When asked to name my five favourite Arnie films recently, I gave this list:
1. The Long Goodbye
2. The Terminator
3. Predator
4. The Running Man
5. Total Recall
Okay, maybe I was being clever and obtuse with the number one pick. Remove it, and the humorously satirical Last Action Hero squeezes in at number five, and Terminator and Predator take up the top spots, largely on the strength of the villains that outgrew Schwarzenegger himself. But the truth is, I regard all of these films as solid at the very least. Total Recall, for instance, possesses a pleasingly grotesque aesthetic you don't expect from an Arnie film. During the conversation, later films such as The 6th Day and End of Days were also discussed, neither of which are without merit (the latter, for instance, is one of the only times Arnie has ever seemed completely out of his element, and Gabriel Byrne also turns in an entertaining performance). It occurred to me that Arnie has perhaps been hard done to by both myself and others who regard him as a poor man's John Wayne.
Also discussed were the much-loved Terminator 2 and True Lies. Terminator 2 was my favourite film by far as a child, and True Lies a favourite during my formative years. Now, however, I am less enthusiastic about both. T2 is still a white-knuckle ride, thanks to the still ominous prescence of Robert Patrick's T-1000, but the film as a whole is little more than a cheesy, overblown remake of its predecessor (at least as much as Terminator 3 is a cheesy, overblown remake of Terminator 2 in turn). There's also an annoying tendency of James Cameron's to act like a teenager who has only just discovered the extra features on his new camera, and we are forced to sit though what at times resembles his special effects reel. For all its bad reviews, Terminator Salvation at least looks like it's trying something new, rather than rehashing the cyborg slasher storyline and retaining the "bigger is better" philosophy of the previous two outings.
True Lies is rather more objectionable. It is, admittedly, a funny film, and the main complaint I have with it structurally is in the way it goes on for far too long: the escape from the terrorist camp feels like an ending come none too soon, but then we have a chase sequence that seems to last an eternity and an extra half hour battle between Arnie and Art Malick over a stealth jet. But something more disturbing lies at its heart. Not simply that it's a borderline-racist western supremacy power fantasy, and strangely devoid of irony in this area considering it is a comedy, but also that it is unrepentantly sexist. The women are either scheming femme fatales or painfully clueless dummy housewives. It's difficult to imagine Jamie Lee Curtis' character being able to keep up at a Stepford book club, so her transition into secret agent is dutifully insulting, degrading and embarrassing. Even by the director's own admission (a potential sequel was abandonded in 2002) this film looks even more like a relic in a post-9/11 world, and all involved should be asking themselves just what the fuck they were thinking in the first place.
Now that the latest in the Terminator franchise is out, and Arnie's term as Governator (a complete failure for anyone expecting anything like Arnie's good friend Jesse Ventura's foray into politics) is coming to an end, could we expect further instalments in the career of the Austrain Oak? If so, we want more ridiculous sci-fi and less sequels and political thrillers. Or, if that can't be managed, cameos in hard-boiled detective films.
Tuesday 16 June 2009
Hell, Germans, Libertines and Shakespeare
It feels like I've spent most of my time watching films lately, which obviously isn't a bad thing when you're a fan of films. I went to the cinema last week to see Drag Me To Hell, a review of which can be found on Paul's blog. It was certainly enjoyable enough, and we managed to make it through the rain in time to catch the England game in the AJ.
Since then I've watched two Fassbinders I haven't seen before. Mother Kusters' Trip To Heaven (1975) is a TV movie about a widow who unwillingly participates in distortions of her late husband's memory. Pulled between communists and anarchists, both of whom wish to make her a symbol in their cause, and systematically abandonded or ignored by her family, Brigitte Mira's character is put through the director's usual cruel ringer until the endings. Strangely, Fassbinder wrote two finales to this tragicomic tale, one astonishingly more violent and nasty than the one he settled upon. I much prefer the latter, where she manages to move on and maybe find love, to the original, where she dies of an anarchist's bullet wound in the arms of her feckless son. The real star of this is Ingird Caven, who is delightful as the worn, ambitious singer and daughter of the protagonist, who uses her father's death to cynically advance her lovelife and career. Her sparring with sister-in-law Irm Hermann is fantastic, too.
Substantially superior and more complete was Fear of Fear, a completely forgotten item from the same year (I don't think it even has its own Wikipedia page). This tells the story of Margot, a severly depressed housewife. Margot's battle with her anxiety following giving birth to her second child goes through the appropriate cycle: Leonard Cohen albums, valium, affairs, alcohol, until the conclusion. This allows Fassbinder to make his commentary upon the value and lack of understanding of these addictions, but the real villain here is the oppressive society of the Economic Miracle that shuns or judges Margot, from the dismissive doctors to the vile inlaws. "We're the normal ones!" screeches Irm Hermann, reprising her role from Mother Kusters'. The implication is unavoidable: Margot, whose world literally disintegrates around her, is the sane one, whilst the respectable in-laws, who chastise Margot for almost everything she does, are the repressed psychotic majority. In this sense, Fassbinder predicts both the medicated society and the religious democratic tyranny of numbers-make-right.
A word must be said for Margit Carstensen, who plays, or rather becomes, Margot. Her acting is comprised of quietly confused facials, which are equal parts brilliantly expressive and controlled. She allows Fassbinder to place ambiguity into his close-ups, such as the final shot of her where it is almost impossible to know for sure her reaction to her neighbour's death. We are left with the disturbing possibility she is happy about it, or is at least gratefully accepting of his self-sacrifice to the demons that haunted them both so that she might live. Or did he merely represent the last traces of her psychosis? The wobbly camera effect, that acted as avatar for her bouts of anxiety, accompanies the credits and works in tandem to split our interpretations. There's such control and economy with Fassbinder that his style is the perfect environment for this story to take hold.
Then The Libertine (2005) was on television the other night. I hadn't seen it since it was first out at the cinema, and having formally studied Wilmot since then was eager to see it again. I was disappointed: it's not as good as I remembered. Not that there's anything seriously wrong with it. It tells a solid story and doesn't shy away from the grotesque and bawdy elements of Rochester's life. Depp gives one of his better performances, though it is still not free from his compulsive false-eccentricity, and John Malkovich is solid as Charles II. There's even a very good piece of shooting in the first theatre scene. But for most part the camera doesn't know where to put itself, too often forcing us into unwarranted intimacy with the characters. There are also some truly outlandish elements, even for the source material. The script seems determined to equate Rochester with a modern rock star, which is not so much unwarranted as it is predictable and cliche, and we are all meant to be aghast at this story of unfulfilled potential without giving us any reason to consider the real Rochester's talent. Admittedly, it would have been difficult to dramatically convey a poem as lengthy as, say, A Satyr Against Reason and Mankind, but surely a poet as good as Rochester deserves better than to be remembered as a bit of a lad and a good acting coach.
I also finally managed to see Chimes At Midnight from start to finish and uninterrupted. On paper, it sounds like it should be the greatest film ever: script by Shakespeare, editing and direction by Orson Welles, cast that includes such talent as John Gielgud, Margaret Rutherford and Welles himself. There's a temptation to say the general high regard for this film is more influenced by its potential and rarity than by its quality, that those who praise it do so in the knowledge few are likely to call them on it. In fact, nothing could be further from the truth. This is not quite so much the Holy Grail of Welles' canon (that would be the existing shards of his Don Quixote), nor is it another great but interferred-with show of potential like the Magnificent Ambersons. It is a realised vision, a complete and wonderful film, a culmination both of Welles' unparalleled cinematic skill and his admiration for Shakespeare.
Yes, there are a few problems with the sound, but nothing that couldn't be fixed with a half-hearted restoration. What really struck me about this film was how much Welles, ever the magician, had done with just a little money, cardboard and glue. We are transported to a medieval England of thatched wooden buildings and stone castles, thanks largely to the film's utterly fantastic lighting. Comforting, harrowing and portentious, the shadows themselves are a character. The technical pinnacle of this film comes in the famous Battle of Shrewsbury sequence, a seminal moment in film fight scenes.
The script is fantastic, too. Adapted from Welles' travesty of a play, Five Kings, it seamlessly blends dialogue from five (at my count) Shakespeare plays: the Henriad and The Merry Wives of Windsor. It gives us a sentimental version of Falstaff, more funny and playful than damagingly apathetic and cowardly, but he is none the worse for it. Welles puts in what might be his best performance, giving Falstaff a nuanced depth that is so often missing in other portrayals of the clownish character. In truth there isn't a performance in the film that isn't more than adequate, but this is about Welles, and about Falstaff as his avatar, and they are to be applauded. We learn more about Welles from this film, the way he speaks another man's words, than we do from a thousand biographies or interviews.
Since then I've watched two Fassbinders I haven't seen before. Mother Kusters' Trip To Heaven (1975) is a TV movie about a widow who unwillingly participates in distortions of her late husband's memory. Pulled between communists and anarchists, both of whom wish to make her a symbol in their cause, and systematically abandonded or ignored by her family, Brigitte Mira's character is put through the director's usual cruel ringer until the endings. Strangely, Fassbinder wrote two finales to this tragicomic tale, one astonishingly more violent and nasty than the one he settled upon. I much prefer the latter, where she manages to move on and maybe find love, to the original, where she dies of an anarchist's bullet wound in the arms of her feckless son. The real star of this is Ingird Caven, who is delightful as the worn, ambitious singer and daughter of the protagonist, who uses her father's death to cynically advance her lovelife and career. Her sparring with sister-in-law Irm Hermann is fantastic, too.
Substantially superior and more complete was Fear of Fear, a completely forgotten item from the same year (I don't think it even has its own Wikipedia page). This tells the story of Margot, a severly depressed housewife. Margot's battle with her anxiety following giving birth to her second child goes through the appropriate cycle: Leonard Cohen albums, valium, affairs, alcohol, until the conclusion. This allows Fassbinder to make his commentary upon the value and lack of understanding of these addictions, but the real villain here is the oppressive society of the Economic Miracle that shuns or judges Margot, from the dismissive doctors to the vile inlaws. "We're the normal ones!" screeches Irm Hermann, reprising her role from Mother Kusters'. The implication is unavoidable: Margot, whose world literally disintegrates around her, is the sane one, whilst the respectable in-laws, who chastise Margot for almost everything she does, are the repressed psychotic majority. In this sense, Fassbinder predicts both the medicated society and the religious democratic tyranny of numbers-make-right.
A word must be said for Margit Carstensen, who plays, or rather becomes, Margot. Her acting is comprised of quietly confused facials, which are equal parts brilliantly expressive and controlled. She allows Fassbinder to place ambiguity into his close-ups, such as the final shot of her where it is almost impossible to know for sure her reaction to her neighbour's death. We are left with the disturbing possibility she is happy about it, or is at least gratefully accepting of his self-sacrifice to the demons that haunted them both so that she might live. Or did he merely represent the last traces of her psychosis? The wobbly camera effect, that acted as avatar for her bouts of anxiety, accompanies the credits and works in tandem to split our interpretations. There's such control and economy with Fassbinder that his style is the perfect environment for this story to take hold.
Then The Libertine (2005) was on television the other night. I hadn't seen it since it was first out at the cinema, and having formally studied Wilmot since then was eager to see it again. I was disappointed: it's not as good as I remembered. Not that there's anything seriously wrong with it. It tells a solid story and doesn't shy away from the grotesque and bawdy elements of Rochester's life. Depp gives one of his better performances, though it is still not free from his compulsive false-eccentricity, and John Malkovich is solid as Charles II. There's even a very good piece of shooting in the first theatre scene. But for most part the camera doesn't know where to put itself, too often forcing us into unwarranted intimacy with the characters. There are also some truly outlandish elements, even for the source material. The script seems determined to equate Rochester with a modern rock star, which is not so much unwarranted as it is predictable and cliche, and we are all meant to be aghast at this story of unfulfilled potential without giving us any reason to consider the real Rochester's talent. Admittedly, it would have been difficult to dramatically convey a poem as lengthy as, say, A Satyr Against Reason and Mankind, but surely a poet as good as Rochester deserves better than to be remembered as a bit of a lad and a good acting coach.
I also finally managed to see Chimes At Midnight from start to finish and uninterrupted. On paper, it sounds like it should be the greatest film ever: script by Shakespeare, editing and direction by Orson Welles, cast that includes such talent as John Gielgud, Margaret Rutherford and Welles himself. There's a temptation to say the general high regard for this film is more influenced by its potential and rarity than by its quality, that those who praise it do so in the knowledge few are likely to call them on it. In fact, nothing could be further from the truth. This is not quite so much the Holy Grail of Welles' canon (that would be the existing shards of his Don Quixote), nor is it another great but interferred-with show of potential like the Magnificent Ambersons. It is a realised vision, a complete and wonderful film, a culmination both of Welles' unparalleled cinematic skill and his admiration for Shakespeare.
Yes, there are a few problems with the sound, but nothing that couldn't be fixed with a half-hearted restoration. What really struck me about this film was how much Welles, ever the magician, had done with just a little money, cardboard and glue. We are transported to a medieval England of thatched wooden buildings and stone castles, thanks largely to the film's utterly fantastic lighting. Comforting, harrowing and portentious, the shadows themselves are a character. The technical pinnacle of this film comes in the famous Battle of Shrewsbury sequence, a seminal moment in film fight scenes.
The script is fantastic, too. Adapted from Welles' travesty of a play, Five Kings, it seamlessly blends dialogue from five (at my count) Shakespeare plays: the Henriad and The Merry Wives of Windsor. It gives us a sentimental version of Falstaff, more funny and playful than damagingly apathetic and cowardly, but he is none the worse for it. Welles puts in what might be his best performance, giving Falstaff a nuanced depth that is so often missing in other portrayals of the clownish character. In truth there isn't a performance in the film that isn't more than adequate, but this is about Welles, and about Falstaff as his avatar, and they are to be applauded. We learn more about Welles from this film, the way he speaks another man's words, than we do from a thousand biographies or interviews.
Tuesday 9 June 2009
The Night of the Bastard
The results of the European elections were released Saturday night, and it’s difficult to imagine a worse evening/early morning for anyone left of centre without bringing Tequila and large prostitutes into it.
The socialists were comprehensively hammered all across the continent, whilst neoliberal, Euroskeptic and other centre-right parties did well at a time of global economic crisis. (Which, as I remarked to a friend, is like hearing Gary Glitter in the next room whilst you’re already being forcibly fucked in the arse.) As we speak, Silvio Berlusconi is rubbing his salty folds of flesh together in greedy anticipation of another stolen few years as de facto pimp of Italian politics, whilst the likes of Zapatero are licking their wounds. In the UK, David Cameron gloated smugly over a Conservative Wales, comparing himself to David Lloyd George; the vile Dan Hannan recited a Dr Seuss-like ditty before joining Nigel Farange, who looks like a cross between Peewee Herman and a diseased cock, for a spot of mutual masturbation. Finally, and at a glance most disturbingly, Britain elected not one, but two fascists to the European Parliament for the first time ever, only a day removed from the 65th anniversary of the D-Day landings.
We had all anticipated weeks in advance that the British National Party would do well at these elections. I myself had stated it might be a blessing in disguise, that they would go the way of other smaller parties in the past and collapse under their newfound weight and exposure. We all knew that, no matter how well they did here, a first past the post set-up would stop them from ever advancing. But it did nothing to lessen the blow when it finally arrived. When it was announced that Andrew Brons, an outspoken ex-Colin Jordan brownshirt, had gained a seat in Yorkshire and Humber, those of us who had stayed up to watch were nearly speechless. Anger, vitriolic and disbelieving, flooded the Facebook home page. But even that was only a warm up for what happened next: Nick Griffin, leader of the BNP, won a North West seat.
A region hung its collective head in shame. The grinning, bloated face of Griffin, like a deliriously spastic Danny DeVito from Batman Returns, seemed to be tattooed on the inside of our eyelids. How could they have triumphed here, and in York, of all places? The answer was clear: low turnouts and electorate apathy had gifted this bumbling far-right Red Triangle Gang seats in an election where they had actually done worse in the popular vote than last time. But the response was impassioned and bewildered: I, for one, in a storm of mentally retarded e-fury, cut all ties to the North West on my Facebook and blog. Never again, I told myself, would I be proud of living in Liverpool, never again would I reminisce about the days when walking viruses like Kelvin MacKenzie would refer to us as a Socialist Republic for our romantic refusal to bend a lip to Thatcherism’s demented labia.
Awake and relatively sober now, we should all be able to take a step back from this and realise the fascist gains, here and in places like Hungary, are an embarrassment and nothing more. That noise you hear is your keys in the washing machine, not jackboots marching up and down outside.
What is far more worrying is Labour dying, a directionless and naive Conservative Party benefitting (although not experiencing the huge swing Cameron promised: realistically, it was a disappointing night for them, too), the worryingly more-mainstream-than-the-BNP UKIP making massive gains and the Lib Dems completely failing. With Vince Cable on their side, and lacking the baggage of the Tories and Labour, this should have been their moment. Instead, they dropped to fourth. Nick Clegg should stand down before the UK has no left-leaning liberal voice left.
What should we learn from this? We do have an enemy. But it’s not the immigrants, like the Daily Mail wants us to believe, or the Commie Jewish Bankers, like the Völkischer Beobachter told us, or the ‘Islamofascists,’ as anyone on the right seems to be screaming, or the Scientologists. It’s not even the BNP: they are a symptom, not the disease itself. The disease is the whole system, and our reaction to it. When liberalism was young, there was a time when our leaders feared us. Now, they only fear us not turning up to the polls. Anyone who doesn’t want this to happen again needs to make their voices a little louder whichever way they can.
For my part, I’m forming the Justice League party tomorrow. The good news is there are still a few places available: I need a Catwoman and an Aquaman before noon.
There are positives to take from this. The Pirate Party, who refuses to treat culture as a commodity, gained a seat. 50% more people voted Green this time around. And Labour took a kicking, perhaps the only centre-right party to do so off the top of my head (though who knows what their orientation is these days?) even if it was to the benefit of the Eton Alliance. But we need to face up to the fact that those who did well are those who are largely responsible for the current economic crisis, and it’s because of our willingness to let corrupt politicians off the hook instead of voting against them. And by the time a real election runs around, those of us who don’t want Dan Hannan to be stuttering the Hungry Hungry Caterpillar to a captivated House of Commons or more demented aspects of British life getting on to so much as a stage in a strip club with a grin on their face need to suck it up before the event rather than eating it afterwards.
The socialists were comprehensively hammered all across the continent, whilst neoliberal, Euroskeptic and other centre-right parties did well at a time of global economic crisis. (Which, as I remarked to a friend, is like hearing Gary Glitter in the next room whilst you’re already being forcibly fucked in the arse.) As we speak, Silvio Berlusconi is rubbing his salty folds of flesh together in greedy anticipation of another stolen few years as de facto pimp of Italian politics, whilst the likes of Zapatero are licking their wounds. In the UK, David Cameron gloated smugly over a Conservative Wales, comparing himself to David Lloyd George; the vile Dan Hannan recited a Dr Seuss-like ditty before joining Nigel Farange, who looks like a cross between Peewee Herman and a diseased cock, for a spot of mutual masturbation. Finally, and at a glance most disturbingly, Britain elected not one, but two fascists to the European Parliament for the first time ever, only a day removed from the 65th anniversary of the D-Day landings.
We had all anticipated weeks in advance that the British National Party would do well at these elections. I myself had stated it might be a blessing in disguise, that they would go the way of other smaller parties in the past and collapse under their newfound weight and exposure. We all knew that, no matter how well they did here, a first past the post set-up would stop them from ever advancing. But it did nothing to lessen the blow when it finally arrived. When it was announced that Andrew Brons, an outspoken ex-Colin Jordan brownshirt, had gained a seat in Yorkshire and Humber, those of us who had stayed up to watch were nearly speechless. Anger, vitriolic and disbelieving, flooded the Facebook home page. But even that was only a warm up for what happened next: Nick Griffin, leader of the BNP, won a North West seat.
A region hung its collective head in shame. The grinning, bloated face of Griffin, like a deliriously spastic Danny DeVito from Batman Returns, seemed to be tattooed on the inside of our eyelids. How could they have triumphed here, and in York, of all places? The answer was clear: low turnouts and electorate apathy had gifted this bumbling far-right Red Triangle Gang seats in an election where they had actually done worse in the popular vote than last time. But the response was impassioned and bewildered: I, for one, in a storm of mentally retarded e-fury, cut all ties to the North West on my Facebook and blog. Never again, I told myself, would I be proud of living in Liverpool, never again would I reminisce about the days when walking viruses like Kelvin MacKenzie would refer to us as a Socialist Republic for our romantic refusal to bend a lip to Thatcherism’s demented labia.
Awake and relatively sober now, we should all be able to take a step back from this and realise the fascist gains, here and in places like Hungary, are an embarrassment and nothing more. That noise you hear is your keys in the washing machine, not jackboots marching up and down outside.
What is far more worrying is Labour dying, a directionless and naive Conservative Party benefitting (although not experiencing the huge swing Cameron promised: realistically, it was a disappointing night for them, too), the worryingly more-mainstream-than-the-BNP UKIP making massive gains and the Lib Dems completely failing. With Vince Cable on their side, and lacking the baggage of the Tories and Labour, this should have been their moment. Instead, they dropped to fourth. Nick Clegg should stand down before the UK has no left-leaning liberal voice left.
What should we learn from this? We do have an enemy. But it’s not the immigrants, like the Daily Mail wants us to believe, or the Commie Jewish Bankers, like the Völkischer Beobachter told us, or the ‘Islamofascists,’ as anyone on the right seems to be screaming, or the Scientologists. It’s not even the BNP: they are a symptom, not the disease itself. The disease is the whole system, and our reaction to it. When liberalism was young, there was a time when our leaders feared us. Now, they only fear us not turning up to the polls. Anyone who doesn’t want this to happen again needs to make their voices a little louder whichever way they can.
For my part, I’m forming the Justice League party tomorrow. The good news is there are still a few places available: I need a Catwoman and an Aquaman before noon.
There are positives to take from this. The Pirate Party, who refuses to treat culture as a commodity, gained a seat. 50% more people voted Green this time around. And Labour took a kicking, perhaps the only centre-right party to do so off the top of my head (though who knows what their orientation is these days?) even if it was to the benefit of the Eton Alliance. But we need to face up to the fact that those who did well are those who are largely responsible for the current economic crisis, and it’s because of our willingness to let corrupt politicians off the hook instead of voting against them. And by the time a real election runs around, those of us who don’t want Dan Hannan to be stuttering the Hungry Hungry Caterpillar to a captivated House of Commons or more demented aspects of British life getting on to so much as a stage in a strip club with a grin on their face need to suck it up before the event rather than eating it afterwards.
Saturday 6 June 2009
The Meaning of Cameron
Tomorrow the results of the European elections will be laid bare, and it is almost a foregone conclusion that the Conservative Party will be able to claim another landslide victory as they have done in the local elections. Within the next 12 months, and, depending on the reaction from what remains of the Labour government, possibly within a few weeks, we will have a new Prime Minister: David Cameron, the Gingerbread Man.
Those casual observers in the States might be tempted to draw comparisons with their own recent election. The Gingerbread Man is, after all, a fresher, younger face taking over from a tired, failed and collapsing party.
Others might be tempted to take the other route and equate the Gingerbread Man with George W. Bush's victory in 2001; not for the controversy surrounding the vote counting, but both men's claims to be "compassionate conservatives," not to mention their succession representing a rightwards political shift. Even moreso than that, both Bush and the Gingerbread Man rose because of the capital granted to them by their political aristocracy. Bush, of course, was son of former president George H. W. Bush and grandson of Wall Street executive Prescott Bush, whilst the Gingerbread Man comes from more privileged stock still, the son of a stockbroker, the grandson of Sir William Mount, 2nd Baronet and direct descendant of King William IV. His wife, Samantha, is a descendant of King Charles II, and together the couple have a personal fortune of around £30 million. To call them the aristocracy is a regression of their royal lineage.
However, the Gingerbread Man is not a Bush, for many reasons. There is a long-standing tradition of keeping religion and politics apart in the United Kingdom, perhaps, ironically, because of the lack of official separation of church and state. The last incumbent of the highest office in the land, Tony Blair, famously affirmed this desire for secularism within the Commons and within the Cabinet when he said, "We don't do religion." The Gingerbread Man's vanity has caused him to remark in the past that he is the "heir to Blair," suggesting that a Christian Coalition-style reorientation of politics around faith is massively unlikely and that the Anglo-American tradition will continue, with conservatism remaining a brand of liberalism rather than a concealed far-right assault upon it.
He is also not a Barack Obama. The US president, in one of his more insightful moments, noted the Gingerbread Man was "a lightweight," and is in opposition to his hawkish foreign policy record and Euroskepticism. Obama arguably rose to the top in spite of his relatively unconventional background, whereas in stark contrast the Gingerbread Man has slithered to prominence as leader of the opposition via an old boy's network and has since honoured his connections by promoting his Etonian chums to high positions within the party.
In short, while Obama represents something new, the Gingerbread Man is a return to the days of political hierarchy reflecting the imbalanced order of its society: rich, white males governing. The Tory party has done everything in its power to convince people of the opposite. The patently fake concern for the environment, the "understanding" hand it intends to raise against yobs, the outwards rejection of Thatcherism, the pathetic usage of popular indie bands' music at its conferences - none of it can hold up under the most light of inspections.
The key to understanding the Gingerbread Man, perhaps, is to look at what he sees as the cause of the "broken society" he intends to fix, which is inevitably "the family." Any politician announcing his attention to protect "the family" or "family values" should, in this day and age, be immediately suspected of both homophobia and sexism, but the implication is so rarely picked up on. In the Gingerbread Man's case, it is at the very least pure patronising, a vomitive attempt to appeal to a plastic and hypocritical upper-middle class who will stay with their partners no matter what "for the sake of the children" and actively enforce the stigma that makes life so needlessly difficult for single parents socially and professionally all down the class scale. A more obvious transgression against those lower down the scale was to be found in his utterly juvenile tirade against the poor and the unhealthy, declaring it was their own fault and speaking out against "moral neutrality." Conscious of sounding like a pre-Marxian aristocratic apologist in a post-Marxian age, he hastened to add, “Of course, circumstances — where you are born, your neighbourhood, your school and the choices your parents make — have a huge impact. But social problems are often the consequence of the choices people make.” A few months later, returning to his "family" gimmicking, he added race into the mix, saying too many black fathers were shirking their responsibilities and calling for a "responsibility revolution."
How has this chubby bore been allowed to remain uncatchable? Criticisms have barely stayed in the media for days, satire has been in relatively short supply. The Tories have backed all of Labour's most awful policies - the Iraq War, tuition fees, and so forth, and lacked the economic skill, philosophy and influence to have prevented the current crisis had they been in power. Whilst it is true much of the Conservatives' having managed to escape the public bludgeoning Labour have been subjected to over the expenses scandal is a result of Britain's ignorance, a conflating of "parliament" and "government" that allows the opposition to slip by whilst the party in power bears the brunt, there is more to it. More than anything, what the Gingerbread Man represents is the death of New Labour, contributing actively as it did to the global irresponsibility that finds us where we are now, and perhaps the death of the Labour Party altogether; a nostalgia for the good old days; and working-class apathy. The upper-classes have received their last punch on the nose in the form of Alistair Darling's latest tax increase, and have rallied, whilst those below them, having had no real representation since 1994, have been stamped into the mud and are unwilling to go and vote to counter this resurgence of the nervous overlords shivering in their castles.
The whole country seems unconsciously aware of Giambattista Vico's historical model and is attempting to regress back from the chaotic precipice into the safe, comfortable aristocratic age that proceeded it. This collective urge to return to the womb seems as darkly, comically Jungian as it is ultimately flawed and doomed to failure. Even though the Gingerbread Man's crimes, his racism and his social elitism, his plastic personality politics, his laughable and almost unbelievably egotistical "Cameron Direct" programme, his passive support of the Botha regime, his complete lack of policies, his hypocrisy over drugs, have all failed to catch up with him so far, eventually he will walk into the fox's mouth and dissolve into the cruel river of public and media disapproval. But whilst the Gingerbread Man's vileness seems to know no bounds, for now, he looks likely to stay a few steps ahead of his detractors in this distracted time, for no reason other than there being no enemies to measure him by.
Those casual observers in the States might be tempted to draw comparisons with their own recent election. The Gingerbread Man is, after all, a fresher, younger face taking over from a tired, failed and collapsing party.
Others might be tempted to take the other route and equate the Gingerbread Man with George W. Bush's victory in 2001; not for the controversy surrounding the vote counting, but both men's claims to be "compassionate conservatives," not to mention their succession representing a rightwards political shift. Even moreso than that, both Bush and the Gingerbread Man rose because of the capital granted to them by their political aristocracy. Bush, of course, was son of former president George H. W. Bush and grandson of Wall Street executive Prescott Bush, whilst the Gingerbread Man comes from more privileged stock still, the son of a stockbroker, the grandson of Sir William Mount, 2nd Baronet and direct descendant of King William IV. His wife, Samantha, is a descendant of King Charles II, and together the couple have a personal fortune of around £30 million. To call them the aristocracy is a regression of their royal lineage.
However, the Gingerbread Man is not a Bush, for many reasons. There is a long-standing tradition of keeping religion and politics apart in the United Kingdom, perhaps, ironically, because of the lack of official separation of church and state. The last incumbent of the highest office in the land, Tony Blair, famously affirmed this desire for secularism within the Commons and within the Cabinet when he said, "We don't do religion." The Gingerbread Man's vanity has caused him to remark in the past that he is the "heir to Blair," suggesting that a Christian Coalition-style reorientation of politics around faith is massively unlikely and that the Anglo-American tradition will continue, with conservatism remaining a brand of liberalism rather than a concealed far-right assault upon it.
He is also not a Barack Obama. The US president, in one of his more insightful moments, noted the Gingerbread Man was "a lightweight," and is in opposition to his hawkish foreign policy record and Euroskepticism. Obama arguably rose to the top in spite of his relatively unconventional background, whereas in stark contrast the Gingerbread Man has slithered to prominence as leader of the opposition via an old boy's network and has since honoured his connections by promoting his Etonian chums to high positions within the party.
In short, while Obama represents something new, the Gingerbread Man is a return to the days of political hierarchy reflecting the imbalanced order of its society: rich, white males governing. The Tory party has done everything in its power to convince people of the opposite. The patently fake concern for the environment, the "understanding" hand it intends to raise against yobs, the outwards rejection of Thatcherism, the pathetic usage of popular indie bands' music at its conferences - none of it can hold up under the most light of inspections.
The key to understanding the Gingerbread Man, perhaps, is to look at what he sees as the cause of the "broken society" he intends to fix, which is inevitably "the family." Any politician announcing his attention to protect "the family" or "family values" should, in this day and age, be immediately suspected of both homophobia and sexism, but the implication is so rarely picked up on. In the Gingerbread Man's case, it is at the very least pure patronising, a vomitive attempt to appeal to a plastic and hypocritical upper-middle class who will stay with their partners no matter what "for the sake of the children" and actively enforce the stigma that makes life so needlessly difficult for single parents socially and professionally all down the class scale. A more obvious transgression against those lower down the scale was to be found in his utterly juvenile tirade against the poor and the unhealthy, declaring it was their own fault and speaking out against "moral neutrality." Conscious of sounding like a pre-Marxian aristocratic apologist in a post-Marxian age, he hastened to add, “Of course, circumstances — where you are born, your neighbourhood, your school and the choices your parents make — have a huge impact. But social problems are often the consequence of the choices people make.” A few months later, returning to his "family" gimmicking, he added race into the mix, saying too many black fathers were shirking their responsibilities and calling for a "responsibility revolution."
How has this chubby bore been allowed to remain uncatchable? Criticisms have barely stayed in the media for days, satire has been in relatively short supply. The Tories have backed all of Labour's most awful policies - the Iraq War, tuition fees, and so forth, and lacked the economic skill, philosophy and influence to have prevented the current crisis had they been in power. Whilst it is true much of the Conservatives' having managed to escape the public bludgeoning Labour have been subjected to over the expenses scandal is a result of Britain's ignorance, a conflating of "parliament" and "government" that allows the opposition to slip by whilst the party in power bears the brunt, there is more to it. More than anything, what the Gingerbread Man represents is the death of New Labour, contributing actively as it did to the global irresponsibility that finds us where we are now, and perhaps the death of the Labour Party altogether; a nostalgia for the good old days; and working-class apathy. The upper-classes have received their last punch on the nose in the form of Alistair Darling's latest tax increase, and have rallied, whilst those below them, having had no real representation since 1994, have been stamped into the mud and are unwilling to go and vote to counter this resurgence of the nervous overlords shivering in their castles.
The whole country seems unconsciously aware of Giambattista Vico's historical model and is attempting to regress back from the chaotic precipice into the safe, comfortable aristocratic age that proceeded it. This collective urge to return to the womb seems as darkly, comically Jungian as it is ultimately flawed and doomed to failure. Even though the Gingerbread Man's crimes, his racism and his social elitism, his plastic personality politics, his laughable and almost unbelievably egotistical "Cameron Direct" programme, his passive support of the Botha regime, his complete lack of policies, his hypocrisy over drugs, have all failed to catch up with him so far, eventually he will walk into the fox's mouth and dissolve into the cruel river of public and media disapproval. But whilst the Gingerbread Man's vileness seems to know no bounds, for now, he looks likely to stay a few steps ahead of his detractors in this distracted time, for no reason other than there being no enemies to measure him by.
Monday 20 April 2009
Roadside Ponderings
Stalker (Andrei Tarkovsky, 1979) is often hailed as a moving and frightening film, a thinking man's sci-fi to rival 2001. The comparisons with Kubrick's film are more deserved here than those often attributed to Tarkovsky's other venture into science fiction, Solyaris (1972), which I have always considered an interesting but ultimately self-parodying film (laborious shots combined with a pseudo-philosophical script), but again somewhat unusual. Whereas Space Odyssey certainly shares a technical competency and spirtual evolution angle with Stalker, that's where the similarities end. Kubrick's film is cold and impassive, even in moments of glory, underlining the director's understanding of tone and mood. Stalker, at its most pessimistic, is rich in human mystery and pondering on the theme of transcendence.
Truthfully there are literally tens of shots in the film that suggest the director's genius, some of them, true to form, lasting for minutes on end. Our early shepherding into and out of the doorway into the bedroom, the continuous take on Monkey's progress down a slope as it is slowly revealed she is being carried rather than walking, the iconoclastic drift over images of the gods of our modern collective consciousness. (Jesus in prayer, money, a gun.) Perhaps the best example of the artist/magician duality is the final scene that at least deserves to be famous, in which Monkey moves a glass across a table with her mind. Or does she? Is she merely observing it's being progressed by the vibrations of a passing train? Our willingness to believe the unbelieveable, though, is a testament not to Tarkovsky's skill with a camera, but his understanding of psychology.
This scene follows what has been as much a psychoanalytical journey as a theological one. It is impossible not to pick up on the clumsy Id, Ego and Superego dynamic provided by the three (male) leads, but the Wittgensteinian undertones are far more subtle. The Zone, where our three heroes journey, is a metaphor for the functional world, a world of prepositions and language traps, where markers must be lain down to navigate in chaos. Just as we require illogical spatial recognitions to stay sane - Home, School, Work, Local Shop, Abroad, etc. - so does Stalker throw nuts to mark their progress before they've made it. Space is relative in this linguistic realm, and Stalker, who tries to impose his own rules on it, must thus lose the most at the pilgrimage's conclusion, in which it is revealed the Holy Grail of the story is a somewhere between a placebo and a subconscious manipulation of the universe (one theory posits that Monkey is born out of Porcupine's wish for his brother's return and is hence a reincarnation via subatomic reasoning). What is interesting is that it is Professor, ostensibly the broken, castrated Superego, who attempts to destroy Room in the Zone, where wishes are meant to be granted. His rejection of the oxymoronic scientific supernatural represents the ultimate failure of the Symbolic Circuit in Leary's model, and perhaps the culmination of a cinematic thesis extension of Lacan's Symbolic order.
Watching Tarkovsky's Stalker uncovers the potential of cinema as a medium. We are never sure whether we are watching an artist or a magician; the truth is, the director is both, often simultaneously. Immediately we are struck by the aesthetics: the lighting is perfection, the control and patience of the shots chosen unmatched; furthermore, Tarkovsky is one of the cinema's great portraiters as well as a commendable landscape photographer. I fell in love with Alexander Kaidanovsky's head about twenty minutes in and the sympathy I felt for his character never left me.
Truthfully there are literally tens of shots in the film that suggest the director's genius, some of them, true to form, lasting for minutes on end. Our early shepherding into and out of the doorway into the bedroom, the continuous take on Monkey's progress down a slope as it is slowly revealed she is being carried rather than walking, the iconoclastic drift over images of the gods of our modern collective consciousness. (Jesus in prayer, money, a gun.) Perhaps the best example of the artist/magician duality is the final scene that at least deserves to be famous, in which Monkey moves a glass across a table with her mind. Or does she? Is she merely observing it's being progressed by the vibrations of a passing train? Our willingness to believe the unbelieveable, though, is a testament not to Tarkovsky's skill with a camera, but his understanding of psychology.This scene follows what has been as much a psychoanalytical journey as a theological one. It is impossible not to pick up on the clumsy Id, Ego and Superego dynamic provided by the three (male) leads, but the Wittgensteinian undertones are far more subtle. The Zone, where our three heroes journey, is a metaphor for the functional world, a world of prepositions and language traps, where markers must be lain down to navigate in chaos. Just as we require illogical spatial recognitions to stay sane - Home, School, Work, Local Shop, Abroad, etc. - so does Stalker throw nuts to mark their progress before they've made it. Space is relative in this linguistic realm, and Stalker, who tries to impose his own rules on it, must thus lose the most at the pilgrimage's conclusion, in which it is revealed the Holy Grail of the story is a somewhere between a placebo and a subconscious manipulation of the universe (one theory posits that Monkey is born out of Porcupine's wish for his brother's return and is hence a reincarnation via subatomic reasoning). What is interesting is that it is Professor, ostensibly the broken, castrated Superego, who attempts to destroy Room in the Zone, where wishes are meant to be granted. His rejection of the oxymoronic scientific supernatural represents the ultimate failure of the Symbolic Circuit in Leary's model, and perhaps the culmination of a cinematic thesis extension of Lacan's Symbolic order.More mythological is the introduction of a black dog that follows the trio. Undoubtedly Anubis, it consumes whilst Stalker talks of hearts, attaches itself to Stalker in his own words, and whines at Monkey's Osiric annointment by Beethoven. In other scenes it lingers, a curious reminder that in the Zone, just as in life, death (and judgement?) is around every corner. Whilst not quite Tarkovsky's masterpiece (that is undoubtedly Zerkalo (1975)), Stalker is a fascinating film whichever way you look at it and a worthy addition to his oeuvre.
Sunday 22 March 2009
Phantoms of Nabua
http://www.animateprojects.org/films/by_date/2009/phantoms
A chance to see Apichatpong Weerasethakul's latest short film, plus a brief digression on the subject beneath.
A chance to see Apichatpong Weerasethakul's latest short film, plus a brief digression on the subject beneath.
Sunday 15 March 2009
The Future
"Won't be nothin' you can measure any more.
The blizzard of the world has crossed the threshhold
And overturned the order of the soul."
- Leonard Cohen, The Future
Cohen's darkest song used to seem pregnant with unfortunate truths, a bleak but accurate outlook on the spiritual development of our species. These days for me it simply forecasts something to avoid, and is a ditty to enjoy for its daring and poise. For the more I read about potential scientific developments, the stronger my optimism.
Without the time or the inclination to delve into futurism/transhumanism for the uninitiated, I thought I'd simply post a timeline of interesting events-to-come for those who need cheering up. These are not from any lunatic-fringe scientist who has read too much Timothy Leary, but no less an authority than Raymond Kurzweil, the man once described as "the rightful heir to Thomas Edison," who in the 1980s correctly predicted such diverse subjects as the growth of the internet in the 1990s (as well as broadband in the 2000s), the fall of the Soviet Union and the superceding of human chess players by computers.
Next year
- Computers to no longer be distinct physical objects. Perhaps be a part of your clothing!
- Supercomputers will have the same raw power as human brains.
2010s
- Eyeglasses that beam images onto the users' retinas to produce virtual reality to be developed.
- The VR glasses will also have built-in computers featuring "virtual assistant" programs that can help the user with various daily tasks. One useful function of the virtual assistant would be real-time language translation for the user.
2020s
- Personal computers will have the same raw power as human brains.
- Nanomachines for medical purposes such as hyperaccurate brainscans and, more impressively, "feeding" human cells, replacing the need for traditional consumption of food.
- With food consumption and therefore hunger now obsolete, the age of the cyborg begins proper.
- Virtual reality becomes indistinguishable from reality itself.
- Nanomachines eliminate threat of pathogens, eliminating disease.
- First real AI created with all the potential of the human mind.
2030s
- The paths of nanotechnology and virtual reality cross. Practical uses include functional telepathy with other humans and similar immediate interfaces with computers.
- Humans can now alter their own intelligence, personality, memories and senses at will. We choose our own paradigm shifts more effectively, potentially eliminating war.
- Humans can upload their minds completely into machines.
2040s
- Human body 3.0. What's this? It can alter its shape and external appearance at will via nanotechnology. Organs are also replaced by superior cybernetic implants.
- Virtual reality becomes more popular than reality.
2045
- The coming of the Singularity: the technological Ubermensch. AIs surpass human beings as the smartest and most capable life forms on the Earth. Technological development is taken over by the machines, who can think, act and communicate so quickly that normal humans cannot even comprehend what is going on; thus the machines, acting in concert with those humans who have evolved into humanoid androids, achieve effective world domination. The machines enter into a "runaway reaction" of self-improvement cycles, with each new generation of AIs appearing faster and faster. From this point onwards, technological advancement is explosive, under the control of the machines, and thus cannot be accurately predicted.
- Sharp distinctions between man and machine will no longer exist thanks to the existence of cybernetically enhanced humans and uploaded humans.
Post-Singularity
- Computer transistors cannot be shrunk any more. Computers become bigger to become better again. Result? Earth becomes one giant computer coexisting with natural beauty.
- Space domination begins. AIs branch out, converting the rest of the universe bit by bit from inanimate matter to intelligent artificial sentience.
- Entire universe becomes giant, highly efficient supercomputer. Abrogation of the laws of Physics, interdimensional travel, and eternal life for what was once the human race.
Or we could just all live on farms. Either way I'm happy.
The blizzard of the world has crossed the threshhold
And overturned the order of the soul."
- Leonard Cohen, The Future
Cohen's darkest song used to seem pregnant with unfortunate truths, a bleak but accurate outlook on the spiritual development of our species. These days for me it simply forecasts something to avoid, and is a ditty to enjoy for its daring and poise. For the more I read about potential scientific developments, the stronger my optimism.
Without the time or the inclination to delve into futurism/transhumanism for the uninitiated, I thought I'd simply post a timeline of interesting events-to-come for those who need cheering up. These are not from any lunatic-fringe scientist who has read too much Timothy Leary, but no less an authority than Raymond Kurzweil, the man once described as "the rightful heir to Thomas Edison," who in the 1980s correctly predicted such diverse subjects as the growth of the internet in the 1990s (as well as broadband in the 2000s), the fall of the Soviet Union and the superceding of human chess players by computers.
Next year
- Computers to no longer be distinct physical objects. Perhaps be a part of your clothing!
- Supercomputers will have the same raw power as human brains.
2010s
- Eyeglasses that beam images onto the users' retinas to produce virtual reality to be developed.
- The VR glasses will also have built-in computers featuring "virtual assistant" programs that can help the user with various daily tasks. One useful function of the virtual assistant would be real-time language translation for the user.
2020s
- Personal computers will have the same raw power as human brains.
- Nanomachines for medical purposes such as hyperaccurate brainscans and, more impressively, "feeding" human cells, replacing the need for traditional consumption of food.
- With food consumption and therefore hunger now obsolete, the age of the cyborg begins proper.
- Virtual reality becomes indistinguishable from reality itself.
- Nanomachines eliminate threat of pathogens, eliminating disease.
- First real AI created with all the potential of the human mind.
2030s
- The paths of nanotechnology and virtual reality cross. Practical uses include functional telepathy with other humans and similar immediate interfaces with computers.
- Humans can now alter their own intelligence, personality, memories and senses at will. We choose our own paradigm shifts more effectively, potentially eliminating war.
- Humans can upload their minds completely into machines.
2040s
- Human body 3.0. What's this? It can alter its shape and external appearance at will via nanotechnology. Organs are also replaced by superior cybernetic implants.
- Virtual reality becomes more popular than reality.
2045
- The coming of the Singularity: the technological Ubermensch. AIs surpass human beings as the smartest and most capable life forms on the Earth. Technological development is taken over by the machines, who can think, act and communicate so quickly that normal humans cannot even comprehend what is going on; thus the machines, acting in concert with those humans who have evolved into humanoid androids, achieve effective world domination. The machines enter into a "runaway reaction" of self-improvement cycles, with each new generation of AIs appearing faster and faster. From this point onwards, technological advancement is explosive, under the control of the machines, and thus cannot be accurately predicted.
- Sharp distinctions between man and machine will no longer exist thanks to the existence of cybernetically enhanced humans and uploaded humans.
Post-Singularity
- Computer transistors cannot be shrunk any more. Computers become bigger to become better again. Result? Earth becomes one giant computer coexisting with natural beauty.
- Space domination begins. AIs branch out, converting the rest of the universe bit by bit from inanimate matter to intelligent artificial sentience.
- Entire universe becomes giant, highly efficient supercomputer. Abrogation of the laws of Physics, interdimensional travel, and eternal life for what was once the human race.
Or we could just all live on farms. Either way I'm happy.
Sunday 8 March 2009
Ooooh, Warrarush
...As Hawk might have said, had he been Scouse.
It's been a bit of a mixed 4 weeks for me. I was recalled into hospital and had to have another blood transfusion, followed by a week of "observation." I entertained myself by pretending to be a nurse and telling the other inmates (patients; a recurring Freudian slip) they were allowed to smoke and assissting an elderly alcoholic in his zimmer-permitting escape attempts. As a result of my unreliable jalopy of a body, I've had to temporarily suspend my yoga, vegetarianism, sporting activities and... well, walking anywhere further than from one side of campus to the other. I'm also being investigated by the university for my absences.
Saw Kathryn Hunter's Othello at the Playhouse (i.e. with Patrice Naiambana, not Lenny Henry) which was enjoyable, if a bit overzealous and unrevealing. Also managed to catch Gran Torino, probably the funniest and most racist film I've seen in a while. Ah, and the new Watchmen film, about which I have little to add. As usual, Alan Moore is right: it shouldn't have been made.
Speaking of Moore, once again the media spotlight has fallen on him, and once again he's suffered from it somewhat. I've read some quite borderline-libellous stuff about his personal beliefs, alongside the assertion or implication he is insane. See, to me, anyone unwilling to compromise on his artistic integrity for money, or able to see a connection between fiction and mythology that goes beyond the boring rationalist level, is okay in my book. But maybe I, a practicing magician, am crazy in everyone else's book, too.
A while ago here I expressed envy for the polarisation American politics benefits from. I have no such fetishes about the embarrassing nature of them in general. Someone once said to me that pro wrestling was the American version of pantomime: they were right in one respect, but a more direct equivalent would be the ongoing war of ludicrous claims between the US's right-wing and everyone else. Recently Rush Limbaugh, second-grade radio entertainer, has stepped back into the arena as "the de facto leader of the Republican party." This sounds a lot like the death knell of the American conservative.
To give it credit, the Far-Right has done a great job of A) getting everyone to believe 'conservatism' and 'liberalism' are opposites, and B) passing themselves off as conservatives. True conservatives have a noble tradition of defending liberalism from itself, trying to ensure progress has a moral compass. Oppression of women and minority rights? Motions towards theocracy? These are not conservative values. Fortunately, the Tory Party in the UK, for all its faults, has not quite fallen prey to this sickening intrusion rebranding. But something is very rotten in the States of America.
Otherwise, I'm house-hunting, reading a lot, and wasting a fair bit of time on the computer. Same old, same old.
It's been a bit of a mixed 4 weeks for me. I was recalled into hospital and had to have another blood transfusion, followed by a week of "observation." I entertained myself by pretending to be a nurse and telling the other inmates (patients; a recurring Freudian slip) they were allowed to smoke and assissting an elderly alcoholic in his zimmer-permitting escape attempts. As a result of my unreliable jalopy of a body, I've had to temporarily suspend my yoga, vegetarianism, sporting activities and... well, walking anywhere further than from one side of campus to the other. I'm also being investigated by the university for my absences.
Saw Kathryn Hunter's Othello at the Playhouse (i.e. with Patrice Naiambana, not Lenny Henry) which was enjoyable, if a bit overzealous and unrevealing. Also managed to catch Gran Torino, probably the funniest and most racist film I've seen in a while. Ah, and the new Watchmen film, about which I have little to add. As usual, Alan Moore is right: it shouldn't have been made.
Speaking of Moore, once again the media spotlight has fallen on him, and once again he's suffered from it somewhat. I've read some quite borderline-libellous stuff about his personal beliefs, alongside the assertion or implication he is insane. See, to me, anyone unwilling to compromise on his artistic integrity for money, or able to see a connection between fiction and mythology that goes beyond the boring rationalist level, is okay in my book. But maybe I, a practicing magician, am crazy in everyone else's book, too.
A while ago here I expressed envy for the polarisation American politics benefits from. I have no such fetishes about the embarrassing nature of them in general. Someone once said to me that pro wrestling was the American version of pantomime: they were right in one respect, but a more direct equivalent would be the ongoing war of ludicrous claims between the US's right-wing and everyone else. Recently Rush Limbaugh, second-grade radio entertainer, has stepped back into the arena as "the de facto leader of the Republican party." This sounds a lot like the death knell of the American conservative.
To give it credit, the Far-Right has done a great job of A) getting everyone to believe 'conservatism' and 'liberalism' are opposites, and B) passing themselves off as conservatives. True conservatives have a noble tradition of defending liberalism from itself, trying to ensure progress has a moral compass. Oppression of women and minority rights? Motions towards theocracy? These are not conservative values. Fortunately, the Tory Party in the UK, for all its faults, has not quite fallen prey to this sickening intrusion rebranding. But something is very rotten in the States of America.
Otherwise, I'm house-hunting, reading a lot, and wasting a fair bit of time on the computer. Same old, same old.
Thursday 5 February 2009
An attempt to reconcile my politics with my philosophy
At the risk of offering anecdotal evidence, in my experience, arborescent thinking often leads to people compartmentalising their political allegiances and their philosophical leanings into two seperate entities. I suspect am guilty of this myself, but my excuse is that the immediacy of politics often make them collide with philosophy, which is often more of a long term goal. This seems quite contradictory, and is a model that has failed to work throughout the Western world until one section, the Far Right, gave up on utopianism all together, with the Left soon following with the collapse of the Soviet Union. These defeatist attitudes have left us in a state of aporia. We now seem to live purely in the present: if someone strikes you, you strike them back, often in the name of peace. In the end, as in the Middle-East/USA conflict, we forget who threw the first punch, and if we're lucky to be actively literate, recall the morally bankrupt British hand in the formation of Israel or the States' support for Saddam Hussein in the 1970s, but to no end goal. One is reminded of the comical conflict between the offenders and the defenders in Finnegans Wake, who eventually become one all-encompassing concept: the fenders.
I sometimes think that as beings with a functioning cerebral cortex, we have to be hypocritical, or at least non-doctrinal. When philosophy or science, both, I agree with Rorty, types of literature, become dogmatic, they cease to be good philosophy or good science. Yet the scale of the hypocrisy must be measured. Being flexible does not have to mean supporting Israel when you did not support apartheid South Africa. (In fairness, commentaries on Hamas have very much resembled what Reagan and Thatcher said about Nelson Mandela; although I of course agree with Edward Said that Palestine is still waiting for its version of Mandela.) And surely, the best way to solve a problem like Israel/Palestine, to continue using a topical example, is for all concerned parties to look at what the country must eventually become in order to be allowed to co-exist with the modern world - a cosmopolitan liberal democracy not unlike South Africa - and work backwards from there.
What is my preferred end product? I am unashamedly an anarchist. Yet all movements that seem to be a step in the direction of anarchism range between distasteful and downright cruel. Take, for instance, economic libertarianism, which shares an incestuous bed with both anarcho-capitalism and Randian Objectivisim. I am in this sense a socialist and a Left-winger, largely because the Marxists, in setting themselves up as mutual enemies of capitalism, have had the largest successes in criticising the status quo (with the possible exception of Bakunin, one of the first to rightfully point out that dogmatic Communism would lead to totalitarianism). So whilst I agree with, say, anarcho-syndicalists, in many respects, I can't help but feel they are focusing their efforts in the wrong area. The biggest question anarchism has had to face (I have witnessed and participated in some beatdowns in debates against my fellow anarchists over this subject) is healthcare. Hence, why I have rarely agreed with a quote more than I agree with the utilitarian William Godwin's:
"Above all we should not forget, that government is an evil, an usurpation upon the private judgment and individual conscience of mankind; and that, however we may be obliged to admit it as a necessary evil for the present, it behoves us, as the friends of reason and the human species, to admit as little of it as possible, and carefully to observe whether, in consequence of the gradual illumination of the human mind, that little may not hereafter be diminished."
The more I look at the world around me, as officials close down my local libraries and my government fails again and again to make education a priority, I realise that those in power realise this, too, and continue to make their assault on knowledge in order to prolong their necessity. One should look no further than the frankly despicable recent election campaigns in the United States. John McCain's vow to run a clean, respectful campaign resulted in him calling his opponent everything from a sexist to a terrorist sympathiser to a Marxist to an elistist (any one of which I would probably have welcomed were they aimed at me ;)). And now we discover Barack Obama's claim to end torture and the British government's claim to condemn it were not only false but conspiratorially so.
The problem with philosophical anarchism is that it breaks down by the very nature of its passivity. The zeitgeist of what is right and what is wrong has most usually been changed by radical or revolutionary individuals, such as Gallileo or Martin Luther King, who broke down the consensus in order to create a new one. Unfortunately people such as the women's suffrage campaigners did not compell people by the moral superiority of their arguments but at the force, passion and single mindedness they delivered them with. We must then draw inspiration from publications such as Einstein's Theory of Relativity, which could, within the sphere of scientific thought, be seen as a violent act, taking into account the effect it had on preconceived notions of, say, spectroscopy. Because the truth is that every lie our governments tell us, every library they close, every piece of spin a company puts on a product, is an act of violence, and we must respond by spreading knowledge and tearing down falsehoods in order to be in a situation where we can turn the other cheek, in the manner described by Tolstoy in his seminal treaty The Kingdom of God is Within You, without fear of being struck by an ignorant and powerful fist. That is the sick irony of the situation: that the analogy of the battlefield is inescapable, and we must find when and where the ends justify the means.
I do not, then, agree with neo-Luddites, who have more in common with the prosophobic Right than they would care to admit. Quite the opposite. If we can create a culture where our philosophic and our scientific progresses are paramount, we can achieve the socially-just, transhuman world we so desperately need in order to vindicate ourselves as a species. Already we can talk of germline engineering and celular manipulation of longevity in nature.
Vice-President Joe Biden posing with futurist
Steve Jurvetson, a photo that has disarmed my cynicism, however briefly.
I think this might be why I do a literature degree. Anarchy needs literature like birds need wings. There is something frightening and beautiful about both, which is why I was drawn to them. But in truth, anarchy is not alone in this respect. As Shelly put it:
"Reason is to imagination as the instrument is to the agent, as the body is to the spirit, as the shadow is to the substance."
"The great instrument of moral good is the imagination, and poetry administers to the effect by acting on the cause."
"Ethical science arranges the elements that poetry has created."
J.G. Ballard of course concurred but went a step further, saying that all fiction writers should be scientists. Whatever our political differences it might not be a bad thing to emphasise the things in life that matter, i.e. how we're all going to live together. Pride, partisanship and patriotism be damned if they get in the way. Long live science, literature and the arts. In my fictionalised review of the Sk-Interface exhibition I seemed justifiably frightened by a marriage of the three. But one guiding the other is probably not a bad idea at all, as long as that which is being lead does not fear rebelling from time to time: intellectual rebellion is the only way we truly advance.
Monday 2 February 2009
Comics are still best when they're in print...
... Not on the big screen. And recently a lot of that has been down to one man.
Although I have always described myself as a comic book reader (can't stand the term "graphic novel," myself), I've become more of an Alan Moore reader in recent years. But his movements have been harder and harder to follow as he went from the truly shit but readily available Awesome line to America's Best Comics onto more independent publishing in an attempt to escape the ever pervasive mainstream comics limelight that has followed him since his blockbuster turns for DC in the 80s. It's not that I think he has diminished as a writer, but having to wait for the trade paperback of, say, Promethea, (you can fucking forget about getting a copy of Lost Girls for less that £30) at some point took over from the unfettered, instantly attainable jouissance of simply buying the latest X-Men or JLA comic and reading it from cover to cover. So, a few years ago now, I gave my wallet a break and transitioned back into the casual, mainstream comic world.
It wasn't a second honeymoon, largely due to my traditional willingness to give Marvel the benefit of the doubt over DC. I followed the Big M's major events and regretted it: Civil War, for instance, was an excremental excuse for a pile of super-fights, World War Hulk more of the same except even more nonsensical, sort of Greg Pak's childish way of getting back at all those Thor fans who have no doubt pointed out to him over the years that Hulk's warcry of being the Strongest One There Is is hyperbole by having him dick The Sentry. I read back a bit and caught Batman: Hush from the DC side, which helped me truly understand the special hatred resevered for Jeph Loeb (as if I was in any doubt, I did skim through Red Hulk recently. Gracious me). And Jim Lee's bulging torsos and gritted teeth reminded me why I stopped putting myself through this shit in the 90s. Soon, as the cynic inside me had anticipated, I longed for the complex reference structure of a V For Vendetta or the interesting mis en scene of a Watchmen. Or, at the very least, something grown-up but fun enough to keep me entertained, like Chris Claremont-era X-Men/New Mutants/Excalibur. After experiencing Claremont's New Excalibur debacle, I wasn't hopeful. The man should, frankly, be banned from writing comics before all my good childhood memories are erased.
However, it wasn't all doom and gloom. I knew at least I could rely on Grant Morrison. And I wasn't disappointed. His run on New X-Men was cruel and fascinating, siccing Cassandra Nova and an insane, drug-addicted Magneto on Charlie's loveable mutants (with Frank Quietly's artwork complimenting the dark tone perfectly). His Batman had its ups (I enjoyed the "Batgod," the Bruce Wayne with a plan for absolutely everything, he and Mark Waid have seemingly conspired on giving us over the years) and downs (Batman & Son being a tired retread of an Elseworlds story) but in Batman: RIP the series reached its creative zenith, a challenging, multi-faceted and hugely rewarding yarn that got as many people talking about Batman comics as any storyline since Knightfall, or perhaps even The Dark Knight Returns. And I've utterly devoured any issue of Final Crisis I've been able to lay my paws on, it being an event that has improved massively upon its predecessor and more than lived up to Crisis on Infinite Earths.
My point? Simply that it's so reassuring to find a media where craft and hard work brings in the dosh (DC has sold fantastically well this year during Morrison's free reign, but what else would you expect when Arkham Asylum is still the biggest selling Batman trade paperback of all time?), even if it is "only comics." Television has succumbed to cheap "reality-TV," pro-wrestling hasn't placed a real emphasis on quality since Giant Baba passed away, the best films are coming out of places like Thailand and are difficult to acquire, theatre is overly reliant on celebrity and even opera has me agreeing with Jonathan Miller that the establishment needs a kick in the pants. Everywhere, the Western superstructure is so weak you have to filter through so much crap before you find a diamond, except in comics, where Dulness, whilst undeniably present, is battled on an even economic field.
Although I have always described myself as a comic book reader (can't stand the term "graphic novel," myself), I've become more of an Alan Moore reader in recent years. But his movements have been harder and harder to follow as he went from the truly shit but readily available Awesome line to America's Best Comics onto more independent publishing in an attempt to escape the ever pervasive mainstream comics limelight that has followed him since his blockbuster turns for DC in the 80s. It's not that I think he has diminished as a writer, but having to wait for the trade paperback of, say, Promethea, (you can fucking forget about getting a copy of Lost Girls for less that £30) at some point took over from the unfettered, instantly attainable jouissance of simply buying the latest X-Men or JLA comic and reading it from cover to cover. So, a few years ago now, I gave my wallet a break and transitioned back into the casual, mainstream comic world.
It wasn't a second honeymoon, largely due to my traditional willingness to give Marvel the benefit of the doubt over DC. I followed the Big M's major events and regretted it: Civil War, for instance, was an excremental excuse for a pile of super-fights, World War Hulk more of the same except even more nonsensical, sort of Greg Pak's childish way of getting back at all those Thor fans who have no doubt pointed out to him over the years that Hulk's warcry of being the Strongest One There Is is hyperbole by having him dick The Sentry. I read back a bit and caught Batman: Hush from the DC side, which helped me truly understand the special hatred resevered for Jeph Loeb (as if I was in any doubt, I did skim through Red Hulk recently. Gracious me). And Jim Lee's bulging torsos and gritted teeth reminded me why I stopped putting myself through this shit in the 90s. Soon, as the cynic inside me had anticipated, I longed for the complex reference structure of a V For Vendetta or the interesting mis en scene of a Watchmen. Or, at the very least, something grown-up but fun enough to keep me entertained, like Chris Claremont-era X-Men/New Mutants/Excalibur. After experiencing Claremont's New Excalibur debacle, I wasn't hopeful. The man should, frankly, be banned from writing comics before all my good childhood memories are erased.
However, it wasn't all doom and gloom. I knew at least I could rely on Grant Morrison. And I wasn't disappointed. His run on New X-Men was cruel and fascinating, siccing Cassandra Nova and an insane, drug-addicted Magneto on Charlie's loveable mutants (with Frank Quietly's artwork complimenting the dark tone perfectly). His Batman had its ups (I enjoyed the "Batgod," the Bruce Wayne with a plan for absolutely everything, he and Mark Waid have seemingly conspired on giving us over the years) and downs (Batman & Son being a tired retread of an Elseworlds story) but in Batman: RIP the series reached its creative zenith, a challenging, multi-faceted and hugely rewarding yarn that got as many people talking about Batman comics as any storyline since Knightfall, or perhaps even The Dark Knight Returns. And I've utterly devoured any issue of Final Crisis I've been able to lay my paws on, it being an event that has improved massively upon its predecessor and more than lived up to Crisis on Infinite Earths.
My point? Simply that it's so reassuring to find a media where craft and hard work brings in the dosh (DC has sold fantastically well this year during Morrison's free reign, but what else would you expect when Arkham Asylum is still the biggest selling Batman trade paperback of all time?), even if it is "only comics." Television has succumbed to cheap "reality-TV," pro-wrestling hasn't placed a real emphasis on quality since Giant Baba passed away, the best films are coming out of places like Thailand and are difficult to acquire, theatre is overly reliant on celebrity and even opera has me agreeing with Jonathan Miller that the establishment needs a kick in the pants. Everywhere, the Western superstructure is so weak you have to filter through so much crap before you find a diamond, except in comics, where Dulness, whilst undeniably present, is battled on an even economic field.
Having Superman's powers, a comic book genius-level
intellect and a snazzy green suit won't stop you
from getting fucking owned if you muck about
with the real deal.
I offer as defining evidence Morrison's All-Star Superman, which surpasses even Moore's Tom Strong and run on Supreme as a non-canonical reconstruction of the original superhero. After years of post-Crisis Superman playing second fiddle in terms of strength to the other JLA powerhouses like Green Lantern, Martian Manhunter, The Flash and even his own cousin Supergirl (yes, they'd all trounce Clark these days), it's incredible and heart-warming to see a return to the reverence that hasn't been offered to this character in modern times. Okay, so Supes isn't smashing through the time barrier on pure speed without breaking a sweat or closing a black hole with his bare hands like he did in the, ahem, good old days. But the reason the Richard Donner Superman (1978) is still the best superhero comic book adaptation is that it tempered that apotheosis with humour, and if anything, All-Star Superman plays these two elements in an even more convincing tandem. Whether he's effortlessly bicep-curling 20 quintillion tons or trouncing demigods at arm wrestling, you're in no doubt who is Superman and who is not. And I don't want to give anything away to people who haven't read it, but the true genius of All-Star Superman is in its metafictional revelation that a world without Superman could not exist: he would still have to be invented. That this is told in a way that incorporates directed panspermia and Nietzsche should make it irresistable, at least to anyone who shares my tastes.
So drool over The Dark Knight's Guignol acting, "wow factor" setpieces, political opportunism and blunt directorship only if you're starved for the real deal. End this one-for-me, one-for-the-studio director culture and remember that there's a reason comics are comics and not films: they really can play by different rules. And sometimes, just sometimes, you might get that tickle in your soul you got when Jean Grey died, that little tug that nobody from Ingmar Bergman to David Tennant's Hamlet to Coronation Street has been able to replace. Best attempted with a free Saturday afternoon and a beanbag chair.
Thursday 15 January 2009
Political life is a Cabaret, old chum
I think the main reason I like Cabaret (1972, Bob Fosse) so much is it's one of the few mainstream films that really seems to "get" fascism. Aside from that, of course, it's a fantastically choreographed film, with some inspired shooting; take, for instance, the scene in Max's blue room, where Max, from our perspective stealing Sally away with consumate ease, and Brian, seething with repressed emotion, are seperated only by an elaborate clock. Or the event of the old man's beating, interspersed with the entertainment being offered inside the Kit Kat Klub. Heavy handed as it may be, it forces us to confront whether enjoying escapism, however satiric, is ever justified in times of such political turmoil. The Nazis don't march into the film, they seep in, scene by scene, and by the time of the wonderful closing shot, we're almost wondering how it happened.
Which leads me back to my original point. In 1935 Walter Benjamin in his seminal essay The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction wrote: "Fascism leads logically to an aestheticization of political life." Off the top of my head I can think of no better representative scene than that in the beer garden. A young boy, beautiful, with blonde hair and blue eyes, leads a chorus of the uplifting lyrical song "Tomorrow Belongs To Me." The camera slowly allows us to discover his Nazi uniform, immediately distasteful to us with the benefit of hindsight but completely innocent within the context of the other singers. Only Brian, Max and an old man who has seen it all before refrain from partaking.
"NOOOO! Don't tarnish us with politics, too! Please!!"
Which leads me back to my original point. In 1935 Walter Benjamin in his seminal essay The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction wrote: "Fascism leads logically to an aestheticization of political life." Off the top of my head I can think of no better representative scene than that in the beer garden. A young boy, beautiful, with blonde hair and blue eyes, leads a chorus of the uplifting lyrical song "Tomorrow Belongs To Me." The camera slowly allows us to discover his Nazi uniform, immediately distasteful to us with the benefit of hindsight but completely innocent within the context of the other singers. Only Brian, Max and an old man who has seen it all before refrain from partaking.
"NOOOO! Don't tarnish us with politics, too! Please!!"I can't help but think that old man should be unnecessary today in our culture of immediate information access. But really, all one has to do is take a piece of right-wing literature and to replace "Muslim" with "Jew" and "terrorist" with "banker/communist" and you're well on your way to being back in the late Weimar Republic. You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make it drink.
Indeed, the word "terrorist" has undergone an interesting etymological change in recent years (it would be fairly clumsy to say since 9/11). Whereas it once meant, more or less, the process of intimidating a population or government by attacking non-combatants, it has now become almost exclusively a term for guerrilla warfare undertaken by Muslims. I have too often heard the term "Islamists" on television to attribute it to a mere Freudian slip for those who mean "Islamofascists;" it has now become an acceptable synonym in some sections of the media for Middle Eastern terrorists/insurgents. Among (I think it was) Wafa Sultan's claims were that Muslim/Christian violence and Muslim/Buddhist violence are both one-way streets, with the Muslims being the aggressors. This kind of wilful ignorance, that seems to have no knowledge of the Muslims who are beheaded in Indonesia or mutilated by the Lord's Resistance Army or who go missing every year whilst "in custody" in Burma, seems pervasive. I suppose all those Muslims in Srebrenica shot themselves to make the Christians look bad, too.
Indeed, the word "terrorist" has undergone an interesting etymological change in recent years (it would be fairly clumsy to say since 9/11). Whereas it once meant, more or less, the process of intimidating a population or government by attacking non-combatants, it has now become almost exclusively a term for guerrilla warfare undertaken by Muslims. I have too often heard the term "Islamists" on television to attribute it to a mere Freudian slip for those who mean "Islamofascists;" it has now become an acceptable synonym in some sections of the media for Middle Eastern terrorists/insurgents. Among (I think it was) Wafa Sultan's claims were that Muslim/Christian violence and Muslim/Buddhist violence are both one-way streets, with the Muslims being the aggressors. This kind of wilful ignorance, that seems to have no knowledge of the Muslims who are beheaded in Indonesia or mutilated by the Lord's Resistance Army or who go missing every year whilst "in custody" in Burma, seems pervasive. I suppose all those Muslims in Srebrenica shot themselves to make the Christians look bad, too.
"Praise Jesus," said Ochola John, after being treated so nicely by the Christians.
Perhaps I am simply attacking easy targets. But it took what would in any other circumstances be called a war crime for many people to stop sympathising purely with Israel in the recent Gaza fighting. Even Gordon Brown called the deployment of white phosphorus on a UN humanitarian aid centre to be "indefensible." In my ongoing quest to be outraged, I am eager to read the response from Fox News. But whatever the swing in opinion, I doubt anything will be done. The aestheticization of politics was once done by uplifting music and patriotic propaganda, now it actively feeds stupidity with slogans and pervades the language like the virus once attempted by William S. Burroughs. According to Benjamin, the response from the left will be to politicise art. Expect my first book to be filled with subtexual vitriol.
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