Reading

Whenever something new enters our lives, we begin to question its merits. It happens all the time: rock and roll is corrupting our children, television is killing brain cells. Now we have the internet. In a recent article, Motoko Rich explains a growing fear of educators, in the New York Times:

As teenagers’ scores on standardized reading tests have declined or stagnated, some argue that the hours spent prowling the Internet are the enemy of reading — diminishing literacy, wrecking attention spans and destroying a precious common culture that exists only through the reading of books.

The problem is not the internet. It's not television or movies. It's easy to blame the medium. Yes, it's more enriching to read a novel than to scroll through pages of meaningless web pages. But there are garbage novels too. There are plenty of writers who produce money hungry works of worthless art. And I have news for you. Must of the art in the mainstream is horrible. It bows to our demands, while promoting accepted ways of thinking. Beware of art that panders to you. Avoid art that preaches accepted values.

The internet is a symptom of a much larger issue. Many people may be literate, but they don't know how to read. There is a major difference. Reading is an act of discernment; it's an active experience. Reading is struggling with a text. While reading fiction, we should pull apart its form, deducing meaning from the author's tone, style, diction, structure, etc. While reading a persuasive essay, we should follow the author's train of thought, wrestling with our own ideas and preconceptions. This is reading. Reading is work, just as writing is.

No one seems to stop and ask themselves the obvious question: Why read? Many educators will tell you that reading improves a student's education. Reading makes students more literate. They will learn to read and write well. But these are stupid PC answers. The problem is cultural. For whatever reason, high-culture is ignored in our society. At worst, people denigrate it. The media avoids it because Don DeLillo and Joyce Carol Oates are too difficult. They don't match up with advertisers' demands. They're right. They don't. But we're better off for it. They question and challenge the systems we are accustomed to. Reading DeLillo or Oates, watching Robert Bresson, will make us more perceptive to these things too. But only through deep concentrated reading. We can only reach a higher knowledge, by wrestling with words and images. We need to study works closely and intimately.

We can start, by changing the way literature is taught. We probably all remember our high school days. I always talk with people who say, "I hated high-school English." The popular belief is that literature should be dealt with on a figurative level. We are told: authors hide meanings, so look for symbols and metaphors. This is bullshit and it's ruining arts education in America. If you teach literature, film, painting this way, you're lazy. In no way is this reading; it's mindless interpretation. It's turning art into an abstraction. This is why people get confused and disillusioned. Why not teach the mechanics of writing? Teach students about form; give them the tools to deal with a text on a surface level. Why don't we do this? Because it's difficult. It's easier to make something into what we think it should be; it's challenging to push students away from symbolism and toward more profound methods of reading.

This is the way our culture operates. We're supposed to respect everyone's opinion. And literature, unfortunately, is no different. "No interpretation is wrong," I've heard teachers and professors say, "as long as you can back it up." This is inaccurate. There are wrong interpretations. We shouldn't be buttressing our ideas with examples from the text. This leads to foolish accusations. One could criticize Joshua Ferris for not ending his novel, "Then We Came to an End," with a dazzling denouement. The novel, in fact, does fizzle at the end. When the crazed, recently fired Tom returns to the office, we believe the plot has thickened. Oh the suspense! But the "gun" turns out to be a paint ball gun. The scene is sad, not suspenseful. Sorry. But that's the whole point. Ferris illuminates the human psychology of office culture, particularly how we often invent plots, pull practical jokes, and exchange gossip to overcome the dullness of our office lives. And as the novel progresses, the humor begins to fade. It's not funny anymore. But that's the point. Ending the novel with a suspenseful plot point would be counterintuitive. Attacking Ferris for not living up to your expectations is ludicrous. Deal with the text first. Read.

The internet could be a valuable tool. Without space constraints, our news coulbe be more detailed and informative. Movie reviews and book reviews could be longer. Critics fear the end of newspapers, but the internet could be their savior. I'm sure advertisers will argue against it. "Who has the time to read a long essay or a large book review?" Yes, we have access to more information, but will we take advantage of it? Will we read?

Charlie Chaplin

Chaplin was our first film star. What is it about him that is so great? Yes, he's hilarious. He moved like a ballerina. But why is his comedy so effective? Chaplin, in his own words:

"In my antics, my clothes, my horseplay, my illogical movements and comic pathos, I show mankind itself as it must look to spectators higher up."

Well said. This is what all comedy should strive for.

Chaplin Interviews (47).

Alex Ross - The Rest is Noise

This is a great quote from the preface of Alex Ross' "The Rest is Noise." Since Ross' mission is to explore twentieth century history through the scope of music, he attempts the impossible: to explain our love for music and its vitalness to our culture. Music, of course, is ubiquitous. IPods are everywhere. Music is entirely transportable. But why? Ross elevates music listening to an essential experience:

"Music unfolds along an unbroken continuum, however dissimilar the sounds on the surface. Music is always migrating from its point of origin to its destiny in someone's fleeting moment of experience-- last night's concert, tomorrow's solitary jog."

Visit the New Yorker's classical music critic's personal website

Don DeLillo Quote

Have you ever wandered why some novelists make reading their books such an arduous process? Below is a quotation from America's best novelist, my favorite, Don DeLillo. He argues why difficulty should be a novelist's obligation:

"Making things difficult for the reader is less an attack on the reader than it is on the age and its facile knowledge market. The writer is driven by his conviction that some truths aren't arrived at so easily, that life is still full of mystery, that it might be better for you, Dear Reader, if you went back to the Living section of your newspaper because this is the dying section and you don't really want to be here."

Denis Johnson Interview

Here's a link to a rare interview with Denis Johnson about "Tree of Smoke."

BAJ: In a country such as ours, where reading is in such a state of crisis, what is the role of the fiction writer? Does being a finalist for such a prestigious award affect how you view yourself in that role?

DJ: Storytellers have enjoyed quite a wide audience over the last few centuries. Now it's dwindling, and if the world's leaders have their way they'll probably return us to an era when we tell tales around small fires in caves. But we'll always have stories to tell. It's nice to be doing it when folks still think it's something worth giving out awards for.


National Book Award

Jesus' Son - Denis Johnson

Over the past year, I have encountered amazing reviews of Denis Johnson's "Tree of Smoke." I was intrigued. Jonathan Franzen, the author of "The Corrections," offers us some hyperbole on the back cover: "The God I want to believe in has a voice and a sense of humor like Denis Johnson's." Who could resist? But I wanted to start small. I started with "Jesus' Son," a collection of short stories.

Fuckhead, the narrator, is careless and scatterbrained; his stolidity belies the craziness of his life and the horrifying stories he tells. In "Crash While Hitchhiking," he calmly recalls a fateful car crash. A family, with a young baby, pick him up by the side of the road. While Fuckhead sleeps, the car crashes. After running from the family's car, Fuckhead surveys the other car:

"Somebody was flung halfway out the passenger door, which was open, in the posture of one hanging from a trapeze by his ankles. The car had been broadsided, smashed so flat that no room was left inside it even for this person's legs, to say nothing of a driver or any other passengers. I just walked right on past (8)."

Johnson never has Fuckhead question his life. He just tells his stories. Similar events pass by, like a reel of images, throughout the book. The people, to borrow a phrase from a dementia patient, who appears later in the book, "are like meat." All the events, from Fuckhead's perspective, seem predetermined. It is as if this life, in all its craziness, is his destiny. This is the way his life is supposed to be.

In "Emergency," Georgie, Fuckhead's co-worker at the hospital and a fellow addict, walks into the emergency room with Terrence Weber, whose wife stabbed him in the eye; the knife is embedded in his brain. While the ER staff scatters to call numerous specialists, a doctor implores Georgie to prep the patient. When Georgie returns, he, as Fuckhead recalls, had the hunting knife in his hand! The next day, Georgie, numb from drugs, can not remember who Terrence is.

Johnson makes it difficult for us to firmly grasp the narration, because of Fuckhead's pithy descriptions. Fuckhead is transient; he mentions shocking events but then discards them. The effect is as mind-numbing as the mind-altering drugs Fuckhead takes. While the stories astound us, Fuckhead's apathy flabbergasts us. In "Out on Bail," Fuckhead recounts hanging out with Jack Hotel, a friend, who evaded a conviction for assault. They separate after divvying up their heroin purchase. They both overdose. Fuckhead's friends nurse him to good health. Jack's fate is worse:

"The people with him, all friends of ours, monitored his breathing by holding a pocket mirror under his nostrils from time to time, making sure that points of mist appeared on the glass. But after a while they forgot about him, and his breath failed without anybody's noticing. He simply went under. He died.

I am still alive (66)"

Johnson's achievement is a rarity; he explores the dangerous underworld of drug addicts, both insane and perspicacious, without sermonizing. Although these are Fuckhead's memories, we detach ourselves from his perspective gradually because of the form. We're are left with the question: how can someone be so numb to feeling? But the novel is not cynical; rather, it is a search for feeling. At the end of "Car Crash," Fuckhead hears a woman, the wife of the dead man, scream, after a doctor informs her of the husband's death:

"... from under the closed door a slab of brilliance as if, by some stupendous process, diamonds were being incinerated in there. What a pair of lungs! She shrieked as I imagined an eagle would shriek. It felt wonderful to be alive to hear it! I've gone looking for that feeling everywhere" (11).

Fuckhead may be unsuccessful, but we feel it.

No!No!No!

I read MiddleSex two years ago. And it has failed to leave my imagination. I tried to spread the greatness all around, by convincing both friends and family to read it. I smiled every time I saw it on the shelves of bookstores.

The other day my worst nightmare was fully realized: "Middlesex" was chosen as the latest selection of Oprah’s Book Club. My main concern is with her approach to literature, which is as shallow as her materialistic ideals that she expresses on her show. Consider this question on her website about the book: "Is gender nature or nurture? Can you be born in the wrong body? Come back later to learn more about gender identity."

Oprah's approach to Faulkner is exemplary of this problem. Faulkner's novels selected for the club-- "The Sound and the Fury,"
"As I Lay Dying," and "Light in August"-- are masterworks of the use point of view. The energy of these novels springs from Faulkner's inventiveness with literary form. The same event is often told from multiple perspectives. Sometimes characters' relay their respective accounts of the same event; often they display conflicting emotions or different opinions. In Faulkner's work, truth is fragile-- history and self are intertwined. This was dealt with only marginally.

Instead of an exploration into Faulkner's view of life, we get an interactive tour of his fictional Yoknapatawpha County. Maybe I'm being a bit harsh on Oprah. She is just the most visible example of the commodification of art. Oprah is the billionaire version of a friend we all have or a person we have regrettably overheard at a coffee shop.

Recall this funny scene from Annie Hall. While waiting in line for a movie, Woody Allen is subjected to the self-important banter from the man behind him. As the man waxes intellectual about Marshall McLuhan, Woody leaves the line and comes back with McLuhan himself, who puts down the man's opinion on McLuhan's work.

You know the type: They are the friends who don't not hesitate to list the canonical books they have read and that they are currently reading-- from Joyce to Faulkner to Eugenides. We measure one's intellect by perusing their bookshelf. Punch your literary card here.

"Middlesex," like all of Oprah's past selections, will be considered from a specific point of view. In Middlesex, Calli-- the main character and the story narrator--is a hermaphrodite. Gender issues, admittedly, are present in the novel. But this is a superficial view. It's the high-school method. What are the main themes? Is gender nature or nurture? These may be important questions to ask, but they ignore the complexity of the novel.

All of Eugenides' work deals with the provisionality of selfhood. And what better way to explore consciousness than by constructing a novel about "gender conflict." Calli is not so much a human character as she is a literary device. She is the vehicle by which Eugenides drives into questions of self-hood, family, and history.

There is little doubt in my mind that Oprah will deal with the novel as a way of understanding those who are different. But how about dealing with the novel as a piece of literature? Why focus a novel on this type of character? What does it tell us about ourselves?

Maybe I'm being cynical. But I can see the audience now. They will feel empowered, by their newfound understanding of hermaphrodites. Maybe some genuine tears will be shed. A medical specialist will be called in to explain the ins and outs of the condition. Maybe we should just read a medical dictionary instead...

Jeffrey Eugenides- "Early Music"

Jeffrey Eugenides is the Pulitzer Prize winning author of "Middlesex" and "The Virgin Suicides." "Virgin" is one of the best books I have ever read. Eugenides' style is lyrical, poetic, and musical. The book organically grew from a short story, and, coincidentally, both novels read like a short story collection. Although both contain fairly basic, linear plots, each section or chapter is so concise that they could stand alone as autonomous stories.

Eugenides often infuses his work with a dry sense of humor and an almost rhetorical narration. Take this example from the beginning of his short story "Early Music."

"As soon as he came in the front door, Rodney went straight to the music room. That was what he called it, wryly but not without some hope: the music room. It was a small, dogleg-shaped fourth bedroom that had been created when the building was cut up into apartments. It qualified as a music room because it contained his clavichord.

"There it stood on the unswept floor: Rodney’s clavichord. It was apple-green with gold trim and bore a scene of geometric gardens on the inside of its lifted lid. Modelled on the Bodechtel clavichords built in the seventeen-nineties, Rodney’s had come from the Early Music Store, in Edinburgh, three years ago. Still, resting there majestically in the dim light—it was winter in Chicago—the clavichord looked as though it had been waiting for Rodney to play it not only for the nine and a half hours since he’d left for work but for a couple of centuries at least."

The narration lends a fluidity to the phrases as if someone welcomes us into the music room- the repetitive short beats highlighted by the use of colons-- "music room" and "Rodney's clavichord"-- offer brief, fleeting moments of imagery, instead of lush, descriptive language. The dryness of the narration is wry, and often short, but never sarcastic.

The story is about Rodney-- a former Ph.D candidate-- and his attempts to find time to play his rare, expensive clavichord and his struggle to pay for it. A great story about lost ambition, music and family.

It's available at The New Yorker .

Emily Dickinson- "The Soul selects her own Society"

A bit more concerning interpretation: The study of arts-- specifically film-- has been infiltrated by those with cultural, psychological, and sociological intentions. The problem with these approaches is that they deny the complexity of the individual self, while championing films on the basis of their historical accurateness, cultural sensitivity etc. Art has become a text-book. Going back to my previous post, Susan Sontag explains that it’s a way of folding the narrative world back into the real world. But art is not a form of representation. Artists create. To use painting as an example, do you look at a Monet painting for an accurate depiction of landscapes, or Degas for ballerinas?

At the same time there are innumerable artists-- including Hitchcock and Lynch-- who go about their work by infusing symbols into their work, opening the door for cavernous interpretations. Beware-- great artists avoid this at all costs because life is not filled with answers. Going back to painting, some say that Picasso's use of cubism was a direct denial of such interpretation, and an often-repeated story reveals his disdain for 'realism.' One day, a perplexed man asked him why his paintings weren't realistic. Picasso curiously asked the man to show him what reality looked like. When the man revealed a photograph of his wife, Picasso replied, "But, is she really so small and flat."

Taking a sociological spin on art denies the idiosyncratic uniqueness of the individual. Sure, we all have similar thoughts and aspirations, are subjected to similar events, and participate in the same culture. But what separates all of us is how we react to these things. Our individual complexity lays in our indescribable actions. Great artists are smarter than the rest of us because they realize this. As Emily Dickenson wrote, "The soul selects her own society."

"303"

The Soul selects her own Society -
Then - Shuts the Door -
To her divine Majority -
Present no more -

Unmoved - she notes the Chariots - pausing -
At her low Gate -
Unmoved - an Emperor be kneeling
Upon her Mat -

I've known her - from an ample nation -
Choose One -
Then - close the Valves of her attention -
Like Stone

"Visions of Johanna"- Bob Dylan

Bob Dylan is the unfortunate victim of decades worth of attempts to interpret his work in allegorical terms- discerning metaphors and phrases as symbols for deeper meanings. I say the word unfortunate because what has happened to letting a song stand on its own, without fruitless interpretation?

In her seminal essay "Against Interpretation," Susan Sontag claims that 'interpretation means plucking a set of elements (the X, the Y, the Z, and so forth) from the whole work. The task of interpretation is virtually one of translation. The interpreter says, Look, don't you see that X is really-- or, really means-- A? That Y is really B? That Z is really C?" (5). With Sontag in mind, trying to delve deeper into to Dylan's work to find symbols and absolute meanings does it a disservice. For example, many attribute the words of "Shelter from the Storm" to an allegorical tale about Vietnam. What!? Is there anything in the song that directly warrants this?

Participating in such mind acrobatics, means-- going back to Sontag-- "to impoverish, to deplete the world--in order to set up a shadow of 'meanings." (7). Great artists don't infuse their works with lavish symbols left to be interpreted by intellectuals, they enlighten us to truths and unravel complexities and states of being altogether helping us inhabit our own lives without supplying answers to otherwise unanswerable questions. I've read numerous accounts of the 'meaning' of "Johanna," but a simple, pragmatic look at the song reveals a true poet in his greatest form.

Dylan begins the first verse with vivid imagery of the stark contrast between the silence of night and the noise of a city: a silent loft filled with 'flickering' lights from outside, coughing 'heat pipes,' and the 'soft' volume of a country music station.
The narrator is 'stranded' in the silence, although he does his best to deny it while Louise and her lover bring back memories of Johanna.

Louise triggers thoughts of Johanna and "the ghost of electricity howls in the bones of her face/ Where these visions of Johanna have now taken my place." The vulnerability of his love is brought out in his trip to the museum where "infinity goes up on trial," flowers 'freeze', 'jelly faced women sneeze." Just like his relationship with Johanna, these pieces of art are not infinite. Mona Lisa has the 'highway' blues, women become jelly faced with age and can't seem to find their knees. "Cruel"- yes, but truthful. Time makes victims of us all. Relationships end or fade, although we always do "our best to deny it."

And finally to the concluding verse:

And Madonna, she still has not showed
We see this empty cage now corrode
Where her cape of the stage once had flowed
The fiddler, he now steps to the road
He writes ev'rything's been returned which was owed
On the back of the fish truck that loads
While my conscience explodes
The harmonicas play the skeleton keys and the rain
And these visions of Johanna are now all that remain

The rain is acknowledged from the first verse as "harmonicas play the skeleton keys." The theatrical imagery of the fiddler, flowing cape, and empty cage resonate with the previous descriptions of the vulnerability of art. His 'conscience explodes' after his time with Louise, 'everything's been returned which was owed" and only memories remain.

Trying to interpret the song on a symbolic level is ludicrous because the narrator goes through a process of actually defying such a thing in the song. Just as the 'night plays tricks" when he's trying to be so quiet, he tricks himself into denying that he is stranded. Encounters with Louise only confound his memories of Johanna. He realizes that infinity is a fallacy, as 'primitive wall flowers freeze."

The theatrical imagery in the last verse is another step in his evolution. The play is over. The fiddler plays the last song while harmonicas play skeleton keys, leaving only memories. He no longer denies the 'rain,' and refuses to project Johanna into a timeless narrative. The show and deception end as the "fish truck" pulls away. No answers, just a personal perspective on life.

Dylan's solo acoustic version from the famed "Royal Albert Hall" gig in 1966 is the best version I've heard. The progression of the song, and the shifting thoughts and perspectives are highlighted by Dylan's undulating vocal patterns and dynamic strumming. The last verse is given added substance by the piercing notes of his harmonica that mimetically plays the farewell song mentioned in the preceding words.

Check Out Susan Sontag's "Against Interpetation and Other Essays," "Regarding the Pain of Others," and her fiction work including "In America."

"Interpretation is the revenge of the intellect upon art. Even more. It is the revenge of the intellect upon the world."-- Sontag

Great Paintings- Degas' "Dancing Class"

My knowledge of painting is somewhat limited, but I've recently been trying to learn. I'm going to try and post a painting each week. I'll start with Degas.

Degas loosely falls within the 'Impressionist" movement but differs greatly from contemporaries such as Monet, Sisley, and Pissarro. From what I've gathered, what bring these painters together is their attempts at capturing fleeting moments or snapshots of the flux of life. They tended to ignore naturalistic representations by leaving their paintings in sketch-like states and by using broad, recognizable brush strokes. What sets Degas apart from the others is his use of perspective. In "Dancing Class," Degas avoids frontality by creating a skewed perspective from above and by not relegating any of the dancers to the center of the frame. He also expands the canvas by creating off-screen space through the use of the mirror in the top-left corner. Many interpret the painting as a depiction of boredom, in which the ballerinas are removed from the performance stage.

Such a interpretation is not wrong per se, but seems a bit shortsighted. Degas takes the glamour and mysticism away from the image of the ballerina by depicting the monotonous nature of practice. What is of interest here though is the grouping of the ballerinas. Some share similar gestures while at rest, others are depicted in the midst of practice, and others observe the action. The composition of the frame depicts the individual nature of performance within the context of a group with shared interests. The dancer to the slight right of the center is in mid-action while the old ballet master looks on. Others look on or go about their own practice but are bound by their shared costumes. Each go about their own habits but are still part of the larger dynamics of the group. Interestingly, what sets Degas apart from the American tradition is that he imagines the possibility of individual expression only when removed from community. Besides the instructor, no eyes are fixed on the dancing ballerina.

Compare this with "Dancer with Bouquet" which brings the point home a bit clearer. In this painting, a dancer curtsies in the front of the frame, while the rest of the dancers are relegated to the background and painted with less detail. Also in "Dance Greenroom", the ballerina to the left is singled out from the group by her relaxed grace and reflection in the mirror.

Duplass Brothers- Short Films

Once in awhile I come across films that completely fly under the radar of mass-market film criticism. The Duplass Brothers made a couple of short films before their future debut “The Puffy Chair,” the best film of 2006 that was little seen or spoken about. Short films are usually ignored by critics and scholars alike (also myself), but these are real gems that blend humor with insightful thoughts on human behavior. Don’t be fooled by the low budget digital presentation— these films are spectacular.

Jay Duplass’ use of frenetic zooming and blurred focus lends impressionistic hues to the narrative as if capturing fleeting, emotive moments. Also, his multi-perspective technique- best used in “Intervention”– fills the frame with varied facial expressions and gestures within a single composed shot. A lot of the reviews of their feature debut have been positive but are filled with back-handed compliments such as calling the film “simple.” Duplass’ visual style seems rather spontaneous and uncalculated but don’t be fooled. The pragmatic style's complexity stems from its insistence on performance, and the perceived ‘amateurish” camera work and editing adds layers to the emotions by highlighting shifting tones.

The acting is suburb as well, especially Kathryn Aselton in "Scrapple." Why hasn’t she been discovered yet? Her performance in “The Puffy Chair” is nothing short of amazing and resonate, eliciting thoughts of the varied mannerisms and altered emotional states exhibited by Gena Rowlands within single beats and scenes in her best work with John Cassavetes, especially “Faces.”

All the shorts deal with similar subject matters and reveal how we put on masks while avoiding conflicts and honesty. The Duplass' show the characters masks and slowly strip them away, revealing truths.

“This is John”
John (Mark Duplass) comes home and decides to change the message on his answering machine message.

“Scrapple”
Rick's (Mark Duplass) and Amy's (Kathryn Aselton) game of Scrabble turns into a scrap.

“Intervention”
A group of friends try to get a friend to admit some of his lies.

Check out their website for links to view the films, or go directly to atom films.

"The Puffy Chair" (I'll post a review soon) is available from Netflix
and available for sale on Jan 23rd.

Great Scenes- "400 Blows"

Francois Truffaut's "The 400 Blows" is a heralded film that is often credited as marking the beginning of the French New Wave upon its release in 1959. Although Jean Luc Godard's "Breathless," a film penned by Truffaut, arguably caused more of a sensation, "Blows" lyricism has stood the test of time as the preeminent, incendiary example of the New Wave in its infancy. This grouping of films and filmmakers into distinct movements is problematic because it tries to homogenize rather disparate artists into categorical terms while marginalizing others without obvious similarities. The work of impressionists such as Monet, Degas, and Renoir share similarities, but they really could not be any different. The same also goes for the New Wave French directors such as Godard, Truffaut, Rohmer, Rivette, Malle, and the marginalized Bresson.

When you hear of these large movements in film, you expect a huge bang from the first influential film. The fact of the matter is that it always makes a whimper rather than a resounding roar. Rossellini's "Open City," one of the first films of the Italian neo-realist movement that was spawned by the desolation of WWII, is another great example. Concentrating on the generic elements of the movement such as on location shooting and the use of non-professional actors denies the film a unique identity. De Sica's "Bicycle Theives" has many similar elements, but the films are completely different. "Open City" is a polemical condemnation of the German Occupation, while DeSica's film is a humanist drama that focuses on the internal struggle of its poor protagonist who is forced to make decisions that are influenced by his desolate state.

With that being said, Truffaut's film is venerated because of its place within film history. Like many of his fellow Wavers, Truffaut has a rather paradoxical to classical Hollywood films by paying homage to favorite directors and deconstructing traditional filmic style at the same time. "400 Blows" is an autobiographical film of his childhood, but the film's lyricism is really nothing more than a social problem film. The best moments of the film are its depictions of the love of cinema and its brief instances of improvisation. The best scene of the film combines both. The 13-year old Antoine and his friend sit in the back of a theater with younger children while watching a puppet show. Truffaut filmed the children live while reacting to the show, filling the frame with their innumerable, reactive faces. Although the sound was synced in post-production, the scene has an enigmatic naturalism to it. Looks of fright when the wolf encounters the girl, turn to delight and excitement in a mere instant. The children look at each other in amazement, point to the show, clap in exhaltation, and jubilantly jump up and down. What the scene does is show the power of art. Although we will never have the same reactions to film or shows as we did as children, it reminds us of their aura. Innocence is lost with the recognition of illusion, but film still has the power to move.

Todd Haynes' "I'm Not Here"

According to Variety, Todd Haynes' new film "I'm Not Here" has been picked up for distribution by the Weinstein Brothers. The film is an unconventional 'biopic' about Bob Dylan in which Haynes takes a unusual approach of employing different actors- Cate Blanchett, Christian Bale, Heath Ledger- to embody a different phase of Dylan’s career. According to the article, Dylan has endorsed the film, and his music will be included along with covers from other artists including Yo La Tengo who scored "JuneBug."

Hayne's “Safe” is one of the best films of the 1990's, although it is largely underappreciated by film scholars and unknown to the larger film viewing community. My first encounter with him was his experimental film "The Carpenter Story," another biopic that tells the sad story of Karen Carpenter through the use of Barbie Dolls. Despite the puppet show aesthetic, the film has been condemned by the Carpenter estate and is not for sale. I enjoyed his homage to Douglas Sirk in "Far From Heaven," and hopefully "I'm Not Here" will be released in the near future. Go watch "Safe" and listen to "Visions of Johanna."

Here's a link to Senses of Cinema's write-up on Haynes.

Von Trier and P.T. Anderson Interview

I ran across this interesting article on p.t anderson fansite cigarettes and vines. Von Trier and Anderson discuss actors, America, writing, and David Bowie.

I remember watching “Dancer in the Dark” in an undergraduate film course and thinking that it was the most depressing film I have ever seen. I walked away convinced that Von Trier was a cynical filmmaker and a first-class manipulator of emotions (I’ll save this for another day, but outright cynical filmmakers belong to the same shameful class as sentimentalists like Speilberg). If anyone has seen the film, I’m talking about the climatic ending where Bjork meets her sad demise in a sensational violent spectacle. I vowed to never see any of his films again, and I made sure to interject in any conversation in which his name was mentioned by proclaiming the whole Dogme95 endeavor was a pretentious marketing scam.

I’ve since seen “Breaking the Waves” and “Dogville,” which have both changed my mind about Von Trier. Although he deals with dark subject matter, including deceit and corruption, these films are filled with humanist brushstrokes. It is a common mistake to confuse dark subject matter with cynicism, and Von Trier never shows any disdain for his characters. His film style— quick cuts accenting gestures and emotional shifts— is performance based. In turn, he casts his characters upon a pragmatic world without focusing on a singular point of view. He doesn’t supply simple answers to complex human situations by offering psychological insights or character motivations.

On the other hand, Anderson was a director who really turned me on to film. I remember being left in a complete daze after first seeing "Magnolia," and then immediately watching it three more times. Unfortunately, the aura of his work has recently eroded. I like “Sydney” (Hard Eight), but the excessive “Boogie Nights” is a superficial amalgamation of Altman's huge cast constructions and Scorsese's frentic style. “Magnolia” is a cynical film in the same vain as Altman, and contemporary Todd Solondz. Characters are rendered as pathetic caricatures that are laughed at (William H. Macy’s characters) rather than observed intelligently. “Punch Drunk Love” was a turn in the right direction since it avoids the romanticized cynicism of his other films. Here’s hoping “There Will Be Blood” will continue in the same vain as “Love.”

"Inland Empire"

David Lynch’s "Inland Empire," much like his previous "Mulholland Dr." (2001), will be heralded by some as a complex, mind-numbing film that is layered with innumerable bravura moments of filmic genius. Others will argue that he presents a compellingly original film about a troubled woman and her entrapment within a suffocating industry, highlighted by the blurred distinction between reality and illusion, which are deftly handled by the incomparable Lynch. Don’t believe the hype, and consider yourself warned: "Inland Empire": is an egregious vanity project—trapped in its own smoke and mirrors of ambiguities and abstractions— that leaves the audience to feverishly burrow out of the suffocating rabbit hole called a movie.

With respect to Mr. Lynch, there is also a concurrent trend in film criticism—or maybe it has always been the case—of confusing ambiguity with complexity. As semiotics has given way to human consciousness, symbols have become signposts for filmic meaning and deep understanding, while intricate character studies are becoming increasingly overlooked or completely ignored because of perceived simplicity. In this vain, "Inland Empire" and "Mulholland Dr." are quintessential puzzle films because they force the audience to relive their experiences through cunning detective work, which only ends in empty, speculative theories about what the blue box, red lamp, or what other symbols represent. Lynch’s films are a perfect fit in what Henry Jenkins has coined ‘convergence culture,’ in which viewers partake in an increased participatory network by collectively polling their resources to discern a film’s meaning, but their current place within popular culture does not promote deeper understanding as much as it validates their ambiguity. Lynch is fully aware of this of course, self-reflexively teasing the audience by having characters look into the camera, asking “Who is this woman,” or having Laura Dern’s Nikki admitting her confusion over where to begin her story while talking to the puzzling man with glasses above the equally perplexing theater.

Like "Mulholland Dr.," "Inland Empire" falls into the academic trap of taking surface realities and making them more complex through vague language and symbolic interpretation. The problem with this approach—and the film itself for that matter— is that it obscures, or rather ignores, the complexity of the lives in which we live. Instead of enlightening and illuminating the mysteriousness of life itself, Lynch’s “Empire” takes human complexity and feeling, and confounds them through the disorienting use of style and form. Instead of exploring the world of female identity, Lynch launches it into a world of distorted close-ups, the sardonic use of distance within sequence shots (read: "Citizen Kane"), and elaborate time shifts, augmented by a heavy-handed dissonant soundtrack that is supposed to add more fervor to the nightmarish dreamscape. His use of inexpensive DV technology will most certainly be a point of interest for many, but Lynch tends to ignore the flexibility it affords actors because of the amount of footage that can be shot compared to film. Instead, he uses the technology to increase his ability to visualize the ‘complexity’ of female identity and stardom with varying hues and cinematic spaces, while subjugating his actors to the role of caricatured mimes.

From the very start, there is literally a blurred since of reality as an unidentified man and a prostitute engage in the obligatory pre-sex transaction while Lynch blurs their faces as if candidly caught on a discriminatory security camera. After, the distraught prostitute watches (or imagines) a Rabbit show on television. In the film, Laura Dern plays Nikki Grace, an aspiring actress who has just received a role in the film, “On High in Blue Tomorrow’s,” directed by Kingsley Stewart (Jeremy Irons). An ominous neighbor (Grace Zabruski) with a curious eastern European accent warns Nikki of impending doom, questions her about the role she is playing, and tells an allegorical story about female identity. During preproduction, it is revealed that the film was actually a remake of an uncompleted Polish film that ended in a tragic double murder. Her relationship with her conspicuous husband is called into question by his apparent (or is it?) infidelity and her adulterous relationship with Devon Berk/Billy Side (Justin Theroux) in “On High.” As her private thoughts are projected into her role as Susan Blue, the imagery and structure of the film mimetically become increasingly surreal.

What do the different rooms represent? Are they the subconscious of Nikki Grace? Is Lynch trying to make an insightful comment on femininity and female stardom? In the film, Lynch does take self-reflexivity to new and daring levels by methodically presenting a film within the film within the film. The seamless transitions from the ‘real’ film to “On High in Blue Tomorrows” are at first disrupted by the presence of film cameras or made obvious by Grace’s southern accent and wardrobe. Soon, the distinction withers away in Bunuelian fashion, and the ‘reel’ and ‘real’ become indiscernible. Lynch thus forces the audience to constantly reinterpret images and settings through the use of doubling and repetition—the red lamp, the man with glasses above the theater—while highlighting Nikki’s perpetual cycle of self-damnation. But the constant game of interpretive cat and mouse is met with endless dead ends, as the film gets lost in its own abstractions.

As Lynch delves further into Grace’s subconscious, form completely replaces content. Of course, this is exactly the point of the film, but a more pertinent question is why is it necessary to project the complexity of the female persona as a divided self? Lynch’s film takes its place amongst heralded films such as Bergman’s "Persona," Altman’s "Three Women," and Kieslowski’s "The Double Life of Veronique," all of which deal with split identities through the use of mesmerizing visual constructions and inventive, atypical narrative structures. Despite their creativeness, these films substitute thought provoking representations of women with experimental form. On the other hand, Cassavetes’ "A Woman Under the Influence," Von Trier’s "Breaking the Waves," and Barbara Loden’s "Wanda" present courageous depictions of troubled women without the visual ambiguities. In comparison to “Inland,” their complexities lie in the often contradictory actions, constant flux of emotions, and impulsive reactions of Mable, Bessie, and Wanda—not the illusionary depictions of duality and identity.

Finally, Lynch’s fault is not merely his devotion to stylistic excess, but his refusal to infuse the film with meaningful content by placing all the unanswerable questions in the form, resulting in a myriad of meaningless interpretations of its abstract symbols. “Inland’ is purely indulgent style over misconceived content, or in other words: ambiguity confused with complexity.