Today Leslie and I had two of the last cups of Ethiopia Sidamo Koratie that Doubleshot will brew for a very long time (possibly ever). What a way to go out. It was the most perfect cup I have had in quite some time. Before he poured it, Garth described it as "buttery", and I could see what he meant. The mouthfeel was delicious, so chewy and viscous. The usual Sidamo richness was there, but this time I would swear that it tasted like Earl Grey. How could it get any better than my two favorite hot beverages melded together?
I always get sad when Doubleshot stops roasting a particularly good bean. When they stopped the Tanzania Ruvuma (still the best coffee I have ever had), it was a terrible day. Or the Sidamo MAO Horse, which tasted exactly like blueberries. I change very slowly, and take great comfort in familiar things. Because of this, losing a coffee is a bit like saying goodbye to a dear friend.
One of my favorite ideas in Lewis' Space Trilogy comes in Perelandra, when it comes out that, on Venus where no fall has happened, no creature wants anything out of season. That is to say, no one wishes for more of something when it is gone, or wants something outside of its limitations. What a beautiful image of what our lives should be. Accepting things as they come to us; enjoying them while they last, and letting them go when their time is over.
Friendship is like that. We so desperately want our friendships with people to stay exactly as they have always been; we tremble at the thought of undergoing any alteration. Yet change comes to us all; bodies move, or worse, souls drift apart. Though it is right to mourn the loss of these things, it is sin to keep longing after them when gone. What is more, it is only blindness which gives us these thoughts. We grasp to what has come before, not knowing that what comes next will be just as glorious, in its own way.
It is the terrible tension of our fallen state to want things we cannot have. We are torn apart from those we love without the capacity to deal with the separation. The state which would give us freedom to accept this comes only in glory. People often imagine heaven as one continuous togetherness with loved ones. This strikes me as a misunderstanding. In actuality "heaven" will be a physical reality on the new earth, with life restored to its original balance. We will work and see the fruits of our labor unfrustrated! Perhaps then, "heaven" does not entail never being apart from those we love, but being able to know that it is good to be with friends, and good to be apart from them. That we can find a sweet satisfaction in the moments we share with one another without wishing to prolong them forever.
It is like this with coffee, too. In some ways it is better that Sidamo Koratie go away, in order that new coffees might be roasted, might present their striking flavors to my tongue. It would be a sin for me to only want Sidamo Koratie for the rest of my life. Not merely a sin, but stupidity! Who knows what wonders I would miss out on, clutching at my cup of overworn Ethiopia? It is better this way. As I sucked the last life breath from the cup and threw it in the trash, I was content. What more is needed?
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Saturday, March 07, 2009
Mimesis
Isn't it amazing how art evokes other art? I woke up this morning, fresh off of Karl's recital last night, with the desire to write poetry. Everything about the pieces he wrote was so raw and wonderful, so deeply affecting, that it made me remember why I write.
Sounds silly, maybe, but I think this week I almost forgot entirely. I started my job -- HR Temp at a hospital -- and I am grateful to have it, but something about working with Excel all day (or maybe it's the suffocating atmosphere of corporate America) choked out my remembrance of writing. Have you ever worked an 8 to 5 job? When you get home, all you want to do is fall onto the couch and play video games. Creating something of value really does take effort; I find it physically exhausting, and who has the energy to do two exhausting things in one day?
But good art is worth the trouble. To see Karl up there on stage, baring his soul, not hiding at all, moved me to tears. To hear such personal thoughts combined with sublime music was indescribable. I may never write anything half as good as Karl's songs,but he makes me want to try.
Sounds silly, maybe, but I think this week I almost forgot entirely. I started my job -- HR Temp at a hospital -- and I am grateful to have it, but something about working with Excel all day (or maybe it's the suffocating atmosphere of corporate America) choked out my remembrance of writing. Have you ever worked an 8 to 5 job? When you get home, all you want to do is fall onto the couch and play video games. Creating something of value really does take effort; I find it physically exhausting, and who has the energy to do two exhausting things in one day?
But good art is worth the trouble. To see Karl up there on stage, baring his soul, not hiding at all, moved me to tears. To hear such personal thoughts combined with sublime music was indescribable. I may never write anything half as good as Karl's songs,but he makes me want to try.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Why I Write (This)
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.
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.
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.
Friday, January 30, 2009
List!
One of the most addicting features of the new internet style of communication is the abundance of lists. No longer relegated to David Letterman, lists have become a phenomenon of sorts on message boards everywhere. I find myself strangely attracted to lists: they promise so much (20 Greatest Films about Sports-Playing Animals!!!) yet often fail to deliver the goods. I prefer lists that don't just provide the bare bones of a numerically ordered system, but delve into the reasons behind the choices.
Today, then, I provide a top ten (of sorts) with a distinct purpose behind it: to illustrate what I find pleasurable in a classic rock song. This is by no means my definitive "TOP TEN CLASIC (sic) ROCK SONGS" list; I would say it is extremely malleable (especially the bottom five or so; my top five are more definite). But, they are all songs I happen to like (enough to think of them when considering what to put on this list), and most of them have something to say about what I like in a rock song. Also, I have avoided giving more than one song by a group (otherwise the list might be entirely dominated by the Allman Brothers Band, only the greatest rock and roll group in history).
As a sort of a spoiler, I will say that generally I enjoy stripped down songs. Give me a relentless riff over a self-congratulatory solo anyday. This works with lyrics, too. Less is more. So, without further ado, here it is:
10 Classic Rock Songs That Are Good
10. Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers -- Won't Back Down
As I was thinking this list over, I knew I needed to include some Tom Petty. He represents a style I like very much; his music tends to be lean and desperate. Still, it was a tough decision, because TP+tHB are a band that I listen to more for the overall effect than individual songs. Oh sure, I'll always keep the radio tuned to "Free Fallin'" if it comes on, but that's out of sentimentality as much as anything. I think my favorite Tom Petty song is probably Won't Back Down; a simple but catchy little riff and Tom and his most inspirational.
9. Styx -- Renegade
Yes, Styx. Look, don't be unduly influenced by Mr. Roboto (which is a great song in its own way); Styx brings the rock and roll. It came down to this song and Come Sail Away, which I do happen to like very much, despite its ridiculousness (or perhaps because of it). In the end, Come Sail Away is the type of rock song I generally dislike, but Styx takes it so far that it works. Renegade, however, is pure goodness. The jerky rhythm, relentless driving motion, and mangy singing are beautiful. And you cannot deny the greatness when they sing "Hangman is coming down from the gallows and I don't have very long".
8. Aerosmith -- Rag Doll
I must confess, I don't much care for Aerosmith, on the whole and for the most part (especially late period, verging on self-parody Aerosmith). But Rag Doll captures perfectly the things I do enjoy about them: an upbeat, catchy riff, a bouncy beat, some nifty guitar work, and totally ridiculous lyrics.
7. Blood, Sweat, and Tears -- Spinning Wheel
This is one awesome acid trip of a song. I generally like brass infused rock, and no one does it better than BS&T. Again, less is more; the song is fairly simple and repetitive, which makes it all the more effective when the freak out moment comes. Also, the song does a really good job of capturing the feel of a fair, particularly the creepiness of the carousel.
6. T Rex -- Bang a Gong (Get it On)
How awesome is this song? Well, the Rolling Stones felt compelled to rip T Rex off by stealing the riff from Get it On for It's Only Rock and Roll. Dirty cheaters. This song just rocks, from that famous riff to Bolan's seedy voice to the slightly ridiculous glam chorus. (Side note: does anyone know who did the cover of this song which is sometimes played on the radio? Cause that is a travesty).
5. The Edgar Winter Group -- Frankenstein
Top five time! And to usher it in, our first (and only) instrumental. If you somehow haven't heard this song, shame on you. It is delicious from start to finish, from the opening lick to the awesome drum solo which makes you wait forever and a half for the melody to re-enter. Any song that can make me like the saxophone has something right.
4. Queen -- Fat Bottomed Girls
Oh, were you expecting Bohemian Rhapsody? Look, I don't hate that song by any stretch of the imagination, but it does represent the excesses which I dislike in classic rock. FBG, on the other hand, is awesomeness distilled down to its core. It is a song you feel embarrassed to sing along with, yet you do it every time.
3. Creedence Clearwater Revival -- Fortunate Son
I consider CCR one of the best producers of pure (or simple) rock. They have little use for elaborate solos or convoluted lyrics, yet they do more in 2 minutes than many bands do in 7. Fortunate Son is one angry powder keg of a song about the illusion of the American Dream. Too bad it still gets played at patriotic events everywhere. Fogerty's steely rage almost makes me forget Centerfield.
2. The Allman Brothers Band -- Whipping Post
The Allman Brothers Band is known most for the live performances, which are epic in nature. One reason I think they were so good jamming it up for 20 minutes is that they kept their songs simple in structure, but they still contained lots of room to move around and improvise. Whipping Post is a monster song. The opening riff is perfect, the bluesey feel works so well with the subject matter, and Gregg Allman sounds like a broken heart incarnate. Flawless.
1. Led Zeppelin -- When the Levee Breaks
Screw Stairway to Heaven (for my thoughts on it please see Rhapsody, Bohemian). This is the real masterpiece from LZ 4. The boomy drumbeat, like a tribal call to war; the wailing harmonica which drags you through the mud of the Delta; Plant singing like a man with a demon inside him; the slow boil of the way the song builds on itself over the course of its 6 minutes; all these things add up to the greatest rock and roll song of all time.
So, there's my take. What are your favorite classic rock songs? Let the comments begin!
Today, then, I provide a top ten (of sorts) with a distinct purpose behind it: to illustrate what I find pleasurable in a classic rock song. This is by no means my definitive "TOP TEN CLASIC (sic) ROCK SONGS" list; I would say it is extremely malleable (especially the bottom five or so; my top five are more definite). But, they are all songs I happen to like (enough to think of them when considering what to put on this list), and most of them have something to say about what I like in a rock song. Also, I have avoided giving more than one song by a group (otherwise the list might be entirely dominated by the Allman Brothers Band, only the greatest rock and roll group in history).
As a sort of a spoiler, I will say that generally I enjoy stripped down songs. Give me a relentless riff over a self-congratulatory solo anyday. This works with lyrics, too. Less is more. So, without further ado, here it is:
10 Classic Rock Songs That Are Good
10. Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers -- Won't Back Down
As I was thinking this list over, I knew I needed to include some Tom Petty. He represents a style I like very much; his music tends to be lean and desperate. Still, it was a tough decision, because TP+tHB are a band that I listen to more for the overall effect than individual songs. Oh sure, I'll always keep the radio tuned to "Free Fallin'" if it comes on, but that's out of sentimentality as much as anything. I think my favorite Tom Petty song is probably Won't Back Down; a simple but catchy little riff and Tom and his most inspirational.
9. Styx -- Renegade
Yes, Styx. Look, don't be unduly influenced by Mr. Roboto (which is a great song in its own way); Styx brings the rock and roll. It came down to this song and Come Sail Away, which I do happen to like very much, despite its ridiculousness (or perhaps because of it). In the end, Come Sail Away is the type of rock song I generally dislike, but Styx takes it so far that it works. Renegade, however, is pure goodness. The jerky rhythm, relentless driving motion, and mangy singing are beautiful. And you cannot deny the greatness when they sing "Hangman is coming down from the gallows and I don't have very long".
8. Aerosmith -- Rag Doll
I must confess, I don't much care for Aerosmith, on the whole and for the most part (especially late period, verging on self-parody Aerosmith). But Rag Doll captures perfectly the things I do enjoy about them: an upbeat, catchy riff, a bouncy beat, some nifty guitar work, and totally ridiculous lyrics.
7. Blood, Sweat, and Tears -- Spinning Wheel
This is one awesome acid trip of a song. I generally like brass infused rock, and no one does it better than BS&T. Again, less is more; the song is fairly simple and repetitive, which makes it all the more effective when the freak out moment comes. Also, the song does a really good job of capturing the feel of a fair, particularly the creepiness of the carousel.
6. T Rex -- Bang a Gong (Get it On)
How awesome is this song? Well, the Rolling Stones felt compelled to rip T Rex off by stealing the riff from Get it On for It's Only Rock and Roll. Dirty cheaters. This song just rocks, from that famous riff to Bolan's seedy voice to the slightly ridiculous glam chorus. (Side note: does anyone know who did the cover of this song which is sometimes played on the radio? Cause that is a travesty).
5. The Edgar Winter Group -- Frankenstein
Top five time! And to usher it in, our first (and only) instrumental. If you somehow haven't heard this song, shame on you. It is delicious from start to finish, from the opening lick to the awesome drum solo which makes you wait forever and a half for the melody to re-enter. Any song that can make me like the saxophone has something right.
4. Queen -- Fat Bottomed Girls
Oh, were you expecting Bohemian Rhapsody? Look, I don't hate that song by any stretch of the imagination, but it does represent the excesses which I dislike in classic rock. FBG, on the other hand, is awesomeness distilled down to its core. It is a song you feel embarrassed to sing along with, yet you do it every time.
3. Creedence Clearwater Revival -- Fortunate Son
I consider CCR one of the best producers of pure (or simple) rock. They have little use for elaborate solos or convoluted lyrics, yet they do more in 2 minutes than many bands do in 7. Fortunate Son is one angry powder keg of a song about the illusion of the American Dream. Too bad it still gets played at patriotic events everywhere. Fogerty's steely rage almost makes me forget Centerfield.
2. The Allman Brothers Band -- Whipping Post
The Allman Brothers Band is known most for the live performances, which are epic in nature. One reason I think they were so good jamming it up for 20 minutes is that they kept their songs simple in structure, but they still contained lots of room to move around and improvise. Whipping Post is a monster song. The opening riff is perfect, the bluesey feel works so well with the subject matter, and Gregg Allman sounds like a broken heart incarnate. Flawless.
1. Led Zeppelin -- When the Levee Breaks
Screw Stairway to Heaven (for my thoughts on it please see Rhapsody, Bohemian). This is the real masterpiece from LZ 4. The boomy drumbeat, like a tribal call to war; the wailing harmonica which drags you through the mud of the Delta; Plant singing like a man with a demon inside him; the slow boil of the way the song builds on itself over the course of its 6 minutes; all these things add up to the greatest rock and roll song of all time.
So, there's my take. What are your favorite classic rock songs? Let the comments begin!
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Slummin' It
Yes, the rumors are true; I am back to posting on my blog, hopefully on a regular basis. True, I have often claimed this in the past, but my comparative abundance of free time (especially now, when I have no gainful employment to occupy my labor) should enable me to keep up relatively well. If not, keep bothering me; what I will not do from pleasure, I will do to stop from being disturbed. Now, on to the post!
On a recent date, Leslie and I had the pleasure to see the film "Slumdog Millionaire", a film by the always reliable British filmmaker Danny Boyle (most famous for 28 Days Later -- which I haven't seen -- but known to me through the family film "Millions" and the sci-fi "Sunshine", both of which I heartily recommend). We both enjoyed it immensely, and apparently enough critics agreed with us that it has been nominated for numerous Academy Awards, including Best Picture. Imagine my dismay, then, when several critics I read regularly have nothing but disdain for the film. Far be it for me to defend the Academy, whose taste I often question (Gladiator, really?), but reading criticisms of the film, it struck me that most of them stemmed from a misunderstanding of what it is trying to accomplish, of what kind of story it tells.
The criticisms I am directly addressing are along the lines of "The story feels cheap, like it doesn't earn the emotions it wants to elicit. It isn't a realistic depiction of life in the slums." et al. These criticisms would perhaps be cogent if "Slumdog Millionaire" set out to be a gritty docudrama about living in the streets of Mumbai, scraping by from day to day. Then critics would have the right to be dismayed by the happy ending, by the bright colors and overwhelming joy found withing the frame of the film. In reality, these criticisms aren't just incorrect, they miss the mark entirely. "Slumdog" clearly sets out to tell a fairy tale, and to judge it by anything other than the standards of that genre is a miscarriage of justice.
Perhaps this thesis does not seem immediately obvious. Let me present some evidence in favor of it. First, some outside evidence. Danny Boyle clearly has a fascination with the supernatural and inexplicable. I can say this with assurance because his other films reveal it. "Sunshine" and especially "Millions" (and, presumably, "28 Days Later") both have elements of the ethereal and supernatural. "Millions", with its numerous interludes involving dead saints, brings this out most clearly. Boyle is a Catholic, and as such he is more likely to be drawn to the elements of fairy tales, elements shared by the story of Christ. (Side Note: referring to the Christian narrative as a "fairy tale" in no way implies that it is false; rather it refers to shared characteristics -- some of which we shall examine in our discussion of "Slumdog". Many people, myself included, look to the similarity as evidence in favor of the truth of the gospel. But that is another post.)
Very well, Danny Boyle might be the kind of filmmaker drawn to making a fairy tale. But does "Slumdog" itself bear the marks of a fairy tale? I would strenuously argue for the affirmative. First off, there is the presence of the supernatural in the story. Now, "Slumdog" does not have the intervening divines of "Millions", but the supernatural is present regardless. This is clear from the framing device of the story, which is a multiple choice question (a la "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire") which asks how a slumdog like the hero Jamal could be poised to win 20 million rupees on a difficult gameshow like Who Wants to Be a Millionaire. The potential answers include "He is a genius" and "He cheated", but the final shot of the film is the same screen, with everything fading out except for "D. It is written". (Side note: Perhaps it is a device like this which enrages the critics. "We want ambiguity," they cry, "not to be hammered over the head with the point of the story." But fairy tales have a clear point; they are not meant to sustain multiple readings. To be angry that a fairy tale gives you the point of the story is like being disappointed that a cow does not lay eggs.) Though we never see anything as direct as divine intervention take place, we may infer that the events of the film are driven forward by fate.
Furthermore, the structure of the events (not the film itself, which takes a more complicated narrative structure) fit well into the mold of a fairy tale. First, there is the humble, normal beginning. Our hero lives an average, everyday life and is consumed by normality. Of course, the Western viewer will have a hard time discerning this, since life in India is not our modus operandi. Not being an expert myself, I cannot comment on how accurate Boyle's depiction of life in the slums is, and frankly I think the point irrelevant. Jamal and his brother are shown doing the things that normal boys everywhere do. Then, suddenly, they are thrust out of that life by certain events. From this point on they embark on a fairy tale adventure. They must escape the clutches of a monster. They make their way by trickery. And, in the end, Jamal must set about seeking the freedom of his princess from the clutches of an evil man.
"Slumdog" also contains the single most significant earmark of a fairy tale, as identified by JRR Tolkien: it culminates, after many terrible things have happened to the hero, in a moment of eucatastrophe (literally, good catastrophe). There are smaller moments of eucatastrophe scattered through the film, but the big payoff at the end is nearly perfect. No, it is not in the moment of answering the final question on Millionaire, but the moment when Jamal calls his brother's cell phone and Latika, the love of his life, answers. That is the moment when everything bad is made right, and it is a thing of beauty.
I think that this is also part of what offends the critics, that a basic moral order is maintained by the story. Good is rewarded and evil punished. "But it never happens that way" is essentially a straw man argument against the film. Realism is not in view, but something which supersedes realism, the transformation of the mundane by the supernatural. This is what the best fairy tales do, and on that level "Slumdog" succeeds.
Now, I understand that some critics may not enjoy the fairy tale as a genre. In a later post I hope to defend the fairy tale from its critics, but for now I will let it slide as a difference of opinion. What is unacceptable is a critic approaching a film with no sense of genre. It would make no sense for me to negatively review "Chinatown" on the basis that there was no uplifting love story and very few laughs. Granted, nailing down "Slumdog"'s genre is a little more complicated than pegging Polanski's masterwork as a noir film, but recognition of genre must be something that a critic is able to do before he or she can accurately assess any film. That way, if a critic happens to not like fairy tales, he can give one negative marks while still acknowledging that the film succeeds or fails on its own level.
On a recent date, Leslie and I had the pleasure to see the film "Slumdog Millionaire", a film by the always reliable British filmmaker Danny Boyle (most famous for 28 Days Later -- which I haven't seen -- but known to me through the family film "Millions" and the sci-fi "Sunshine", both of which I heartily recommend). We both enjoyed it immensely, and apparently enough critics agreed with us that it has been nominated for numerous Academy Awards, including Best Picture. Imagine my dismay, then, when several critics I read regularly have nothing but disdain for the film. Far be it for me to defend the Academy, whose taste I often question (Gladiator, really?), but reading criticisms of the film, it struck me that most of them stemmed from a misunderstanding of what it is trying to accomplish, of what kind of story it tells.
The criticisms I am directly addressing are along the lines of "The story feels cheap, like it doesn't earn the emotions it wants to elicit. It isn't a realistic depiction of life in the slums." et al. These criticisms would perhaps be cogent if "Slumdog Millionaire" set out to be a gritty docudrama about living in the streets of Mumbai, scraping by from day to day. Then critics would have the right to be dismayed by the happy ending, by the bright colors and overwhelming joy found withing the frame of the film. In reality, these criticisms aren't just incorrect, they miss the mark entirely. "Slumdog" clearly sets out to tell a fairy tale, and to judge it by anything other than the standards of that genre is a miscarriage of justice.
Perhaps this thesis does not seem immediately obvious. Let me present some evidence in favor of it. First, some outside evidence. Danny Boyle clearly has a fascination with the supernatural and inexplicable. I can say this with assurance because his other films reveal it. "Sunshine" and especially "Millions" (and, presumably, "28 Days Later") both have elements of the ethereal and supernatural. "Millions", with its numerous interludes involving dead saints, brings this out most clearly. Boyle is a Catholic, and as such he is more likely to be drawn to the elements of fairy tales, elements shared by the story of Christ. (Side Note: referring to the Christian narrative as a "fairy tale" in no way implies that it is false; rather it refers to shared characteristics -- some of which we shall examine in our discussion of "Slumdog". Many people, myself included, look to the similarity as evidence in favor of the truth of the gospel. But that is another post.)
Very well, Danny Boyle might be the kind of filmmaker drawn to making a fairy tale. But does "Slumdog" itself bear the marks of a fairy tale? I would strenuously argue for the affirmative. First off, there is the presence of the supernatural in the story. Now, "Slumdog" does not have the intervening divines of "Millions", but the supernatural is present regardless. This is clear from the framing device of the story, which is a multiple choice question (a la "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire") which asks how a slumdog like the hero Jamal could be poised to win 20 million rupees on a difficult gameshow like Who Wants to Be a Millionaire. The potential answers include "He is a genius" and "He cheated", but the final shot of the film is the same screen, with everything fading out except for "D. It is written". (Side note: Perhaps it is a device like this which enrages the critics. "We want ambiguity," they cry, "not to be hammered over the head with the point of the story." But fairy tales have a clear point; they are not meant to sustain multiple readings. To be angry that a fairy tale gives you the point of the story is like being disappointed that a cow does not lay eggs.) Though we never see anything as direct as divine intervention take place, we may infer that the events of the film are driven forward by fate.
Furthermore, the structure of the events (not the film itself, which takes a more complicated narrative structure) fit well into the mold of a fairy tale. First, there is the humble, normal beginning. Our hero lives an average, everyday life and is consumed by normality. Of course, the Western viewer will have a hard time discerning this, since life in India is not our modus operandi. Not being an expert myself, I cannot comment on how accurate Boyle's depiction of life in the slums is, and frankly I think the point irrelevant. Jamal and his brother are shown doing the things that normal boys everywhere do. Then, suddenly, they are thrust out of that life by certain events. From this point on they embark on a fairy tale adventure. They must escape the clutches of a monster. They make their way by trickery. And, in the end, Jamal must set about seeking the freedom of his princess from the clutches of an evil man.
"Slumdog" also contains the single most significant earmark of a fairy tale, as identified by JRR Tolkien: it culminates, after many terrible things have happened to the hero, in a moment of eucatastrophe (literally, good catastrophe). There are smaller moments of eucatastrophe scattered through the film, but the big payoff at the end is nearly perfect. No, it is not in the moment of answering the final question on Millionaire, but the moment when Jamal calls his brother's cell phone and Latika, the love of his life, answers. That is the moment when everything bad is made right, and it is a thing of beauty.
I think that this is also part of what offends the critics, that a basic moral order is maintained by the story. Good is rewarded and evil punished. "But it never happens that way" is essentially a straw man argument against the film. Realism is not in view, but something which supersedes realism, the transformation of the mundane by the supernatural. This is what the best fairy tales do, and on that level "Slumdog" succeeds.
Now, I understand that some critics may not enjoy the fairy tale as a genre. In a later post I hope to defend the fairy tale from its critics, but for now I will let it slide as a difference of opinion. What is unacceptable is a critic approaching a film with no sense of genre. It would make no sense for me to negatively review "Chinatown" on the basis that there was no uplifting love story and very few laughs. Granted, nailing down "Slumdog"'s genre is a little more complicated than pegging Polanski's masterwork as a noir film, but recognition of genre must be something that a critic is able to do before he or she can accurately assess any film. That way, if a critic happens to not like fairy tales, he can give one negative marks while still acknowledging that the film succeeds or fails on its own level.
Monday, December 25, 2006
Joyeaux Noel
A Merry Christmas to you all. My gift to all you in internet land is my first post in, oh, six months, and a pledge to make several more before I head back to school (when most likely my time will evaporate).
I have somewhat of a reputation for being a Christmas humbug- a reputation that is self made as much as anything. It's pretty common knowledge among my friends that I hate Christmas lights and despise secular Christmas songs (and a number of religious ones as well). I don't want to spend this post ranting about that again, but it does lend a good starting point for talking about Christmas. I love Christmas- I flatter myself to think that I love it more truly than most- but in my mind Christmas is not a cheery time in the midst of winter, a haven from the blustering winds. It is indelibly wrapped up in winter, in the despair of ice and snow. Yes, I realize that in all likelihood Jesus was not born in December, it was a pagan holiday, yada yada yada. The symbolism is still significant.
What is your favorite passage of the Bible to think about at Christmas? Would it surprise you if I said mine was Philippians 2:5-7? If you are somewhat Biblically literate it might not, since these verses read:
"Your attitude should be the same as that of Christ Jesus: Who, being in very nature God, did not consider equality with God something to be grasped, but made himself nothing, taking the very nature of a servant, being made in human likeness."
Here is the incarnation in all of its wonder. Christ the God-Man, incarnate because of his humility, humiliated to the point of resembling man. In the incarnation we see the very incomprehensibility of God made coherent in human form- the Word made flesh. We often think on the grace of Easter, of our Lord Christ dying for the sins of his people, but do we stop to consider that first grace in time, the grace to come and resemble us? It isn't something I like to consider, especially when I see myself caught perpetually in sin. I can well imagine humans crucifying the one who came to save them- that seems perfectly in harmony with our nature. But Christ did not grasp at equality with God but came down and resembled me? We make a big deal about Christ being born in a manger, the lowliest of places, but if we stop to consider the sinfulness of man, we realize that the manger is like the Ritz Carlton in comparison to God taking the form of man. Can you picture those movies where the prim, proper royalty inevitably end up covered in horse feces? It's like that, but worse. Christ the spotless lamb landed right in the middle of the biggest pile of shit imaginable, human nature.
Of course the story does not end there. He must be further humiliated, but ultimately raised up to glory once again. But it does us good, I think, to meditate on that intial plunge into the humiliation of humanity. The big thing these past few years has been "The Christmas wars", where we as Christians, in the guise of preserving something or other, try to force Christmas down the throats of an unbelieving world. Maybe it would do us good to humble ourselves like the Christ and, instead of shouting about values and traditions, quietly celebrate the fact that he became like us, the vilest sinners. Christmas, after all, is for the church. We cannot expect the world to understand; we cannot even fully comprehend, and what we do know comes only from the grace of God. Let us humbly come before the babe in the manger, the ruler of all. I would like to leave you all with a Christmas hymn that my sister introduced me to this year, "Thou Who Wast Rich Beyond All Splendor":
Thou who wast rich beyond all splendor,
All for love's sake becamest poor;
Thrones for a manger didst surrender,
Sapphire-paved courts for stable floor.
Thou who wast rich beyond all splendor,
All for love's sake becamest poor.
Thou who art God beyond all praising,
All for love's sake becamest man;
Stooping so low, but sinners raising,
Heav'nward by thine eternal plan.
Thou who art God beyond all praising,
All for love's sake becamest man.
Thou who art love beyond all telling,
Savior and King, we worship thee.
Emmanuel, within us dwelling,
Make us what thou wouldst have us be.
Thou who art love beyond all telling,
Savior and King, we worship thee.
Merry Christmas and God bless.
I have somewhat of a reputation for being a Christmas humbug- a reputation that is self made as much as anything. It's pretty common knowledge among my friends that I hate Christmas lights and despise secular Christmas songs (and a number of religious ones as well). I don't want to spend this post ranting about that again, but it does lend a good starting point for talking about Christmas. I love Christmas- I flatter myself to think that I love it more truly than most- but in my mind Christmas is not a cheery time in the midst of winter, a haven from the blustering winds. It is indelibly wrapped up in winter, in the despair of ice and snow. Yes, I realize that in all likelihood Jesus was not born in December, it was a pagan holiday, yada yada yada. The symbolism is still significant.
What is your favorite passage of the Bible to think about at Christmas? Would it surprise you if I said mine was Philippians 2:5-7? If you are somewhat Biblically literate it might not, since these verses read:
"Your attitude should be the same as that of Christ Jesus: Who, being in very nature God, did not consider equality with God something to be grasped, but made himself nothing, taking the very nature of a servant, being made in human likeness."
Here is the incarnation in all of its wonder. Christ the God-Man, incarnate because of his humility, humiliated to the point of resembling man. In the incarnation we see the very incomprehensibility of God made coherent in human form- the Word made flesh. We often think on the grace of Easter, of our Lord Christ dying for the sins of his people, but do we stop to consider that first grace in time, the grace to come and resemble us? It isn't something I like to consider, especially when I see myself caught perpetually in sin. I can well imagine humans crucifying the one who came to save them- that seems perfectly in harmony with our nature. But Christ did not grasp at equality with God but came down and resembled me? We make a big deal about Christ being born in a manger, the lowliest of places, but if we stop to consider the sinfulness of man, we realize that the manger is like the Ritz Carlton in comparison to God taking the form of man. Can you picture those movies where the prim, proper royalty inevitably end up covered in horse feces? It's like that, but worse. Christ the spotless lamb landed right in the middle of the biggest pile of shit imaginable, human nature.
Of course the story does not end there. He must be further humiliated, but ultimately raised up to glory once again. But it does us good, I think, to meditate on that intial plunge into the humiliation of humanity. The big thing these past few years has been "The Christmas wars", where we as Christians, in the guise of preserving something or other, try to force Christmas down the throats of an unbelieving world. Maybe it would do us good to humble ourselves like the Christ and, instead of shouting about values and traditions, quietly celebrate the fact that he became like us, the vilest sinners. Christmas, after all, is for the church. We cannot expect the world to understand; we cannot even fully comprehend, and what we do know comes only from the grace of God. Let us humbly come before the babe in the manger, the ruler of all. I would like to leave you all with a Christmas hymn that my sister introduced me to this year, "Thou Who Wast Rich Beyond All Splendor":
Thou who wast rich beyond all splendor,
All for love's sake becamest poor;
Thrones for a manger didst surrender,
Sapphire-paved courts for stable floor.
Thou who wast rich beyond all splendor,
All for love's sake becamest poor.
Thou who art God beyond all praising,
All for love's sake becamest man;
Stooping so low, but sinners raising,
Heav'nward by thine eternal plan.
Thou who art God beyond all praising,
All for love's sake becamest man.
Thou who art love beyond all telling,
Savior and King, we worship thee.
Emmanuel, within us dwelling,
Make us what thou wouldst have us be.
Thou who art love beyond all telling,
Savior and King, we worship thee.
Merry Christmas and God bless.
Sunday, July 30, 2006
Voicing: My Opinion
Be forewarned, this is one of those posts where I go all Aristotelian and insist on quality in art. If you are offended by the notion that aesthetics has objective standards, this may not be for you, though somehow I envision most of the people who read this blog agreeing with me on this one.
I would like to begin this post by confessing one of my prejudices to you all: I am an unflinching "voicist"; that is to say, the sound of somebody's voice tends to predispose me to be either more or less receptive to what they have to say. I know, I know, that's how Hitler rose to power. Sorry, can't help it.
In regular life this is just a quirk and in the end doesn't really hold a large sway over my opinion of people. When you enter the realm of music, however, everything changes. Suddenly my distaste for certain voices is, I believe, perfectly validated. A quick illustration: some of my friends are into a band called Opeth, which for simplicity's sake I will label death metal (Alex, I'm sure you could point out the exact category, but that wouldn't mean much to most of my readers). Repeatedly they have insisted I listen and find quality in the music. To be honest, they really aren't that bad a group musically; in fact they strike me as quite talented. The one thing that keeps me from praising them is that the predominant style of singing is harsh, grating growling. The usual defense my friends use is "Just ignore the singing; it's really good." I think this example sets up the problem fairly well. We have ceased to view the human voice as an instrument, and see it merely as a messenger for lyrics and superfluous to the actual work of music.
Bzzt, wrong! The human voice is in fact the most basic yet significant instrument we possess. It surpasses even the cello in its lyricism and beauty. Or, at least, the best voices do. Therein lies the problem. Beautiful voices elevate us to sublime heights, but I firmly believe that everyone in Hell will speak in a New Jersey accent. It isn't as if someone can trade in their voice and get a bona fide Stradivarius model. For the most part, we are stuck with the voices God has given us. Some people therefore suggest that singers aren't to be blamed for their poor voices. No, I suppose not, but that doesn't mean they are cleared to belt in front of crowds. We wouldn't condemn a man for wearing glasses, but neither would we encourage him to become an astronaut. Surely these people are talented at something (certainly it isn't singing); let them go become sanitation engineers or middle management. [N.B. This is tangential, but I'd like to put it in anyway. Don't you find all that talk about "following your dreams" slightly ridiculous when applied to people who clearly have no talent in an area? This is the triumph of individualism over excellence.]
Of course, some troublesome people will say "How do we determine which voices are beautiful and which aren't?" For just a minute, I would like to soften a bit and admit that there is a certain range of acceptability in voices. For example, I like Randy Newman's voice, which many people find irritating. However, in my defense this stems both from a more intimate knowledge of his voice (i.e. it grows on you) and also the perfect pairing of his voice with his cynical, imperfect style. So don't think I am going around insisting that every singer be Kathleen Battle; still, there are standards. Getting back to said standards: I think that everyone will acknowledge that something in a voice is self-evidently good or bad. Postmodernism has destroyed our liking of the self-evident, but too bad. Even tone deaf listeners can tell between a lyrical voice and one that is reminiscent of chalk on blackboards. Beyond this we can once again gain wisdom from our old (some might say ancient) friend Aristotle. In our individualistic society we like to think of ourselves as the best judges of what is right. In Aristotle's model, however, excellence in an area is determined by those expert in the field. Let's all swallow some pride and admit that the professionals are just that for a reason and that maybe, just maybe, they know more than we do about what makes for good singing.
If there is one point I would like to make with this post, it is that the lead singers of every punk band ever should be systematically hunted down and execut... ahem, I mean that excellence in voices is as important as the ability to play the guitar.
I would like to begin this post by confessing one of my prejudices to you all: I am an unflinching "voicist"; that is to say, the sound of somebody's voice tends to predispose me to be either more or less receptive to what they have to say. I know, I know, that's how Hitler rose to power. Sorry, can't help it.
In regular life this is just a quirk and in the end doesn't really hold a large sway over my opinion of people. When you enter the realm of music, however, everything changes. Suddenly my distaste for certain voices is, I believe, perfectly validated. A quick illustration: some of my friends are into a band called Opeth, which for simplicity's sake I will label death metal (Alex, I'm sure you could point out the exact category, but that wouldn't mean much to most of my readers). Repeatedly they have insisted I listen and find quality in the music. To be honest, they really aren't that bad a group musically; in fact they strike me as quite talented. The one thing that keeps me from praising them is that the predominant style of singing is harsh, grating growling. The usual defense my friends use is "Just ignore the singing; it's really good." I think this example sets up the problem fairly well. We have ceased to view the human voice as an instrument, and see it merely as a messenger for lyrics and superfluous to the actual work of music.
Bzzt, wrong! The human voice is in fact the most basic yet significant instrument we possess. It surpasses even the cello in its lyricism and beauty. Or, at least, the best voices do. Therein lies the problem. Beautiful voices elevate us to sublime heights, but I firmly believe that everyone in Hell will speak in a New Jersey accent. It isn't as if someone can trade in their voice and get a bona fide Stradivarius model. For the most part, we are stuck with the voices God has given us. Some people therefore suggest that singers aren't to be blamed for their poor voices. No, I suppose not, but that doesn't mean they are cleared to belt in front of crowds. We wouldn't condemn a man for wearing glasses, but neither would we encourage him to become an astronaut. Surely these people are talented at something (certainly it isn't singing); let them go become sanitation engineers or middle management. [N.B. This is tangential, but I'd like to put it in anyway. Don't you find all that talk about "following your dreams" slightly ridiculous when applied to people who clearly have no talent in an area? This is the triumph of individualism over excellence.]
Of course, some troublesome people will say "How do we determine which voices are beautiful and which aren't?" For just a minute, I would like to soften a bit and admit that there is a certain range of acceptability in voices. For example, I like Randy Newman's voice, which many people find irritating. However, in my defense this stems both from a more intimate knowledge of his voice (i.e. it grows on you) and also the perfect pairing of his voice with his cynical, imperfect style. So don't think I am going around insisting that every singer be Kathleen Battle; still, there are standards. Getting back to said standards: I think that everyone will acknowledge that something in a voice is self-evidently good or bad. Postmodernism has destroyed our liking of the self-evident, but too bad. Even tone deaf listeners can tell between a lyrical voice and one that is reminiscent of chalk on blackboards. Beyond this we can once again gain wisdom from our old (some might say ancient) friend Aristotle. In our individualistic society we like to think of ourselves as the best judges of what is right. In Aristotle's model, however, excellence in an area is determined by those expert in the field. Let's all swallow some pride and admit that the professionals are just that for a reason and that maybe, just maybe, they know more than we do about what makes for good singing.
If there is one point I would like to make with this post, it is that the lead singers of every punk band ever should be systematically hunted down and execut... ahem, I mean that excellence in voices is as important as the ability to play the guitar.
Saturday, July 22, 2006
Blue Train of Thought
I've been itching to do some actual writing for awhile now. So, with Rachmaninoff on the stereo and an hour or so at my disposal, I thought I might post something worth reading (imagine that!). You guys aren't getting any apologies about the infrequency and inadequacy of my posts, but I will say that the last one didn't turn out how I wanted. The idea was good, but I ran out of steam and ended up with a halfhearted post. These days I just seem tired when I try to do anything.
If you travel in any circles that could be described even remotely as "evangelical", you have probably heard of the book Blue Like Jazz: Nonreligious thoughts on Christian Spirituality by Donald Miller. Having spent several years hearing people insist that I had to read it, and encouraged by the positive reviews of several people I trust (here's looking at you, big sister), I decided last week to pick up the copy lying on my Dad's bookshelf and investigate the hubbub myself.
In the pattern of most of my reviews, I will begin with the technical aspects of the book. Miller has a writing style which I enjoy- it is relaxed and natural, not stilted yet not pedestrian. He also manages to be quite funny in many places, though I felt that sometimes he stretched too far with his jokes and came up a little short. Overall, however, the book is written well enough to hold your attention and keep you interested in what Miller has to say.
That he does this is very good, because most of what Donald Miller talks about in Blue Like Jazz is very solid. First of all, though, I would like to dispel what I see as a misconception. One thing I hear often about the book is that it is paradigm shifting and radically new. To this I say: yes and no. What I found when reading is that Miller's revolution is nothing more or less than the Gospel as it has always existed. Why are we surprised when people preach the Gospel? It is because we are sinful creatures who need hear over and over the radical message of grace found in the Bible. Donald Miller's views on what is wrong with American Christianity, when correct, are rooted in the truth of the Gospel. Interestingly, on the rare occasions when he missteps (and ends up sounding like many current evangelical mouthpieces), it is because he has strayed from the Gospel. More on that later; I like to start with the positive.
If I had to pick a thesis for Blue Like Jazz, I would say that it would be "Christianity is about relationship with God, not rules". What a perfect summation of the Gospel! I'm not sure that Miller would call himself a follower of Covenant theology, but he certainly has some of the basics down. One of the main pleas is for the reader to fall in love with Jesus- as the bride of Christ, that is what we must do (only because Christ first woos us, of course).
I greatly appreciate Blue Like Jazz for helping me to organize my thoughts on a subject which has bothered me for as long as I can remember: why does so much of American Christianity sound hateful? With some prodding from Miller and talks with my campus minister, I think I have at least part of the answer. Miller is the rare evangelical who refuses to kowtow to the Republican party- at times I would say he goes too far in the other way and takes pleasure in bashing conservatives in an unhealthy way (to be fair, he confesses this freely himself). How refreshing to hear someone rooted in orthodox Christianity who doesn't simply vote the party line. I suspect that Miller is a conservative on some issues, but he also cares deeply about concerns of social justice such as poverty. Why has social justice become a dirty word among evangelicals? God certainly cares about it- witness all the commands to care for the downtrodden and give justice to the oppressed. Many conservative Christians tend to say that doing to much social justice work interferes with the heart of Christianity (funny that this doesn't apply to works like protesting abortion), but I think a more accurate picture is this: if we acknowledged the truth of the Gospel, we would be forced to rethink our ideas about money and would probably have to give up a great deal of our own comfort. We cannot serve both God and Mammon.
A brief interlude to note something refreshing about Miller: he is always confessing his sins, especially his self-centered nature. Christ must purify his bride, but Miller wants that to come in a very real way, starting with himself.
Back to the thoughts above. One of the focuses of Miller's book is the earthshaking love of Christ. Why, he wonders, do we claim to know the love of Christ but preach only hate to so many people? This is a question that has come often to my head. I now posit a partial answer: loudmouths such as Pat Robertson and Jerry Falwell, even if they be genuine Christians, are caught in a web of moralism. Quick definition for the uninitiated; moralism is an emphasis on changed outward behavior instead of on belief in the promises of God. It is concerned with how you act but not with the heart. These pundits yell till they are blue in the face about "traditional morality", but they fall short of their purpose as members of the body. I am not against living in a Biblical manner, but here is the problem as I see it. First off, God's laws only make sense in the context of covenant. The drastic misunderstanding of the Ten Commandments and every other part of God's law is that they are guidelines for good living instead of acts of worship that stem from God's love for us. We cannot expect non-Christians to abide by the laws of Christ. Paul makes this perfectly clear- we must deal with believers who are obstinately disobeying, but not with non-believers. Somehow this got lost and churchgoers see it as their responsibility to be everybody else's watchdog. Note that I am not saying we should give up and let injustice run rampant. I guess this ties in to my second point, which is that to preach moralism is to lose sight of the Gospel. As if what God cared about was whether or not you smoke or cuss! [N.B. one thing I like about Miller is that he smokes a pipe- holla] People have replaced the truth that "all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God" with a petty Phariseeism which makes them feel good that they are not as bad as x group of sinners. Bullshit. (*gasp*) (yes, I admit to putting that there for shock value. Sue me.)
Instead of yelling at people to change their behavior, we should (as the Bible makes clear and Miller emphasizes) reach out in love and gently point the way to Christ. What is our ultimate duty to others, to change their behavior or to "go and make disciples of all nations". Hmm, tough one, that.
One minor caveat I have with Miller's view on all of this is his attitude toward those in the church. Church discipline seems to be a dirty word with him. I agree that we should speak the truth in love, but we have the responsibility to correct obstinate sinning within the church.
Speaking of the church, I think that in general this is Miller's weak point. Most of the chapters in Blue Like Jazz are wonderful (the chapter on grace was amazing, har har), but to be blunt, his chapter on the church stinks. Ironically, he spends a great deal of time in the book discussing how self-centered he is, but when he gets to talking about the church, he proves it. His general advice about choosing a church seems to be "go somewhere that clicks for you". The reasons he lists for attending the church he does seems out of order and somewhat superficial. There is no real mention of going someplace which lifts high the name of Christ or anything like that. All in all it is a consumer mentality of church attendance (what am I getting out of it), instead of the Pauline idea of the body building itself up in love.
I suppose that's about all I have for now. As a final note, I would recommend Blue Like Jazz to just about anyone: Christians who want to fall in love with Christ again; non-Christians who have been jaded by the self-righteous hypocrisies of American Christianity; people seeking to know more about Christ. I was reading a book on how to do jazz improv, and it said "If you hit a wrong note, you only need to go up or down a halfstep and you will be on a right note". Donald Miller is akin to a jazz musician; playing freeform with the love of God, occasionally he hits something that is just slightly off, but he is never far away from the truth.
In the pattern of most of my reviews, I will begin with the technical aspects of the book. Miller has a writing style which I enjoy- it is relaxed and natural, not stilted yet not pedestrian. He also manages to be quite funny in many places, though I felt that sometimes he stretched too far with his jokes and came up a little short. Overall, however, the book is written well enough to hold your attention and keep you interested in what Miller has to say.
That he does this is very good, because most of what Donald Miller talks about in Blue Like Jazz is very solid. First of all, though, I would like to dispel what I see as a misconception. One thing I hear often about the book is that it is paradigm shifting and radically new. To this I say: yes and no. What I found when reading is that Miller's revolution is nothing more or less than the Gospel as it has always existed. Why are we surprised when people preach the Gospel? It is because we are sinful creatures who need hear over and over the radical message of grace found in the Bible. Donald Miller's views on what is wrong with American Christianity, when correct, are rooted in the truth of the Gospel. Interestingly, on the rare occasions when he missteps (and ends up sounding like many current evangelical mouthpieces), it is because he has strayed from the Gospel. More on that later; I like to start with the positive.
If I had to pick a thesis for Blue Like Jazz, I would say that it would be "Christianity is about relationship with God, not rules". What a perfect summation of the Gospel! I'm not sure that Miller would call himself a follower of Covenant theology, but he certainly has some of the basics down. One of the main pleas is for the reader to fall in love with Jesus- as the bride of Christ, that is what we must do (only because Christ first woos us, of course).
I greatly appreciate Blue Like Jazz for helping me to organize my thoughts on a subject which has bothered me for as long as I can remember: why does so much of American Christianity sound hateful? With some prodding from Miller and talks with my campus minister, I think I have at least part of the answer. Miller is the rare evangelical who refuses to kowtow to the Republican party- at times I would say he goes too far in the other way and takes pleasure in bashing conservatives in an unhealthy way (to be fair, he confesses this freely himself). How refreshing to hear someone rooted in orthodox Christianity who doesn't simply vote the party line. I suspect that Miller is a conservative on some issues, but he also cares deeply about concerns of social justice such as poverty. Why has social justice become a dirty word among evangelicals? God certainly cares about it- witness all the commands to care for the downtrodden and give justice to the oppressed. Many conservative Christians tend to say that doing to much social justice work interferes with the heart of Christianity (funny that this doesn't apply to works like protesting abortion), but I think a more accurate picture is this: if we acknowledged the truth of the Gospel, we would be forced to rethink our ideas about money and would probably have to give up a great deal of our own comfort. We cannot serve both God and Mammon.
A brief interlude to note something refreshing about Miller: he is always confessing his sins, especially his self-centered nature. Christ must purify his bride, but Miller wants that to come in a very real way, starting with himself.
Back to the thoughts above. One of the focuses of Miller's book is the earthshaking love of Christ. Why, he wonders, do we claim to know the love of Christ but preach only hate to so many people? This is a question that has come often to my head. I now posit a partial answer: loudmouths such as Pat Robertson and Jerry Falwell, even if they be genuine Christians, are caught in a web of moralism. Quick definition for the uninitiated; moralism is an emphasis on changed outward behavior instead of on belief in the promises of God. It is concerned with how you act but not with the heart. These pundits yell till they are blue in the face about "traditional morality", but they fall short of their purpose as members of the body. I am not against living in a Biblical manner, but here is the problem as I see it. First off, God's laws only make sense in the context of covenant. The drastic misunderstanding of the Ten Commandments and every other part of God's law is that they are guidelines for good living instead of acts of worship that stem from God's love for us. We cannot expect non-Christians to abide by the laws of Christ. Paul makes this perfectly clear- we must deal with believers who are obstinately disobeying, but not with non-believers. Somehow this got lost and churchgoers see it as their responsibility to be everybody else's watchdog. Note that I am not saying we should give up and let injustice run rampant. I guess this ties in to my second point, which is that to preach moralism is to lose sight of the Gospel. As if what God cared about was whether or not you smoke or cuss! [N.B. one thing I like about Miller is that he smokes a pipe- holla] People have replaced the truth that "all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God" with a petty Phariseeism which makes them feel good that they are not as bad as x group of sinners. Bullshit. (*gasp*) (yes, I admit to putting that there for shock value. Sue me.)
Instead of yelling at people to change their behavior, we should (as the Bible makes clear and Miller emphasizes) reach out in love and gently point the way to Christ. What is our ultimate duty to others, to change their behavior or to "go and make disciples of all nations". Hmm, tough one, that.
One minor caveat I have with Miller's view on all of this is his attitude toward those in the church. Church discipline seems to be a dirty word with him. I agree that we should speak the truth in love, but we have the responsibility to correct obstinate sinning within the church.
Speaking of the church, I think that in general this is Miller's weak point. Most of the chapters in Blue Like Jazz are wonderful (the chapter on grace was amazing, har har), but to be blunt, his chapter on the church stinks. Ironically, he spends a great deal of time in the book discussing how self-centered he is, but when he gets to talking about the church, he proves it. His general advice about choosing a church seems to be "go somewhere that clicks for you". The reasons he lists for attending the church he does seems out of order and somewhat superficial. There is no real mention of going someplace which lifts high the name of Christ or anything like that. All in all it is a consumer mentality of church attendance (what am I getting out of it), instead of the Pauline idea of the body building itself up in love.
I suppose that's about all I have for now. As a final note, I would recommend Blue Like Jazz to just about anyone: Christians who want to fall in love with Christ again; non-Christians who have been jaded by the self-righteous hypocrisies of American Christianity; people seeking to know more about Christ. I was reading a book on how to do jazz improv, and it said "If you hit a wrong note, you only need to go up or down a halfstep and you will be on a right note". Donald Miller is akin to a jazz musician; playing freeform with the love of God, occasionally he hits something that is just slightly off, but he is never far away from the truth.
Saturday, July 08, 2006
Dragonforce: The Ultimate Guy's Band
Once again my apologies for not ever posting. Life since returning to Titusville has been frantically busy, what with working 50 hours a week.
Still, here's a little post to tide you over. I'd like to talk about a guilty pleasure of mine. As many of you know, my tastes range from the excellent to the terrible, but once in awhile I discover something that defies either of those categories. Dragonforce is, I think, one such band. There is no doubt that they have immense technical skill- the guitarists shred at speeds not sanctioned by the DOT. Still, there are many valid criticisms to be levelled at them, notably that their songs tend to sound quite similar and even run together.
One charge I would like to defend is that their lyrics are abysmal. Now, I will not try to equate the words to their songs as great poetry, but I think they have a certain something that makes them worthwhile. Let me explain: instead of the typical rock band subjects of love, etc., Dragonforce sings almost exclusively about things such as flying, dragons, fire, battle, et al. The wonderful thing is that they manage to avoid the "Tolkien trap" of many metal bands by being completely generic in their subject matter. Why should one listen to songs about wings of glory and battlefield despair? This is where the subject line enters in. I am firmly convinced that Dragonforce is a band for guys. What man has not dreamed of being the victorious warrior in a hard fought fight? Or of soaring over the countryside on a dragon's back? There is something distinctly noble about Dragonforce, in a goofy way. In a sense they are a modern Don Quixote, striving after battles from ages past. As far as I am concerned they should not stop tilting- their extreme rock carries us through the heavens.
Still, here's a little post to tide you over. I'd like to talk about a guilty pleasure of mine. As many of you know, my tastes range from the excellent to the terrible, but once in awhile I discover something that defies either of those categories. Dragonforce is, I think, one such band. There is no doubt that they have immense technical skill- the guitarists shred at speeds not sanctioned by the DOT. Still, there are many valid criticisms to be levelled at them, notably that their songs tend to sound quite similar and even run together.
One charge I would like to defend is that their lyrics are abysmal. Now, I will not try to equate the words to their songs as great poetry, but I think they have a certain something that makes them worthwhile. Let me explain: instead of the typical rock band subjects of love, etc., Dragonforce sings almost exclusively about things such as flying, dragons, fire, battle, et al. The wonderful thing is that they manage to avoid the "Tolkien trap" of many metal bands by being completely generic in their subject matter. Why should one listen to songs about wings of glory and battlefield despair? This is where the subject line enters in. I am firmly convinced that Dragonforce is a band for guys. What man has not dreamed of being the victorious warrior in a hard fought fight? Or of soaring over the countryside on a dragon's back? There is something distinctly noble about Dragonforce, in a goofy way. In a sense they are a modern Don Quixote, striving after battles from ages past. As far as I am concerned they should not stop tilting- their extreme rock carries us through the heavens.
Saturday, June 10, 2006
Baring the "Unbearable"
At the request of the Texas Ranger, I'm updating this thing. I'd like to apologize to my loyal fans out there for not posting more; to me, making a post isn't just something to do, it's a moral committment. These can take me upwards of an hour, on the long ones, and then there's the matter of thinking of things worth saying.
Nevertheless, here I am, and posting my first legitimate review in quite some time, as well as what I believe to be my first book review (correct me if I'm wrong). The book I am writing about for your consideration is The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera. I was familiar with both the author and the book by name for quite some time, and finally decided it was one of those modern novels that is important to read for the sake of having read it.
First a disclaimer: as I stated at the inception of this blog, my purpose is not as the morality police. In the case of this book, however, I would like to warn certain readers of my blog who are more sensitive to what I will coyly dub "Adult situations" to stay far away from this book. To be blunt, there is sex in this book. A lot of sex. Almost every chapter. In frank, if not quite graphic, detail. That being said, I certainly recommend this book to those who think they can handle mature content well.
Perhaps the best way to give an overview of The Unbearable Lightness of Being is to describe it in terms of dichotomy: Kundera divides the book into sections such as Lightness and Weight, Body and Soul. I think a basic dichotomy exists in the writing as well. On the one hand there is the action of the novel, which traces the relationship between a husband and wife during the Communist occupation of Czechoslovakia. But there also exist the author's interjections, which I think contain the more vital and interesting parts of the novel. Yes, it is quite a modern technique, the author playing around with the action and pausing to address the reader, etc. Milan Kundera does this perhaps less skillfully than say John Fowles in The French Lieutenant's Woman, but also less substantially and it never seems like a cheap trick.
To return to the plot: Tomas is a womanizing doctor in Prague who entertains ridiculous numbers of mistresses but never commits to any. That is, until a young waitress from the country named Teresa enters his life. Though originally he intends nothing beyond his usual conquests, circumstances collide and he ends up marrying Teresa. This has little to no effect on his philandering, despite the fact that he realizes he loves Teresa more than any of his side projects. She is distraught over his infidelities, but somehow cannot bring herself to leave. All this goes on while the world falls apart around them; they leave Prague when the Russians invade, but are forced to return for seemingly trivial reasons. The main subplot also involves the travails of love; Tomas' main mistress, Sabina, enters into another affair with a professor who is married but long suffering. He falls desperately in love with her, but her own ghosts haunt her and she runs away.
So there are the bare bones. A pleasant enough plot- it never comes off as melodramatic, and Kundera does a good job of balancing the story arc. Where the novel really shines, though, is in Kundera's asides into music, history, and philosophy. He takes numerous breaks from the action to mull over ideas, or talk about Beethoven String Quartets. At times it is more than a novel; you feel as if Kundera is really having a philosophical discussion with you. This is aided by the fact that he openly admits on page that the characters are fictional. This may take away a little from the reader's connection to the characters, but since no one in the novel is really worthy of sympathy (except maybe Teresa) that doesn't really rear its head.
For a book so filled with sexual activity, I've never experienced anything that makes me more determined to live a life of monogamy. In fact the main thrust I felt through the novel was that sex by itself cannot satisfy. Tomas spends his days in lechery, but takes no real pleasure in any woman save Teresa. Yet somehow he cannot stop having sex with other women. He takes an almost scientific interest in seduction. Though he is the protagonist of the book, you cannot call him a hero. He is a downcast man trapped in his own depravity. The book may seem overly pessimistic, but in reality what else is there in human nature? Kundera thankfully dispenses with the pitifully naive humanistic notion that there are good people; the characters in his novel don't just do bad things, they are hopelessly adrift in a sea of brokenness. All this despair might be disheartening, but I would propose that not every story need be about redemption to be uplifting and, yes, Christian. Flannery O'Connor wrote about the depths of human depravity from a distinctly Christian perspective. Life doesn't always wrap up with joyful reunions and renewed committments to fidelity. Milan Kundera doesn't seek to tack on saccharine endings with no connection to reality; his characters reap the sorrow they sow. Though he may not be Christian, he shows that he cannot escape the reality of mankind's need of salvation.
Nevertheless, here I am, and posting my first legitimate review in quite some time, as well as what I believe to be my first book review (correct me if I'm wrong). The book I am writing about for your consideration is The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera. I was familiar with both the author and the book by name for quite some time, and finally decided it was one of those modern novels that is important to read for the sake of having read it.
First a disclaimer: as I stated at the inception of this blog, my purpose is not as the morality police. In the case of this book, however, I would like to warn certain readers of my blog who are more sensitive to what I will coyly dub "Adult situations" to stay far away from this book. To be blunt, there is sex in this book. A lot of sex. Almost every chapter. In frank, if not quite graphic, detail. That being said, I certainly recommend this book to those who think they can handle mature content well.
Perhaps the best way to give an overview of The Unbearable Lightness of Being is to describe it in terms of dichotomy: Kundera divides the book into sections such as Lightness and Weight, Body and Soul. I think a basic dichotomy exists in the writing as well. On the one hand there is the action of the novel, which traces the relationship between a husband and wife during the Communist occupation of Czechoslovakia. But there also exist the author's interjections, which I think contain the more vital and interesting parts of the novel. Yes, it is quite a modern technique, the author playing around with the action and pausing to address the reader, etc. Milan Kundera does this perhaps less skillfully than say John Fowles in The French Lieutenant's Woman, but also less substantially and it never seems like a cheap trick.
To return to the plot: Tomas is a womanizing doctor in Prague who entertains ridiculous numbers of mistresses but never commits to any. That is, until a young waitress from the country named Teresa enters his life. Though originally he intends nothing beyond his usual conquests, circumstances collide and he ends up marrying Teresa. This has little to no effect on his philandering, despite the fact that he realizes he loves Teresa more than any of his side projects. She is distraught over his infidelities, but somehow cannot bring herself to leave. All this goes on while the world falls apart around them; they leave Prague when the Russians invade, but are forced to return for seemingly trivial reasons. The main subplot also involves the travails of love; Tomas' main mistress, Sabina, enters into another affair with a professor who is married but long suffering. He falls desperately in love with her, but her own ghosts haunt her and she runs away.
So there are the bare bones. A pleasant enough plot- it never comes off as melodramatic, and Kundera does a good job of balancing the story arc. Where the novel really shines, though, is in Kundera's asides into music, history, and philosophy. He takes numerous breaks from the action to mull over ideas, or talk about Beethoven String Quartets. At times it is more than a novel; you feel as if Kundera is really having a philosophical discussion with you. This is aided by the fact that he openly admits on page that the characters are fictional. This may take away a little from the reader's connection to the characters, but since no one in the novel is really worthy of sympathy (except maybe Teresa) that doesn't really rear its head.
For a book so filled with sexual activity, I've never experienced anything that makes me more determined to live a life of monogamy. In fact the main thrust I felt through the novel was that sex by itself cannot satisfy. Tomas spends his days in lechery, but takes no real pleasure in any woman save Teresa. Yet somehow he cannot stop having sex with other women. He takes an almost scientific interest in seduction. Though he is the protagonist of the book, you cannot call him a hero. He is a downcast man trapped in his own depravity. The book may seem overly pessimistic, but in reality what else is there in human nature? Kundera thankfully dispenses with the pitifully naive humanistic notion that there are good people; the characters in his novel don't just do bad things, they are hopelessly adrift in a sea of brokenness. All this despair might be disheartening, but I would propose that not every story need be about redemption to be uplifting and, yes, Christian. Flannery O'Connor wrote about the depths of human depravity from a distinctly Christian perspective. Life doesn't always wrap up with joyful reunions and renewed committments to fidelity. Milan Kundera doesn't seek to tack on saccharine endings with no connection to reality; his characters reap the sorrow they sow. Though he may not be Christian, he shows that he cannot escape the reality of mankind's need of salvation.
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
What's your Anglo?
I've had this post in my mind for about a week; sometimes I just need awhile for it to ferment enough to be satisfying.
Once again multiple events in my life have converged to make me dwell on a subject. This time both "events" happened to be books that I was reading last week. One was one I had bought at Summer conference- A Severe Mercy, the memoirs of a husband and wife who became Christians and then had to deal with great loss; the other was an old favorite of mine that I decided needed rereading, The Wind in the Willows. What could possibly connect a spiritual autobiography with a children's book about talking animals? England, my friends, England. In A Severe Mercy Sheldon and Jean Vanauken travel to Oxford to study, where they eventually convert thanks in part to their numerous Christian friends (including C.S. Lewis). Of course, the characters of The Wind in the Willows live and breathe England.
Thoughts of England floating in my head! What is it about that tiny island off the coast of Europe that makes so many long wistfully for its shores? My theory is that anyone who truly loves literature loves England. We owe it such a great debt, of course, from Shakespeare to A.A. Milne, but it extends beyond that. It isn't just walking around imagining that you hear John Donne preaching the words of his sermons directly to you. Something about the isle strikes us as mysterious; the place where magic lives and adventure lurks.
There are two very distinct images I have of England, both of which are enticing. One stems from Tolkien and the like, and ultimately from Arthurian legend. It is the primeval England, where Romans battle with druids for supremacy. Where magic streams out of every rock. It is the England of fairies and dragons (it is fitting that the patron saint of England is St. George). Of Arthur and his knights and the quest for the grail. Or, moving back to reality, the England of the actual Middle Ages, so flavored in my mind by the Brother Cadfael mysteries. Stephen and Maude slugging it out; dark corridors and harsh conditions; savage meals of meat and mead.
The other, quite opposing view, is of a distinctly more refined England. This is the island of Jane Austen, Samuel Johnson, and Charles Dickens. People are refined or, if not aristocratic, still contain a certain charm. An island full of Henry Higginses. And of course the British army spreading the gospel of England across the globe. Rudyard Kipling and his ilk. And Oxford- oh, Oxford! Centuries of learning that seem to take on a life of their own. Everyone you meet literate in Chaucer and Milton, Catullus and Virgil. Where books still hold a power over the soul, and everyone is a poet.
How much of this is fiction? I suspect a great deal- my friend Matt (an English major who I think shares many of my convictions) spent a year at Oxford and was distinctly disappointed by it. Maybe that England, if it ever existed, has faded permanently from view. But maybe, just maybe, the ghosts of Swift and Orwell still dance in the moonlight with Merlin and Galahad and Richard the Lionheart. Someday I plan to go to England and find out. Perhaps I'll even share a pint with the Inklings.
Once again multiple events in my life have converged to make me dwell on a subject. This time both "events" happened to be books that I was reading last week. One was one I had bought at Summer conference- A Severe Mercy, the memoirs of a husband and wife who became Christians and then had to deal with great loss; the other was an old favorite of mine that I decided needed rereading, The Wind in the Willows. What could possibly connect a spiritual autobiography with a children's book about talking animals? England, my friends, England. In A Severe Mercy Sheldon and Jean Vanauken travel to Oxford to study, where they eventually convert thanks in part to their numerous Christian friends (including C.S. Lewis). Of course, the characters of The Wind in the Willows live and breathe England.
Thoughts of England floating in my head! What is it about that tiny island off the coast of Europe that makes so many long wistfully for its shores? My theory is that anyone who truly loves literature loves England. We owe it such a great debt, of course, from Shakespeare to A.A. Milne, but it extends beyond that. It isn't just walking around imagining that you hear John Donne preaching the words of his sermons directly to you. Something about the isle strikes us as mysterious; the place where magic lives and adventure lurks.
There are two very distinct images I have of England, both of which are enticing. One stems from Tolkien and the like, and ultimately from Arthurian legend. It is the primeval England, where Romans battle with druids for supremacy. Where magic streams out of every rock. It is the England of fairies and dragons (it is fitting that the patron saint of England is St. George). Of Arthur and his knights and the quest for the grail. Or, moving back to reality, the England of the actual Middle Ages, so flavored in my mind by the Brother Cadfael mysteries. Stephen and Maude slugging it out; dark corridors and harsh conditions; savage meals of meat and mead.
The other, quite opposing view, is of a distinctly more refined England. This is the island of Jane Austen, Samuel Johnson, and Charles Dickens. People are refined or, if not aristocratic, still contain a certain charm. An island full of Henry Higginses. And of course the British army spreading the gospel of England across the globe. Rudyard Kipling and his ilk. And Oxford- oh, Oxford! Centuries of learning that seem to take on a life of their own. Everyone you meet literate in Chaucer and Milton, Catullus and Virgil. Where books still hold a power over the soul, and everyone is a poet.
How much of this is fiction? I suspect a great deal- my friend Matt (an English major who I think shares many of my convictions) spent a year at Oxford and was distinctly disappointed by it. Maybe that England, if it ever existed, has faded permanently from view. But maybe, just maybe, the ghosts of Swift and Orwell still dance in the moonlight with Merlin and Galahad and Richard the Lionheart. Someday I plan to go to England and find out. Perhaps I'll even share a pint with the Inklings.
Monday, May 22, 2006
Sacramentalism and the "Reformation Crisis"
Here I am, finally posting again. My computer was sick for about a week after Summer Conference, and I didn't feel like typing out long posts from the library. Thanks to my good friend Matlock, though, my darling Toshiba is back in action, and I feel obligated to provide you all with a post.
Today has been the first day I've felt fully justified in doing my summer research. Don't get me wrong- I am overjoyed to spend half my summer in Tulsa, getting paid to read books. But the actual research sort of seemed like an afterthought, an excuse to do the other things. That all changed at my meeting with Dr. Bowlin today; for the first time I feel energized to do work, stimulated by academic pursuit.
Since my research this summer is on Luther's view of baptism, Dr. Bowlin started me off on Heiko Oberman's seminal biography Luther: Man Between God and the Devil. In the course of our discussion today we spent time struggling with the idea of the radical existential crisis of the Reformation: how can one be certain of redemption? We talked about the sacramentalism of Catholicism, where participation in the sacraments ensures inclusion in God's people. Easy enough, for those who accept the transmission of grace through the Eucharist, confession, etc.
Funnily enough, Luther did not reject the sacraments per se- baptism was at least partially regenerative, and he accepted real presence in the Eucharist. These two served as assurances of redemption, along with the church.
Flash forward to modern times. Strained through the Anabaptist and Reformed traditions, not to mention old fashioned American individualism, the sacraments have in one form or another lost their efficacious nature. Modern American Evangelical Protestantism (now that's a string of adjectives) focuses almost exclusively on the believer's inner life; faith becomes only individual, not corporate. But individual activity cannot solve the existential crisis- doubts remain. For one in the sacramental mode of faith, there is no need for assurance because it is given from above. To take a naturalistic view (one we need not shrink from: natural explanations often point to supernatural providence), anthropologists recognize the vital role of ritual in religion, in the participation of community.
Because modern evangelicals have supplanted the church and the sacraments, they must substitute "homegrown" alternatives. Thus weekly altar calls offer a feeling of assurance. In radical Pentecostal settings, assurance is gained through the "works of the Spirit", usually speaking in tongues. Anyone not participating must not bear the seal of the Spirit. These heresies are why we must preserve the true sacraments of the church.
I suppose this is one reason I find Presbyterianism so attractive: the balance it acheives between the inner life of the believer and the corporate life. The more I look into Covenant theology, the more sense it makes: God is bringing together a people for himself. Paedobaptism, which I once vehemently shunned, seems more and more a viable option. Luther's explanation really stuns me: infant baptism signifies that the work is God's, not ours. Modern interpretations of baptism make it into a work we do for God, instead of a sign of the promise He made to us through Abraham.
Communion is a little stickier (and not only because we have substituted sugary juice for wine). What exactly does it mean? This is something I struggle with, but again I find myself attracted to the Presbyterian view. While I reject real presence, I cannot see it as simply something to be done and forgotten about. Christ's grace is present, if not his physical body. We must revere this great mystery, not shove it aside.
The third leg of the stool is of course the church. Sadly in Protestant circles the church is not the bride of Christ but rather the nanny of believers, catering to their every want. This is coupled with the problem of scriptural interpretation. Luther opened the word to all believers, but that means that many will distort his intentions and hold that, where exegesis is concerned, anything goes. The opposite strain is the dangerous form of fundamentalism that holds that every word of the bible is literally true, which is so preposterous that I would disbelieve its existence if I didn't know it to lurk around. Instead we should embrace Luther's view of faith informed by knowledge, recognizing that neither faith nor scholasticism alone will help us rightly divide the word of truth. Because of this individualistic approach to the Bible, the church is lessened instead of increased. We have a basic distrust of authority.
To be fair to Catholics, in modern times they have been affected by this crisis, and more and more they speak of individual faith and salvation. As Dr. Bowlin rightly pointed out, trying to fit things into definite categories is messy and usually falls apart in the face of the real world.
Still, this tension between individual assurance and robust community life (in the sacraments and word) lingers. How do we resolve it? I have the suspicion that no one has the answer entirely correct, and that we must bear all things with patience.
Today has been the first day I've felt fully justified in doing my summer research. Don't get me wrong- I am overjoyed to spend half my summer in Tulsa, getting paid to read books. But the actual research sort of seemed like an afterthought, an excuse to do the other things. That all changed at my meeting with Dr. Bowlin today; for the first time I feel energized to do work, stimulated by academic pursuit.
Since my research this summer is on Luther's view of baptism, Dr. Bowlin started me off on Heiko Oberman's seminal biography Luther: Man Between God and the Devil. In the course of our discussion today we spent time struggling with the idea of the radical existential crisis of the Reformation: how can one be certain of redemption? We talked about the sacramentalism of Catholicism, where participation in the sacraments ensures inclusion in God's people. Easy enough, for those who accept the transmission of grace through the Eucharist, confession, etc.
Funnily enough, Luther did not reject the sacraments per se- baptism was at least partially regenerative, and he accepted real presence in the Eucharist. These two served as assurances of redemption, along with the church.
Flash forward to modern times. Strained through the Anabaptist and Reformed traditions, not to mention old fashioned American individualism, the sacraments have in one form or another lost their efficacious nature. Modern American Evangelical Protestantism (now that's a string of adjectives) focuses almost exclusively on the believer's inner life; faith becomes only individual, not corporate. But individual activity cannot solve the existential crisis- doubts remain. For one in the sacramental mode of faith, there is no need for assurance because it is given from above. To take a naturalistic view (one we need not shrink from: natural explanations often point to supernatural providence), anthropologists recognize the vital role of ritual in religion, in the participation of community.
Because modern evangelicals have supplanted the church and the sacraments, they must substitute "homegrown" alternatives. Thus weekly altar calls offer a feeling of assurance. In radical Pentecostal settings, assurance is gained through the "works of the Spirit", usually speaking in tongues. Anyone not participating must not bear the seal of the Spirit. These heresies are why we must preserve the true sacraments of the church.
I suppose this is one reason I find Presbyterianism so attractive: the balance it acheives between the inner life of the believer and the corporate life. The more I look into Covenant theology, the more sense it makes: God is bringing together a people for himself. Paedobaptism, which I once vehemently shunned, seems more and more a viable option. Luther's explanation really stuns me: infant baptism signifies that the work is God's, not ours. Modern interpretations of baptism make it into a work we do for God, instead of a sign of the promise He made to us through Abraham.
Communion is a little stickier (and not only because we have substituted sugary juice for wine). What exactly does it mean? This is something I struggle with, but again I find myself attracted to the Presbyterian view. While I reject real presence, I cannot see it as simply something to be done and forgotten about. Christ's grace is present, if not his physical body. We must revere this great mystery, not shove it aside.
The third leg of the stool is of course the church. Sadly in Protestant circles the church is not the bride of Christ but rather the nanny of believers, catering to their every want. This is coupled with the problem of scriptural interpretation. Luther opened the word to all believers, but that means that many will distort his intentions and hold that, where exegesis is concerned, anything goes. The opposite strain is the dangerous form of fundamentalism that holds that every word of the bible is literally true, which is so preposterous that I would disbelieve its existence if I didn't know it to lurk around. Instead we should embrace Luther's view of faith informed by knowledge, recognizing that neither faith nor scholasticism alone will help us rightly divide the word of truth. Because of this individualistic approach to the Bible, the church is lessened instead of increased. We have a basic distrust of authority.
To be fair to Catholics, in modern times they have been affected by this crisis, and more and more they speak of individual faith and salvation. As Dr. Bowlin rightly pointed out, trying to fit things into definite categories is messy and usually falls apart in the face of the real world.
Still, this tension between individual assurance and robust community life (in the sacraments and word) lingers. How do we resolve it? I have the suspicion that no one has the answer entirely correct, and that we must bear all things with patience.
Thursday, May 04, 2006
Life Together
Yes, it's time for another of those appropriately timed posts where life shapes what I'm saying. That seems to happen quite a bit.
I just finished (basically) packing up my room; finals ended today, and with them my freshman year of college. Seeing as I have a number of senior friends, and that I won't see most of my friends period over the summer, I thought I would reflect on the nature of friendship, and how it is affected by communal living.
Going back to Aristotle, who is a darn cool cat: he posits that true friendship involves living together, and asserts that one should have only as many close friends as may live together in close proximity. Leaving home this year has forced me to think about my friendships in light of seperation, and while I am not as despairing as The Philosopher, I see his point. Whenever I reunite with a friend I haven't seen for some time, there is a period of awkwardness which inevitably occurs as we get our bearing on our friendship again. Is this because we did not have true friendship? No, but our lack of sharing life together has caused us to lose some of what made our friendship what it was.
This aspect of living together has a bigger impact that we usually think. Our lives are formed in the day to day, not big events, and trust is built little by little. When you are around someone consistently, you build up relationship momentum that is not present when you are apart. Regaining that momentum is never instantaneous. Of course, the time it takes to get it back varies; with my closest friends the ice is normally broken very quickly.
But this raises another thought in my mind: what is it that our new relationship consists of? We can never fully have the old friendship back-- we have both changed too much for that. Do we sit around and reminisce about things past? Try to regain some of the old magic by engaging in new activities? Or do we blaze trails, hoping that the new direction is as enjoyable as the last?
The first and second options usually leave me sad. I cannot return to my high school days, through memory or imitation. I am a different person, and the old me has little resemblance to who I am now. No, I must move forward or risk being a dead shark. Hopefully my friendship survives this metamorphosis.
Back to the original point: how possible is it to maintain friendship when seperated by distance? My mother had some experience with this, having spent every year between 8th grade and the second year of college in a different school, in 6 countries on 3 continents. During that time she made friends who, at the end of her life, came to visit and rekindled past closeness. Much had changed in the intervening time, of course, but the spark of friendship remained.
Letters help, of course, which is why I am such a big fan, at least in theory (my practice often falls terribly short). But how can you capture someone's essence on paper? Very few people come across as themselves through the written word. I honestly don't have an answer to this problem. Yet I do not despair and lock myself away, refusing to engage people because I will only have to say goodbye. Knowing them, even for a short time, changes my life. As my best friend and I said as I left tearfully for college, "It doesn't seem fair that God has only given us four years together. But I'm sure glad He did." The tears are part of the gladness, and with my Christian friends at least I have the hope of reunion someday in a place where tears will not be necessary to let us know true joy.
I just finished (basically) packing up my room; finals ended today, and with them my freshman year of college. Seeing as I have a number of senior friends, and that I won't see most of my friends period over the summer, I thought I would reflect on the nature of friendship, and how it is affected by communal living.
Going back to Aristotle, who is a darn cool cat: he posits that true friendship involves living together, and asserts that one should have only as many close friends as may live together in close proximity. Leaving home this year has forced me to think about my friendships in light of seperation, and while I am not as despairing as The Philosopher, I see his point. Whenever I reunite with a friend I haven't seen for some time, there is a period of awkwardness which inevitably occurs as we get our bearing on our friendship again. Is this because we did not have true friendship? No, but our lack of sharing life together has caused us to lose some of what made our friendship what it was.
This aspect of living together has a bigger impact that we usually think. Our lives are formed in the day to day, not big events, and trust is built little by little. When you are around someone consistently, you build up relationship momentum that is not present when you are apart. Regaining that momentum is never instantaneous. Of course, the time it takes to get it back varies; with my closest friends the ice is normally broken very quickly.
But this raises another thought in my mind: what is it that our new relationship consists of? We can never fully have the old friendship back-- we have both changed too much for that. Do we sit around and reminisce about things past? Try to regain some of the old magic by engaging in new activities? Or do we blaze trails, hoping that the new direction is as enjoyable as the last?
The first and second options usually leave me sad. I cannot return to my high school days, through memory or imitation. I am a different person, and the old me has little resemblance to who I am now. No, I must move forward or risk being a dead shark. Hopefully my friendship survives this metamorphosis.
Back to the original point: how possible is it to maintain friendship when seperated by distance? My mother had some experience with this, having spent every year between 8th grade and the second year of college in a different school, in 6 countries on 3 continents. During that time she made friends who, at the end of her life, came to visit and rekindled past closeness. Much had changed in the intervening time, of course, but the spark of friendship remained.
Letters help, of course, which is why I am such a big fan, at least in theory (my practice often falls terribly short). But how can you capture someone's essence on paper? Very few people come across as themselves through the written word. I honestly don't have an answer to this problem. Yet I do not despair and lock myself away, refusing to engage people because I will only have to say goodbye. Knowing them, even for a short time, changes my life. As my best friend and I said as I left tearfully for college, "It doesn't seem fair that God has only given us four years together. But I'm sure glad He did." The tears are part of the gladness, and with my Christian friends at least I have the hope of reunion someday in a place where tears will not be necessary to let us know true joy.
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