic, Gilbert espouses the significance of the individual. The person makes the times; the times do not make the person. Art, for Wilde, is supremely individualistic and there is no universal truth or goodness in any art, it is the person, the critic, who makes it as one thing or another. Gilbert seems to dismiss all qualities that we would associate with some kind of absolute in art. Art, and the criticism of Art, for the general individual and especially for Wilde, seems to be the source of honesty because it is whatever the soul, the person finds in it.
This is one of the main arguments in Oscar Wilde's critical dialogue. The Critic as Artist defends criticism as an art, as well as a "record of one's own soul," with witty dialectical dialogue (betwen Ernest and Gilbert) and thoughtful arguments. This theoretical dialogue uses prime examples to discuss many elements, such as criticism as an art form, the true definition of a critic, criticism's value over art, and more.
ERNEST. But what are the two supreme and highest arts?
GILBERT. Life and Literature, life and the perfect expression of
life.
I love this. Their dialogue is so indulgent and full of life. I could hear their voices in my head as I read along. I think Wilde uses this form to write about because it mirrors the conversation between critic and artist that has existed (well, at least) since the Greeks. It would be hard to talk about criticism and have a lot of authority without having a critical voice for your own argument built in. This type of writing helps both the reader and writer fill in the holes of the argument as well as humanize the whole process of thinking about the subject.
Along with the central theme of the importance of the critic, Gilbert espouses the significance of the individual. The person makes the times; the times do not make the person. Art, for Wilde, is supremely individualistic and there is no universal truth or goodness in any art, it is the person, the critic, who makes it as one thing or another. Gilbert seems to dismiss all qualities that we would associate with some kind of absolute in art. Art, and the criticism of Art, for the general individual and especially for Wilde, seems to be the source of honesty because it is whatever the soul, the person finds in it.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Elements of Style (post #2)
Usually I hate hearing the same thing over and over again. For some reason, I don't feel that way about this book. Even though I know I have learned all of these writing tools over the years, its almost reassuring to have them all in black and white in this book in front of me.
This is another inspiring rule I want to keep pushing myself to do every paragraph.
Begin each paragraph with a topic sentence; end it in conformity with the beginning.
simple, no? Not for those of us who are organizationally challenged. I usually don't doubt my ability to think deeply and widely, but I really douby my ability to effectively organize those thoughts. From the beginning to the end of a paragraph and will get lost in all the things I want to say with each word/sentence, or what I want the bigger picture to be, that I lose the ability to craft a simple thought well. I lose the ability to start and finish an idea so that I can move on, point clearly stated.
This is another inspiring rule I want to keep pushing myself to do every paragraph.
Begin each paragraph with a topic sentence; end it in conformity with the beginning.
simple, no? Not for those of us who are organizationally challenged. I usually don't doubt my ability to think deeply and widely, but I really douby my ability to effectively organize those thoughts. From the beginning to the end of a paragraph and will get lost in all the things I want to say with each word/sentence, or what I want the bigger picture to be, that I lose the ability to craft a simple thought well. I lose the ability to start and finish an idea so that I can move on, point clearly stated.
Elements of Style
This is brilliant. It really inspires me that someone can write so concisely. Here is the example I just read in Elements of Style:
Example 1 (55 words): Macbeth was very ambitious. This led him to wish to become king of Scotland. The witches told him that this wish of his would come true. The king of Scotland at this time was Duncan. Encouraged by his wife, Macbeth murdered Duncan. He was thus enabled to succeed Duncan as king.
Example 2 (26 words): Encouraged by his wife, Macbeth achieved his ambition and realized the prediction of the witches by murdering Duncan and becoming king of Scotland in his place.
I really have found it hard to concentrate on concise writing while also having an appropriate amount and depth of the content. A good review, our wise professor told us, really needs to function in many ways for the reader; it should inform, entertain, and advocate for the consumers interests. It also should be relevant and organized. After reading this book, and being inspired in particular by the concise writing element, I realize that a focus on my words- choice, conciseness, and other technicalities will allow me greater space and flexibility in the content of my reviews.
Having said this, I know I also need to spend more time actually writing, editing, re-writing, etc. I have to work at this, its not so natural for me.
Example 1 (55 words): Macbeth was very ambitious. This led him to wish to become king of Scotland. The witches told him that this wish of his would come true. The king of Scotland at this time was Duncan. Encouraged by his wife, Macbeth murdered Duncan. He was thus enabled to succeed Duncan as king.
Example 2 (26 words): Encouraged by his wife, Macbeth achieved his ambition and realized the prediction of the witches by murdering Duncan and becoming king of Scotland in his place.
I really have found it hard to concentrate on concise writing while also having an appropriate amount and depth of the content. A good review, our wise professor told us, really needs to function in many ways for the reader; it should inform, entertain, and advocate for the consumers interests. It also should be relevant and organized. After reading this book, and being inspired in particular by the concise writing element, I realize that a focus on my words- choice, conciseness, and other technicalities will allow me greater space and flexibility in the content of my reviews.
Having said this, I know I also need to spend more time actually writing, editing, re-writing, etc. I have to work at this, its not so natural for me.
Monday, January 26, 2009
The Worst of the Worst: Gibney holds up a mirror to show America its dark side
“This is what we did.” –American Soldier
A grainy video of a man handcuffed and unclothed in a dirty dim-lighted prison hallway. He is beating his head against the wall. Blood appears and the man sinks to his knees. Where is this disgustingly cruel place? Under what form of power could this sort of despair be produced?
Who is to blame?
To answer that question, Alex Gibney directed and narrated “Taxi to the Dark Side,” a haunting documentary tracing the hypocrisy and cruelty of the United States government imprisoning and torturing in the post-9/11 occupations of Iraq and Afghanistan. The “dark side” is brutal, as Gibney makes sure to show both the stomach-clenching images of cruelty by ground-level American forces as well the vicious techniques and shameful maneuvers of merciless set of American leaders.
In the beginning, beautiful images of Afghanistan and haunting Arab classical music pierce the eyes and the soul, and Dilawar, an Afghani man imprisoned and killed in Bagram Prison, is introduced. His story, used throughout the film, is clear to demonstrate that cruelty is cruelty regardless of the flag it’s under and despite by whom the power of and for justification is exercised. Real footage of Bush, Cheney, Rumsfield, and various high-ranking officers are masterfully intertwined with the images of a quiet and rural Afghanistan of Dilawar’s grieving family, showing the contrast between the powerful and the powerless. Throughout the scenes of Dilwar’s family and the Afghan countryside, Gibeny and Eva Orner, the talented Australian producer, skillfully weave a picture of a destroyed simplicity of life, of a profound sadness, and of the extent to which the United States Government was just outright wrong.
Many military personal that worked in Bagram prison in Afghanistan, where Dilawar was taken, and Guantanamo Bay, are interviewed in or surrounded by black shadows. The shadows are an important visual reminder of the moral confusion surrounding their position along the spectrum of responsibility. Are they guilty for following orders? Are they guilty for reproducing the brutality they were surrounded by and encouraged to do? Most of their comments seem to be answering questions regarding their own involvement in the humiliation and torture of prisoners in a context of Gibney’s central question: who is to blame?
Accusations move from resentment towards direct superiors (“we were told they were less than dogs” and “they wanted these people to be guilty”) to self-blame (should have gone with my own morality”) to anger at being manipulated and used by the administration. The brilliance of these interviews is that they capture their dissonance –the betrayal, coupled with shame, these soldiers feel. It is enough of an internal discord to incriminate the very institution they served and suffered for.
With these interviews, it becomes clear that Gibney wants to show that the leaders of the United States government did not just justify torture, death, war, murder, and human brutality that was occurring, they worked to create it and then let their own take the fall.
With this film, Gibney makes it compulsory that all of America can no longer deny it. “This is what we did.”
A grainy video of a man handcuffed and unclothed in a dirty dim-lighted prison hallway. He is beating his head against the wall. Blood appears and the man sinks to his knees. Where is this disgustingly cruel place? Under what form of power could this sort of despair be produced?
Who is to blame?
To answer that question, Alex Gibney directed and narrated “Taxi to the Dark Side,” a haunting documentary tracing the hypocrisy and cruelty of the United States government imprisoning and torturing in the post-9/11 occupations of Iraq and Afghanistan. The “dark side” is brutal, as Gibney makes sure to show both the stomach-clenching images of cruelty by ground-level American forces as well the vicious techniques and shameful maneuvers of merciless set of American leaders.
In the beginning, beautiful images of Afghanistan and haunting Arab classical music pierce the eyes and the soul, and Dilawar, an Afghani man imprisoned and killed in Bagram Prison, is introduced. His story, used throughout the film, is clear to demonstrate that cruelty is cruelty regardless of the flag it’s under and despite by whom the power of and for justification is exercised. Real footage of Bush, Cheney, Rumsfield, and various high-ranking officers are masterfully intertwined with the images of a quiet and rural Afghanistan of Dilawar’s grieving family, showing the contrast between the powerful and the powerless. Throughout the scenes of Dilwar’s family and the Afghan countryside, Gibeny and Eva Orner, the talented Australian producer, skillfully weave a picture of a destroyed simplicity of life, of a profound sadness, and of the extent to which the United States Government was just outright wrong.
Many military personal that worked in Bagram prison in Afghanistan, where Dilawar was taken, and Guantanamo Bay, are interviewed in or surrounded by black shadows. The shadows are an important visual reminder of the moral confusion surrounding their position along the spectrum of responsibility. Are they guilty for following orders? Are they guilty for reproducing the brutality they were surrounded by and encouraged to do? Most of their comments seem to be answering questions regarding their own involvement in the humiliation and torture of prisoners in a context of Gibney’s central question: who is to blame?
Accusations move from resentment towards direct superiors (“we were told they were less than dogs” and “they wanted these people to be guilty”) to self-blame (should have gone with my own morality”) to anger at being manipulated and used by the administration. The brilliance of these interviews is that they capture their dissonance –the betrayal, coupled with shame, these soldiers feel. It is enough of an internal discord to incriminate the very institution they served and suffered for.
With these interviews, it becomes clear that Gibney wants to show that the leaders of the United States government did not just justify torture, death, war, murder, and human brutality that was occurring, they worked to create it and then let their own take the fall.
With this film, Gibney makes it compulsory that all of America can no longer deny it. “This is what we did.”
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Giving Grades
For the first review, I would give myself a C+/B-. My review lacks a lot of the elements it needs to be a successful well-rounded review that comments on the elements of the film as well as a cultural critique. I could also work on being consise, which involves finding the right word and slowing down as I write. I think reviewing will continue to be incredibly challenging for me because of the 500-word limit that needs to be inclusive of so many elements. As for the positives, my critique is interesting enough and relevent to today. My writing is not horrendus and it shows potential. It is exciting to think that I could improve in writing clarity before the end of this class.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Live From Baghdad Bombs Moral Depth
Live from CNN, the bombing of Baghdad! In 2003, flashes of green light lit up the television screen. The re-invasion of Iraq, the second act of the violent drama of Bush politics, was broadcast through the same portal that brought "The Bachelor" and "Family Guy." Although the internet is usually blamed for the shrinking of the world, it was the ancient technology of televisions, the staying power of the visual image, that haunts. And while it haunted some and excited others, the news stations bring in the cash. This is from a report on the networks numbers during the Iraq War, focusing on after the bombing of Baghdad in 2003.
Comparing viewership to from prewar to postwar, MSNBC say a 357 jump in ratings, while CNN when up to 305, and Fox News climbed 239 percent, according to Nielsen numbers. In overall numbers, Fox News was number one, followed by CNN, and the MSNBC.Money of that kind should lift eyebrows and prompt some ethical questions.
And while "Live From Baghdad" tries to come off as sophisticated and ethically sensitive to these questions, it ends with the feeling of being lured into eating a wormy apple. Its shiny and juicy-looking on the outside but disappointing inside. Disappointing enough to make the movie about as half as powerful as it could be. As Keaton and Carter drink and flirt throughout the film, there are brief pauses of reflection--on life, on deception, and on their power to influence the public. Although the touch questions are pondered ("Who are we to say what it means?" A reference to a story pushed by Keaton and Carter) they are quickly dismissed with cynical one-liners. "If we had had the technology, Hitler would have been on Meet the Press." Another piece of the film Keaton is bothered by the supposed capture of a man they interviewed they filmed while knowing the risk to doing so. Although these dilemmas are intriguing, the performance of the emotions felt contrived.
However, the drum music surrounding Saddam Hussein's appearances in the movie was menacing and effective. Real emotions stirred, and the tension and danger was felt. Some credibility was restored to the authenticity of the story by the smart use of real news clips of Bush One and Saddam, but not enough. It was hard to take the script seriously after it was clear that the primarily purpose of the film was not history education but CNN propaganda.
Images of Bush One making hard threatening statements about Saddam and towards Iraq was creepy and reminiscent of the hellish mistakes of Bush Two. As the credits rolled, "Saddam Hussien is still in power," came on the screen. Made in 2002, director Mick Jackson might have had an idea of what was to come, or might not have, but either way the end of the film leaves a sense that CNN is not on the side of the people, but the cash and the drama.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
The Bands Visit
http://www.israel-on-blog.com/a-movie-you-must-see-the-bands-visit/
This is a really interesting movie. The context is complicated but the plot is deliberatly and powerfully simple. An Egyptain police band of characters gets lost in the middle of nowhere in Isreal and people connect and collide. I had not heard of it when I watched it over break with family. I was googling it to see what information/reviews I could find and I came across this website that has a youtube clip, PLUS more importantly, an incredible statement from the director/script writer. Here is a piece of that statement: "A lot of movies have been made touching on the question of why there is no peace, but it seems that fewer have been made about the question of why we need peace in the first place. The obvious is lost on us in the midst of conversations centering on economic advantages and interests." See this movie or at least read what Eran Kolirin has to say.
This is a really interesting movie. The context is complicated but the plot is deliberatly and powerfully simple. An Egyptain police band of characters gets lost in the middle of nowhere in Isreal and people connect and collide. I had not heard of it when I watched it over break with family. I was googling it to see what information/reviews I could find and I came across this website that has a youtube clip, PLUS more importantly, an incredible statement from the director/script writer. Here is a piece of that statement: "A lot of movies have been made touching on the question of why there is no peace, but it seems that fewer have been made about the question of why we need peace in the first place. The obvious is lost on us in the midst of conversations centering on economic advantages and interests." See this movie or at least read what Eran Kolirin has to say.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Embarrassing
Hello all. This is a link I should have used: http://ww2.hmongtoday.com/ to gather information on the Hmong people before writing the article. I was critical but trusted my spelling of the word after googling it and verifying with all the others who ignorantly spelled Hmong incorrectly. I didn't do my research--a real example of the internet being a bad source when used as the end of information. But it is an interesting website, and since I spouted off in my review about Eastwood not quite dealing with race and intolerance as he had the opportunity too, let's take what he gave us and educate ourselves. Oh embarrassing.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Eastwood, Gran Torino misses the mark
by Jacqueline Rogers
The opening scene of Gran Torino shows a wrinkly Clint Eastwood, main character and director of the film, as Walt Kowalski, the gruff and grunting widower, grunting over his children and grandchildren. As is the cliché, they whisper about how old and rigid “dad” is, chew gum and wear belly shirts to their grandmothers funeral, and plot how to get “grandpa” to give over the Gran Torino when he croaks.
Walt is a veteran of the Korean War still scarred both physically and mentally by the destruction and death. His racism is obvious (and apparently explainable by his participation in the war) as he continues his grunting at his next-door neighbors, a Hmong family with plenty of traditional practices for an old man to squawk at. Walt is unhappy and the audience gathers that in the first few scenes.
I could say the plot is confused, old, and slightly racist and leave it, but I won’t because there actually is some credit to be given. Some credit should go to Eastwood for trying to appeal to a group in his generation that has struggled with “change.” Plus, although Eastwood surrounded himself by amateur actors that probably help this create this praise, his performance is surprisingly good for what could have possibly been one of the simpler characters to play in any of his films. Unfortunately for him, this film should not be and cannot be about Eastwood’s appeal. It is unsettling that his racist remarks and violent outbursts are the most charming moments in the movie. In fact, there is a striking lack of complexity that makes the race issues obviously and disturbingly generation baby-boomer and beyond. In a movie about someone needing to change, there is no real pressure on the audience to do so.
If the audience wants to look for something deep and meaningful, they should look outside of this film, at age/generation conflicts in portraying race issues. It might be overstated, but Obama did challenge the public and force some honest conversations. This film makes it feel as if that never happened, or at least, it didn’t mean the same thing to the older folks around. Sure, race is the most obvious catalyst in the film, but you can tell Eastwood did not feel comfortable making a big statement about American racism, the Hmong people, or white intolerance. Physical violence and cruelty are the most serious moments of the film and they are mostly not about race. The jokes are about race. It feels very John McCain, well intentioned but clueless and irresponsible.
What bothers me most is that Eastwood has many relevant meaningful issues to address but none of them amount to anything. Instead, Eastwood and Gran Torino preserves some sort of slightly delusional war hero romanticism that I bet my father and his Midwestern peers will go crazy for. It is a story of the heroic white man that sacrifices himself for the good of the non-white. But to save it from that old imperialist feel, there is a lesson intertwined about mutual understanding and respect, and everyone learns something about friendship and humanity. I suppose we can teach an old dog new tricks as long as the glorified old dog happens to be racist, depressed, angry, violent, and, oh yah, a really good person at heart.
The opening scene of Gran Torino shows a wrinkly Clint Eastwood, main character and director of the film, as Walt Kowalski, the gruff and grunting widower, grunting over his children and grandchildren. As is the cliché, they whisper about how old and rigid “dad” is, chew gum and wear belly shirts to their grandmothers funeral, and plot how to get “grandpa” to give over the Gran Torino when he croaks.
Walt is a veteran of the Korean War still scarred both physically and mentally by the destruction and death. His racism is obvious (and apparently explainable by his participation in the war) as he continues his grunting at his next-door neighbors, a Hmong family with plenty of traditional practices for an old man to squawk at. Walt is unhappy and the audience gathers that in the first few scenes.
I could say the plot is confused, old, and slightly racist and leave it, but I won’t because there actually is some credit to be given. Some credit should go to Eastwood for trying to appeal to a group in his generation that has struggled with “change.” Plus, although Eastwood surrounded himself by amateur actors that probably help this create this praise, his performance is surprisingly good for what could have possibly been one of the simpler characters to play in any of his films. Unfortunately for him, this film should not be and cannot be about Eastwood’s appeal. It is unsettling that his racist remarks and violent outbursts are the most charming moments in the movie. In fact, there is a striking lack of complexity that makes the race issues obviously and disturbingly generation baby-boomer and beyond. In a movie about someone needing to change, there is no real pressure on the audience to do so.
If the audience wants to look for something deep and meaningful, they should look outside of this film, at age/generation conflicts in portraying race issues. It might be overstated, but Obama did challenge the public and force some honest conversations. This film makes it feel as if that never happened, or at least, it didn’t mean the same thing to the older folks around. Sure, race is the most obvious catalyst in the film, but you can tell Eastwood did not feel comfortable making a big statement about American racism, the Hmong people, or white intolerance. Physical violence and cruelty are the most serious moments of the film and they are mostly not about race. The jokes are about race. It feels very John McCain, well intentioned but clueless and irresponsible.
What bothers me most is that Eastwood has many relevant meaningful issues to address but none of them amount to anything. Instead, Eastwood and Gran Torino preserves some sort of slightly delusional war hero romanticism that I bet my father and his Midwestern peers will go crazy for. It is a story of the heroic white man that sacrifices himself for the good of the non-white. But to save it from that old imperialist feel, there is a lesson intertwined about mutual understanding and respect, and everyone learns something about friendship and humanity. I suppose we can teach an old dog new tricks as long as the glorified old dog happens to be racist, depressed, angry, violent, and, oh yah, a really good person at heart.
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