I recently had this conversation for the second time at work. Strange origins it may have, but it is interesting to note how it relates to Important Things.
A manager of mine has an interesting way of settling contests amongst workers who desire to be cut from work and clock out early. When more than one person is scheduled to leave at 3 o'clock, for instance, an equal amount of labor would be saved by not having to pay the wage of either one of the employees. Therefore, because neither side has any tactical advantage, a game of "rock, paper, scissors" rules the day. However, this particular permutation of the familiar game is, though harmless, emblematic of distorted perceptions of history common, it seems, in working-class America. This game is called "Jesus, Hitler, Jew".
Let me explain the rules, as they are a wonderful melange of nonsense. Jesus beats Hitler, Hitler beats Jew, Jew beats Jesus. Now, the question is, why? In the traditional game, rock covers paper, (which makes no sense, I must admit) but scissors cutting paper and rock smashing scissors do sort of make sense. (Perhaps rock is supposed to need to breathe or something, and suffocates when paper covers it?) Well, I guess that in the logic of JHJ, Jesus beats Hitler because Hitler is dead, and in Christian theology, God, of whom Jesus is one manifestation, decides when humans are to die, and so, by this logic, Jesus 'took' Hitler. The rule that Hitler beats Jews is as sound as scissors cutting paper, because, historically, his anti-Semitic views and the policies of his government carried out the Holocaust.
The biggest thorn in my side, however, is the charge of deicide levied by the rule of Jews beating Jesus because they are responsible for his death. The game's rules, because they are more morbid than the traditional game and substitute death for dysfunction or destruction in the case of the titular objects, concern responsibility for the death of the archetypes represented in the game. The charge that all Jews share blame for the death of Jesus as a result of the actions of the Pharisees is no longer an official position of the Catholic church, but I have no idea how many Christians do still hold this view. This excuse for anti-Semitism has been levied throughout history as justification for a variety of prejudices and serves in part as the cornerstone of historical European suspicion and xenophobia of Jews.
Now, all this arises, not only out of my problems with some silly game, but because this semi-intelligent manager of mine who proposed the game actually defended the charge of deicide. This is unacceptable.
It is wrong for many reasons, but some are more theological in nature, some, more moral or historical. Let's go through the list and have a look at this issue.
The reason that the charge of deicide can be levied in the first place is because the Bible claims that the Pharisees, who were Jewish leaders, turned Jesus over to the Romans. The Pharisees believed Jesus preached heresy, and the Romans found his views inconvenient for their political power.
Now, one of the great mistakes of the Christian faith in the view of the non-religious is its distorted view of personal responsibility. At the core of its theology is the doctrine of scapegoating, the belief that the sins of a person or group can be absolved by transferring them to another person or animal and punishing or driving away the object that has received sin. The core doctrine holds that no person is good enough for Heaven; only Jesus' sacrifice and belief in him are enough to merit an eternity in Heaven. The convoluted logic states that Jesus' atonement is for Original Sin, which is in this day and age is completely given the lie by all modern genetic study and even passing knowledge of evolution. However, ignoring the issues surrounding Original Sin itself, of which there are many, the doctrine is clear that all humanity bears responsibility for the death of Jesus. It is sin, the sin of all humankind, that necessitates the sacrifice. Therefore, fault for Jesus' death should lie with all people equally (for sinning), or God (who decided to incarnate himself) in this view.
Logically, there is little ground for the charge of deicide to stand. Even taking the events described in the New Testament as accurate (a large leap, I assure you), there is no grounds to accuse the Jews as a whole of killing Jesus. Now, if we posit the Christian system as true, then granted, the Jews do deny on theological grounds the messianic state of Jesus. The Pharisees (if we grant the narrative as truth) did offer Jesus to the Romans. However, this at worst only makes Jews deniers of Christian divinity and the Pharisees guilty by association. No Jew alive today spat on or attacked Jesus, nor drove nails into his flesh, nor flagellated him. No accusation can stand against the man who is not party to the crime. No guilt can be assigned to the blood, no curse to a race. If my brother kills a man, am I tried for his crime? If a white man defrauds a large swath of the population, does that make all white men guilty? There is simply no justifying punishing those who do nothing wrong.
Morally, the charge of deicide has much to answer for in the history of anti-Semitic thought. The charge has historically been levied by Christians either to excuse or to justify their xenophobia and hatred of the Jews. Deicide has been used in troubled times as a matter of convenient scapegoating when the Jews are needed as targets. Now, anti-Semitic thought does not begin and end with such claims, but it does underlie much ugly history of antagonism. This does not make a strong logical argument against deicide, but it does not make it an attractive position to hold.
Please, don't let this line of thought pollute you as well. Don't fall prey to judgement of others for the crimes of their ancestors, their parents, their class, or any other group you can shoehorn them into. Just let man stand and fall on merit alone.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Friday, May 1, 2009
New Sonic Youth album on the way, and more
Sonic Youth's "The Eternal" comes out next week. I've already got a preorder, here's hoping it's as good as the rest of their post-2000 works. The band is back to a five-piece for this one, with touring bassist and former Pavement member Mark Ibold joining the band officially to supplement our core Fab Four. I'll let you guys know what's up whenever "The Eternal" gets here.
Mission of Burma is putting the finishing touches on their album, I don't have a deadline yet, but rest assured, it's gonna rock. Expect it within a few months, and my own examination of the as-yet-untitled disc soon after.
I've been completely immersed in a role-playing game recently, a little older than most of what I play. Now, I appreciate gameplay over graphics, this is true, but no one likes looking at a butt-ugly game, am I right? To be fair, though, one must account for when a game was made. So I was pleasantly surprised by Troika's Vampire: The Masquerade- Bloodlines. When it came out in 2004, it didn't sell too well, mostly because it was based on Half-Life 2's engine and came out on the same day. Piss-poor timing, that. The game was buggy, as even its ardent supporters admit, but underneath the grit was an unpolished diamond. It's one of the few games I know of that really transcends its technical issues by telling a superb story and having great gameplay at its core. If one can overlook some framerate issues and graphical problems, the core game is fantastic.
Lately, my most-played album has been Lou Reed's "The Blue Mask". Recorded with a superb band consisting of ex-Voidoid Robert Quine, bassist Ferando Saunders, and Doane Perry on drums, it's by turns an evocative and poetic work that isn't afraid to run ragged into an inferno of guitar immolation. There's pastoral beauty in "My House", an aching melancholy in the chiming guitars and emotionally fraught bass riffs. There are penetrating character studies in "The Gun" and "Underneath the Bottle". However, what is perhaps the most inspiring song on the album is the raging, spittle-flecked title track. After a minute of feedback, "The Blue Mask" explodes into rampaging drum fills and a roiling, violent bass riff that anchors down Lou's delivery and carefully pens in the screaming guitars. Reed's lyrics are some of the most perverse and deliriously misanthropic I've had the pleasure of singing along with- check this out.
If this song doesn't make you dry heave and bang your head simultaneously, nothing can be done for you. I can't resist letting this one get me all riled up.
Mission of Burma is putting the finishing touches on their album, I don't have a deadline yet, but rest assured, it's gonna rock. Expect it within a few months, and my own examination of the as-yet-untitled disc soon after.
I've been completely immersed in a role-playing game recently, a little older than most of what I play. Now, I appreciate gameplay over graphics, this is true, but no one likes looking at a butt-ugly game, am I right? To be fair, though, one must account for when a game was made. So I was pleasantly surprised by Troika's Vampire: The Masquerade- Bloodlines. When it came out in 2004, it didn't sell too well, mostly because it was based on Half-Life 2's engine and came out on the same day. Piss-poor timing, that. The game was buggy, as even its ardent supporters admit, but underneath the grit was an unpolished diamond. It's one of the few games I know of that really transcends its technical issues by telling a superb story and having great gameplay at its core. If one can overlook some framerate issues and graphical problems, the core game is fantastic.
Lately, my most-played album has been Lou Reed's "The Blue Mask". Recorded with a superb band consisting of ex-Voidoid Robert Quine, bassist Ferando Saunders, and Doane Perry on drums, it's by turns an evocative and poetic work that isn't afraid to run ragged into an inferno of guitar immolation. There's pastoral beauty in "My House", an aching melancholy in the chiming guitars and emotionally fraught bass riffs. There are penetrating character studies in "The Gun" and "Underneath the Bottle". However, what is perhaps the most inspiring song on the album is the raging, spittle-flecked title track. After a minute of feedback, "The Blue Mask" explodes into rampaging drum fills and a roiling, violent bass riff that anchors down Lou's delivery and carefully pens in the screaming guitars. Reed's lyrics are some of the most perverse and deliriously misanthropic I've had the pleasure of singing along with- check this out.
If this song doesn't make you dry heave and bang your head simultaneously, nothing can be done for you. I can't resist letting this one get me all riled up.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
The Sound- a tribute to Adrian Borland and his collaborators
Formed in 1979 from the ashes of the Outsiders, The Sound, hailing from London, are one of post-punk music's most criminally unsung bands. Bandleader and guitarist Adrian Borland crafted fantastic songs that overflowed with emotional power and perfect pop songwriting, and his band delivered tight, polished songs played with power and passion. Just one listen to the headlong charge of "Heartland" from 1979's "Jeopardy" is reason enough to marvel at their collective abilities as a band. For that icy, stabbing synth, that rumbling and bouncing bass that carries the melody, those fantastic guitar riffs and singing, there's little else like the Sound.
From the first, the distinctive sound of the Sound (get it?) put them firmly on the map as one of London's leading bands. They showed great promise and received much critical acclaim, but had little opportunity to break through to a wider audience. While bands like Joy Division and their progeny New Order scored fans and hits, many more obscure acts like the Sound or their contemporaries the Chameleons and Comsat Angels toiled in obscurity. Though they produced a substantial body of work, both pop and post-punk, the Sound never reached the audience they should have due to their refusal to pander to record label demands. They disbanded in 1988, three years after their last album,"Thunder Up". Despite their lack of success, they recorded quite a few classic tracks, and their albums "Jeopardy" and "From the Lion's Mouth" are both stone classics of underground British rock music. Adrian Borland, their lead singer and guitarist, went on to a very promising solo career. Unfortunately, his life was cut short by his losing battle with depression and other mental problems. He took his own life in 1999, throwing himself under a train at Wimbledon station. Tributes to Borland have been substantial, and can be viewed and contributed at his personal memorial website. Please visit http://www.brittleheaven.com if interested in merchandise, condolences, or discussion on the web forums. Thank you all for reading. Once more, I'll let the music speak for itself- the Sound, with "The Fire".
From the first, the distinctive sound of the Sound (get it?) put them firmly on the map as one of London's leading bands. They showed great promise and received much critical acclaim, but had little opportunity to break through to a wider audience. While bands like Joy Division and their progeny New Order scored fans and hits, many more obscure acts like the Sound or their contemporaries the Chameleons and Comsat Angels toiled in obscurity. Though they produced a substantial body of work, both pop and post-punk, the Sound never reached the audience they should have due to their refusal to pander to record label demands. They disbanded in 1988, three years after their last album,"Thunder Up". Despite their lack of success, they recorded quite a few classic tracks, and their albums "Jeopardy" and "From the Lion's Mouth" are both stone classics of underground British rock music. Adrian Borland, their lead singer and guitarist, went on to a very promising solo career. Unfortunately, his life was cut short by his losing battle with depression and other mental problems. He took his own life in 1999, throwing himself under a train at Wimbledon station. Tributes to Borland have been substantial, and can be viewed and contributed at his personal memorial website. Please visit http://www.brittleheaven.com if interested in merchandise, condolences, or discussion on the web forums. Thank you all for reading. Once more, I'll let the music speak for itself- the Sound, with "The Fire".
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Lat den ratta komma in- a mesmerising vampire film
I just saw the Swedish romantic vampire movie "Let The Right One In". I watched about four movies in rapid succession over the past few days, and this is the one that stuck in my mind most prominently. The cinematography, score, and themes were all hauntingly and beautifully deployed. The spare musical gestures and interminably snowy and stark landscapes conjured a fragile, dark and lovely story of the friendship between a 12 year old boy and an androgynous vampire. Wonderful sound direction here; the sound effects captured countless ambient nuances of both atmosphere and self- the sound of dry and cold lips gently parting, a brittle crackle of toys moving in cold air, blood dripping languorously into a jar or open mouth. The musical score could be called spare were it not consistently wonderful and, while unobtrusive, utterly hypnotic. The lead children had a great chemistry as well, capturing the awkwardness of adolescent yearning and chaste friendship simultaneously. Thanks to the ambiguity of vampiric Eli's gender, the relationship between s/he and Oskar develops as both a platonic boy/boy interaction and a sweetly romantic childhood love. It's to the credit of the movie that Eli can announce "I'm not a girl" and still maintain his/her femininity and girlish form.
Eli (top) in a strangely sexual/ nonsexual situation with Oskar (bottom)
"Let The Right One In" takes a pretty unconventional approach to vampire movies. Eschewing ultraviolence and tacky stunt-filled fight scenes, it focuses instead upon the psychosexuality of vampire romance and especially that of childhood romance. There are smatterings of violence, but they are as likely to involve humans exclusively as they are vampire attacks. There are few vampires in the film as well, and the film succeeds largely because it can afford to focus on individuals and their relationships instead of vamp politics.
Striking at the heart of the vampire mythos, "Let The Right One In" presents the tragic nature of vampires alongside the ethereal and fragile nature of the humans in whose lives they prowl. Though snow and ice dominate the film, its character interactions lend it warmth and humanity. Truly, a great film.
Eli (top) in a strangely sexual/ nonsexual situation with Oskar (bottom)Striking at the heart of the vampire mythos, "Let The Right One In" presents the tragic nature of vampires alongside the ethereal and fragile nature of the humans in whose lives they prowl. Though snow and ice dominate the film, its character interactions lend it warmth and humanity. Truly, a great film.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Funking up your politics- the mind and body-shaking Gang of Four
Of a part with the willfully abrasive and obscure art-rock scene that encompassed fellow Brits Wire and American eggheads Pere Ubu and Mission of Burma, Gang of Four rocked as hard as any of them, but brought a slinky, groovy brand of forward-thinking dance and funk into their dark vision of capitalist society. Their impact reaches farther than many other post-punk or art rock bands because, simply put, they rocked, and rocked hard. They brought clear-eyed analysis and scathing rhetoric into their music, but before shouting slogans and between sneering at love songs and cheeseburgers, they had the good sense to bring a hard groove. Countless British and American bands who now bear the torch of twitchy, atonal dance rock music owe, either knowingly or not, a huge debt to their forefathers.
In their original line-up, Andy Gill, Jon King, Hugo Burnham, and Dave Allen recorded their highly regarded debut, "Entertainment!", and its follow-up, "Solid Gold". Both records put forth a blueprint that many bands were better able to commercially exploit- the politically-motivated funk rock of Rage Against the Machine and early Red Hot Chili Peppers in particular were successful at rounding out the many edges in the Gang's music and making a radio-friendly facsimile that would not threaten listeners of pop music. Today the same goes for indie-rock darlings of all stripes; to name just a few, Franz Ferdinand, Bloc Party, Liars, and the Rapture. What set the Gang apart is that they questioned their audience without hectoring them, forming anthems and not puerile slogans. Their music demanded elemental movement, their lyrics fostered fierce cogitations.
"Entertainment!" stands as a debut of great note, powerful in the cogency of its ideas and breathless in its savage mauling of conventional punk, funk, and disco music. In any typical song, Burnham would set out a churning disco groove, throwing in just enough high-energy fills and breaks to remind listeners of his chops; bassist Allen reportedly restrained himself when playing Gang's songs, which is hard to believe considering the sheer technical ability of his lines and their overwhelming power. Guitarist Andy Gill never settled for conventional riffs or vanilla solos, chucking out technical wizardry for supremely effective volleys of twitchy, scratching, scabrous guitar gesticulations. Driven by pure rawk energy, he chopped out a mess of both rhythmic and arrhythmic feedback squalls, even opting for (gasp) silence when needed. Jon King ranted and chanted with the best of sardonic Brits, lamenting the state of the working classes, historical revisionism, any idea that would offend the sensibilities of a good leftist.
For a great prototypical GO4 song, look no further than 5.45, from "Entertainment!". A tiny drum and harmonica intro, sounding like some small still voice protesting tragedy to a martial beat. Jon King waxes piteous-
"How can I sit and eat my tea, With all that blood flowing from the television, At a quarter to six, I watch the news, Eating, eating all my food as I sit, Watching the red spot in the egg, Which looks like all the blood you don't see on the television..."
With just this short lyric, King takes to task the news media that glorifies war coverage, the apathetic citizens that can sit and eat whilst others die, and even manages to snipe the news media again for sanitizing reports while simultaneously venerating atrocity. Throughout all this rhetoric, ringing guitar lines cut through a thick and moody bass that cries of the helplessness and hopelessness of the oppressed.
"Down on the street, Assassinate!, All of them look so desperate, Declare blood war on the bourgeois state, ooooooh..." No other band could make such a chorus work; it is intensely politically incisive and revolutionary in nature, and yet perversely catchy.
The mid-song chant lends the album its title, a pronouncement on the sick state of voyeuristic cultural debasement that is the evening news fodder in wartime- "Guerrilla war struggle is the new entertainment!"- that rails angrily at those comfortable upper-to-middle class citizens that can stare at a war-torn country through the lens of a news program and, being desensitized to the suffering of those so many miles and class divisions away, can only shake their heads as they lament the world with a mouthful of microwaved food. The result is a powerful song that, while satiric, doesn't hector its audience, but urges them to think.
Some of their best tracks deal with interpersonal connections in much the same fashion, looking at love with a gimlet eye, rendering relationships into balances and handshake deals, commodities bought and sold, interest not shown by a seductive gaze, but accrued by debt. The commodification of sex and the role of the media in public life surface again and again throughout their discography, giving thematic strength to much of their work. Alienation and the wanderlust of man for interpersonal connection feature heavily as well.
The trajectory of their career fell sadly short of their ambitions, however. After "Solid Gold", bassist Allen left and was replaced by Sara Lee, and a shift in their sound occurred over the course of several albums, moving them decisively toward less edgy and more poppy disco and funk music. The music that followed wasn't necessarily bad, but did not sit well with their original fans, and won them few new ones. Drummer Hugo Burnham left after "Songs of the Free" in 1982, and after only Jon King and Andy Gill remained from the original line-up, they called it quits in after 1983's abysmal "Hard". They reformed twice in the nineties, once for the underwhelming "Mall" and again in 95 for their currently last full-length, "Shrinkwrapped".
In a near-miraculous move, the original line-up of GO4 re-united in 2004, recording an album of new versions of old songs. It's not absolutely essential, but is certainly good listening. Though Burnham and Allen have left again recently, there is still talk of a new album with a new line-up. Their newest single, "Second Life", is a classic. Please support this band and if they tour anywhere near you, make it a priority to see them live. Thanks for reading.
In their original line-up, Andy Gill, Jon King, Hugo Burnham, and Dave Allen recorded their highly regarded debut, "Entertainment!", and its follow-up, "Solid Gold". Both records put forth a blueprint that many bands were better able to commercially exploit- the politically-motivated funk rock of Rage Against the Machine and early Red Hot Chili Peppers in particular were successful at rounding out the many edges in the Gang's music and making a radio-friendly facsimile that would not threaten listeners of pop music. Today the same goes for indie-rock darlings of all stripes; to name just a few, Franz Ferdinand, Bloc Party, Liars, and the Rapture. What set the Gang apart is that they questioned their audience without hectoring them, forming anthems and not puerile slogans. Their music demanded elemental movement, their lyrics fostered fierce cogitations.
"Entertainment!" stands as a debut of great note, powerful in the cogency of its ideas and breathless in its savage mauling of conventional punk, funk, and disco music. In any typical song, Burnham would set out a churning disco groove, throwing in just enough high-energy fills and breaks to remind listeners of his chops; bassist Allen reportedly restrained himself when playing Gang's songs, which is hard to believe considering the sheer technical ability of his lines and their overwhelming power. Guitarist Andy Gill never settled for conventional riffs or vanilla solos, chucking out technical wizardry for supremely effective volleys of twitchy, scratching, scabrous guitar gesticulations. Driven by pure rawk energy, he chopped out a mess of both rhythmic and arrhythmic feedback squalls, even opting for (gasp) silence when needed. Jon King ranted and chanted with the best of sardonic Brits, lamenting the state of the working classes, historical revisionism, any idea that would offend the sensibilities of a good leftist.
For a great prototypical GO4 song, look no further than 5.45, from "Entertainment!". A tiny drum and harmonica intro, sounding like some small still voice protesting tragedy to a martial beat. Jon King waxes piteous-
"How can I sit and eat my tea, With all that blood flowing from the television, At a quarter to six, I watch the news, Eating, eating all my food as I sit, Watching the red spot in the egg, Which looks like all the blood you don't see on the television..."
With just this short lyric, King takes to task the news media that glorifies war coverage, the apathetic citizens that can sit and eat whilst others die, and even manages to snipe the news media again for sanitizing reports while simultaneously venerating atrocity. Throughout all this rhetoric, ringing guitar lines cut through a thick and moody bass that cries of the helplessness and hopelessness of the oppressed.
"Down on the street, Assassinate!, All of them look so desperate, Declare blood war on the bourgeois state, ooooooh..." No other band could make such a chorus work; it is intensely politically incisive and revolutionary in nature, and yet perversely catchy.
The mid-song chant lends the album its title, a pronouncement on the sick state of voyeuristic cultural debasement that is the evening news fodder in wartime- "Guerrilla war struggle is the new entertainment!"- that rails angrily at those comfortable upper-to-middle class citizens that can stare at a war-torn country through the lens of a news program and, being desensitized to the suffering of those so many miles and class divisions away, can only shake their heads as they lament the world with a mouthful of microwaved food. The result is a powerful song that, while satiric, doesn't hector its audience, but urges them to think.
Some of their best tracks deal with interpersonal connections in much the same fashion, looking at love with a gimlet eye, rendering relationships into balances and handshake deals, commodities bought and sold, interest not shown by a seductive gaze, but accrued by debt. The commodification of sex and the role of the media in public life surface again and again throughout their discography, giving thematic strength to much of their work. Alienation and the wanderlust of man for interpersonal connection feature heavily as well.
The trajectory of their career fell sadly short of their ambitions, however. After "Solid Gold", bassist Allen left and was replaced by Sara Lee, and a shift in their sound occurred over the course of several albums, moving them decisively toward less edgy and more poppy disco and funk music. The music that followed wasn't necessarily bad, but did not sit well with their original fans, and won them few new ones. Drummer Hugo Burnham left after "Songs of the Free" in 1982, and after only Jon King and Andy Gill remained from the original line-up, they called it quits in after 1983's abysmal "Hard". They reformed twice in the nineties, once for the underwhelming "Mall" and again in 95 for their currently last full-length, "Shrinkwrapped".
In a near-miraculous move, the original line-up of GO4 re-united in 2004, recording an album of new versions of old songs. It's not absolutely essential, but is certainly good listening. Though Burnham and Allen have left again recently, there is still talk of a new album with a new line-up. Their newest single, "Second Life", is a classic. Please support this band and if they tour anywhere near you, make it a priority to see them live. Thanks for reading.
Friday, March 27, 2009
The worst part of 'Knowing'? You're powerless to stop it...
Sometimes a movie comes along that you know nothing about, you see it on a whim, you spend the day out with a friend and see it together. Sometimes you want badly to have a good time, to enjoy a spectacle, to share a good movie. I was sorry to disappoint on a recent outing with a friend of mine. I made the regrettable decision to see Nicolas Cage in "Knowing".
Sitting in the theater, tensed and pissed off, I fidgeted endlessly as this movie assaulted me in an almost sexual fashion. I felt violated by its emotional bludgeoning, sullied by its pathetic lack of subtlety and technique. I was genuinely offended by its plot, its heavy-handed messages and trite, cliche straw-men of atheists and rational thinkers. Everything about this film sickened or angered me in one way or another.
If you ever have the chance, I fucking dare you to watch this movie with an aim to enjoy it.
No groaning, no sighs. Don't be pestered by the inappropriate score, don't sit with mouth agape at its ludicrous plot, nor its sick manipulation of historical tragedy for a catalytic plot point.
If you can actually sincerely enjoy this movie, in all its bland glory, its facsimile of Christian endtimes lunacy, its tired and predictable plot, and its confused melange of science fiction, disaster voyeurism, environmental alarmism, and religious smugness, you may want to seriously re-examine your ability to enjoy good movie-making.
Let's begin, shall we?
Nic Cage is basically rehashing "Next" here. No bones about it. As always, I was okay with Nic, because I think he does good work and he has a persona as an actor that I like. However, I didn't like his character. John Koestler is a poorly-written skeptic; he sounds like the most cliche atheist a Christian could dream up. He's angry at being the son of a pastor, he lost his faith because of a personal tragedy, and basically espouses nihilism. In short, he's exactly what a person who had never met an intellectually justified atheist would think atheists are like. Argh.
The 'story', such as it can be called, begins in 1959 with a young girl, Lucinda Embry, writing a string of numbers on a sheet of paper to be put into a time capsule. The girl apparently hears overly loud whispers that are mixed too high in the film's audio. That's how early I began to shit on this movie in my mind- immediately following the credits. The first mind-blowingly idiotic thing in the movie is John Koestler's lecture to his class on cosmology. He presents a thinly veiled debate between naturalistic and supernaturalistic viewpoints, and takes up the "atheist" side by declaring "shit just happens". Conflating nihilism with non-deterministic philosophies? Thanks, director Alex Proyas and writing staff, you dicks.
John's son attends the same school that the spooky little girl did, so of course when the time capsule from the opening scene is unearthed, who gets the string of numbers but Caleb Koestler, and brings them home to our depressed, nihilistic caricature of an atheist. The numbers Lucinda wrote are apparently predictions of the next 50 years' worth of disasters, told to her by annoyingly loud whispers. But how does John discover that the numbers are not random? Now, this kind of future prediction plot is not entirely uncommon, but if done well it can be mildly entertaining. However, this is the only "future-disaster" movie I know of that had the utter tastelessness and absurd hubris to abuse a national tragedy still fresh in the minds of Americans for a plot point. That's right, when John Koestler's son brings home the number string from the time capsule opening, the first thing John notices is the number string 91101. Way to disrespect a nation.
A couple of punctuation marks later, John's got a full-blown delusion-made-reality on his hands. He goes back through the list of numbers, circles out some date and casualty strings, and confronts one of his fellow skeptical colleagues, who, like any good skeptic, believes that it is a coincidence, not least because of the large amount of uncircled numbers that appear to be random. He thinks John is just looking for a pattern where there isn't one, like those Bible code buffoons.
Of course, what could possibly happen next but John coincidentally being at the exact spot of the next disaster in sequence? How laughably predictable. He looks at his GPS when on the freeway, matches the numbers to the paper, and voila, he's in just the right spot for a disaster. In true "Final Destination" fashion, he tries to do something, anything, to help when a plane crashes. He is however helpless as the camera lingers horrifically on writhing, burning bodies in a positively bloodthirsty fashion. Truly, tastelessness is elevated to an art form by this hellish train wreck of a movie.
The next disaster in sequence is even worse. John chases down a guy who he thinks is going to bomb the subway, but, oops, he was just stealing CDs! Oh, man, talk about being on the wrong track! (Canned laughter) Speaking of wrong tracks... the subway train derails in a gloriously cheesy CGI fashion! Wheeeee! It plows into countless people (some of them even in first-person 'kill-train' camera!) in an orgiastic display of brutish violence. Joy... Mawkish aftermath music would be bad enough, but "Knowing" again assaults the audience by shoving an American flag into the next shot, just like with shoehorning 9/11 into the plot. I don't know what the film seeks to gain by appealing to our sense of patriotism, but it comes off as crass and trashy.
Torturous story short, through some ridiculous non-logic, John finds out that the next disaster will be the end of the world, and that the bible had some prescience of this event (double ugh). A solar flare wiping out the third planet away from the sun? Yeah, that sounds completely plausible.....
To wrap it all up, John finds, in some Rapture-like theological lunacy, that only a few humans have been chosen to be saved from the impending disaster by aliens, who have been stalking him in order to save his son. Caleb and Lucinda Embry's granddaughter are saved by infuriatingly angel-esque aliens, the vast majority of humans die in a huge wave of fiery fucking doom, and Nic Cage reconverts to theism just before disintegrating. Heavy-handed enough for ya?
Sitting through it was hell. I saw every shitty plot point coming a mile away. Poorly executed, trite, preachy, and stupid in the worst way, "Knowing" is a mess of theological and science fiction daftness. Fuck this movie.
Sitting in the theater, tensed and pissed off, I fidgeted endlessly as this movie assaulted me in an almost sexual fashion. I felt violated by its emotional bludgeoning, sullied by its pathetic lack of subtlety and technique. I was genuinely offended by its plot, its heavy-handed messages and trite, cliche straw-men of atheists and rational thinkers. Everything about this film sickened or angered me in one way or another.
If you ever have the chance, I fucking dare you to watch this movie with an aim to enjoy it.
No groaning, no sighs. Don't be pestered by the inappropriate score, don't sit with mouth agape at its ludicrous plot, nor its sick manipulation of historical tragedy for a catalytic plot point.
If you can actually sincerely enjoy this movie, in all its bland glory, its facsimile of Christian endtimes lunacy, its tired and predictable plot, and its confused melange of science fiction, disaster voyeurism, environmental alarmism, and religious smugness, you may want to seriously re-examine your ability to enjoy good movie-making.
Let's begin, shall we?
Nic Cage is basically rehashing "Next" here. No bones about it. As always, I was okay with Nic, because I think he does good work and he has a persona as an actor that I like. However, I didn't like his character. John Koestler is a poorly-written skeptic; he sounds like the most cliche atheist a Christian could dream up. He's angry at being the son of a pastor, he lost his faith because of a personal tragedy, and basically espouses nihilism. In short, he's exactly what a person who had never met an intellectually justified atheist would think atheists are like. Argh.
The 'story', such as it can be called, begins in 1959 with a young girl, Lucinda Embry, writing a string of numbers on a sheet of paper to be put into a time capsule. The girl apparently hears overly loud whispers that are mixed too high in the film's audio. That's how early I began to shit on this movie in my mind- immediately following the credits. The first mind-blowingly idiotic thing in the movie is John Koestler's lecture to his class on cosmology. He presents a thinly veiled debate between naturalistic and supernaturalistic viewpoints, and takes up the "atheist" side by declaring "shit just happens". Conflating nihilism with non-deterministic philosophies? Thanks, director Alex Proyas and writing staff, you dicks.
John's son attends the same school that the spooky little girl did, so of course when the time capsule from the opening scene is unearthed, who gets the string of numbers but Caleb Koestler, and brings them home to our depressed, nihilistic caricature of an atheist. The numbers Lucinda wrote are apparently predictions of the next 50 years' worth of disasters, told to her by annoyingly loud whispers. But how does John discover that the numbers are not random? Now, this kind of future prediction plot is not entirely uncommon, but if done well it can be mildly entertaining. However, this is the only "future-disaster" movie I know of that had the utter tastelessness and absurd hubris to abuse a national tragedy still fresh in the minds of Americans for a plot point. That's right, when John Koestler's son brings home the number string from the time capsule opening, the first thing John notices is the number string 91101. Way to disrespect a nation.
A couple of punctuation marks later, John's got a full-blown delusion-made-reality on his hands. He goes back through the list of numbers, circles out some date and casualty strings, and confronts one of his fellow skeptical colleagues, who, like any good skeptic, believes that it is a coincidence, not least because of the large amount of uncircled numbers that appear to be random. He thinks John is just looking for a pattern where there isn't one, like those Bible code buffoons.
Of course, what could possibly happen next but John coincidentally being at the exact spot of the next disaster in sequence? How laughably predictable. He looks at his GPS when on the freeway, matches the numbers to the paper, and voila, he's in just the right spot for a disaster. In true "Final Destination" fashion, he tries to do something, anything, to help when a plane crashes. He is however helpless as the camera lingers horrifically on writhing, burning bodies in a positively bloodthirsty fashion. Truly, tastelessness is elevated to an art form by this hellish train wreck of a movie.
The next disaster in sequence is even worse. John chases down a guy who he thinks is going to bomb the subway, but, oops, he was just stealing CDs! Oh, man, talk about being on the wrong track! (Canned laughter) Speaking of wrong tracks... the subway train derails in a gloriously cheesy CGI fashion! Wheeeee! It plows into countless people (some of them even in first-person 'kill-train' camera!) in an orgiastic display of brutish violence. Joy... Mawkish aftermath music would be bad enough, but "Knowing" again assaults the audience by shoving an American flag into the next shot, just like with shoehorning 9/11 into the plot. I don't know what the film seeks to gain by appealing to our sense of patriotism, but it comes off as crass and trashy.
Torturous story short, through some ridiculous non-logic, John finds out that the next disaster will be the end of the world, and that the bible had some prescience of this event (double ugh). A solar flare wiping out the third planet away from the sun? Yeah, that sounds completely plausible.....
To wrap it all up, John finds, in some Rapture-like theological lunacy, that only a few humans have been chosen to be saved from the impending disaster by aliens, who have been stalking him in order to save his son. Caleb and Lucinda Embry's granddaughter are saved by infuriatingly angel-esque aliens, the vast majority of humans die in a huge wave of fiery fucking doom, and Nic Cage reconverts to theism just before disintegrating. Heavy-handed enough for ya?
Sitting through it was hell. I saw every shitty plot point coming a mile away. Poorly executed, trite, preachy, and stupid in the worst way, "Knowing" is a mess of theological and science fiction daftness. Fuck this movie.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Finally, it's the Weekend. No, not the literal one.
Godard. 1967. Weekend.
Everything led up to this. A culmination, an encapsulation of an aesthetic, a singular talent, an idea, perhaps an idea that was the entirety of a person.
Weekend is not a film. It's much more. Treatise, work of art, self-portrait, screed, bore, declaration, and semi-coherent narrative; these are proper, but not entire. It's visual poetry, arresting and savage critique of every sacred cow of consumer and mass culture. It's the big crunch of shopping malls, the heat death of the factory lines, a mushroom cloud to punctuate Godard's political era.
Weekend contains more content, more ideas, more art than most ten films put together. It's scattershot and bizarre, true, but when it works, it sets fire to the intellectual mind.
As an absurdist film, it lacks in terms of plot, but shines in its setup and execution of thoroughly skewed scenes. The whole mad journey plays out in stops and starts, dragging its feet through intentionally annoying conceptual gags and then hurtling headfirst into a morass of philosophical and historical exposition. Hardly any of the film could be considered easy to watch; whether it's assaulting the viewer with a deviant sexual liason, annoying them with overly long shots and too-loud car horns, or lambasting them for their political apathy, Weekend is a film that does its best to try the patience of its audience. It is all for the best, though, as its techniques force the viewer to confront the film on its own terms. Weekend forcibly restrains any who see it from turning their mind off and just enjoying a simple film. It demands attention, its impish gags and heady philosophical ramblings commanding an uncommon force that I imagine most other 'provacateur' movies simply could not muster.
Our crazed journey begins with one of many pop-art styled intertitles, proclaiming that this is a film 'lost in the cosmos'. In a bourgeois apartment, some light conversation about death. Our materialistic main characters, Corinne and Roland, are making a trip to Oinville to make sure they get their inheritance- the hard way. A fight breaks out in the parking lot below, and our detestable lead bitch remarks that it would be wonderful if someone had died in the altercation. A bizarre conversation follows, with the foreboding score floating into and out of the scene, becoming more obtrusive and annoying, then retreating, as Corinne recounts, in graphic detail, an evening of depraved menage a trois. When asked if the story is true, or a nightmare, she says simply, "I don't know". After bashing in someone else's bumper on the way out, a brief, highly class-related struggle follows. Corinne and Roland, after a little absurdist argument, are on their way. The most famous gag of the movie stops them dead in their tracks; a sprawling traffic jam on a narrow country road that takes up an entire five minute sequence, soundtracked by hellish cacophonies of car horns and yells, and the score once again ominously looms upon the entrance of a Shell gasoline truck. At the very end, a disastrous accident has killed multiple people, but between the start and end of the jam, all manner of ridiculous activities are taking place. Chess games on the roadside, children frolicking, balls tossed between cars, and impossible collisions are everywhere. It's a thoroughly testing scene, but also entertaining in its silliness. It is perhaps one of the best encapsulations of the Weekend style, save perhaps the political screeds that take place later on.
As Roland and Corinne continue into the nearest town, a tractor collides with an expensive sports car. The driver of the car is killed, and his girlfriend verbally eviscerates the man in the tractor. As epithets rife with snobbery and class warfare pile up, the farmer and bourgeois woman try to drag Corinne and Roland into the argument over who had the right of way, and, finding no help, both the girl and the farmer unite in their hatred of our anti-heroes, showering them with racial slurs. As Roland speeds off, our bourgeois bitch and lumbering working class fool stand shoulder to shoulder, arms around each other, grieving the loss of their right to judge.
Our couple then have a short discussion that reveals their attitudes towards other human beings. Contemplating the farmer's claim, "We're all brothers, as Marx said", Roland asserts that "another communist said it. Jesus said it." Corinne replies, "I don't care, even if it's true. These aren't the Middle Ages." Apparently, both feel that modern society has entirely progressed past brotherhood and unity, and that the dawn of modern capitalism should require every man to act in his own self-interest.
The rat race of capitalism is the subject of our theater of the absurd, and Godard skewers it with gusto. Automobiles, as metaphors for modern industrial capitalist societies, are wrecked ubiquitously on every stretch of road. Over and over, the message hits home: modern societies are an insult to human decency, where we value only possessions; where boredom and drudgery are our lives, where sex is a farce and a distraction from ennui, where the working classes are manipulated, and the rich gorge themselves on the carcasses of wrecked lives, leaving only husks. Prescient, non?
The title of my blog comes from the next scene, where Roland and Corinne are carjacked by a madman, armed with a gun, and his accomplice. The madman rambles on, mixing comic pronouncements with bizarrely perceptive mots justes. He asks Corinne her name, then refuses her answers. "Durant is your husband's name. Dupont is your father's name", eventually announcing, "See? You don't even know who you are. Christianity: the death of language, the denial of self-knowledge." Here, he's taking to task the patriarchal nature of religions and societies that both make women subservient and impress upon them the names of their husbands. The director basically self-inserts his own opinions regarding film here, and announces "I'm here to inform Modern Times of the Grammatical era's end, and the beginning of Flamboyance, especially in cinema." Godard boldly states that his film endeavors to signify the beginning of a renaissance of films that are unafraid of absurdity and pass by the merit of their ideas, not their formal structure and rigid lockstep with reality. If we had been lucky, more films would be have taken up this clarion call. Or, perhaps it is best that they didn't, and Weekend remains a singular experience.
After running some other drivers off the road, Roland wrecks his car, in one of the many audio-visual mismatches that serve to highlight the unreality of the film. First, the image of the crash and a scream from Corinne, then a cut back to the preceding moment of tranquil driving, then the crash again. Corinne comically mourns the loss of her handbag, a really nifty one from Hermes. Godard hits hard once more with his brutal critique of consumerism.
The film also contains several scenes of concentrated political commentary, one featuring a man dressed as Napoleon shouting seeming platitudes (which, in actuality, are rather stinging barbs striking at humanity's greatest follies), another featuring a juxtaposition of two political manifestos laid out by off screen characters while the onscreen characters stare and eat a sandwich. The effect of having two men spell out each other's views with perfect mental clarity is a very interesting technique and manages to make these sorts of scenes rather arresting in their unique setup.
Corinne and Roland have a number of meta-referential lines in the movie pertaining to 'fictional' characters within the film. They even set fire to Tom Thumb and Emily Bronte simply because they won't tell them the way to Oinville. However, they do take time to note that they're only fictional characters. When hitching a ride, they ask if the driver is in the real world, or a film. This perfectly compliments the film's aesthetic choice to embrace the absurd and refuse to tell a mundane and hyper-real story, instead presenting a gaudy theater of brilliant and provocative ideas.
In the end, Corinne and Roland kill Corinne's mother for a handsome inheritance, but become hostages of cannibal revolutionaries. As these hippy dippy beat poets-cum-Gaullist gourmands compose odes to the ocean and feast on the dead, the film closes with Corinne having a bit of long pork, and hears that she is eating Roland. Remarking upon its good taste, she decides to have more later. The audacious closing text still rings true- "FIN DU CINEMA", not just the end of this film, but all film.
Godard's hellish vision remains prescient in its political observations, staying mordantly hilarious and farcical even upon repeat viewings. It is a quite obnoxious film at times thanks to its attempts to distance its audience from its own internal reality, but it only does so to force viewers to contemplate its ideas seriously. It truly is the end of all cinema; after seeing it, no other movie will ever seem quite so fiercely intelligent, so belligerent, brilliant, or morbidly funny. I wouldn't have it any other way.
Everything led up to this. A culmination, an encapsulation of an aesthetic, a singular talent, an idea, perhaps an idea that was the entirety of a person.
Weekend is not a film. It's much more. Treatise, work of art, self-portrait, screed, bore, declaration, and semi-coherent narrative; these are proper, but not entire. It's visual poetry, arresting and savage critique of every sacred cow of consumer and mass culture. It's the big crunch of shopping malls, the heat death of the factory lines, a mushroom cloud to punctuate Godard's political era.
Weekend contains more content, more ideas, more art than most ten films put together. It's scattershot and bizarre, true, but when it works, it sets fire to the intellectual mind.
As an absurdist film, it lacks in terms of plot, but shines in its setup and execution of thoroughly skewed scenes. The whole mad journey plays out in stops and starts, dragging its feet through intentionally annoying conceptual gags and then hurtling headfirst into a morass of philosophical and historical exposition. Hardly any of the film could be considered easy to watch; whether it's assaulting the viewer with a deviant sexual liason, annoying them with overly long shots and too-loud car horns, or lambasting them for their political apathy, Weekend is a film that does its best to try the patience of its audience. It is all for the best, though, as its techniques force the viewer to confront the film on its own terms. Weekend forcibly restrains any who see it from turning their mind off and just enjoying a simple film. It demands attention, its impish gags and heady philosophical ramblings commanding an uncommon force that I imagine most other 'provacateur' movies simply could not muster.
Our crazed journey begins with one of many pop-art styled intertitles, proclaiming that this is a film 'lost in the cosmos'. In a bourgeois apartment, some light conversation about death. Our materialistic main characters, Corinne and Roland, are making a trip to Oinville to make sure they get their inheritance- the hard way. A fight breaks out in the parking lot below, and our detestable lead bitch remarks that it would be wonderful if someone had died in the altercation. A bizarre conversation follows, with the foreboding score floating into and out of the scene, becoming more obtrusive and annoying, then retreating, as Corinne recounts, in graphic detail, an evening of depraved menage a trois. When asked if the story is true, or a nightmare, she says simply, "I don't know". After bashing in someone else's bumper on the way out, a brief, highly class-related struggle follows. Corinne and Roland, after a little absurdist argument, are on their way. The most famous gag of the movie stops them dead in their tracks; a sprawling traffic jam on a narrow country road that takes up an entire five minute sequence, soundtracked by hellish cacophonies of car horns and yells, and the score once again ominously looms upon the entrance of a Shell gasoline truck. At the very end, a disastrous accident has killed multiple people, but between the start and end of the jam, all manner of ridiculous activities are taking place. Chess games on the roadside, children frolicking, balls tossed between cars, and impossible collisions are everywhere. It's a thoroughly testing scene, but also entertaining in its silliness. It is perhaps one of the best encapsulations of the Weekend style, save perhaps the political screeds that take place later on.
As Roland and Corinne continue into the nearest town, a tractor collides with an expensive sports car. The driver of the car is killed, and his girlfriend verbally eviscerates the man in the tractor. As epithets rife with snobbery and class warfare pile up, the farmer and bourgeois woman try to drag Corinne and Roland into the argument over who had the right of way, and, finding no help, both the girl and the farmer unite in their hatred of our anti-heroes, showering them with racial slurs. As Roland speeds off, our bourgeois bitch and lumbering working class fool stand shoulder to shoulder, arms around each other, grieving the loss of their right to judge.
Our couple then have a short discussion that reveals their attitudes towards other human beings. Contemplating the farmer's claim, "We're all brothers, as Marx said", Roland asserts that "another communist said it. Jesus said it." Corinne replies, "I don't care, even if it's true. These aren't the Middle Ages." Apparently, both feel that modern society has entirely progressed past brotherhood and unity, and that the dawn of modern capitalism should require every man to act in his own self-interest.
The rat race of capitalism is the subject of our theater of the absurd, and Godard skewers it with gusto. Automobiles, as metaphors for modern industrial capitalist societies, are wrecked ubiquitously on every stretch of road. Over and over, the message hits home: modern societies are an insult to human decency, where we value only possessions; where boredom and drudgery are our lives, where sex is a farce and a distraction from ennui, where the working classes are manipulated, and the rich gorge themselves on the carcasses of wrecked lives, leaving only husks. Prescient, non?
The title of my blog comes from the next scene, where Roland and Corinne are carjacked by a madman, armed with a gun, and his accomplice. The madman rambles on, mixing comic pronouncements with bizarrely perceptive mots justes. He asks Corinne her name, then refuses her answers. "Durant is your husband's name. Dupont is your father's name", eventually announcing, "See? You don't even know who you are. Christianity: the death of language, the denial of self-knowledge." Here, he's taking to task the patriarchal nature of religions and societies that both make women subservient and impress upon them the names of their husbands. The director basically self-inserts his own opinions regarding film here, and announces "I'm here to inform Modern Times of the Grammatical era's end, and the beginning of Flamboyance, especially in cinema." Godard boldly states that his film endeavors to signify the beginning of a renaissance of films that are unafraid of absurdity and pass by the merit of their ideas, not their formal structure and rigid lockstep with reality. If we had been lucky, more films would be have taken up this clarion call. Or, perhaps it is best that they didn't, and Weekend remains a singular experience.
After running some other drivers off the road, Roland wrecks his car, in one of the many audio-visual mismatches that serve to highlight the unreality of the film. First, the image of the crash and a scream from Corinne, then a cut back to the preceding moment of tranquil driving, then the crash again. Corinne comically mourns the loss of her handbag, a really nifty one from Hermes. Godard hits hard once more with his brutal critique of consumerism.
The film also contains several scenes of concentrated political commentary, one featuring a man dressed as Napoleon shouting seeming platitudes (which, in actuality, are rather stinging barbs striking at humanity's greatest follies), another featuring a juxtaposition of two political manifestos laid out by off screen characters while the onscreen characters stare and eat a sandwich. The effect of having two men spell out each other's views with perfect mental clarity is a very interesting technique and manages to make these sorts of scenes rather arresting in their unique setup.
Corinne and Roland have a number of meta-referential lines in the movie pertaining to 'fictional' characters within the film. They even set fire to Tom Thumb and Emily Bronte simply because they won't tell them the way to Oinville. However, they do take time to note that they're only fictional characters. When hitching a ride, they ask if the driver is in the real world, or a film. This perfectly compliments the film's aesthetic choice to embrace the absurd and refuse to tell a mundane and hyper-real story, instead presenting a gaudy theater of brilliant and provocative ideas.
In the end, Corinne and Roland kill Corinne's mother for a handsome inheritance, but become hostages of cannibal revolutionaries. As these hippy dippy beat poets-cum-Gaullist gourmands compose odes to the ocean and feast on the dead, the film closes with Corinne having a bit of long pork, and hears that she is eating Roland. Remarking upon its good taste, she decides to have more later. The audacious closing text still rings true- "FIN DU CINEMA", not just the end of this film, but all film.
Godard's hellish vision remains prescient in its political observations, staying mordantly hilarious and farcical even upon repeat viewings. It is a quite obnoxious film at times thanks to its attempts to distance its audience from its own internal reality, but it only does so to force viewers to contemplate its ideas seriously. It truly is the end of all cinema; after seeing it, no other movie will ever seem quite so fiercely intelligent, so belligerent, brilliant, or morbidly funny. I wouldn't have it any other way.
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