as consciousness is harnessed to scat singing

Last night I watched Michael Winterbottom's The Trip, a casually unkind movie. I did not enjoy almost any of it; notable exceptions being Steve Coogan's dreams, and the scene, midway through, where he and Rob Brydon are scat singing as their massive SUV blazes through the English countryside. That was transcendent. 

Incomparably better spent is time with the second volume of Susan Sontag's journals, As Consciousness is Harnessed to Flesh, Journals & Notebooks 1964-1980:

"Mailer says he wants his writings to change the consciousness of his time. So did DH L[awrence], obviously.

I don't want mine to–at least not in terms of any particular point of view or vision or message which I'm trying to put across.

I'm not.

The texts are objects. I want them to affect readers–but in any number of possible ways. There is no one right way to experience what I've written.

I'm not 'saying something.' I'm allowing 'something' to have a voice, an independent existence (an existence independent of me).

I think, truly think, in only two situations:

at the typewriter or when writing in these notebooks (monologues)

talking to someone else (dialogue)

I don't really think–just have sensations, or broken fragments of ideas, when I am alone without a means to write, or not writing–or not talking.

I write–and talk–in order to find out what I think.

But that doesn't mean 'I' 'really' 'think' that. It only means that is my-thought-when-writing (or when-talking). If I'd written another day, or in another conversation, 'I' might have 'thought' differently."

- 1965 

 

unrulyidiom productions

We have increased our video productions. You may view them via our tumblr, tiffanytellsyousomething.

It is best said of Tiffany that she has a lot to say.

unrulyidiom productions proudly presents

Laugh Track from unruly idiom on Vimeo.
Yes, it is our new film. We call it "Laugh Track."

consumerism satirizes itself for my benefit

This has to be the worst thing that will ever happen. I say this based solely on the information provided below.

You would think Hallmark, of all people (and by people I mean soulless megacoporations, as defined by the U.S. Supreme Court) would know what month Christmas is in. Or do you think they might be attempting to start the consumer frenzy even earlier? What if you could send people "Happy November Christmas" cards in addition to the "Merry Christmas" cards you send them in December? My god, that would probably double their business! Someone give that CEO a raise. And give me his address. I'd like to send him a card.

moving pictures

I saw three films at the Silent Film Festival last weekend, and I kind of wish I could do that all the time. To sit in the theater while the music responds to the screen. Those old images. The way people moved. The intensity of it all. 

Movies don't usually allow me to empty myself. Somehow, imagining the dialogue as their lips move, hearing only in my head the few sentences that flash by on title cards, transports me in a way that films so rarely do. I suppose it shouldn't be surprising. It's closer to reading than watching a talkie is. And why text has such a direct line to my mind and heart I don't suppose I'll ever know. I primarily experience the world through words, and that's been true for a long, long time now.

saturday

No one deserves to be this lucky. Certainly not me. But isn't it nice (sometimes) that we don't just get what we deserve in life? Things would be pretty harsh otherwise, I think.

I woke up this morning with no plans, and stumbled my way into an invitation to brunch with my downstairs neighbors. I offered to provide something, but ultimately only made coffee. And I got to eat the most gorgeous frittata,

 

and a beautiful tortilla español, fabulous apple wood smoked salmon from the Alemany farmer's market, sweet potatoes, fresh bread with blackberry/lemon jam from Blue Chair, and to sit and talk (and listen! I was doing some listening!) with a bunch of enthnomusicologists and mathematicians about music and USAmerican foreign policy and the Arabic love of puns.

And then I went back upstairs to find everyone making kimchi. Let it be known: Kristin is an amazing pickler of vegetables. I did very little, besides chop some ginger (and of course, all the photo-documentation). In case I had been feasted enough, we feasted! (Yes, that's right, John made biscuits again!) And then we watched The Philadelphia Story. Does no one agree with me that Katharine Hepburn & Jimmy Stewart should end up together? They have so much chemistry! And she and Carry Grant just don't do it for me. Sigh.

I never dreamed

for no particular reason, except that I like it so much:

los perdidos

Sometimes I get extra proud.

Los Perdidos from 826 Valencia on Vimeo.

glory in the flower

oh, man. Splendor in the Grass is the hottest thing I've seen in I don't even know how long. They really ought to put a couple-three x's on the case of that film. Natalie Wood is a complete knockout and Warren Beatty is such a dream. 

Whew. I think I need to catch my breath.

my goodness

Mister Foe is arguably the worst and creepiest bildungsroman film I've ever seen.  An extra sincere hats-off to Jamie Bell (once Billy Elliot), then, for extraordinary charisma.  I wouldn't have finished watching it, otherwise, as it was kind of unapologetically hideous.  Hope his projects get better.

the new talkies

On Friday, I went to see the neo-benshi/the new talkies performance at the De Young (free with student ID!). What might this be? Well may you ask. In the De Young's rather elegant cinema (elegant, that is, except for the overly flatulent leather chairs. Did no one test them out before they were installed? They're too new to be this noisy), a podium was set up stage right of the screen, and for 10-12 minutes a poet performed a piece over/in response to a scene or clips from a film of their choosing with the volume low or muted. I actually think that this could be huge in Poland, since they're already accustomed to having tv narrated. At any rate, there were 5 different pieces on Friday night. Far and away my favorite was Rodney Koeneke's interpretation of part of The Golem. I wish I had taken notes throughout. Instead, I sat there in dimly lit awe and enjoyment until I finally broke down and scribbled nearly-illegible notes in pencil on the edge of my program. Writing in the dark is a very special (and incredibly useful!) skill which I have yet to fully master. I managed to get:

"Moses begat laughing", and
"silence is asthma for moderns"

He periodically put on a quite good German accent, with a liberal dosing of Ah so's.

Unfortunately, I enjoyed the lyricism of this piece so much that nothing else cut the mustard in quite the same way. Douglas Kearney and Nicole McJamerson's take on Fantasia will prevent me from ever watching the section with the demon city in the same way again. They wittily re-imagined this part of the movie as a late, unfinished D.W. Griffith sequel to Birth of a Nation entitled Death of a City. Jen Hofer's reading of On the Beach left me chiefly with a desire to watch the original film, and Andrew Choate's piece on The Cook, the Thief, His Wife, and Her Lover made me chuckle (yes, there are times when I laugh without guffawing) with:

"canned food is anxiety/in its pure state./In the future/the things I need/will not be available/but I will be here" (line breaks mine; an asshole move, I know, but I think it reads better if you can imagine the pauses), and
"language is food./This is not a metaphor."

Lamentably, this is not a weekly or even monthly event, but apparently an annual one.

there's a machine

if you feel like you're missing your daily dose of sexism, go here, start at 00:20:30, and watch for about a minute.

And if you think that's not propaganda for the patriarchy, then I'll give you 79 cents for your dollar.

I have no problem

with shamelessly plugging this movie. Because it's excellent:

out of sync with synecdoche

For the most part, I enjoyed watching Synecdoche, New York. When it was over, however, I found myself wondering why Charlie Kaufman hasn't bothered to write a female protagonist. Can't be that hard. Just like a man, but without a reason and accountability, right? Generally speaking, I'm a Kaufman fan. Great dialogue, fantastical plots, madcap antics and unusual characters. Right? Except it's starting to get a bit samey. The male lead. Uncertain, somehow emasculated, often surrounded by wildly sexy, seemingly fearless, dominant and/or dominating women. Who are all somehow slightly...inhuman. Without emotion. Or at the very least, without any apparent empathy for our (sympathetic?) and overwhelmed leading man. I am weary of the liberated modern woman who wildly outpaces the more sensitive, artistic, hesitant man. The regularity with which these gendered tropes occur in Kaufman's films suggests to me that he does not feel these characteristics as specific to individuals, but rather as larger truths about modern life. If this continues, I predict I will enjoy each of his future films exponentially less. I hope this is not the case. I used to really like him.

Charlie Kaufman, I'm placing you on probation.

all about the body

I know that all my news is old news, but I just saw The Wrestler. I think that unflinching is overused as an adjective at the moment, so I'll settle for calling it extraordinarily clear-eyed, or perhaps unblinking.

Yes, the acting is fantastic and the film is entertaining and suspenseful - that's all well and good and true and I don't want to belittle any of it for a moment - but I'd like to take that as read, and move on to what truly fascinated me about this film. I don't know much about professional WWE wrestling that I didn't learn from the film, but the portrayal of gender behaviors and expectations, of American youth-worship and celebrity culture was what I found surprising and insightful.

This isn't the only film about men fighting in rings that I've seen recently; a few weeks ago I saw Fat City, which I enjoyed for its gorgeous washed-out color, its spot-on acting, and rambling yet well-crafted dialogue. It was not particularly generous towards its female characters, however - while it exhibited a profound sympathy for the tragedy of masculinity, the impossibility of maintaining the standards of the hyper-masculine ideal with age, it seemed unwilling to extend an equal regard to the women of the film. The Wrestler, however testosterone-fueled it may be, is well aware that the conformity and inflexibility of strict gender roles ultimately benefits no one. Furthermore, it shows that the achievement of the gender ideal is like the line on a bell curve - some points may be closer than others, but it will stretch out to infinity without meeting zero. Perfection is tauntingly, terribly, eternally out of reach. The film illustrates the despair this creates, the impossibility of any outcome besides failure. It also critiques the frantic USAmerican chase after youth and youthfulness, our cultural rejection of aging. It portrays the desperation, the almost-groveling willingness to please that stems from a sense of the feminine that is based exclusively on sexual attractiveness to men. Finally, it depicts the transience of fame, and the almost helpless, heedless, and oddly heartbreaking pursuit of celebrity that seems to guide so much of contemporary life and culture.

Talk about your pleasant surprises.

impossible, impossible

I won't say you have to see it, because I hate it when people say that to me.

I will say that I was amazed, astounded, and awestruck by Man on Wire. It is one of the only films I think I've ever seen that was literally breathtaking. I'm not only speaking for myself. I was in a small theatre, and I could hear the other audience members gasping. At one point, the woman sitting in front of me muttered Calm down only to draw in her own breath sharply moments later.

After being apprehended by the police, Philip Petit is asked over and over why he snuck into the Twin Towers, strung a highwire between them, and walked back and forth across it. He was 1,350 feet high in the air. Why? he responds, There is no why.

I thought it was extraordinary.

same procedure

I was giving some instructions to one of my shyer students when he gave me a look that I can only describe as impish and asked me "Same procedure as last year?" At this, the other students (eight exceedingly tall German men, all in their 30s and 40s, all of whom work on airplanes, and all of whom semi-regularly pretend to be afraid of me because I'm so strict) burst into laughter. I voiced my confusion, and demanded to be let in on the joke. They were shocked that I was unfamiliar with their source material, "Dinner for One, or: The 90th Birthday."

They explained to me that this short film is shown on German television every year on New Year's Eve. Apparently it's a cult classic in Germany, and in a few other places on the Continent as well. This is despite (or perhaps because of) the fact that it is almost entirely in English, and unsubtitled. It's about 18 minutes long, black and white, and stars two British actors completely unknown to me, Freddie Frinton and May Warden. The sketch was originally written in the 1920s, but gained lasting fame with the 1963 recording for German television. It's funny, in an overblown-physical-comedy, light-heartedly alcoholic, British sort of way. If you feel so inclined, enjoy.

I'm inspired by Ikea

a little song, a little dance, no soft-shoe and no hard hats.

a very small endeavor

time-consuming, sloppy, kind of fun. Available here.

subterranean film, bavarian ire

On Saturday night I went to the Werkstattkino, which is a pocket-size, art house movie theatre. It's also in a basement. (Don't you love it when alternative culture is literally* underground?) I saw Programm 2 of Oberhausen on Tour - highlights from the recent the International Short Film Festival Oberhausen. Neat! The highlight for me was an animated short about an awkward and apologetic polar bear with an English accent who tries to make up with his equally English penguin girlfriend. Parlour drama cross with Ant/artica! Over tea and ginger cookies, he slowly, carefully, hesitantly, and with obvious embarrassment retracts his comments of the previous evening while she glowers, flippers crossed, on the sofa opposite (I didn't mean what I said, you're a beautiful swimmer. And you're really good at catching - small - fish.) Oh, I laughed. Runner-up highlight: when the credits for the aforementioned film rolled, and the man in front of me turned and said in obvious irritation, "It wasn't that funny." I have one thing to say to you, o my humorless friend: train your English!**

*I'm really glad someone else is already doing this, so I don't have to.

**seemingly for a variety of reasons, Germans rarely speak of practicing their English. Instead, they are inclined to say with a sigh and a shake of the head "Ach, this is heavy***. I must train my English."

***also (and of course I am speaking of lower level language learners), many of my students complain that "English is so heavy", translating from the German (schwierig), which appears to do double-duty for both heavy and "difficult". But really, why shouldn't language have weight? There is so much accidental poetry in non-native English.