In case you're wondering how I've been managing to post two or three times a day while I'm ostensibly in the middle of moving, well, it's because all my 40-odd boxes of books, 20-odd boxes of kitchen paraphernalia, and 6 or 8 boxes of by-now-rumpled clothing have long since been loaded on a truck which, according to legend, is circling the mid-Atlantic states, unable, for reasons that are both infuriating and mysterious to me, to arrive at my soon-to-be apartment. And so, I have two things on my daily agenda: a)Pester the moving company to death until they agree to deliver my stuff on a date that doesn't coincide with my first day of work (which I've already had to push back a week)and b)muse endlessly in this delicious public forum in which brown rabbits tan (and read other people's blogs too, of course).
That said, I am prompted to write another wad of jumbled thinking after having had some Emmy clips on the news this morning pass through my pre-coffee optic nerves(last night, I was at the theatre watching Quinceanera as per previous post and so, I missed them-- and also, I didn't care that much.). In particular, I was amused that Conan O'Brien spoofed that Dateline Internet predator show-- and then reading Morgan's post this morning reminded me that I, too, have a bone to pick with the televisionosphere (hey, if there's a blogosphere...then that word was just waiting, in lingo-limbo, to be coined.).
Namely, the aforementioned Dateline Humiliation-Inducing Machinery. This show employs age-old--and information-age savvy--methods of entrapment so as to lure fucked-up adult men into a scenario in which they are led to believe they will engage in some variety of sexual contact with a teenage kid. Before anyone has an opportunity to accuse me of harboring any of the typical namby-pamby, liberal, sympathy-for-the-criminal kinda of bullshit in my (yes, it bleeds) heart, I should say that I do not think that these creepy men are doing a good thing, per se. No, it's pretty icky to think about 60-year-old guys trying to get it on with 12-year-olds. Even though our culture incessantly validates mens' desire for pubescent flesh. Even though 100 years ago, the concept of "teenager" didn't exist because, once you hit puberty, you WERE an adult. Even though it seem within reason, given halfway decent sex-ed and parental guidance in all things sexual, to equip kids with some tools to prevent them from becoming victims. But, yeah, I mean, I'd be pretty damn hard-pressed to justify an argument for thinking these people were good guys-- it's just that this particular TV show is so over-the-top amoral, in so many ways, that there simply MUST be a better way to catch them.
Okay, so Complaint #1: Not since the popularity of the shock-jock variety of TV talk show (por ejemplo, Jerry Spring, Rikki Lake, et al)in the 90s has it been so socially acceptable to admit to watching people be humiliated on national television. And this show is worse because Dateline presents this crap as "news." Not only are we given the opportunity to feel luxuriously superior from the comfort of our own sofas, but we get to deny these men the right to a fair, unbiased trial. Isn't that great? I mean, yeah, I get it-- these guys are either deeply psychologically damaged or deviant or problematically out-of-touch with legally sanctioned social mores or some combination thereof-- but they're still fucking people! I mean, do we not owe our fellow humans the right to not be vitiated before such a massive receiving line? Please! We actually have a judicial system for that!
Complaint #2: Is it possible for the American public to be any more saturated with fear? Seriously? Kansans are scared to death the French are gonna drop H-bombs on their local barbecue stands. Many residents of Cuyahoga county in Ohio are clearly worried that their mailboxes have been dusted with cutaneous Anthrax. And, well, even I entwine my keys in my fingers if I have to walk to my car, alone, in public, at night. So, really, how necessary is it to encourage the fear in parents that our children are all doomed to suffer some variety of molestation at the hands of a stranger, an internet predator? Shows like this do little besides foment anxieties that a few focused, heartfelt parent/child conferences should assuage. Fair enough, I don't have a kid and I've never internalized the concern that most parents feel for their offspring, but c'mon! Tell your kids that talking to strangers on the internet is the same thing as talking to strangers in real life! What's the big deal? But then, so long as we're paralyzed with this variety of terror, we don't have to worry about any more amorphous-because-they-live-in-Asia bogeymen, like, say, Kim Jong Il! Thank you, main-stream "liberal" media, for that!
Complaint #3: Well, I'd intended to break complaint #1 into two things: firstly, why humiliating pedaphiles on TV is not only stupidly ineffective in terms of bringing about legal justice, but supremely disrespectful-- and secondly, why it's kinda twisted, in its own right, that the TV-viewing public allows its own ego to be self-righteously massaged while consuming this news-media-generated sewage as though it were entertaining. But I kinda covered all that in Complaint #1 so there's no point in reiterating. Even though I just did. Again. So much for blog-post organization.
I really feel that, of all the brainrot-inducing drivel we've got, this show is probably the most amoral, most unconscionably devoid of social merit, and not to mention most squirmingly uncomfortable to sit through-- and the real kicker is that it's presented as though it's doing a public service! Not that television producers have ever been remarkable for their beautiful souls, but how do they get away with this? Do they even have mirrors in their billion-dollar Hollywood mansions? I am dismayed, to say the least.
Monday, August 28, 2006
American Subculture Real Estate Wars
Generalization #1: Well-established, employed gay people tend to have a fair chunk of disposable income. Obviously, they are frequently childless and can do whatever the hell they please with their money. This is not new news. Generalization #2: Minority groups tend to congregate in older sections of cities in which the accomodations may be a little more run-down but certainly do not lack character. This is also not new news. But when these two generalizations intersect, I feel like I want to take sides--and feel pitifully ill-equipped to do so. And this is the question that Quinceanera begs.
In this movie, we see some white gay people move into a traditionally hispanic neighborhood and pour money into revamping some beautiful old properties and then, proceed to jack up the rent so that the people who've populated the area for generations are run out of their homes. On one hand, it's a shame to see these old beautiful neighborhoods fall into slums, but on the other? Well, that's obviously troubling. I've seen this kinda thing happen in Tucson-- there are sure a lotta white folks fixing up the Barrio Viejo real pretty. And here in Nashville, well, East Nashville is now so trendy, with all those restored bungalows and snappy eateries like Cafe Margot and The Family Wash that East Nashville's traditionally blue-collar African American demographic is being priced out of its own market. It's a tough question. Bringing money into these neighborhoods revitalizes them in a way that does everything from improving local public schools to providing walking-distanced organic grocery stores to local denizens but, man, what happens to the displaced?
And the really interesting thing is that this trend is setting the stage for a weird conflict between affluent white-- frequently gay--people and the communities of some racial minorities. I'm hesitant to talk about whether or not it's harder to be a gay racial minority than a white one-- and for that, I'd refer to Byron Hurt's documentary Beyond Beats and Rhymes: A Hip-Hop Head Weighs in on Manhood in Rap Music (this movie is pure genius-- I highly, highly, highly reccommend it. It's slated to be shown on PBS sometime next year but, it's rounding the film festival circuit now-- and if you get a chance, don't miss it.). But I think tensions certainly exist on that front. And it turns a situation which is, at its heart, all about socio-economic strata and class structure into a situation that pits racism against homophobia. I mean, how hard would it be to ask, which is the worse social disease? It's an impossible conundrum.
So this, among others, is the question posed in Quinceanera. The movie offers a pretty gentle treatment of both sides. Even though its central character is Magdalena,a Mexican-American pregnant teenage girl, and the audience's sympathies ostensibly lie with her, it was written and directed by a pair of homos who were inspired to make this film when asked to film their neighbor's daughter's Quinceanera party and they could not tell this story without implicating themselves. And the fact that the gay couple in the film goes to great lengths to creepily fetishize and exoticize Magdalena's gay cholo cousin doesn't help their case. And then there's the lesbian couple who fixed up another apartment in the neighborhood with travertine tile and skylights and then want to charge $1600 for 800 square feet (and to think! It's in LA, not DC... no sour grapes here!). But, in the end, the gay guys are moved upon the discovery Magdalena's uncle shrine he's built in the back yard (after they evicted him, and he subsequently died) and Magdalena is able to cut a deal with the lesbians so that her uncle can afford to live in the travertine palace. The writers are obviously invested in softening their own image-- and the effect? Well, tensions never come to a head.
Is that good? I don't know. Ideally, situations would indeed work themselves out in this fashion-- communities begin to accomodate assorted socio-economic and racial groups so as to finally, once and for all, end the de facto segregation of our American cities. But then is that actually ideal? Wouldn't we then sacrifice the idiosyncratic color of these various neighborhoods? The flavor that makes them interesting? The cultural solidarity that gives them integrity? So this movie doesn't really takes a side and neither can I. I suppose I'm more inclined to invest my sympathies with those who have more paltry financial resources than those who have their oyster-like world of choice staring them in the face. But then, I am, of course, finding myself more firmly implanted in the latter group-- and if I had the money, hell yes, I'd find a cute little house in an older neighborhood, gut it, install one hell of a kitchen, and then try to live happily ever after. I mean, do I want to live in White Flight Central (i.e. the ever-alluring, pre-fab, manicured, cultural prairie of American suburbia)? Oh, how tedious! In the end, I do no better committing my loyalties than does this movie-- and I think that may be the most logical course of action.
In this movie, we see some white gay people move into a traditionally hispanic neighborhood and pour money into revamping some beautiful old properties and then, proceed to jack up the rent so that the people who've populated the area for generations are run out of their homes. On one hand, it's a shame to see these old beautiful neighborhoods fall into slums, but on the other? Well, that's obviously troubling. I've seen this kinda thing happen in Tucson-- there are sure a lotta white folks fixing up the Barrio Viejo real pretty. And here in Nashville, well, East Nashville is now so trendy, with all those restored bungalows and snappy eateries like Cafe Margot and The Family Wash that East Nashville's traditionally blue-collar African American demographic is being priced out of its own market. It's a tough question. Bringing money into these neighborhoods revitalizes them in a way that does everything from improving local public schools to providing walking-distanced organic grocery stores to local denizens but, man, what happens to the displaced?
And the really interesting thing is that this trend is setting the stage for a weird conflict between affluent white-- frequently gay--people and the communities of some racial minorities. I'm hesitant to talk about whether or not it's harder to be a gay racial minority than a white one-- and for that, I'd refer to Byron Hurt's documentary Beyond Beats and Rhymes: A Hip-Hop Head Weighs in on Manhood in Rap Music (this movie is pure genius-- I highly, highly, highly reccommend it. It's slated to be shown on PBS sometime next year but, it's rounding the film festival circuit now-- and if you get a chance, don't miss it.). But I think tensions certainly exist on that front. And it turns a situation which is, at its heart, all about socio-economic strata and class structure into a situation that pits racism against homophobia. I mean, how hard would it be to ask, which is the worse social disease? It's an impossible conundrum.
So this, among others, is the question posed in Quinceanera. The movie offers a pretty gentle treatment of both sides. Even though its central character is Magdalena,a Mexican-American pregnant teenage girl, and the audience's sympathies ostensibly lie with her, it was written and directed by a pair of homos who were inspired to make this film when asked to film their neighbor's daughter's Quinceanera party and they could not tell this story without implicating themselves. And the fact that the gay couple in the film goes to great lengths to creepily fetishize and exoticize Magdalena's gay cholo cousin doesn't help their case. And then there's the lesbian couple who fixed up another apartment in the neighborhood with travertine tile and skylights and then want to charge $1600 for 800 square feet (and to think! It's in LA, not DC... no sour grapes here!). But, in the end, the gay guys are moved upon the discovery Magdalena's uncle shrine he's built in the back yard (after they evicted him, and he subsequently died) and Magdalena is able to cut a deal with the lesbians so that her uncle can afford to live in the travertine palace. The writers are obviously invested in softening their own image-- and the effect? Well, tensions never come to a head.
Is that good? I don't know. Ideally, situations would indeed work themselves out in this fashion-- communities begin to accomodate assorted socio-economic and racial groups so as to finally, once and for all, end the de facto segregation of our American cities. But then is that actually ideal? Wouldn't we then sacrifice the idiosyncratic color of these various neighborhoods? The flavor that makes them interesting? The cultural solidarity that gives them integrity? So this movie doesn't really takes a side and neither can I. I suppose I'm more inclined to invest my sympathies with those who have more paltry financial resources than those who have their oyster-like world of choice staring them in the face. But then, I am, of course, finding myself more firmly implanted in the latter group-- and if I had the money, hell yes, I'd find a cute little house in an older neighborhood, gut it, install one hell of a kitchen, and then try to live happily ever after. I mean, do I want to live in White Flight Central (i.e. the ever-alluring, pre-fab, manicured, cultural prairie of American suburbia)? Oh, how tedious! In the end, I do no better committing my loyalties than does this movie-- and I think that may be the most logical course of action.
Sunday, August 27, 2006
The things I do for you two.
Because I'm trying to cram in some Quality Time with Holly and Jennifer before I blow this popsicle stand, I managed to get cajoled into attending a late-nite viewing of, sigh, The Goonies last night.
Here's what Jim Ridley, my hero, says:
God only knows why this bratty, obnoxious 1985 kiddie pic has come back as one of the biggest cult movies of recent years: At the time, it was just about the worst thing Corey Feldman had ever signed his name to, let alone executive producer Steven Spielberg. An attempt to create a modern-day Little Rascals, the movie's a charmless mix of big-budget adventure, overbearing slapstick and sloppy sentiment concerning a gang of kids on the hunt for pirate loot, with a cretinous family of villains standing in their way. Maybe people have a soft spot for the crap of their youth.
I couldn't agree more, though I'm willing to hear arguments for the merit of this thing that do not have to anything do with nostalgia or water-slide fantasies. Please enlighten me. Anyone!
I say I couldn't agree more, but then, there's the notable exception of the jilted boyfriend's line, "Andi!!! You Goonie!!!!" that was passion-filled and a delightful re-envisioning of the more typical villainous utterance of, "Curses! Foiled again!" I genuinely laugh at that every time.
Oh, well, Jennifer and Holly: I do love you and perhaps you'll visit me in DC and I'll take you on a tour of Famous DC Libraries. No, I know, it's an empty threat-- it'll be shopping for clothes and make-up, as per usual.
Here's what Jim Ridley, my hero, says:
God only knows why this bratty, obnoxious 1985 kiddie pic has come back as one of the biggest cult movies of recent years: At the time, it was just about the worst thing Corey Feldman had ever signed his name to, let alone executive producer Steven Spielberg. An attempt to create a modern-day Little Rascals, the movie's a charmless mix of big-budget adventure, overbearing slapstick and sloppy sentiment concerning a gang of kids on the hunt for pirate loot, with a cretinous family of villains standing in their way. Maybe people have a soft spot for the crap of their youth.
I couldn't agree more, though I'm willing to hear arguments for the merit of this thing that do not have to anything do with nostalgia or water-slide fantasies. Please enlighten me. Anyone!
I say I couldn't agree more, but then, there's the notable exception of the jilted boyfriend's line, "Andi!!! You Goonie!!!!" that was passion-filled and a delightful re-envisioning of the more typical villainous utterance of, "Curses! Foiled again!" I genuinely laugh at that every time.
Oh, well, Jennifer and Holly: I do love you and perhaps you'll visit me in DC and I'll take you on a tour of Famous DC Libraries. No, I know, it's an empty threat-- it'll be shopping for clothes and make-up, as per usual.
Saturday, August 26, 2006
Up for discussion
Who would make a better husband, Lloyd Dobbler or David Duchovny?
I'm starting a pro/con list for each. Please feel free to contribute.
I'm starting a pro/con list for each. Please feel free to contribute.
Is Jim Ridley Fallible?
I've had more than one friend scoff at me upon my confession that I love to read movie reviews-- and other types of critical writing as well, I guess: both more and less esoteric. Mind you, I don't hear that all reviewing is wasteful and subjective and prevents you from determining your own opinion from the friends who also write the stuff, but no matter. And, mind you, my mom was a restaurant critic for, like, 15 years and, because I watched as she forced herself to eat a lot of junk she hates and then, judge it on its own merits as opposed to her personal taste, I know there's a lot more to reviewing than asserting, "My opinion is better than yours just because I have a forum." I mean, she ate 'possum, for pete's sake!
But I find it interesting and, frequently, a helpful point of entry to see how other brains process films and some of the people who do this for a living carry around such a monstrous frame of reference, such a huge film library in their heads that they can offer comparisons and point to such great conversations between different movies that I question how they could possibly be perceived as hacks simply for their choice of reviewing passions? My favorite among reviewers is Nashville's own Jim Ridley who writes for the Nashville Scene . This man is a scholar. He sees everything that comes out and rarely allows his own biases about style or subject matter color his opinions-- he comes to the movies on their own terms and is able to discuss them with a very engaging writing style.
That said, he hated Little Miss Sunshine. And I could be mistaken, but I think he gave four stars to Rob Zombie's The Devil's Rejects. So, um, he's not perfect. But I'm not sure he's 100% wrong either.
I mean, he really hated Little Miss Sunshine. He points to the characters' sit-com-like, anticipatable qualities and the film's stock attempts to describe their loser-ness. He mentions that the only way this cavalcade of n'er-do-wells can come off as heroes by the end of the movie is by presenting everyone else as people who deserve condescension. And then, of course, there's the problem of the force-fed, look-at-me-I'm-ironic-bet-you-hadn't-caught-onto-that tone. And the all-to-convenient plot devices. And the... and the...
And the problem is that Ridley's kinda right about all these things being major flaws. But, dammit, I can't hate this movie. It was fun to sit through. Steve Carell contains himself and, despite his history of playing ass-munches, he offers some of the most subtle comedy in the movie-- the way he just follows the conversations with his eyes? It's so underplayed, so careful, and not without heart. And despite the fact the movie posits that EVERY character needs a moment of crisis, it orchestrates moments like the teenage brother's devastating discovery of color-blindness in such an offhand manner that it feels authentic. Oh, and Greg Kinnear, Steve Carell and Paul Dano all lined up like the little girl's back-up dancers? The faulty car horn that becomes impromptu conversation punctuation? So smart.
However, yet another indictment on the children's beauty pageant circuit, yet another foul-mouthed grandpa, yet another smear directed at pretentious academics, yet another down-and-out motivational speaker... I dunno-- aren't these things already such tried and true targets? Wouldn't it be great if we could find some new aspects of American culture that might similarly inspire what-is-wrong-with-this-country questions? Isn't there anything new under the sun that we can skewer?
Oh, also of interest, the repeated musical motif in the movie is primarily the opening strains of the Devotchka song, "How it Ends." This song might be recognizable from the trailer for Everything is Illuminated. Basically, I just like this funny little Russian-ish-sounding band and wanted to plug them. And I think that song is gorgeous. And I was so sad when they played here at The Basement and I missed it. *sigh*
Anyway, I wish I was the preeminent Proust scholar in the U.S.!
But I find it interesting and, frequently, a helpful point of entry to see how other brains process films and some of the people who do this for a living carry around such a monstrous frame of reference, such a huge film library in their heads that they can offer comparisons and point to such great conversations between different movies that I question how they could possibly be perceived as hacks simply for their choice of reviewing passions? My favorite among reviewers is Nashville's own Jim Ridley who writes for the Nashville Scene . This man is a scholar. He sees everything that comes out and rarely allows his own biases about style or subject matter color his opinions-- he comes to the movies on their own terms and is able to discuss them with a very engaging writing style.
That said, he hated Little Miss Sunshine. And I could be mistaken, but I think he gave four stars to Rob Zombie's The Devil's Rejects. So, um, he's not perfect. But I'm not sure he's 100% wrong either.
I mean, he really hated Little Miss Sunshine. He points to the characters' sit-com-like, anticipatable qualities and the film's stock attempts to describe their loser-ness. He mentions that the only way this cavalcade of n'er-do-wells can come off as heroes by the end of the movie is by presenting everyone else as people who deserve condescension. And then, of course, there's the problem of the force-fed, look-at-me-I'm-ironic-bet-you-hadn't-caught-onto-that tone. And the all-to-convenient plot devices. And the... and the...
And the problem is that Ridley's kinda right about all these things being major flaws. But, dammit, I can't hate this movie. It was fun to sit through. Steve Carell contains himself and, despite his history of playing ass-munches, he offers some of the most subtle comedy in the movie-- the way he just follows the conversations with his eyes? It's so underplayed, so careful, and not without heart. And despite the fact the movie posits that EVERY character needs a moment of crisis, it orchestrates moments like the teenage brother's devastating discovery of color-blindness in such an offhand manner that it feels authentic. Oh, and Greg Kinnear, Steve Carell and Paul Dano all lined up like the little girl's back-up dancers? The faulty car horn that becomes impromptu conversation punctuation? So smart.
However, yet another indictment on the children's beauty pageant circuit, yet another foul-mouthed grandpa, yet another smear directed at pretentious academics, yet another down-and-out motivational speaker... I dunno-- aren't these things already such tried and true targets? Wouldn't it be great if we could find some new aspects of American culture that might similarly inspire what-is-wrong-with-this-country questions? Isn't there anything new under the sun that we can skewer?
Oh, also of interest, the repeated musical motif in the movie is primarily the opening strains of the Devotchka song, "How it Ends." This song might be recognizable from the trailer for Everything is Illuminated. Basically, I just like this funny little Russian-ish-sounding band and wanted to plug them. And I think that song is gorgeous. And I was so sad when they played here at The Basement and I missed it. *sigh*
Anyway, I wish I was the preeminent Proust scholar in the U.S.!
Friday, August 25, 2006
Regarding Incest, again
Sometimes I notice that a word or a concept or a thought keeps presenting itself until I pay attention to it. For instance, the word "terrapin" -- a not terribly common word -- has been showing up left and right. I keep hearing people talking about terrapins (not turtles, but using the word "terrapin"), I've seen it written 10 or 12 times lately, and I recently discovered there is some Maryland college sports team for whom the mascot is The Terrapin (not known for speed, perhaps, but persistence?). And about a year ago, I started seeing my own initials on cars all over Nashville. I swear, I saw it on no less than 6 different cars over the span of about 10 days! But all this is just to say that I'm currently consumed with presentations of incest in Asian art forms-- and how it differs from the way, say, an American writer would handle the topic. See also my post on Charlotte Sometimes and N.P. for some other thoughts on this, too.
Last night, I finally got to see the last (though 2nd, in terms of release date) of Chan-wook Park's Vengeance trilogy, Oldboy. There's pretty much no way I can discuss this without offering a few spoilers so-- beware! Stop reading if you want to be surprised during your own viewing. Key to the plot of this movie are two affairs-- one between a brother and sister (the brother kills the sister because he thinks he got her pregnant, though, after her death, he discovers it was a hysterical pregnancy-- and thus blames the guy who put the idea in her head that she was pregnant by spreading rumors about her. And the other is between father and daughter-- roughly 20 years later, the brother from the above scenario has plotted out a very elaborate plot which entails imprisoning the rumor-spreader for 15 years and then hypnotizing him so that he falls in love with his own daughter. Interestingly, when the whole reasoning behind the scheme is revealed, the rumor-spreader/father is devastated and he cuts out his own tongue. This is, obviously, significant because his tongue is his mode of sin, both literally and metaphorically. In some flashback scenes, we learn that there was some cunnilungual action between he and the not-pregnant sister-- and, of course, there's the issue of him running off at the mouth. So then, instead of getting lost and running away from the situation with his daughter, he has himself hypnotized again so that he'll forget that he is his lover's own father... and then he continues, tongue-less, deeper into this relationship.
I also just finished reading my third Haruki Murakami novel, Kafka on the Shore, because, despite its pop-fiction pulpy quality, and the fact that I can pretty much anticipate Murakami's bag of tricks, I'm still pretty enthralled with the way he is able to extract an emotional resonance out of what could be a distracting-in-its-kookiness style of plot development. And I love the fact that he tugs on a awful lot of threads and then, picks and chooses which ones are necessary to resolve. That way,I, the reader, still feel like I have some work to do. But anyway, Kafka on the Shore delves into some issues of incest as well, as Kafka, our hero, is running both away from an towards and oedipal prophecy that he'll kill his father and fuck his mom and sister. The prophecy does indeed play out-- in characteristically quirky Murakami fashion, it's mostly metaphoric-- but the interesting part is that the more Kafka embraces his desire for the mother-like character and sister-like character (they are, as they say, more "family of choice" as opposed to "family of origin"-- or perhaps his spiritual mother and sister?), the more "right" his actions become. I mean, in a story about prophecy, one presupposes that the idea of "destiny" is granted, but it's like Kafka himself gets happier or more comfortable or somehow more himself (i.e., "the toughest 15-year-old in the world") the more he explores his sexual desire for these women. And that desire is also a vehicle towards his maturation, I guess. Oh, and I feel like I should say that, stylistically, Murakami writes sex scenes better than most. They are frank and colloquial (or at least, the translater chooses words like "cock" and "blowjob" and "come" instead of anything more vomitously flowery) and so, they seem authentic without having a...um...pornographic? goal of turning a reader on. I am reminded, in comparison, of Barrico's Silk, in which one character rambles on and on, in graphic detail, using annoying euphemisms, in an attempt to arouse both another character in the book and the reader-- and, frankly, it just wound up being cheesy. Well, and that book has pretty much the same plot as that Pina Colada song (seriously! look up the lyrics).
Anyway, all this is just to say that I'm interested in the way that these Asian writers use the concept of incest quite a bit differently than most contemporary American writers would. I'm thinking here of Katherine Harrison's The Kiss, maybe, that controversial memoir(?) in which the writer discusses her affair with her father and her anger with her mother for letting it happen. Here, it's conceptualized, clearly, as abuse-- and results in much therapy for Harrison. And I'm wondering how much of our discomfort with incest-- and yeah, this is so fascinating to me because it seems such dangerous ground on which to tread-- is culturally concieved? I mean, in a culture in which some variety of primogeniture, formal or otherwise, is the rule, incest is a great way to prevent dispersion of familial assets, right? I'm thinking of Arthurian legends, of course-- in which the consumation of the Arthur/Morgan brother/sister relationship was, again, about fulfillment of destiny. But then, follow me here, I'm also thinking about how I've read that people are predisposed to not being able to be physically attracted to family members for pheremonal reasons. Apparently, if I encounter someone who comes from a very similar gene pool as myself--say, my brother-- it's going to be difficult for me to feel, ugh, sexually attracted because I'll think he smells yucky-- whereas someone more genetically divergent from myself is more likely to smell appealing-- thus we have a little biological insurance designed to prevent inbreeding. And I can vouch for the fact that I don't think any male family members smell too good. *shudder*
So, now, conclusions I can draw? I don't really know. Banana Yoshimoto's N.P. treats incest as pretty much no big deal, Murakami uses it as an in-road to an atypical, condensed, quasi-Bildungsroman, and Chan-wook Park conceptualizes it as traumatic, yes, but, well, not redemptive, exactly, but also as a comfort and escape for the main character, certainly. Somehow these pieces do not seem to invite the judgement of the outsider in the same way that some Western examples like Byatt's Angels and Insects or that Parker Posey movie, The House of Yes do. I mean, both of those stories are told from the point of view of a horrified person who is an interloper into the family dynamic. This perspective is obviously far more comfortable than one in which I am forced to feel sympathy for a character who crosses these boundaries. But, as usual, I'm far more excited about the prospect of watching the machinations of transgressors, instead ofoutside judgers. However, I feel like I want to vehemently disclaim any notion that I'm trying to culturally categorize my observations when I think the stuff I'm mooning on and on about are specific to the idividual works. It's just that, as I rarely aspire to be anything other than rapt audience, I enjoy being pushed out of my comfort zone-- and I seem to have incest in Asian countries on the brain right now. Hence, the musing. Okay, how weird is it that I have been thinking this much about this topic?
I think this is as good a place to end as any.
Last night, I finally got to see the last (though 2nd, in terms of release date) of Chan-wook Park's Vengeance trilogy, Oldboy. There's pretty much no way I can discuss this without offering a few spoilers so-- beware! Stop reading if you want to be surprised during your own viewing. Key to the plot of this movie are two affairs-- one between a brother and sister (the brother kills the sister because he thinks he got her pregnant, though, after her death, he discovers it was a hysterical pregnancy-- and thus blames the guy who put the idea in her head that she was pregnant by spreading rumors about her. And the other is between father and daughter-- roughly 20 years later, the brother from the above scenario has plotted out a very elaborate plot which entails imprisoning the rumor-spreader for 15 years and then hypnotizing him so that he falls in love with his own daughter. Interestingly, when the whole reasoning behind the scheme is revealed, the rumor-spreader/father is devastated and he cuts out his own tongue. This is, obviously, significant because his tongue is his mode of sin, both literally and metaphorically. In some flashback scenes, we learn that there was some cunnilungual action between he and the not-pregnant sister-- and, of course, there's the issue of him running off at the mouth. So then, instead of getting lost and running away from the situation with his daughter, he has himself hypnotized again so that he'll forget that he is his lover's own father... and then he continues, tongue-less, deeper into this relationship.
I also just finished reading my third Haruki Murakami novel, Kafka on the Shore, because, despite its pop-fiction pulpy quality, and the fact that I can pretty much anticipate Murakami's bag of tricks, I'm still pretty enthralled with the way he is able to extract an emotional resonance out of what could be a distracting-in-its-kookiness style of plot development. And I love the fact that he tugs on a awful lot of threads and then, picks and chooses which ones are necessary to resolve. That way,I, the reader, still feel like I have some work to do. But anyway, Kafka on the Shore delves into some issues of incest as well, as Kafka, our hero, is running both away from an towards and oedipal prophecy that he'll kill his father and fuck his mom and sister. The prophecy does indeed play out-- in characteristically quirky Murakami fashion, it's mostly metaphoric-- but the interesting part is that the more Kafka embraces his desire for the mother-like character and sister-like character (they are, as they say, more "family of choice" as opposed to "family of origin"-- or perhaps his spiritual mother and sister?), the more "right" his actions become. I mean, in a story about prophecy, one presupposes that the idea of "destiny" is granted, but it's like Kafka himself gets happier or more comfortable or somehow more himself (i.e., "the toughest 15-year-old in the world") the more he explores his sexual desire for these women. And that desire is also a vehicle towards his maturation, I guess. Oh, and I feel like I should say that, stylistically, Murakami writes sex scenes better than most. They are frank and colloquial (or at least, the translater chooses words like "cock" and "blowjob" and "come" instead of anything more vomitously flowery) and so, they seem authentic without having a...um...pornographic? goal of turning a reader on. I am reminded, in comparison, of Barrico's Silk, in which one character rambles on and on, in graphic detail, using annoying euphemisms, in an attempt to arouse both another character in the book and the reader-- and, frankly, it just wound up being cheesy. Well, and that book has pretty much the same plot as that Pina Colada song (seriously! look up the lyrics).
Anyway, all this is just to say that I'm interested in the way that these Asian writers use the concept of incest quite a bit differently than most contemporary American writers would. I'm thinking here of Katherine Harrison's The Kiss, maybe, that controversial memoir(?) in which the writer discusses her affair with her father and her anger with her mother for letting it happen. Here, it's conceptualized, clearly, as abuse-- and results in much therapy for Harrison. And I'm wondering how much of our discomfort with incest-- and yeah, this is so fascinating to me because it seems such dangerous ground on which to tread-- is culturally concieved? I mean, in a culture in which some variety of primogeniture, formal or otherwise, is the rule, incest is a great way to prevent dispersion of familial assets, right? I'm thinking of Arthurian legends, of course-- in which the consumation of the Arthur/Morgan brother/sister relationship was, again, about fulfillment of destiny. But then, follow me here, I'm also thinking about how I've read that people are predisposed to not being able to be physically attracted to family members for pheremonal reasons. Apparently, if I encounter someone who comes from a very similar gene pool as myself--say, my brother-- it's going to be difficult for me to feel, ugh, sexually attracted because I'll think he smells yucky-- whereas someone more genetically divergent from myself is more likely to smell appealing-- thus we have a little biological insurance designed to prevent inbreeding. And I can vouch for the fact that I don't think any male family members smell too good. *shudder*
So, now, conclusions I can draw? I don't really know. Banana Yoshimoto's N.P. treats incest as pretty much no big deal, Murakami uses it as an in-road to an atypical, condensed, quasi-Bildungsroman, and Chan-wook Park conceptualizes it as traumatic, yes, but, well, not redemptive, exactly, but also as a comfort and escape for the main character, certainly. Somehow these pieces do not seem to invite the judgement of the outsider in the same way that some Western examples like Byatt's Angels and Insects or that Parker Posey movie, The House of Yes do. I mean, both of those stories are told from the point of view of a horrified person who is an interloper into the family dynamic. This perspective is obviously far more comfortable than one in which I am forced to feel sympathy for a character who crosses these boundaries. But, as usual, I'm far more excited about the prospect of watching the machinations of transgressors, instead ofoutside judgers. However, I feel like I want to vehemently disclaim any notion that I'm trying to culturally categorize my observations when I think the stuff I'm mooning on and on about are specific to the idividual works. It's just that, as I rarely aspire to be anything other than rapt audience, I enjoy being pushed out of my comfort zone-- and I seem to have incest in Asian countries on the brain right now. Hence, the musing. Okay, how weird is it that I have been thinking this much about this topic?
I think this is as good a place to end as any.
Thursday, August 24, 2006
Am I sick?
Yesterday morning, I put all my crap on a truck and sent it on its merry way to Alexandria, Virginia. Amongst that crap was pretty much every book I own. I had a hard time getting to sleep last night. This is not unusual-- I've had chronic insomnia pretty much ever since I was about 10. Rosemary, the psychic, says it's because most of my chart is made up of fire signs-- thus my assorted consumptive appetites, thus my wild hair, thus my inability to calm things down inside my head long enough to get any sleep. But last night in particular, I had nothing to read and felt edgy trying to settle into bed while experiencing such a lack. So today, instead of packing up the rest of my clothes for the drive, instead of discarding all the useless stuff I've accumulated (including about 35 perfume samples that all reek, two different pairs of crazy key-lime green flipflops, this huge box of wire sculptures that I made for my college senior art show, a car harness for my dog who is now too fat--um, I mean, broad-chested!-- to fit in it, and, oh yes, about 6 colorful, sequiny, lacey tutus from assorted elementary school dance recitals (if only I were kidding)), I went to Barnes & Noble, corporate book hell, and spent a gift certificate and then drove straight over to Rhino, a great used book store and grossly depleted their poetry section. What is wrong with me? Two days without books and I go out and buy 8 new ones! I can't possibly read them all in the intermediary week until I unpack stuff. You know, I think Creative Writing MFA programs are really just big enablers for folks who already have an embarrassingly aquisitional attitude towards books-- and, instead of preparing us for such high-paying careers as "poets" or "teachers" or "bookstore employees," these programs leave us with perpetually expanding reading lists and, quite apparently, an addiction.
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Look at the muck Jon's got roiled up... and me egging it on all the way!
Wow! Check out Jon's post... and resulting commentary. And to think... it all started when one little ol' Nashville preacher decided to throw some chickens!
Monday, August 21, 2006
As promised
So, here are the very first shots we've got of Wilson Robert Spaulding. He's got some crazy spikey boy band hair, doesn't he?
At two days old, we finally got a shot with ojos!
You can call me Wee Will Winky!
Or Wee Will Pinky...
At two days old, we finally got a shot with ojos!
You can call me Wee Will Winky!
Or Wee Will Pinky...
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
preview
Very shortly, I will have a long post detailing my apartment hunting, my travel trials and tribulations (of which there were disturbingly many) and...and...and MY NEW NEPHEW!!!! And hopefully, I'll have pictures and he'll have a name. So far, he's still "Doodle" but now we know he has a penis, lots o' very dark hair, fingernails shaped like Kate's and a mouth shaped like Charlie's. But for now, well, it's been 4 solid days of adrenaline and I'm damn close to crashing. Hopefully, I'll have some sushi and then, hopefully, my usual insomnia will give it a rest (ha! I'm funny... of maybe just slaphappy).
Sunday, August 13, 2006
Near the cemetary
I don't actually know if any of the same people who might call me are reading this thing on a semi-regular basis but here I am in Arlington and there my cell phone is back at home. Convenient, eh? And they took this great sample of Chanel lipgloss away from me at the security checkpoint. Little did they know, I actually was planning to down the plane with .025 ounces of pink goo. Anyway, I'll be home Tuesday night. If you are important enough, I'll be calling you on my mom's cell phone to give you that number-- if you think I am important enough to call in the first place, of course. I hope you are all thinking happy, comfy, living quarters thoughts about me... I basically have tomorrow during which I HAVE to find an apartment. EEK!
Saturday, August 12, 2006
Greetings from the Choir Pit (Stand?)
Generally, I hate to go see documentaries with a left lean to them. They get me all fired up and I feel like, as I'm already singing stridently in that particular choir, I'm not really the audience that NEEDS these sorts of films. But then, I'm conflicted because I do want to support them with my movie-going dollars, right? This is why I couldn't bring myself to see An Inconvenient Truth. So, anyway, I succumbed and went to see Who Killed the Electric Car? tonite. And yeah, I got all emotional. There were several points when I had to cover my eyes as they rolled statistics about oil consumption over the screen. Do most people flinch at statistics? Should I confess that I sobbed, start to finish, through Bowling for Columbine? But really, I can't say much about this movie that isn't self-evident in their website. It's worth watching just because we should at least be aware of all the various forces preventing viable technologies from maintaining a planet that is inhabitable by humans. But be prepared to be frustrated. It's just the stupidest damn thing that we can't all go out and buy one of those snazzy little cars. Oh, because I would! I don't care if I had $800 car payments for the next 40 years!
Also of note, there was a Coke ad in which they appropriated the Grand Theft Auto landscape and had the main perpetrator guy turning everthing into a big Coca Cola Happiness (possibly Gay Pride) parade. Sure, this product gives kids cavities, fat bellies and an early reliance on caffeine, but, hey, it's a clever ad. And, I saw a preview for another documentary that looks fantabulous: U.S. vs. John Lennon. This thing looks like it'll be very interesting. It's hardly innovative for the government to put rabble-rousing liberal celebrities on watch lists, but that story doesn't often have such a tragic resonance. OK, so fine, I know I said I hate these movies, but dammit, it's just so nice to know there are a bunch of smart documentary-makers who are on my side (as i squander my last two weeks as a red-state resident).
Also of note, there was a Coke ad in which they appropriated the Grand Theft Auto landscape and had the main perpetrator guy turning everthing into a big Coca Cola Happiness (possibly Gay Pride) parade. Sure, this product gives kids cavities, fat bellies and an early reliance on caffeine, but, hey, it's a clever ad. And, I saw a preview for another documentary that looks fantabulous: U.S. vs. John Lennon. This thing looks like it'll be very interesting. It's hardly innovative for the government to put rabble-rousing liberal celebrities on watch lists, but that story doesn't often have such a tragic resonance. OK, so fine, I know I said I hate these movies, but dammit, it's just so nice to know there are a bunch of smart documentary-makers who are on my side (as i squander my last two weeks as a red-state resident).
Friday, August 11, 2006
Briefly noted
How is it that I still have time to watch movies in the midst of all my moving chaos? It's called procrastination and it is my friend.
In praise of sound editing?
All summer long, I've been waiting from Brick to come to the Green Hills movie theatre-- as promised in their season preview guide. They told us it would be early June, then early August-- and then, lo and behold, mid-August rolls around and the damn thing's out on DVD already. So, anyway, at least I got to see it. It was dubiously billed as a neo-noir set in a high school-- yeah, I was skeptical too. And, truth is, the movie is primarly interesting for its surfaces and stylistic choices. Jonathan tells me they made for about half a million, and for that little, it's really awfully meticulous. It's a terribly intricate plot with a lotta fast-talkers so you really have to pay attention but the adorable Joseph Gordon-Levitt is pretty great as a nerd/loner-turned-badass (dubious again? yes, but I bought it, I really did). But really, the remarkable thing is that I can't remember the last time I saw a movie in which the sound was so important. The fight scenes are viscous with all their slushy pumpkins-breaking-open noises. I mean, the Foley artists must've been gleefully bashing stuff for days. And there's an ingenius chase scene in which you hear repeated Doppler-effect footfalls as the chasee and chaser turn corners (Joseph Gordon-Levitt is wearing some snazzy Brat Pack-looking loafers that make a notable slappy sound) and you're so very aware of the running sounds and then, JG-L trips and makes the most of it by taking off the shoes-- so then, he's silent and you hear his pursuer about to turn the corner-- and JG-L runs back and drops, sliding, to the floor and trips the other guy who then sails outside of the shot. And then you hear a big crazy BONG sound. The camera pans out and you see the other guy was knocked out by slamming into a big metal post. Why don't more directors pay attention to stuff like that? Anyway, it's a fun ride. I don't remember the stakes ever being so high when I was in high school, but you know, I'll suspend my skepticism for such careful stylization any time.
Cute and horrible
I'm noticing a trend lately in films that purport to be bio-pic-ish and yet invest most of their energy in looking sideways, through squinty eyes at the real pain and drama of their subject. I'm thinking, first, of The Notorious Betty Page which I liked, I guess... I mean, on one hand, I admire the director's restraint in that she didn't dwell on the fact that Betty was molested by her father, that her husband beat her up, that she was gang raped, that a million boyfriends left her when they learned she was an S&M porn goddess, that she turned into a Jesus freak in her later life. But the movie is so damned cheerful! It's like, isn't it cute when girls dress up in fetish boots and spank each other? Part of what makes the movie appealing is its guilelessness but I couldn't help feeling a little shafted-- like I was denied my cathartic moment. And then, I feel like I'm being a stingy audience and not coming to the movie on its terms-- but, in fact, asking it to pander to my emotive expectations. Shame on me! But all that's really just preamble to talking about Breakfast on Pluto which I watched last night. I do certainly think it has something in common w/ the Betty Page movie but it's more in the presentation of the main character, Patrick "Kitten" Braden, than it is in the movie itself. I mean, we see unmitigated illegal gun trade, we see someone get his head blown off, we see plenty of real raw stuff. But, in a movie about a character who is remarkable mostly for his unapologetic gender bending, we see pretty much no sex. Frankly, it's a wise choice in many ways. When I worked in a bookstore, customers used to get mad when we put the gay-themed magazines on lower shelves because "children might see them!" Heavens! And on the cover of these illicit materials would be, like, a muscley guy standing there w/ his arms crossed over his chest. Or Nate Burkus. Fully clothed, of course. OOOH! Scandalous! I really find it problematic that there's a perception that queer people's lives are defined solely by who they're fucking, how they're fucking them, and the notion that fucking is the only real, interesting component to their lives. It's pretty goofy, really. So, by not showing endless scenes of gay fucking, this movie maintains a curious glossy innocence. However, the movie goes a little further in its pursuit of "cute." There are two birds who pop up now and again to chitchat about the goings on of the people. Yeah, random talking birds. Oh, and Kitten does a stint as a costumed mole or something for a children's theme park. Yep, full roly-poly-bodied mole suit. Ridiculous! So, all this reminds me of way back when (ugh, like 3 years ago) when Jason Zuzga was on a panel discussion for the Poetry Center in Tucson and he talked about the subversive quality of cuteness-- how it somehow mitigates both violence and socially progressive concepts so that it might reach a typically less-than-receptive audience. He referenced anime but also thought that an "aesthetic of cute" is really coming straight out of a queer subculture. But there's also something totally unnerving, totally uncanny about presenting some not-exactly-mainstream ideas about sexuality in particular as seen through a lens of kid-like innocence. And so, movies like The Notorious Betty Page and Breakfast on Pluto become really exciting and dangerous as they bore into our consciousness around the edges of their scrim of cuteness. And so, I come around to thinking that, though I generally want to gaze long and deep, then poke and prod into issues of sex-- because human sexuality compells me pretty much more than any other realm of thought (can anyone really doubt why I identify w/ the sexual 5 on the enneagram?)--that sometimes squinting at it as it dances coquettishly through gossamer curtains has its own payoff.
So, this wasn't so brief after all.
In praise of sound editing?
All summer long, I've been waiting from Brick to come to the Green Hills movie theatre-- as promised in their season preview guide. They told us it would be early June, then early August-- and then, lo and behold, mid-August rolls around and the damn thing's out on DVD already. So, anyway, at least I got to see it. It was dubiously billed as a neo-noir set in a high school-- yeah, I was skeptical too. And, truth is, the movie is primarly interesting for its surfaces and stylistic choices. Jonathan tells me they made for about half a million, and for that little, it's really awfully meticulous. It's a terribly intricate plot with a lotta fast-talkers so you really have to pay attention but the adorable Joseph Gordon-Levitt is pretty great as a nerd/loner-turned-badass (dubious again? yes, but I bought it, I really did). But really, the remarkable thing is that I can't remember the last time I saw a movie in which the sound was so important. The fight scenes are viscous with all their slushy pumpkins-breaking-open noises. I mean, the Foley artists must've been gleefully bashing stuff for days. And there's an ingenius chase scene in which you hear repeated Doppler-effect footfalls as the chasee and chaser turn corners (Joseph Gordon-Levitt is wearing some snazzy Brat Pack-looking loafers that make a notable slappy sound) and you're so very aware of the running sounds and then, JG-L trips and makes the most of it by taking off the shoes-- so then, he's silent and you hear his pursuer about to turn the corner-- and JG-L runs back and drops, sliding, to the floor and trips the other guy who then sails outside of the shot. And then you hear a big crazy BONG sound. The camera pans out and you see the other guy was knocked out by slamming into a big metal post. Why don't more directors pay attention to stuff like that? Anyway, it's a fun ride. I don't remember the stakes ever being so high when I was in high school, but you know, I'll suspend my skepticism for such careful stylization any time.
Cute and horrible
I'm noticing a trend lately in films that purport to be bio-pic-ish and yet invest most of their energy in looking sideways, through squinty eyes at the real pain and drama of their subject. I'm thinking, first, of The Notorious Betty Page which I liked, I guess... I mean, on one hand, I admire the director's restraint in that she didn't dwell on the fact that Betty was molested by her father, that her husband beat her up, that she was gang raped, that a million boyfriends left her when they learned she was an S&M porn goddess, that she turned into a Jesus freak in her later life. But the movie is so damned cheerful! It's like, isn't it cute when girls dress up in fetish boots and spank each other? Part of what makes the movie appealing is its guilelessness but I couldn't help feeling a little shafted-- like I was denied my cathartic moment. And then, I feel like I'm being a stingy audience and not coming to the movie on its terms-- but, in fact, asking it to pander to my emotive expectations. Shame on me! But all that's really just preamble to talking about Breakfast on Pluto which I watched last night. I do certainly think it has something in common w/ the Betty Page movie but it's more in the presentation of the main character, Patrick "Kitten" Braden, than it is in the movie itself. I mean, we see unmitigated illegal gun trade, we see someone get his head blown off, we see plenty of real raw stuff. But, in a movie about a character who is remarkable mostly for his unapologetic gender bending, we see pretty much no sex. Frankly, it's a wise choice in many ways. When I worked in a bookstore, customers used to get mad when we put the gay-themed magazines on lower shelves because "children might see them!" Heavens! And on the cover of these illicit materials would be, like, a muscley guy standing there w/ his arms crossed over his chest. Or Nate Burkus. Fully clothed, of course. OOOH! Scandalous! I really find it problematic that there's a perception that queer people's lives are defined solely by who they're fucking, how they're fucking them, and the notion that fucking is the only real, interesting component to their lives. It's pretty goofy, really. So, by not showing endless scenes of gay fucking, this movie maintains a curious glossy innocence. However, the movie goes a little further in its pursuit of "cute." There are two birds who pop up now and again to chitchat about the goings on of the people. Yeah, random talking birds. Oh, and Kitten does a stint as a costumed mole or something for a children's theme park. Yep, full roly-poly-bodied mole suit. Ridiculous! So, all this reminds me of way back when (ugh, like 3 years ago) when Jason Zuzga was on a panel discussion for the Poetry Center in Tucson and he talked about the subversive quality of cuteness-- how it somehow mitigates both violence and socially progressive concepts so that it might reach a typically less-than-receptive audience. He referenced anime but also thought that an "aesthetic of cute" is really coming straight out of a queer subculture. But there's also something totally unnerving, totally uncanny about presenting some not-exactly-mainstream ideas about sexuality in particular as seen through a lens of kid-like innocence. And so, movies like The Notorious Betty Page and Breakfast on Pluto become really exciting and dangerous as they bore into our consciousness around the edges of their scrim of cuteness. And so, I come around to thinking that, though I generally want to gaze long and deep, then poke and prod into issues of sex-- because human sexuality compells me pretty much more than any other realm of thought (can anyone really doubt why I identify w/ the sexual 5 on the enneagram?)--that sometimes squinting at it as it dances coquettishly through gossamer curtains has its own payoff.
So, this wasn't so brief after all.
Wednesday, August 9, 2006
sparse posting forthcoming
I am convulsed. In this midst of moving, long distance apartment hunting, and unneeded and unwanted boy-related drama (stupid, stupid, stupid), my old idiosyncratic health concern-- which involves some rather unpleasant body-cavity spasms-- has returned. Therefore, until I am actually having coherent, quasi-linear thoughts again, there's not much point in posting any of what's going on in my head.
That said, I did just finish reading The Professor's Daughter--Emily Raboteau-- and I found it pretty friggin' fabulous. My friend Jennifer had recently handed me an essay by Margaret Price that she was reading for one of her writing classes in which Price discusses being a Yankee white lesbian teaching at a primarily black Southern universit -- Spellman in Atlanta. One of her points was that she'd never really had to think about her race all that much until she was put in a position in which she was a minority -- you know, all that old argument about how the biggest portion of white privalege stems from the fact that we just don't have to think about our racial identity every single solitary moment of every single day. So, Raboteau's book kinda explores the nether regions of being biracial and how it colors her every gesture. And it's really pretty relentless. She breaks up her narrative structure now and again -- ie, changing POV, including weird lyrical sections that might be from the inside of her (vegetable-ized) brother's head, and throwing in a paper the main character wrote in college -- I'm not sure if these sorts of maneuverings aren't a smidge gimicky but all-in-all, the texture of her writing is remarkable and her questions and frustrations about her racial identity are palpable. As a first novel, it's worth a look, certainly.
Also, I'm plugging my way through Chan-Wook Park's Vengeance trilogy -- in reverse or in non-release-date order, of course. I saw Lady Vengeance in the theatre and, really, it's just gorgeous in its brutality and humor. What more can you ask of a movie in which the main character's moment of redemption comes when she buries her face in a big gooey white cake, full of icing. It's funny and moving and visceral. Hmmm... food and violence...idea-combinations that have excited me for a long time, yes? And then I rented Sympathy for Mr. Vengeance and again, Park, with his kooky, pulpy approach that uses so much blood and gore, manages to keep a fairly meticulous story of circular revenge as his focus. What I mean is, yes, there's a lot of moments that made me flinch but I wasn't so distracted that I lost my thread of trajectory in a complicated plot. And again, his humor is so unexpected and full of pathos: there's one scene in which 4 guys are lined up against a wall jerking off and you hear a woman moaning (don't female wailings generally portend someone is being fucked in a movie?) and then you pan through the wall and see the woman on the other side thrashing around on the floor, obviously in considerable pain while her deaf brother eats some cereal in the foreground. So anyway, these movies are lurid, indeed, but remain fascinating in their meticulous cinematography and storytelling-- and also, their weirdness. I haven't yet seen Oldboy, the middle film in the trilogy-- but hopefully soon, I'll get my hands on a copy. Of course, I do tend to do this thing with writers I fall in love with -- I read up everything I can get my hands on and 3 or 4 or 5 books in, I get bored. Hopefully, I'll make it through the third of these movies without letting that happen.
That said, I did just finish reading The Professor's Daughter--Emily Raboteau-- and I found it pretty friggin' fabulous. My friend Jennifer had recently handed me an essay by Margaret Price that she was reading for one of her writing classes in which Price discusses being a Yankee white lesbian teaching at a primarily black Southern universit -- Spellman in Atlanta. One of her points was that she'd never really had to think about her race all that much until she was put in a position in which she was a minority -- you know, all that old argument about how the biggest portion of white privalege stems from the fact that we just don't have to think about our racial identity every single solitary moment of every single day. So, Raboteau's book kinda explores the nether regions of being biracial and how it colors her every gesture. And it's really pretty relentless. She breaks up her narrative structure now and again -- ie, changing POV, including weird lyrical sections that might be from the inside of her (vegetable-ized) brother's head, and throwing in a paper the main character wrote in college -- I'm not sure if these sorts of maneuverings aren't a smidge gimicky but all-in-all, the texture of her writing is remarkable and her questions and frustrations about her racial identity are palpable. As a first novel, it's worth a look, certainly.
Also, I'm plugging my way through Chan-Wook Park's Vengeance trilogy -- in reverse or in non-release-date order, of course. I saw Lady Vengeance in the theatre and, really, it's just gorgeous in its brutality and humor. What more can you ask of a movie in which the main character's moment of redemption comes when she buries her face in a big gooey white cake, full of icing. It's funny and moving and visceral. Hmmm... food and violence...idea-combinations that have excited me for a long time, yes? And then I rented Sympathy for Mr. Vengeance and again, Park, with his kooky, pulpy approach that uses so much blood and gore, manages to keep a fairly meticulous story of circular revenge as his focus. What I mean is, yes, there's a lot of moments that made me flinch but I wasn't so distracted that I lost my thread of trajectory in a complicated plot. And again, his humor is so unexpected and full of pathos: there's one scene in which 4 guys are lined up against a wall jerking off and you hear a woman moaning (don't female wailings generally portend someone is being fucked in a movie?) and then you pan through the wall and see the woman on the other side thrashing around on the floor, obviously in considerable pain while her deaf brother eats some cereal in the foreground. So anyway, these movies are lurid, indeed, but remain fascinating in their meticulous cinematography and storytelling-- and also, their weirdness. I haven't yet seen Oldboy, the middle film in the trilogy-- but hopefully soon, I'll get my hands on a copy. Of course, I do tend to do this thing with writers I fall in love with -- I read up everything I can get my hands on and 3 or 4 or 5 books in, I get bored. Hopefully, I'll make it through the third of these movies without letting that happen.
Tuesday, August 1, 2006
Less tersely put
First, the story of the interview: Really, the interview went fine-- I answered the same questions 6 times, as they were asked by 6 different people. I wasn't sure I could get sick of talking about myself, but, you know, too much of a good thing...
So, I was scheduled to fly out on Friday nite around 7:30 but, upon arrival at Reagan National, I find my flight was delayed an hour... then, 2 hours... then, 3 hours. When the plane finally got there at nearly 11, they told us the flight crew had exceeded their hours and, hey, whadya know, my flight was canceled. I was tired and began swearing mildly. They stuck us in a hotel and gave us a $5 voucher for breakfast the next morning-- and you know that went VERY far in the airport coffee kiosk! So, I then go to baggage claim to retrieve my suitcase. Alas, it was already waiting forlornly in Nashville. It missed me-- I could sense it. By this point, however, I was using the F-word so frequently and vehemently that I began to feel the need to apologize to other disgruntled travelers (who assured me that they weren't, in fact, offended--bless them!). So, upon arrival at the hotel, they send me around the corner to a 24-hour CVS (it's already midnite-ish at this point)in order to purchase some contact solution, toothpaste, and deodorant. As I briskly and furiously walk to the store, two different cars pull up beside me and the drivers whisper suggestively that they'd like to give me a ride! Honestly? I'm shooting lightening out of my eyes I'm so mad and, still, I'm mistaken for a whore? Delicious! So, anyway, I make it back to the hotel and fall asleep pretty rapidly as 5 hours of interviews, followed by 5 hours in the airport rendered me pretty darn pooped. However, let it be known, that, though I may not like it, I can actually be very low-maintenance when I need to be. I found a bronzer, an eye-liner and some lip gloss in my purse and I re-donned my day-old underwear (oh, yeah, that really was the ultimate indignity) and returned to the airport (after pausing to watch part of the masterful cinematic ouvre of Hillary Duff on HBO Saturday morning) only to learn that, yep, my flight had been delayed another 2 friggin' hours.
So, anyway, now that my airport ordeal is over, here's my agenda for what looks to be an explosive August:
I'm supposed to start my new job in DC on the 28th. This is, however, contingent on the birth of my very first neice or nephew (in utero name: Doodle)-- who is due to arrive within the next 3 weeks. My poor sister-in-law! She's massively pregnant, during monsoon season, in Tucson. Sheesh! So, hopefully, everything will fall into place such that Doodle make his/her appearance allowing me a few days to run out to Tucson to introduce myself as The Aunt Who Will Always Give You Books, Fancy Food, and Clothes and I'll have a few days to get settled in DC before launching into this new job. So, I get to both leave Nashville for good and visit Tucson within the next month! It doesn't get much better!
If anyone wants to come visit me in DC, I'm accepting offers and bottles of wine as of....NOW!
So, I was scheduled to fly out on Friday nite around 7:30 but, upon arrival at Reagan National, I find my flight was delayed an hour... then, 2 hours... then, 3 hours. When the plane finally got there at nearly 11, they told us the flight crew had exceeded their hours and, hey, whadya know, my flight was canceled. I was tired and began swearing mildly. They stuck us in a hotel and gave us a $5 voucher for breakfast the next morning-- and you know that went VERY far in the airport coffee kiosk! So, I then go to baggage claim to retrieve my suitcase. Alas, it was already waiting forlornly in Nashville. It missed me-- I could sense it. By this point, however, I was using the F-word so frequently and vehemently that I began to feel the need to apologize to other disgruntled travelers (who assured me that they weren't, in fact, offended--bless them!). So, upon arrival at the hotel, they send me around the corner to a 24-hour CVS (it's already midnite-ish at this point)in order to purchase some contact solution, toothpaste, and deodorant. As I briskly and furiously walk to the store, two different cars pull up beside me and the drivers whisper suggestively that they'd like to give me a ride! Honestly? I'm shooting lightening out of my eyes I'm so mad and, still, I'm mistaken for a whore? Delicious! So, anyway, I make it back to the hotel and fall asleep pretty rapidly as 5 hours of interviews, followed by 5 hours in the airport rendered me pretty darn pooped. However, let it be known, that, though I may not like it, I can actually be very low-maintenance when I need to be. I found a bronzer, an eye-liner and some lip gloss in my purse and I re-donned my day-old underwear (oh, yeah, that really was the ultimate indignity) and returned to the airport (after pausing to watch part of the masterful cinematic ouvre of Hillary Duff on HBO Saturday morning) only to learn that, yep, my flight had been delayed another 2 friggin' hours.
So, anyway, now that my airport ordeal is over, here's my agenda for what looks to be an explosive August:
I'm supposed to start my new job in DC on the 28th. This is, however, contingent on the birth of my very first neice or nephew (in utero name: Doodle)-- who is due to arrive within the next 3 weeks. My poor sister-in-law! She's massively pregnant, during monsoon season, in Tucson. Sheesh! So, hopefully, everything will fall into place such that Doodle make his/her appearance allowing me a few days to run out to Tucson to introduce myself as The Aunt Who Will Always Give You Books, Fancy Food, and Clothes and I'll have a few days to get settled in DC before launching into this new job. So, I get to both leave Nashville for good and visit Tucson within the next month! It doesn't get much better!
If anyone wants to come visit me in DC, I'm accepting offers and bottles of wine as of....NOW!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)