I am sitting down to write about a movie I saw last night, Synecdoche, New York, and although my mind was full when I left the theater (and when I went to bed and when I woke up) with thoughts catalyzed by the film, it is hard to bring them to the page. When I got home I read a couple of reviews of this film to see if anyone saw what I saw, if anyone loved what I loved and could enunciate what that was. It’s hard to tell. Roger Ebert’s review, though it’s clear he loved the film, is possibly the least articulate review he has ever written. I think the reason it’s hard to articulate the wonder of this one is because it is such baseline, elemental truth. We are not used to seeing such earnestness, such unkempt heartfelt gambles in American cinema.
I am sure many folks will hate this movie. As with all of Kaufman’s scripts, this one becomes tangled and tedious in the middle, especially on first watch. The viewer makes the inevitable mistake of trying to care about all the players and make sense of the events on the screen, until the viewer’s mind becomes saturated with information and she decides not to care about any of the players or what they do, and craves only resolution.
Given the repetitiveness of the film and its chaotic scale, it’s natural for the viewer’s eyes to become glazed. It is my view that we too often go to the theater to relax, though. Even the strongest films of this era rarely demand deep participation of the viewer (I’m thinking of No Country, which is flawless and immediately engaging, allowing it to be appreciated on a surface level if that’s all one craves.) I am reminded of an article I read about four years ago by Ben Marcus about the unfortunate fluffiness of American fiction, especially works that have been raking in prizes in recent years (the article was titled The Corrections). He discussed how participation of the reader has become devalued, how we no longer seem interested in the synaptic surprises that occur from chomping into the work of a cummings, Joyce, Barthelme, Pynchon, Stein, or Wallace. The time for experimentation has passed; we now have a firm grasp on what works and what doesn’t, or so we’d love to assume. It’s the kind of stuff people love to hate, because it’s individualistic, self-referencing, daring and weird.
I could lay out the plot, but that seems trite – and anyhow it echoes Adaptation in its setup, in dealing with a socially befuddled, neurotic man’s attempt to create something that simulates life in all its endless complexity. The movie has to be seen to be known, and Ebert was right to say that it should be seen twice. It has immense metaphorical truth and achingly beautiful visuals, as well as pustules and foot-blisters and all other manners of bodily funk. (That, the comic relief, and the sweetly curative eyes of Samantha Morton will get you through the first viewing.)
Suffice it to say that it is a movie about how mind-blowingly similar folks are, even in that we all think our struggles are unique to us. It’s about patterned discomforts, about loneliness, about swallowing big metaphorical pills and scrubbing metaphorical floors. It’s a story like Escher’s neverending stairwell, only the stairwell is filled with a mass of ambivalent humans who cannot decide which they want more: to be left alone, or to be carved open and known. They miss each other but are not sure why; they’re unfortunately stuck together and not sure why. All they can be sure of is that when they pass each other on the stairs, they will recognize something in each other, and that recognition causes them, inexplicably, to look away.
30.11.08
3.10.08
The Moral Voter
The media seem to think all voters fall into a set, a type, a bloc. Evangelicals think yada yada yada. Married white women think boogedy boogedy. Southern blacks think double wackadoo. And so on. Because all of us fit into a whole bunch of these categories, there is sloppiness trying to cut lines between categories (reminds me of a phrase in a poem by Alberto Rios comparing a map’s geopolitical lines to the markings on an animal up for slaughter). And none of us think of ourselves as anything other than highly informed independent thinkers.
Trends emerge, though. On a long timeline our opinions become fairly predictable, quantifiable, geographically aligned. Having spent a part of my life as a Mormon, the interplay of religion and politics on this stage fascinates and frightens me to no end. The way our current president has tried to put out “holy” fires with more “holy” fire demeans our country’s diversity, our intelligence, our freedom, our trust in each other. It’s made our nation appear to the world as short-sighted and tantrum-prone. It’s made us split along important seams – seams some of us never really saw before.
The injection of religion into politics is probably inevitable, because government must be a moral entity and no one has louder opinions on morality than the deeply religious. What freaks me out, though, is the odd way in which morality and religion are skewed for political purposes. The divisive, recurring issues are same-sex marriage, teaching evolution, prayer in schools, and abortion. Only one of these (and it’s not the position I take, if anyone’s counting) corresponds, even loosely, to one of the Ten Commandments. Yet they are all a package of “values” voting. They always enter the discussion. They become deal-breakers and deal-makers.
If you’re going to vote from a religious point of view, consider that while the country will never in unison sing the same hymns or read the same scriptures … there are a few moral crimes the vast majority detests. Say, stealing and murder. Torture too, even though that’s not a commandment, most of us are probably against it. And the big one, so overlooked in politics because we are so used to it: Lying.
My question: How is gay marriage less moral than lying? How is it less in line with the tenets of Christianity? (Love thy neighbor, anyone?) It’s a fringe issue, a detail, it will not cause our collapse. A culture of ascendant, large-scale deception, whether for greed or glory, will.
Watch the debates closely. Read up on these fools. And if the values are what matter, consider how you are weighing them, and whether there are deeper moral failings at work.
Trends emerge, though. On a long timeline our opinions become fairly predictable, quantifiable, geographically aligned. Having spent a part of my life as a Mormon, the interplay of religion and politics on this stage fascinates and frightens me to no end. The way our current president has tried to put out “holy” fires with more “holy” fire demeans our country’s diversity, our intelligence, our freedom, our trust in each other. It’s made our nation appear to the world as short-sighted and tantrum-prone. It’s made us split along important seams – seams some of us never really saw before.
The injection of religion into politics is probably inevitable, because government must be a moral entity and no one has louder opinions on morality than the deeply religious. What freaks me out, though, is the odd way in which morality and religion are skewed for political purposes. The divisive, recurring issues are same-sex marriage, teaching evolution, prayer in schools, and abortion. Only one of these (and it’s not the position I take, if anyone’s counting) corresponds, even loosely, to one of the Ten Commandments. Yet they are all a package of “values” voting. They always enter the discussion. They become deal-breakers and deal-makers.
If you’re going to vote from a religious point of view, consider that while the country will never in unison sing the same hymns or read the same scriptures … there are a few moral crimes the vast majority detests. Say, stealing and murder. Torture too, even though that’s not a commandment, most of us are probably against it. And the big one, so overlooked in politics because we are so used to it: Lying.
My question: How is gay marriage less moral than lying? How is it less in line with the tenets of Christianity? (Love thy neighbor, anyone?) It’s a fringe issue, a detail, it will not cause our collapse. A culture of ascendant, large-scale deception, whether for greed or glory, will.
Watch the debates closely. Read up on these fools. And if the values are what matter, consider how you are weighing them, and whether there are deeper moral failings at work.
11.8.08
Looks like I'm craving some visual arts in my day-to-day.
Scrolling through images from the past few months the other day. Some interesting ones have slipped through.
I futzed around a bit and now they are all Photoshop-butchered and surreal. I kinda like 'em, but what makes them cool has less to do with my tinkering and more with the subjects themselves. Joan's supernatural trees, Ira's technicolor chin coat (upside-down like that it looks like a landscape), and Allison & JP looking dewy and attractive.
27.7.08
Two to Try
This weekend was supposed to be all packing - true to Emily form I packed exactly one suitcase. I did manage to read a book (short book) and begin a second, watch two excellent films, have a fine lengthy dinner at a place I'm sure no one will ever take me again, accidentally attend "Goth night" at Recessions (realized Goths have WAY more fun than hipsters), dance like there were ants in my pants, and listen to an old man play jazz guitar at a neat hotel while a thunderstorm broke beautifully onto the glass roof.
If you're gonna procrastinate, do it like that.
The book I read in two hours flat, Holy the Firm by Annie Dillard. Its reverence for nature steps occasionally toward the psychotic and I'm not sure all of her God metaphors make sense (though most are lovely to read). It also has perhaps the most stunning parallel ever prosed, it spans the length of the book. Maybe I shouldn't spoil it? Here's a taste: A moth is trapped by a burning candle's wax - the moth then burns very strangely and memorably. A child runs from a felled plane - the wing knocked off course by a tree's thoughtless finger - and the explosion leaves her without a face. It's the kind of book that makes me half want to quit writing (the bar is just too high) and half want to, as Annie puts it, go at it with a broadax.
The better of the two movies - The Diving Bell and the Butterfly - is something any angsty self-pitier should watch twice in a row. It's about a man who was talented, loving, and selfish - he effectively died before he died and was able/forced to see himself being mourned and cared for through one eye. He also could not speak but through that eye - and with it and the painstaking devotion of others he wrote a book of joy, sorrow, regret, gratitude and farewell. How's about that for making lemonade..
I have always been obsessed with communication, the way we get things across (perhaps even above the "what" we are getting across), how we come to learn things and why we bother in the first place. (As a kid I compulsively, silently mouthed words after saying them - a compulsion akin to echolalia. I suppose I wanted to retrace the words and try to remember them, give them permanence somehow. Spoken words were to me some of the most fun things around, and I wanted to keep them with me? I was a funny kid.) The beauty of this man writing a book with his eye has got my wheels turning about the physical bounds of communication - maybe they don't really exist. As long as the mind lives, it reels and cries out, any which way it can.
If you're gonna procrastinate, do it like that.
The book I read in two hours flat, Holy the Firm by Annie Dillard. Its reverence for nature steps occasionally toward the psychotic and I'm not sure all of her God metaphors make sense (though most are lovely to read). It also has perhaps the most stunning parallel ever prosed, it spans the length of the book. Maybe I shouldn't spoil it? Here's a taste: A moth is trapped by a burning candle's wax - the moth then burns very strangely and memorably. A child runs from a felled plane - the wing knocked off course by a tree's thoughtless finger - and the explosion leaves her without a face. It's the kind of book that makes me half want to quit writing (the bar is just too high) and half want to, as Annie puts it, go at it with a broadax.
The better of the two movies - The Diving Bell and the Butterfly - is something any angsty self-pitier should watch twice in a row. It's about a man who was talented, loving, and selfish - he effectively died before he died and was able/forced to see himself being mourned and cared for through one eye. He also could not speak but through that eye - and with it and the painstaking devotion of others he wrote a book of joy, sorrow, regret, gratitude and farewell. How's about that for making lemonade..
I have always been obsessed with communication, the way we get things across (perhaps even above the "what" we are getting across), how we come to learn things and why we bother in the first place. (As a kid I compulsively, silently mouthed words after saying them - a compulsion akin to echolalia. I suppose I wanted to retrace the words and try to remember them, give them permanence somehow. Spoken words were to me some of the most fun things around, and I wanted to keep them with me? I was a funny kid.) The beauty of this man writing a book with his eye has got my wheels turning about the physical bounds of communication - maybe they don't really exist. As long as the mind lives, it reels and cries out, any which way it can.
11.7.08
We Can't All Be Superheroes
[from a job listing for a senior editor at The Aspen Institute]
While performing the duties of this job, the employee is regularly required to use hands to finger, handle, or feel. The employee is frequently required to stand, walk, sit, reach with hands and arms and talk or hear. Specific vision abilities required by this job include close vision, distance vision, peripheral vision, depth perception and ability to adjust focus.
The noise level in the work environment is usually moderate.
.. I suppose they're trying to weed out the senseless, the handless, the buttless, and the elderly. Not nice, Aspen Institute.
While performing the duties of this job, the employee is regularly required to use hands to finger, handle, or feel. The employee is frequently required to stand, walk, sit, reach with hands and arms and talk or hear. Specific vision abilities required by this job include close vision, distance vision, peripheral vision, depth perception and ability to adjust focus.
The noise level in the work environment is usually moderate.
.. I suppose they're trying to weed out the senseless, the handless, the buttless, and the elderly. Not nice, Aspen Institute.
5.7.08
On Thirst
Man strides blankly to the edge of a pier, unseen. Inside the bar
at his back, the waitress sits and chews
a chunk of her hair, her fiancé palming her thigh.
Former fishermen pretend friendliness
while watching her, the foam in their cups going dry.
He lays down on the gray wood. His hat is taken
by wind into the bay. Whatever. His morning sucked
and it flies off too. The last two years
slough away easily, then the five before,
and with a bit of effort,
the decades.
In his mind he is forty. His lungs are pink
and strong. She peels a browned crepe
from an oiled pan and dresses it with sugar
and lemon. Her shoulders are slumped and sad
his note is under a plant
It’s okay. It’s okay. I’ll see you around.
Not his fault, he knows, the stars
had more to do with it, a man can’t have
his last one-third under the water of issues
and mistimed confessions, he can’t have his march
not end at the sea.
at his back, the waitress sits and chews
a chunk of her hair, her fiancé palming her thigh.
Former fishermen pretend friendliness
while watching her, the foam in their cups going dry.
He lays down on the gray wood. His hat is taken
by wind into the bay. Whatever. His morning sucked
and it flies off too. The last two years
slough away easily, then the five before,
and with a bit of effort,
the decades.
In his mind he is forty. His lungs are pink
and strong. She peels a browned crepe
from an oiled pan and dresses it with sugar
and lemon. Her shoulders are slumped and sad
his note is under a plant
It’s okay. It’s okay. I’ll see you around.
Not his fault, he knows, the stars
had more to do with it, a man can’t have
his last one-third under the water of issues
and mistimed confessions, he can’t have his march
not end at the sea.
8.11.07
The True Price of Stamps
Speaking of not writing as often as I should..
Yesterday I went on a mission to find stamps, by which I mean oldfangled sticky bits we attach to oldfangled communication devices known as letters. I live on a street with several corner stores, grocery stores, ATMs and banks.
The ATMs I passed had none, though I seem to remember ATMs selling stamps in the not distant past. I stopped in 7-Eleven and got heavy looks from the cashier. "What?!?!" He removed his skull cap. "Stamps, do you sell stamps?" "STAMPS?" "Stamps." "No." "Any idea who does?" "What?!?!" "Nevermind." Tried the Samber Market and another joint whose name I forgot. Stopped at Argyle Convenient (note the t) and they told me oh yes, we have a stamp machine.
Holy, moly! I thought. We are in business.
I stared at it for a while because it appeared that for the price of five quarters, the machine would stingily deliver $.82 worth of postage. I'm no numbers whiz, but that's like a 50 percent markup. I bought some juice so I could get me some more quarters, and sure enough, the dopey little machine gouged me for half.
Yesterday I went on a mission to find stamps, by which I mean oldfangled sticky bits we attach to oldfangled communication devices known as letters. I live on a street with several corner stores, grocery stores, ATMs and banks.
The ATMs I passed had none, though I seem to remember ATMs selling stamps in the not distant past. I stopped in 7-Eleven and got heavy looks from the cashier. "What?!?!" He removed his skull cap. "Stamps, do you sell stamps?" "STAMPS?" "Stamps." "No." "Any idea who does?" "What?!?!" "Nevermind." Tried the Samber Market and another joint whose name I forgot. Stopped at Argyle Convenient (note the t) and they told me oh yes, we have a stamp machine.
Holy, moly! I thought. We are in business.
I stared at it for a while because it appeared that for the price of five quarters, the machine would stingily deliver $.82 worth of postage. I'm no numbers whiz, but that's like a 50 percent markup. I bought some juice so I could get me some more quarters, and sure enough, the dopey little machine gouged me for half.
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