Since I have been spamming out movie reviews lately, I thought I would take a step back (and give my Netflix queue time to cool down) and write a meta-post about why I keep this blog (and for those of you who think that half the reason I decided to do this was to use the word "meta-post", you are wrong. It was at most 47% of the reason)
Probably the first and foremost reason I like to keep a blog is that it gives me a steady, reliable outlet for writing. The process of writing -- the formulation of what to say and the best possible way to say it, the slow tasting process of diction, sloshing each word around to see if it complements the rest -- appeals to me like little else. Much as I love playing the cello, even that lacks something which writing holds for me (probably involved in that is the creative aspect of writing compared to the reflective aspect of playing someone else's music).
Well then, why this particular blog? Why pick this format? I could, if I wanted, write one that was more personal, detailing the events of my life and my reflections on them. And I won't brush this aside by saying "Personal blogs are boring"; several people I know keep blogs about their lives and do it with skill, keeping it very interesting indeed. Maybe I am a little afraid of being boring; Lord knows my vanity would hate that. But beyond this, I just feel a prohibition concerning writing about my life. I have always been bad at keeping a private diary; multiply this by the pressures of a wider audience, and the difficulty grows. So yes, perhaps it is a move meant to deflect scrutiny, to keep a little distance, though the balance to this is that I think I do reveal myself often in my posts, even through indirect means.
Even more specifically, why pick this particular format and subject matter? Ah, now we get to the meat of what I have been thinking about. First of all, I love culture. High, low, pop, art; I love it all. I drink in the ability of music to elevate the senses, whether it be Beethoven's 9th or Eminem. I love the power of a well-written poem or story or essay to transform the mind. I thrill at the visceral pleasure of movies like Lawrence of Arabia. And yes, I hold a special place in my heart for that which shows us the failings of mankind's culture; the B-movies and mindless bubblegum pop which are a memento mori of our abilities. But this could be said of most people; even those with "low" taste generally have high levels of response to culture. Not everyone enjoys picking it apart the way I do, however. Some are content to experience and then dismiss it. Who knows, perhaps that purely experiential approach is the more fulfilling, but I cannot stop turning over in my mind the things which I experience. A confession: I do indeed enjoy the thrill of criticizing someone else's work (and I think I am snarky enough to make a good asshole critic), but I would much rather review something I enjoy, because those are the works which force me to stop and think about the way life is.
Zoom in one more notch with me. Why, having chosen to keep a blog about culture, do I make so obvious my Christian presuppositions? I could easily put these aside for the purpose of obtaining a more general critique (I avoid the word "objective" for this reason: while I believe that there is an objectivity about concepts like beauty, it is not something we can approach directly. Beauty is shrouded in fog, and we must sound it out as best possible.). This is, I feel, an important question for me to answer (and really to keep thinking about). In a sense I am fighting a two front war: I must defend the value of culture to Christians (who sometimes feel the desire to retreat entirely) while seeking to demonstrate to non-Christians who read this both that Christians can think critically and deeply about are and that Christ has everything to do with beauty and goodness, and that art apart from that context must inevitably fall short.
Allow me to clarify what I mean concerning each side of the issue. My family used to receive a monthly "magazine" which reviewed pop culture from a Christian persepective (mostly CD's and movies). The idea was to give parents a resource with which to guide their children, especially teens, toward good things. Unfortunately, what most of this reviewing consisted of was counting up the number of curse words and sexual references in a song or film and dismissing it on those grounds (or, on rare occasion, ok'ing it). There is something wrong with your criteria of guidance when you recommend Fireproof for viewing but not something like In Bruges. Or when you find more value in the vacuity of Michael W. Smith's latest album while dismissing the raw power of Jay-Z because he uses profanity. Please note that I am not saying that parents should let their children consume whatever, simply that the guiding process is more complex than some would like to admit.
Perhaps because of the general failure of Christians in America to think critically about art, most of the time their opinions are given very little weight. People in art movements have swung to the opposite extreme: they believe beauty can be found separately from goodness, that aestheticism is the god which will save mankind. This leads to all sorts of problems, not least of which is the dissolution of standards in favor of an anything goes mentality, where only the artist himself can determine the value of a work. The art world desperately needs people willing to be critical not just of particulars but of entire worldviews. If the foundation is shaky, how can the house be secure?
This is the unique position of the Christian, that he can see both man the image of God and man the fallen sinner, ruining all he touches. He can see the immense beauty of a work of art and the destructive impulses of art devoid of context. A Christian seeking after the mind of Christ does not divorce himself from the messiness of the world; he dives into it that he might point to the one who makes all things clean. This, then, is why I write this blog, that the reader might understand that, if truth and beauty would save us, it must not be through themselves but as a conduit for experiencing the grace of God.
A few caveats: first, to the unbelievers here, welcome. I want you to read and comment galore and never feel as if I am judging you or looking down on you. This is not Sunday School, nor is it a Jack Chick tract. My purpose is not to win converts by convincing them that I am right. What I said earlier about beauty applies: we are all in the sounding-out process, and forbid it that I should think that only I have the right perspective (or others like me). I learn more and more every day about beauty, and I am constantly surprised by it. Just as many great artists create without being Christians, so most of my favorite critics of culture do not share my presuppositions. When I am arrogant (and it will happen), please correct me.
Second, a thought about the usefulness of this blog. Sure, I have made some grand sounding claims about the role of Christianity in thinking about art. But I don't write for the New York Times or have any influence in Hollywood. I'm just a recent college graduate with too much time on his hands and a readership you could count on ten fingers (which reminds me: if you like my blog, tell your friends!). What good am I doing? My defense is simple; I'm not writing this to change the world, I'm simply trying to get my thoughts organized and out there, and to hear the thoughts of others whose opinions I value.
Last, on thinking over this (I started writing a few days ago and only just came back to clean it up a bit) I realized that parts of it could be construed as a defensive response to direct criticism or questions from people. That is not the case; most of the point-counterpoint comes from conversations within my own head, and the original impetus for writing all this was just a desire to get my own thoughts about the purpose of this blog in order.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
madness... Madness... MADNESS!
I watch too many movies. Monday's culprit was The Devil and Daniel Johnston, a documentary about a troubled but legendary folk singer. Watching, I could not help but think of the other "crazy but brilliant musician" doc I have seen in the past six months, Wesley Willis: The Daddy of Rock and Roll. Some of the similarities between the two are uncanny:
Both unemployed (and essentially unemployable)
Both with rabid cult followings
Both producing music of questionable value
Both gifted visual artists
Both deeply religious
Both with mental illnesses
Both claiming to battle against demons (in the real, not metaphorical sense)
Both wrote songs about Casper, the Friendly Ghost
My questions for the day: what draws us to these men and others like them? What about walking the line between genius and insanity appeals to us? How much of their popularity stems from their instability?
Perhaps a quick rundown of the two is in order. Wesley Willis (sadly now deceased) was a homeless man who would roam the streets of Chicago playing his songs on a Casio Keyboard. The basic template for his songs was to take one of the premade tracks on the keyboard and loop it, singing in his gravelly voice overtop with cut and paste lyrics (a sampling of song titles: "I whipped Superman's ass", "I whooped Mighty Thor's ass", "I whupped Batman's ass", "Birdman kicked my ass"). Really any description fails to do him justice, so here's a chance to listen to the man himself: I would especially recommend "Rock and Roll McDonald's" (profanity free!) and "Cut the Mullet".
Daniel Johnston, meanwhile, is a folkish singer who at least has less of a schtick than Wesley Willis. All of his songs are different from one another, and he has legitimate talent as a piano player. The only problem? On most of his songs he chooses to play guitar, an instrument with which he is far less skilled. Additionally, his voice is the most horrendous sound known to man, a plaintively squeaky affair. Also, though he does not just cut and paste his lyrics like Willis, his "poetry" is hardly better; awkwardly metered, it never quite seems to fit into his music.
Now for the amazing part: both of these men in their prime gained massive cult followings. Johnston is an icon in the Austin music scene and gained national exposure in the early '90's when Kurt Cobain started incessantly wearing a Johnston t-shirt for his public appearances. Willis never had that measure of fame, but was pretty legendary in underground music circles, often touring the nation.
One might be immediately tempted to think that the adoration of these two figures was yet another ironic move by today's jaded society. Yet this cannot be completely the case. I will admit that most people I know who listen to Wesley Willis do so for the sheer ridiculousness of it, but there were many people in the documentary who took his work seriously (or did a very good job pretending to do so). With Johnston the admiration is even more clear cut: critics and friends describe his first work as better than early Dylan or Robert Johnson.
I think that there are several possible explanations for this seemingly misguided adoration. One would be the pursuit of novelty. The phrase that people keep using about Johnston's songs is that they are "unlike anything you have heard". This I cannot deny. Certainly Willis' music has no known ancestry, as my previous inability to adequately describe it would suggest. But does this legitimate interest in them? There are plenty of novel things in the world which I have no interest in experiencing. The problem with the cult of the genius is that it demands novelty, such that, to paraphrase Dr. Gardner, "You start out with Mozart and 200 years later you wind up with a bullwhip sticking out of your ass."
Is that it, though? Do people obsess over Johnston and Willis merely for sake of observing the strange and exotic? If this were so, I do not think they would hold the staying power they do over people. The answer, rather, lies in the very fact that both the artists battle against mental illness. Do not misunderstand; it isn't as if people take pity on them and listen to their music like you would congratulate a second grader for drawing disproportionate stick figures. What I mean is that both men have veered toward insanity but in doing so have created works of searing, raw power.
Again, a clarification: I do not find much of artistic value in the music of either Johnston or Willis, nor do I listen to them with great regularity (though I do enjoy the occasional Willis song). What I find appealing about their work is its primal intensity, its desperation. When Johnston sings about lost love, you can feel his heart being ripped from his chest. When Willis sings "My Mother Smokes Crack Rocks", it is easy to imagine Wesley the child cowering in the corner as his mother winds her way into oblivion. And when either sings about faith, it is something to behold. Johnston wailing about going to the funeral home is enough to put the fear of God in anyone, and one of my favorite Willis moments comes in his surprisingly touching "Jesus Christ", where the childlike rhymes hide a tender affection for Christ.
In a sense, I think, this sort of power comes only from direct experience with "battling demons". Whatever your views on the actual existence of demonic beings, the two men clearly are engaged in a war within themselves. They are no cut and paste saints. One of the harrowing parts of the Johnston documentary is the account by Johnston's father of the time when Daniel forced his father to cut the engines on their small plane and took over the controls, doing loop-the-loops before relinquishing the controls in time for his father to bail them out. Clearly Johnston is a disturbed man, dangerous when he is off medication. But this same man can speak earnestly of faith and it does not seem a contradiction. Likewise, Willis is a man who penned both the heartfelt "Jesus Christ" and the shockingly profane series of songs about sucking certain appendages of various large cats. Again, you get the sense that this is not mere hypocrisy or posturing on Willis' part, but rather an expression of the duality inside him.
The artist as mad genius is a common enough idea, one that nevertheless holds a unique appeal. Perhaps it is a matter of transcendence; we think that the artist, already reaching new heights of ecstasy through his work, will be propelled even higher by psychosis (or perhaps mind-altering drugs). We in the modern world long for art to save us, for the artist to step in as the one mediator between the gods and man. Johnston and Willis are refreshing, then, in the ways in which they shatter the myth of the insane artist. Madness for them is no desired muse; it is a destructive force in their lives. Yet it does lend their work a certain gravity. Rather than ascension, it gives their music the quality of descending down into the earth -- not in the mundane but the grave sense. Such earthy quality might scare you, but do not hold it against them; after all, you must die to be born again.
Both unemployed (and essentially unemployable)
Both with rabid cult followings
Both producing music of questionable value
Both gifted visual artists
Both deeply religious
Both with mental illnesses
Both claiming to battle against demons (in the real, not metaphorical sense)
Both wrote songs about Casper, the Friendly Ghost
My questions for the day: what draws us to these men and others like them? What about walking the line between genius and insanity appeals to us? How much of their popularity stems from their instability?
Perhaps a quick rundown of the two is in order. Wesley Willis (sadly now deceased) was a homeless man who would roam the streets of Chicago playing his songs on a Casio Keyboard. The basic template for his songs was to take one of the premade tracks on the keyboard and loop it, singing in his gravelly voice overtop with cut and paste lyrics (a sampling of song titles: "I whipped Superman's ass", "I whooped Mighty Thor's ass", "I whupped Batman's ass", "Birdman kicked my ass"). Really any description fails to do him justice, so here's a chance to listen to the man himself: I would especially recommend "Rock and Roll McDonald's" (profanity free!) and "Cut the Mullet".
Daniel Johnston, meanwhile, is a folkish singer who at least has less of a schtick than Wesley Willis. All of his songs are different from one another, and he has legitimate talent as a piano player. The only problem? On most of his songs he chooses to play guitar, an instrument with which he is far less skilled. Additionally, his voice is the most horrendous sound known to man, a plaintively squeaky affair. Also, though he does not just cut and paste his lyrics like Willis, his "poetry" is hardly better; awkwardly metered, it never quite seems to fit into his music.
Now for the amazing part: both of these men in their prime gained massive cult followings. Johnston is an icon in the Austin music scene and gained national exposure in the early '90's when Kurt Cobain started incessantly wearing a Johnston t-shirt for his public appearances. Willis never had that measure of fame, but was pretty legendary in underground music circles, often touring the nation.
One might be immediately tempted to think that the adoration of these two figures was yet another ironic move by today's jaded society. Yet this cannot be completely the case. I will admit that most people I know who listen to Wesley Willis do so for the sheer ridiculousness of it, but there were many people in the documentary who took his work seriously (or did a very good job pretending to do so). With Johnston the admiration is even more clear cut: critics and friends describe his first work as better than early Dylan or Robert Johnson.
I think that there are several possible explanations for this seemingly misguided adoration. One would be the pursuit of novelty. The phrase that people keep using about Johnston's songs is that they are "unlike anything you have heard". This I cannot deny. Certainly Willis' music has no known ancestry, as my previous inability to adequately describe it would suggest. But does this legitimate interest in them? There are plenty of novel things in the world which I have no interest in experiencing. The problem with the cult of the genius is that it demands novelty, such that, to paraphrase Dr. Gardner, "You start out with Mozart and 200 years later you wind up with a bullwhip sticking out of your ass."
Is that it, though? Do people obsess over Johnston and Willis merely for sake of observing the strange and exotic? If this were so, I do not think they would hold the staying power they do over people. The answer, rather, lies in the very fact that both the artists battle against mental illness. Do not misunderstand; it isn't as if people take pity on them and listen to their music like you would congratulate a second grader for drawing disproportionate stick figures. What I mean is that both men have veered toward insanity but in doing so have created works of searing, raw power.
Again, a clarification: I do not find much of artistic value in the music of either Johnston or Willis, nor do I listen to them with great regularity (though I do enjoy the occasional Willis song). What I find appealing about their work is its primal intensity, its desperation. When Johnston sings about lost love, you can feel his heart being ripped from his chest. When Willis sings "My Mother Smokes Crack Rocks", it is easy to imagine Wesley the child cowering in the corner as his mother winds her way into oblivion. And when either sings about faith, it is something to behold. Johnston wailing about going to the funeral home is enough to put the fear of God in anyone, and one of my favorite Willis moments comes in his surprisingly touching "Jesus Christ", where the childlike rhymes hide a tender affection for Christ.
In a sense, I think, this sort of power comes only from direct experience with "battling demons". Whatever your views on the actual existence of demonic beings, the two men clearly are engaged in a war within themselves. They are no cut and paste saints. One of the harrowing parts of the Johnston documentary is the account by Johnston's father of the time when Daniel forced his father to cut the engines on their small plane and took over the controls, doing loop-the-loops before relinquishing the controls in time for his father to bail them out. Clearly Johnston is a disturbed man, dangerous when he is off medication. But this same man can speak earnestly of faith and it does not seem a contradiction. Likewise, Willis is a man who penned both the heartfelt "Jesus Christ" and the shockingly profane series of songs about sucking certain appendages of various large cats. Again, you get the sense that this is not mere hypocrisy or posturing on Willis' part, but rather an expression of the duality inside him.
The artist as mad genius is a common enough idea, one that nevertheless holds a unique appeal. Perhaps it is a matter of transcendence; we think that the artist, already reaching new heights of ecstasy through his work, will be propelled even higher by psychosis (or perhaps mind-altering drugs). We in the modern world long for art to save us, for the artist to step in as the one mediator between the gods and man. Johnston and Willis are refreshing, then, in the ways in which they shatter the myth of the insane artist. Madness for them is no desired muse; it is a destructive force in their lives. Yet it does lend their work a certain gravity. Rather than ascension, it gives their music the quality of descending down into the earth -- not in the mundane but the grave sense. Such earthy quality might scare you, but do not hold it against them; after all, you must die to be born again.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
A Place of Quiet
I've been turning over my last post in my head quite a bit. I tend to do this, to obsess over what I've written or said for days on end. The nice thing about blogging is the ability to be proactive and do something about it. Anyway, I have been thinking about one aspect of In Bruges which I touched on briefly in my review but did not give as much space to as I would have liked.
When talking about the structure of the film, I mentioned that Martin McDonagh has a wonderful way of circling around a subject without coming out and yelling the point in your face. The death of the little boy hangs over the film, but only sticks its head into the open on rare occasion. This makes so much sense given the nature of what has happened.
Do you want to know how to comfort a grieving person? When mom died, there was no end to the awkward sympathy people gave me. What would have been better is if people had talked to me about anything else, or had just sat with me in silence. I am not saying that you should never talk to a suffering person about what they are experiencing, but quite often what is best is to allow for the space the person needs to process all that is happening to them.
We are so afraid of silence that we will create any sort of noise, however unpleasant, to block our ears from the deafening roar of quiet. We have learned to love instant gratification, and we expect that any problem we have with another will be immediately solved head on. In a sense we have become deaf to the subtle movements of the heart, the way those around us communicate what is really happening.
Have you had a wonderful conversation like this? Something obviously is going on, but you and the other person talk of everything but the matter at hand. Some find this irritating (myself included), but if we really stop to listen, I think we will find that things are being talked about.
Kierkegaard returns again and again to the idea that faith cannot be directly communicated, that something essential is lost in that secret translation between tongue and ear. He has hit something there. Plenty of Christians want to preach the gospel at people without giving space for the words to resound. We would do well to remember that though we plant, it is God who grows the seed. Yelling louder will not aid this flowering a tenth as much as keeping our peace. Be still, and know.
When talking about the structure of the film, I mentioned that Martin McDonagh has a wonderful way of circling around a subject without coming out and yelling the point in your face. The death of the little boy hangs over the film, but only sticks its head into the open on rare occasion. This makes so much sense given the nature of what has happened.
Do you want to know how to comfort a grieving person? When mom died, there was no end to the awkward sympathy people gave me. What would have been better is if people had talked to me about anything else, or had just sat with me in silence. I am not saying that you should never talk to a suffering person about what they are experiencing, but quite often what is best is to allow for the space the person needs to process all that is happening to them.
We are so afraid of silence that we will create any sort of noise, however unpleasant, to block our ears from the deafening roar of quiet. We have learned to love instant gratification, and we expect that any problem we have with another will be immediately solved head on. In a sense we have become deaf to the subtle movements of the heart, the way those around us communicate what is really happening.
Have you had a wonderful conversation like this? Something obviously is going on, but you and the other person talk of everything but the matter at hand. Some find this irritating (myself included), but if we really stop to listen, I think we will find that things are being talked about.
Kierkegaard returns again and again to the idea that faith cannot be directly communicated, that something essential is lost in that secret translation between tongue and ear. He has hit something there. Plenty of Christians want to preach the gospel at people without giving space for the words to resound. We would do well to remember that though we plant, it is God who grows the seed. Yelling louder will not aid this flowering a tenth as much as keeping our peace. Be still, and know.
Friday, February 20, 2009
Like a F*@#ing Fairy Tale
Well, it was a photo finish, right down to the wire, but I have my favorite films of the year. Obviously this comes with the disclaimer that, as a poor college student, I don't get much of a chance to see things till they come out on video, which creates some gaps. I didn't see my favorite film of last year, There Will Be Blood, until after awards season had come and gone. This year there were many films I wish I had seen (Happy Go Lucky, Rachel Getting Married, Standard Operating Procedure, My Winnipeg) but have not yet had the chance to catch. I don't even have enough films to make a top 10, but I would like to briefly discuss my three favorites.
Running third is Wall E, about which not much needs to be said. If you haven't seen it, shame on you. It is a beautiful, stark film which pushes the boundaries of animation.
In a surprise tie for first are two different but equally striking films. For a more full assessment of Slumdog Millionaire, you can read a few posts back. My other favorite film is one I just recently saw from the comfort of my own home (ah, the power of Netflix), and one that surprised me with its intricacies.
In Bruges is the filmmaking debut of Irish playwright Martin McDonagh, and what a debut. Part dark comedy, part crime drama, In Bruges avoids the perils inherent in making a multi-genre film (primarily a loss of identity) and in the end becomes something even more than those two things. In its own bizarre way, it is a striking meditation on sin and guilt, a full contact wrestling match over law and grace.
First a bare bones summary: Ken and Ray and hitmen who are sent to hide out in Bruges, a sleepy town in Belgium, after one of them accidentally kills a child. Most of the film focuses on their adventures in Bruges. Ken (brilliantly played by Brendan Gleeson), the older and more grizzled of the two, becomes almost childlike as he explores the medieval sights of the town. Meanwhile Ray (a surprisingly likeable Colin Farrell) is bored to distraction, at least until he stumbles across a movie set where he finds a belligerent American "little person" actor and a very pretty girl to occupy his time. They spend their days in this mixture of ennui and wonder, all the while awaiting instructions from their boss, Harry. A fateful set of circumstances sets in motion the final third of the film, which becomes more of a crime drama than a fish out of water comedy, but resolves into a bittersweet but very satisfying ending.
That the film won me over is a little astounding. Being written by a playwright, it is first and foremost character and dialog driven. I tend to be wary of films like this because of the great danger of them becoming self-consciously clever (see Juno, a film I enjoyed but that was inhibited by its incessant "cute-speak"). McDonagh, however, pulls off a masterful stroke, crafting a genuinely funny and moving screenplay which remains true to its characters every step of the way (McDonagh is up for best original screenplay at the Oscars, and it will be a shame if he does not win -- which he probably won't). There are strange diversions aplenty -- meditations on the use of the word "alcoves" and a discussion of the impending war between white and black midgets (sorry, dwarves), but you never get the sense that McDonagh threw in these lines for cheap laughs.
What makes In Bruges truly special, though, is the way the dialog circles around serious points. At the heart of the movie is the tragedy of the death of a little boy (the flashback to his death provides a perfect balance between tragedy and comedy, and is one of the most sublime moments in the film), and the guilt which accompanies it, both as an internal and external consequence. I very much appreciated the seriousness with which all the characters take the act; there is no easy moral about "learning to forgive yourself" or something stupid and new-agey like that. The killer is judged not by intentions but by his actions. Sin and guilt, punishment and Hell, are very present things. Yet the film does not come across as preachy; in fact the subjects are hardly brought up at all, only touched on in subtle ways.
Tied into this is the central difference between the three main characters (N.B. In case you haven't noticed, I am doing my best to remain "spoiler free". This necessitates some vagueness on my part. I apologize.) The difference between them is that two are dominated by the law, and one by grace. This radically alters what will become of them. The two who are law-oriented reap according to that, and the one who understands grace does the same. That is the beauty in the ending of the film, which some might scratch their heads at. Everything which happens makes perfect sense: it is according to the nature of the characters, but there is also a sense of basic rightness about it.
One more thing about the film, since some of my readers might be a bit sensitive. Though I believe it is one of the best meditations on faith I have seen in a long time, In Bruges does not shy away from getting its hands dirty. It has about as much (and as bad) profanity as I have heard in a film, so if that sort of thing is a turn off to you, stay away. But be warned, in doing so you will be missing something wonderful and human. It reminds me (appropriately) of Frederick Buechner's novel Brendan, about the Irish saint. His life too was brusque and ribald, yet full of grace. Not to stereotype, but I think that might be part of the Irish character: that they understand grace so much better because they are an earthy people, unafraid to roll around in the dirt of life. What a shame that so often Christians miss out on grace because they are so afraid of getting their hands dirty. I wish that most "Christian" films had a tenth of the understanding of important things that In Bruges posseses. It dares to be serious and real, and because of its integrity it is a triumphant film.
P.S. It's pronounced "Broozh".
Running third is Wall E, about which not much needs to be said. If you haven't seen it, shame on you. It is a beautiful, stark film which pushes the boundaries of animation.
In a surprise tie for first are two different but equally striking films. For a more full assessment of Slumdog Millionaire, you can read a few posts back. My other favorite film is one I just recently saw from the comfort of my own home (ah, the power of Netflix), and one that surprised me with its intricacies.
In Bruges is the filmmaking debut of Irish playwright Martin McDonagh, and what a debut. Part dark comedy, part crime drama, In Bruges avoids the perils inherent in making a multi-genre film (primarily a loss of identity) and in the end becomes something even more than those two things. In its own bizarre way, it is a striking meditation on sin and guilt, a full contact wrestling match over law and grace.
First a bare bones summary: Ken and Ray and hitmen who are sent to hide out in Bruges, a sleepy town in Belgium, after one of them accidentally kills a child. Most of the film focuses on their adventures in Bruges. Ken (brilliantly played by Brendan Gleeson), the older and more grizzled of the two, becomes almost childlike as he explores the medieval sights of the town. Meanwhile Ray (a surprisingly likeable Colin Farrell) is bored to distraction, at least until he stumbles across a movie set where he finds a belligerent American "little person" actor and a very pretty girl to occupy his time. They spend their days in this mixture of ennui and wonder, all the while awaiting instructions from their boss, Harry. A fateful set of circumstances sets in motion the final third of the film, which becomes more of a crime drama than a fish out of water comedy, but resolves into a bittersweet but very satisfying ending.
That the film won me over is a little astounding. Being written by a playwright, it is first and foremost character and dialog driven. I tend to be wary of films like this because of the great danger of them becoming self-consciously clever (see Juno, a film I enjoyed but that was inhibited by its incessant "cute-speak"). McDonagh, however, pulls off a masterful stroke, crafting a genuinely funny and moving screenplay which remains true to its characters every step of the way (McDonagh is up for best original screenplay at the Oscars, and it will be a shame if he does not win -- which he probably won't). There are strange diversions aplenty -- meditations on the use of the word "alcoves" and a discussion of the impending war between white and black midgets (sorry, dwarves), but you never get the sense that McDonagh threw in these lines for cheap laughs.
What makes In Bruges truly special, though, is the way the dialog circles around serious points. At the heart of the movie is the tragedy of the death of a little boy (the flashback to his death provides a perfect balance between tragedy and comedy, and is one of the most sublime moments in the film), and the guilt which accompanies it, both as an internal and external consequence. I very much appreciated the seriousness with which all the characters take the act; there is no easy moral about "learning to forgive yourself" or something stupid and new-agey like that. The killer is judged not by intentions but by his actions. Sin and guilt, punishment and Hell, are very present things. Yet the film does not come across as preachy; in fact the subjects are hardly brought up at all, only touched on in subtle ways.
Tied into this is the central difference between the three main characters (N.B. In case you haven't noticed, I am doing my best to remain "spoiler free". This necessitates some vagueness on my part. I apologize.) The difference between them is that two are dominated by the law, and one by grace. This radically alters what will become of them. The two who are law-oriented reap according to that, and the one who understands grace does the same. That is the beauty in the ending of the film, which some might scratch their heads at. Everything which happens makes perfect sense: it is according to the nature of the characters, but there is also a sense of basic rightness about it.
One more thing about the film, since some of my readers might be a bit sensitive. Though I believe it is one of the best meditations on faith I have seen in a long time, In Bruges does not shy away from getting its hands dirty. It has about as much (and as bad) profanity as I have heard in a film, so if that sort of thing is a turn off to you, stay away. But be warned, in doing so you will be missing something wonderful and human. It reminds me (appropriately) of Frederick Buechner's novel Brendan, about the Irish saint. His life too was brusque and ribald, yet full of grace. Not to stereotype, but I think that might be part of the Irish character: that they understand grace so much better because they are an earthy people, unafraid to roll around in the dirt of life. What a shame that so often Christians miss out on grace because they are so afraid of getting their hands dirty. I wish that most "Christian" films had a tenth of the understanding of important things that In Bruges posseses. It dares to be serious and real, and because of its integrity it is a triumphant film.
P.S. It's pronounced "Broozh".
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Make 7 Up (and the rest) Yours
"Give me a child until he is seven, and I will give you the man." -- Jesuit saying
Hello all -- first things first, I want to apologize for the scarcity of posting as of late. It's been two weeks, and they've flown by for me. First I had problems connecting to the internet from my house, but even after that got fixed I didn't feel like writing for awhile. I've been a bit depressed over unemployment and other things; nothing serious, but when I get blue my desire to write vanishes posthaste. I will, as atonement, attempt to post pretty regularly for the next few days.
On to the fun stuff! Monday saw Alex and I watching 49 Up and thereby completing what has so far been made of the fascinating "Up Series" of documentaries. The story goes that in 1963, Granada television in Britain made a documentary about the lives of 14 British schoolchildren, all around the age of seven. They cut a wide swath through British society: upper class, lower class, city, country, suburban -- all kinds of children were involved. Granada sat them down and interviewed them on all sorts of topics: school, poor and rich people, the opposite gender, and their hopes for the future. I get the impression that, at first, no one knew if anything more would come of it, but director Michael Apted has gone back every seven years to revisit them and find out about their lives (as I said, they are through 49; 56 should come out in 2011 or 2012). Amazingly, all but two have stayed with the series somewhat consistently (a few drift in and out, disappearing for one but then coming back).
What exactly is the significance of these films (or, rather, film in the singular, as I think it should be regarded)? Originally it was to "get a glimpse into Britain's future"; Apted admits that the liberal Granada had somewhat of an agenda to stress the class differences between the children. Yet in the end, class comes up very little in the films. Early on Apted wisely abandoned any social agenda in favor of simply getting to know his subjects. This, I think, is the film's true power, that it deals in delicately human stories, never sacrificing personal intimacy for some overbearing attempt to find meaning. Put another way, it lets the characters speak for themselves, and though some are guarded, the end result is a startling display of honesty.
Accordingly, one of the biggest strengths of the filmmaking is simply getting the hell out of the way. I wholeheartedly salute Apted and Co. for making themselves mostly unobtrusive, and not trying to impress through ridiculous flourishes. With a few exceptions, the subjects are mostly filmed in their natural habitats, at home and comfortable. The camerawork tends to be simple but clean. Perhaps the only part of the film which really stands out is its editing. As the different segments come along, there is more and more material to be juggled (each installment tends to review the lives of the subjects up to that point by intercutting old footage), and the daunting task of picking the right clips is pulled off with aplomb.
As I mentioned, the real strength of the film is simply the concept itself. Though none of the children grew up to lead epic (or in a strict sense important) lives, each has something fascinating to offer: a window into the ways they have and have not changed since they were seven. Young compassionate Bruce, wanting to be a missionary, who grows up to teach in the inner city. Disenchanted Suzy, who spends two films utterly uninterested in life, only to turn into a loving wife and mother and find a delightful warmth. Bright eyed Neil, who finds himself cowed by the harsh realities of life, only to acheive a redemption of sorts. Upper class nitwit John, who stays the consumate snob through 21 only to become a kind, caring middle aged person. The wonderful thing about this is how open most of the subjects are, and how the very process of filming seems to open up their self-awareness. Things that remained stored in the back of their minds for years suddenly come spilling out on camera. One of my favorite examples of this is when Tony, the poor boy who dreamed of being a jockey, blurts out at age 21 that his greatest ambition would be to have a baby son, and that doing so would see his ambition fulfilled. "No one knows that, except you", he says sheepishly to the camera.
I would like to spend the rest of this post just describing some of the characters, that you would have your curiosity piqued and would want to discover their lives for yourself. Nicholas comes in at age 7 as the token country boy, very curious and cheerful, though sometimes guarded (his famous quote when asked about girls: I don't answer those sort of questions). At 14 he is a reclusive youth, his eyes avoiding the camera. Yet he dreams big: escaping the confines of the farm for the halls of higher learning. By 21 he is at Oxford, finishing up a degree in physics (or whatever you earn at college in Britain. As a side note, I discovered that pretty much every facet of English life is labyrinthine, from the schools to the legal system. I gave up early on trying to figure out the differences between public and state and comprehensive and every other type of school). At 28 he and his wife have left the UK for Madison, Wisconsin, where he will be for the rest of the films, teaching and doing research into nuclear energy. Eventually he and his British-born wife divorce, leaving him with little contact with his son, and he remarries an American. What I love about Nicholas is his insatiable curiosity. At 7 he "wants to find out about the moon and all that"; by 28 he teaches "all that" at a university. Little wonder that he kept on expanding, eventually leaving his homeland for new opportunities. Yet for all this, he is very conflicted. He desperately misses Britain and his family -- even the countryside he so reviled at 14. When the filmmakers take him back to the Yorkshire dales at 35, something inside of him seems to come alive, something primal waiting to leap out. The country, far from inhibiting his curiosity, helped develop it.
Jackie, one of the poor girls in 7 Up, provides a fascinating character sketch while simultaneously being one of the least likeable subjects of the film. She is defensive and combatative every step of the way. (In a meta-moment in 49 Up, she and Michael discuss their feuds over the years. "I like it when you yell at me", Michael confesses) Questions about social class especially seem to enrage her; she does not like the suggestion that the upper classes have gotten on better than her. Yet for all her prickles, she really is intriguing. Married at 19, she and her husband decide early on that they will not have children ("I'm too selfish" she admits in 28). After she and her husband split up, she gains a baby boy from a brief relationship. By 42 she has two others from another man. To see the transformation in her, from completely self-absorbed to giving her life to serve her children, is a touching one. Moreover, to see the joy her children bring her is a marvel. In my mind this is one of the most touching transformations that takes place in the film.
Lastly we have Neil, who seems to be the favorite of many. At 7 he was cheerful and energetic, but by 14 you can see signs of him slowing down. Rejected by Oxford, he attended Aberdeen University for one semester before dropping out. At 21 he does "casual labor", squats in a London apartment, and rails against his upbring; "I feel like I've been kicking in mid-air this whole time", he says. From 28 through 42, he has no job and lives off of social security benefits. Moreover, he drifts from place to place: Scotland in 28, the Shetland Islands in 35, back to London in 42, and northern England in 49. Eccentric to an extreme, he has much trouble forming relationships and spends most of his time alone. In one of the most searing moments of the film, Michael asks Neil if he thinks he is going mad, and Neil implies that he is. Everything about Neil's trajectory is ominous. Will he end up dead in a ditch somewhere, or go on a killing spree of his own? Yet there are signs of hope: in 35 he has found a hobby in acting and directing local plays. Then, in 42, the resurrection: while still jobless, Neil has become a councilman in London. Politics seems to change him, give him a purpose. By 49 he is drawing a salary as a councilman in northern England. The man who drifted so long seemed to finally find a port.
Two other things I found touching about Neil. One was his faith. At 21 he was wracked with doubts; he says that he thinks about the existence of God a lot but hasn't come to any conclusions. By 35, he hints that faith has helped him, and it gradually plays a more significant part in his story. What touches me about this is the simple nature of it; no grandiose flourishes or soapboxing from Neil. He clings to Christ because he is a man who has nothing else. The other wonderful thing is his brief but significant friendship with another of the subjects, our friend Bruce the missionary. When he returned to London before 42 Up Bruce (still unmarried at the time) offered to put him up for awhile. The two became friends, and to see the tender affection between them is a testament to true friendship, which crosses boundaries.
The question will probably go unanswered: does the child at 7 reflect the full grown adult? What then, in the end, is the value of the Up films? Simply put, they tell simple stories of simple people who just live their lives, only to get interrupted every 7 years. Is anything more necessary? The importance stems from the humanity of them, the tender way in which each of the stories unfolds. Without that, the films would be just another novelty. Instead, they are a refreshing look at the lives of individuals.
Hello all -- first things first, I want to apologize for the scarcity of posting as of late. It's been two weeks, and they've flown by for me. First I had problems connecting to the internet from my house, but even after that got fixed I didn't feel like writing for awhile. I've been a bit depressed over unemployment and other things; nothing serious, but when I get blue my desire to write vanishes posthaste. I will, as atonement, attempt to post pretty regularly for the next few days.
On to the fun stuff! Monday saw Alex and I watching 49 Up and thereby completing what has so far been made of the fascinating "Up Series" of documentaries. The story goes that in 1963, Granada television in Britain made a documentary about the lives of 14 British schoolchildren, all around the age of seven. They cut a wide swath through British society: upper class, lower class, city, country, suburban -- all kinds of children were involved. Granada sat them down and interviewed them on all sorts of topics: school, poor and rich people, the opposite gender, and their hopes for the future. I get the impression that, at first, no one knew if anything more would come of it, but director Michael Apted has gone back every seven years to revisit them and find out about their lives (as I said, they are through 49; 56 should come out in 2011 or 2012). Amazingly, all but two have stayed with the series somewhat consistently (a few drift in and out, disappearing for one but then coming back).
What exactly is the significance of these films (or, rather, film in the singular, as I think it should be regarded)? Originally it was to "get a glimpse into Britain's future"; Apted admits that the liberal Granada had somewhat of an agenda to stress the class differences between the children. Yet in the end, class comes up very little in the films. Early on Apted wisely abandoned any social agenda in favor of simply getting to know his subjects. This, I think, is the film's true power, that it deals in delicately human stories, never sacrificing personal intimacy for some overbearing attempt to find meaning. Put another way, it lets the characters speak for themselves, and though some are guarded, the end result is a startling display of honesty.
Accordingly, one of the biggest strengths of the filmmaking is simply getting the hell out of the way. I wholeheartedly salute Apted and Co. for making themselves mostly unobtrusive, and not trying to impress through ridiculous flourishes. With a few exceptions, the subjects are mostly filmed in their natural habitats, at home and comfortable. The camerawork tends to be simple but clean. Perhaps the only part of the film which really stands out is its editing. As the different segments come along, there is more and more material to be juggled (each installment tends to review the lives of the subjects up to that point by intercutting old footage), and the daunting task of picking the right clips is pulled off with aplomb.
As I mentioned, the real strength of the film is simply the concept itself. Though none of the children grew up to lead epic (or in a strict sense important) lives, each has something fascinating to offer: a window into the ways they have and have not changed since they were seven. Young compassionate Bruce, wanting to be a missionary, who grows up to teach in the inner city. Disenchanted Suzy, who spends two films utterly uninterested in life, only to turn into a loving wife and mother and find a delightful warmth. Bright eyed Neil, who finds himself cowed by the harsh realities of life, only to acheive a redemption of sorts. Upper class nitwit John, who stays the consumate snob through 21 only to become a kind, caring middle aged person. The wonderful thing about this is how open most of the subjects are, and how the very process of filming seems to open up their self-awareness. Things that remained stored in the back of their minds for years suddenly come spilling out on camera. One of my favorite examples of this is when Tony, the poor boy who dreamed of being a jockey, blurts out at age 21 that his greatest ambition would be to have a baby son, and that doing so would see his ambition fulfilled. "No one knows that, except you", he says sheepishly to the camera.
I would like to spend the rest of this post just describing some of the characters, that you would have your curiosity piqued and would want to discover their lives for yourself. Nicholas comes in at age 7 as the token country boy, very curious and cheerful, though sometimes guarded (his famous quote when asked about girls: I don't answer those sort of questions). At 14 he is a reclusive youth, his eyes avoiding the camera. Yet he dreams big: escaping the confines of the farm for the halls of higher learning. By 21 he is at Oxford, finishing up a degree in physics (or whatever you earn at college in Britain. As a side note, I discovered that pretty much every facet of English life is labyrinthine, from the schools to the legal system. I gave up early on trying to figure out the differences between public and state and comprehensive and every other type of school). At 28 he and his wife have left the UK for Madison, Wisconsin, where he will be for the rest of the films, teaching and doing research into nuclear energy. Eventually he and his British-born wife divorce, leaving him with little contact with his son, and he remarries an American. What I love about Nicholas is his insatiable curiosity. At 7 he "wants to find out about the moon and all that"; by 28 he teaches "all that" at a university. Little wonder that he kept on expanding, eventually leaving his homeland for new opportunities. Yet for all this, he is very conflicted. He desperately misses Britain and his family -- even the countryside he so reviled at 14. When the filmmakers take him back to the Yorkshire dales at 35, something inside of him seems to come alive, something primal waiting to leap out. The country, far from inhibiting his curiosity, helped develop it.
Jackie, one of the poor girls in 7 Up, provides a fascinating character sketch while simultaneously being one of the least likeable subjects of the film. She is defensive and combatative every step of the way. (In a meta-moment in 49 Up, she and Michael discuss their feuds over the years. "I like it when you yell at me", Michael confesses) Questions about social class especially seem to enrage her; she does not like the suggestion that the upper classes have gotten on better than her. Yet for all her prickles, she really is intriguing. Married at 19, she and her husband decide early on that they will not have children ("I'm too selfish" she admits in 28). After she and her husband split up, she gains a baby boy from a brief relationship. By 42 she has two others from another man. To see the transformation in her, from completely self-absorbed to giving her life to serve her children, is a touching one. Moreover, to see the joy her children bring her is a marvel. In my mind this is one of the most touching transformations that takes place in the film.
Lastly we have Neil, who seems to be the favorite of many. At 7 he was cheerful and energetic, but by 14 you can see signs of him slowing down. Rejected by Oxford, he attended Aberdeen University for one semester before dropping out. At 21 he does "casual labor", squats in a London apartment, and rails against his upbring; "I feel like I've been kicking in mid-air this whole time", he says. From 28 through 42, he has no job and lives off of social security benefits. Moreover, he drifts from place to place: Scotland in 28, the Shetland Islands in 35, back to London in 42, and northern England in 49. Eccentric to an extreme, he has much trouble forming relationships and spends most of his time alone. In one of the most searing moments of the film, Michael asks Neil if he thinks he is going mad, and Neil implies that he is. Everything about Neil's trajectory is ominous. Will he end up dead in a ditch somewhere, or go on a killing spree of his own? Yet there are signs of hope: in 35 he has found a hobby in acting and directing local plays. Then, in 42, the resurrection: while still jobless, Neil has become a councilman in London. Politics seems to change him, give him a purpose. By 49 he is drawing a salary as a councilman in northern England. The man who drifted so long seemed to finally find a port.
Two other things I found touching about Neil. One was his faith. At 21 he was wracked with doubts; he says that he thinks about the existence of God a lot but hasn't come to any conclusions. By 35, he hints that faith has helped him, and it gradually plays a more significant part in his story. What touches me about this is the simple nature of it; no grandiose flourishes or soapboxing from Neil. He clings to Christ because he is a man who has nothing else. The other wonderful thing is his brief but significant friendship with another of the subjects, our friend Bruce the missionary. When he returned to London before 42 Up Bruce (still unmarried at the time) offered to put him up for awhile. The two became friends, and to see the tender affection between them is a testament to true friendship, which crosses boundaries.
The question will probably go unanswered: does the child at 7 reflect the full grown adult? What then, in the end, is the value of the Up films? Simply put, they tell simple stories of simple people who just live their lives, only to get interrupted every 7 years. Is anything more necessary? The importance stems from the humanity of them, the tender way in which each of the stories unfolds. Without that, the films would be just another novelty. Instead, they are a refreshing look at the lives of individuals.
Wednesday, February 04, 2009
Let the Great Experiment Begin!
Today I went in to take the skills test for a job with the U.S. Census Bureau. The test was comprised of 28 questions, only ten of which needed to be answered correctly in order to qualify. Since all the questions were about on the 5th grade level (alphabetise this list... add these sums), I spent about half of the 30 minutes alloted to me drawing on my scrap paper. In the process of doing so, I had the most scathingly brilliant idea.
If any of you have seen my drawings, you know that I am probably the world's worst artist. My figures rarely come out proportional, my grasp on perspective is limited at best, and I even have trouble drawing a straight line. This provoked a small but steady thought in my brain: "I wonder what it would be like if someone like me tried submitting their work to art galleries, museums, agencies, etc." At first this thought merely tickled my fancy, but as I stopped to think about it, I realized that I had the kernel of a potentially interesting idea. So I have decided that my major project for the coming year will be this: get a sketchbook and other art supplies and go crazy making a portfolio and writing an artistic statement. In the process, keep a detailed journal of the creative mind at work. When finished, send the portfolio off to different places and wait for responses. Record said responses for posterity. In the end, I should have an interesting account of what it is like being an artist in 21st Century America. Who knows, maybe if the writing's good enough I'll submit the whole thing (lovely illustrations included) to a publisher. Even if not, I'll keep it around for my own pleasure.
If any of you have seen my drawings, you know that I am probably the world's worst artist. My figures rarely come out proportional, my grasp on perspective is limited at best, and I even have trouble drawing a straight line. This provoked a small but steady thought in my brain: "I wonder what it would be like if someone like me tried submitting their work to art galleries, museums, agencies, etc." At first this thought merely tickled my fancy, but as I stopped to think about it, I realized that I had the kernel of a potentially interesting idea. So I have decided that my major project for the coming year will be this: get a sketchbook and other art supplies and go crazy making a portfolio and writing an artistic statement. In the process, keep a detailed journal of the creative mind at work. When finished, send the portfolio off to different places and wait for responses. Record said responses for posterity. In the end, I should have an interesting account of what it is like being an artist in 21st Century America. Who knows, maybe if the writing's good enough I'll submit the whole thing (lovely illustrations included) to a publisher. Even if not, I'll keep it around for my own pleasure.
Monday, February 02, 2009
It's All Greek to Me...
"What those ancient Greeks, who after all did know a little about philosophy, assumed to be a task for a whole lifetime... with that everyone begins in our age... Faith was then a task for a whole lifetime, because it was assumed that proficiency in believing is not acquired either in days or in weeks. When the tried and tested oldster approached his end, had fought the good fight and kept the faith, his heart was still young enough not to have forgotten the anxiety and trembling that disciplined the youth, that the adult learned to control, but that no man outgrows -- except to the extent that he succeeds in going further as early as possible. The point attained by those venerable personages is in our age the point where everyone begins in order to go further." --Johannes de Silentio in Fear and Trembling
Fear and Trembling is an outstanding book by one of history's greatest thinkers, and within its astounding whole it contains many small bits that are wonderful to chew on thoroughly, savouring the wisdom of Kierkegaard. This brilliant selection is from the Preface, and in fact sets up one of the major problems of the book. In the interest of masticating completely before swallowing, I will take this quote in a somewhat different direction than the context dictates, but one with which I think Kierkegaard would agree.
The question I will pose today: why are our children not given a thorough grounding in Greek philosophy by the time they exit high school? Does this seem like a stupid question? Many people, even academics, regard philosophy with an (un)studied distaste. Certainly much modern (I use the term in a general, not a technical, sense) philosophy engages in silly semantic disputes and intellectually masturbatory thought projects. This has less to do with the nature of philosophy than the nature of philosophers. In fact, these self-satisfied charlatans provide even more evidence that what is needed is a return to the bedrock of thought.
Essentially, what Western Civilization has produced is a society largely devoid of people who can think. Note that I am not saying society is stupid (that is a different question entirely); merely that most people can't or won't think in a clear, consistent manner. I believe that this is a result of having gone beyond the Greeks.
What, exactly, do I mean? I mean that when people set out to think about things or solve problems, they take for granted an indescribably long list of assumptions which they do not question. Nor have they ever questioned these assumptions. They stand entrenched, never wondering if the foundations are secure. (Perhaps I should take a moment to offer this disclaimer: I consider myself to be very much a part of my society. This is in no way an attempt to place myself above others; I too engage in all the activities I describe. I have a very great distance to go before I could even be fit to untie Socrates' sandals).
The point I am driving at is this: most people, when considering a problem, engage in a very great amount of intellectual arrogance. Take any political problem, and you will usually find that both sides clamour voraciously for their position. Dig a little deeper, and you will find that they do not even acknowledge the existence of their presuppositions. This is why so much political discourse is useless; the opposing sides may as well be talking about the completely different issues, from the lack of clarity about what precisely is at stake.
Or take an academic discipline. I will use sociology as an example, because I find so many unexamined presuppositions among its practitioners, and it is a little less controversial than, say, one of the hard sciences (I will sometime talk about the hard sciences and their faulty presuppositions, but that is another post entirely). *Disclaimer: I do not wish to besmirch sociology as a whole. I know quite a few sociology majors and respect them, and the only soc class I took in college was taught by a very good, very sane professor.*
Before beginning a career in sociology, one should presumably engage in s study of how sound a pursuit it is. What kind of knowledge is gained from sociology, and how does one obtain it. Is it a logical process? An empirical one? An ethical? Intuitive? Imaginative? Once we have answered this, we may proceed to ask other questions. How much stock should we put in the answers we receive? Are our findings indisputable truth, or are they an imaginative insight into the human situation?
Unfortunately this is not what you find in the majority of cases. Fools rush in; the basic principles of sociology go unquestioned in the haste to make a profound statement (the assumption that leaps to my mind in the case of sociology is the idea that sociology is a scientific pursuit, and the assumption which underlies that- even more pernicious- that it must be scientific in order to have value). From that point on, however interesting the data I collect, something will be missing from my sociological work.
This sort of going beyond quickly spreads to all of society. Once an academic pursuit is established, its findings are usually presented as irrefutable by wider society. Anyone with a PhD. is suddenly qualified to make any statement, however outlandish and have it regarded as credible. Not that I think it is wrong to have authorities on subjects, but accepting something without thinking about it first is a dangerous fallacy which we all commit day after day.
Put another way, we as a society are essentially technology driven, not knowledge driven. That is, we look for solutions which work and then move on, not bothering to wonder whether something is actually true. As a result we love having our presuppositions ready made for us, and we are eager to devour any warmed over thought system sent our way.
But wait, you may say, that isn't the case. We as a society value cynicism; we question everything! In reply: first, that simply isn't true. Cynicism may hold sway in certain sectors, but it is by no means the norm. Second, even this sorry excuse for cynicism in society proves my point, for it is a shallow cynicism indeed. Our cynics latch firmly like leeches onto their banner cry "There is no truth!", but none I have met have ever clearly thought through their reasons for such an attachment. Their cynicism is based on nothing more than a puerile distaste for authority (as witnessed in the intellectual inconsistency of most cynics, who in fact only doubt what is inconvenient to them), not a detailed examination of the limits of epistemology.
Alright, this has been a long post already, and you may find yourself wondering what all this has to do with teaching Greek philosophy to our youngsters. We, like Kierkegaard's age, have gone beyond the Greeks. We have hastily built up our system of knowledge but never pored over it for cracks. We consider it a small thing to move beyond Plato, since obviously we are much more advanced than he. Yet is this really the case? What if we are the simple ones?
This raises another point: our chronological bias against the Greeks. This comes in two flavours: first, we think that, since we come much later, we have obviously accumulated much more knowledge and wisdom than they. But this assessment only works if you consider human knowledge to be constantly progressing. Is this really the case? True, we may gain more facts about the remote operations of the galaxy, but has our knowledge of mankind really expanded? Or have we been chasing down rabbit holes, leading to nowhere? Pound for pound, the Greeks tend to be more profound about human nature than any modern commentator.
Second, we tend to view the Greeks as so old (and Lord knows we detest old things). Like a creaking wheel, the Greeks have worn out their welcome among us. But, viewed from another angle, it is not they who are old, but us. We live 2,000 years after them, with the weight of all those epochs bearing down on our bones. They are the youth of the human race, filled to the brim with curiosity and wonder. We are the old, dyspeptic senior citizens, so deeply mired in a rut that we fail even to recognize the hole we have dug.
By introducing our children to Plato and Aristotle (as well as less obvious things such as Greek tragedy) at a young age, I believe we may begin to counteract the thoughtlessness which is rampant in society. Let us start with Socrates. This infernal gadfly on the backs of the Athenians has much to teach us about questioning our presuppositions. Many men of Socrates' day went about their lives never bothering to question their basic ideas about the good, the just, the beautiful. But that darned Socrates would not leave them alone. He would always butt in with some remark which showed their presuppositions to be empty posturing (no wonder they put him to death!). What better remedy to the sleepy thought of modernity that the harsh bite of the gadfly?
If Socrates was the wrecking ball operator of Greek philosophy, smashing down tottering buildings, then Aristotle was the dedicated mason, patiently building his system brick by brick. And what a system! Has anyone in the history of thought come close to the depth and breadth of knowledge displayed by Aristotle? These days we smugly dismiss Aristotle because many of his ideas, especially regarding physics and the like, have turned out to be untrue (at least by our estimation). But the value in studying Aristotle comes not so much from his ideas (although those still hold a great deal of water) but from the thorough clarity with which he writes. Aristotle leaves no stone unturned, and he is fascinated even by the little things we would dismiss as fundamental to our own investigations.
Of course, I have no expectations that something like this will ever be implemented. Still, perhaps one of the ten people reading this will be inspired, and will start reading the Symposium aloud while their first child is still in the womb.
Fear and Trembling is an outstanding book by one of history's greatest thinkers, and within its astounding whole it contains many small bits that are wonderful to chew on thoroughly, savouring the wisdom of Kierkegaard. This brilliant selection is from the Preface, and in fact sets up one of the major problems of the book. In the interest of masticating completely before swallowing, I will take this quote in a somewhat different direction than the context dictates, but one with which I think Kierkegaard would agree.
The question I will pose today: why are our children not given a thorough grounding in Greek philosophy by the time they exit high school? Does this seem like a stupid question? Many people, even academics, regard philosophy with an (un)studied distaste. Certainly much modern (I use the term in a general, not a technical, sense) philosophy engages in silly semantic disputes and intellectually masturbatory thought projects. This has less to do with the nature of philosophy than the nature of philosophers. In fact, these self-satisfied charlatans provide even more evidence that what is needed is a return to the bedrock of thought.
Essentially, what Western Civilization has produced is a society largely devoid of people who can think. Note that I am not saying society is stupid (that is a different question entirely); merely that most people can't or won't think in a clear, consistent manner. I believe that this is a result of having gone beyond the Greeks.
What, exactly, do I mean? I mean that when people set out to think about things or solve problems, they take for granted an indescribably long list of assumptions which they do not question. Nor have they ever questioned these assumptions. They stand entrenched, never wondering if the foundations are secure. (Perhaps I should take a moment to offer this disclaimer: I consider myself to be very much a part of my society. This is in no way an attempt to place myself above others; I too engage in all the activities I describe. I have a very great distance to go before I could even be fit to untie Socrates' sandals).
The point I am driving at is this: most people, when considering a problem, engage in a very great amount of intellectual arrogance. Take any political problem, and you will usually find that both sides clamour voraciously for their position. Dig a little deeper, and you will find that they do not even acknowledge the existence of their presuppositions. This is why so much political discourse is useless; the opposing sides may as well be talking about the completely different issues, from the lack of clarity about what precisely is at stake.
Or take an academic discipline. I will use sociology as an example, because I find so many unexamined presuppositions among its practitioners, and it is a little less controversial than, say, one of the hard sciences (I will sometime talk about the hard sciences and their faulty presuppositions, but that is another post entirely). *Disclaimer: I do not wish to besmirch sociology as a whole. I know quite a few sociology majors and respect them, and the only soc class I took in college was taught by a very good, very sane professor.*
Before beginning a career in sociology, one should presumably engage in s study of how sound a pursuit it is. What kind of knowledge is gained from sociology, and how does one obtain it. Is it a logical process? An empirical one? An ethical? Intuitive? Imaginative? Once we have answered this, we may proceed to ask other questions. How much stock should we put in the answers we receive? Are our findings indisputable truth, or are they an imaginative insight into the human situation?
Unfortunately this is not what you find in the majority of cases. Fools rush in; the basic principles of sociology go unquestioned in the haste to make a profound statement (the assumption that leaps to my mind in the case of sociology is the idea that sociology is a scientific pursuit, and the assumption which underlies that- even more pernicious- that it must be scientific in order to have value). From that point on, however interesting the data I collect, something will be missing from my sociological work.
This sort of going beyond quickly spreads to all of society. Once an academic pursuit is established, its findings are usually presented as irrefutable by wider society. Anyone with a PhD. is suddenly qualified to make any statement, however outlandish and have it regarded as credible. Not that I think it is wrong to have authorities on subjects, but accepting something without thinking about it first is a dangerous fallacy which we all commit day after day.
Put another way, we as a society are essentially technology driven, not knowledge driven. That is, we look for solutions which work and then move on, not bothering to wonder whether something is actually true. As a result we love having our presuppositions ready made for us, and we are eager to devour any warmed over thought system sent our way.
But wait, you may say, that isn't the case. We as a society value cynicism; we question everything! In reply: first, that simply isn't true. Cynicism may hold sway in certain sectors, but it is by no means the norm. Second, even this sorry excuse for cynicism in society proves my point, for it is a shallow cynicism indeed. Our cynics latch firmly like leeches onto their banner cry "There is no truth!", but none I have met have ever clearly thought through their reasons for such an attachment. Their cynicism is based on nothing more than a puerile distaste for authority (as witnessed in the intellectual inconsistency of most cynics, who in fact only doubt what is inconvenient to them), not a detailed examination of the limits of epistemology.
Alright, this has been a long post already, and you may find yourself wondering what all this has to do with teaching Greek philosophy to our youngsters. We, like Kierkegaard's age, have gone beyond the Greeks. We have hastily built up our system of knowledge but never pored over it for cracks. We consider it a small thing to move beyond Plato, since obviously we are much more advanced than he. Yet is this really the case? What if we are the simple ones?
This raises another point: our chronological bias against the Greeks. This comes in two flavours: first, we think that, since we come much later, we have obviously accumulated much more knowledge and wisdom than they. But this assessment only works if you consider human knowledge to be constantly progressing. Is this really the case? True, we may gain more facts about the remote operations of the galaxy, but has our knowledge of mankind really expanded? Or have we been chasing down rabbit holes, leading to nowhere? Pound for pound, the Greeks tend to be more profound about human nature than any modern commentator.
Second, we tend to view the Greeks as so old (and Lord knows we detest old things). Like a creaking wheel, the Greeks have worn out their welcome among us. But, viewed from another angle, it is not they who are old, but us. We live 2,000 years after them, with the weight of all those epochs bearing down on our bones. They are the youth of the human race, filled to the brim with curiosity and wonder. We are the old, dyspeptic senior citizens, so deeply mired in a rut that we fail even to recognize the hole we have dug.
By introducing our children to Plato and Aristotle (as well as less obvious things such as Greek tragedy) at a young age, I believe we may begin to counteract the thoughtlessness which is rampant in society. Let us start with Socrates. This infernal gadfly on the backs of the Athenians has much to teach us about questioning our presuppositions. Many men of Socrates' day went about their lives never bothering to question their basic ideas about the good, the just, the beautiful. But that darned Socrates would not leave them alone. He would always butt in with some remark which showed their presuppositions to be empty posturing (no wonder they put him to death!). What better remedy to the sleepy thought of modernity that the harsh bite of the gadfly?
If Socrates was the wrecking ball operator of Greek philosophy, smashing down tottering buildings, then Aristotle was the dedicated mason, patiently building his system brick by brick. And what a system! Has anyone in the history of thought come close to the depth and breadth of knowledge displayed by Aristotle? These days we smugly dismiss Aristotle because many of his ideas, especially regarding physics and the like, have turned out to be untrue (at least by our estimation). But the value in studying Aristotle comes not so much from his ideas (although those still hold a great deal of water) but from the thorough clarity with which he writes. Aristotle leaves no stone unturned, and he is fascinated even by the little things we would dismiss as fundamental to our own investigations.
Of course, I have no expectations that something like this will ever be implemented. Still, perhaps one of the ten people reading this will be inspired, and will start reading the Symposium aloud while their first child is still in the womb.
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