"Heaven Can Wait"
As the headline on ESPN.com reads, The Boston Tea Party all smiles hoisting the organization's 17th NBA title trophy. A well-deserved victory.
Before the series began I already understood deep inside my romantic cognition that this year, 2008, was not meant to be. But, believing and willing is all you can do. Even though there lied an innate sense of inevitable loss, you must always maintain hope and support. What would we be without? See, 2008, the number eight, is the year that the genesis of change, turnover, and upheaval take motion. I knew this. This journey to the finals, if we would have won, would have been nothing short of a unlikely fairy tale. And this, the age of humanity, is no such fairy tale. It's more beautiful than that. We rode into the finals with athleticism and potential. We didn't have Bynum. Ariza was still rusty from his early-season injury. These two the defensive forces that were lacking in the finals against the more aggressive, hungrier team, the Celtics.
We often talk about how the Lakers, as the official channel of Los Angeles sports, has the potential to drastically influence the collective esteem of a city detached and superficial. And, during the finals, the crowd was called out, for what else, lack of passion. In that Game 5 win, they responded. In the end, it came down to desire and experience. Jordan, Sasha, Ronny, and the young tyke bench fell short this year, but assuredly, they're quick learners and next year will come sage. We are a fragile cause, a movement barely out of infancy and already thrust into young adulthood, and indicatively, sometimes when we fail, we do so catastrophically, as in last night. We don't hold grudges, but do the ultimate motivator, a chip on our stubborn shoulder.
So, this headline "Heaven Can Wait", means something so much more profound and symbolic than the cliche reference suggests. New Sincerity is the journey toward sincerity, heaven on earth. Scroll down and peep my other blogs for further elaboration. But, surely, it can wait. Not much longer, but it can wait. I'm patient, and in a year, in 2009, we will be ready to consummate change. The number 9 is brilliant, it is conception.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Monday, June 9, 2008
obstacle 3
Leaving Boston, The Lakers are trailing 2-0, in a hole smaller than its appearance and inevitable in its presence. It ain't gonna be easy the ring sliding on Lakeshow fingers. Not this year. The moment of upheaval never is. The grotesque animal of past hegemonies, with malfeasance and stubborn, indignant disregard for its fateful reckoning, will fight till its inglorious demise. And the souls, lost, hesitant, or simply oblivious to the forthcoming waves of soul power, unwittingly or not, will aid those same oppressive institutions that have stolen and coerced their livelihood and repressed their soul power. Change always those bright-blooded few against the world. Old habits die hard.
So, it only makes sense that insofar this series hasn't been Celtics vs. Lakers, but Lakers vs. the world. Game 1 was sincerely a loss. The Celtics came out hungry, as expected when one's own fate lies waiting, and played mediocre. The Lakers played rattled, subpar and, although not without opportunities, deserved that Game 1 loss. It wasn't the few errand foul calls down the stretch that cost the Lakers victory, but the lack of execution. I have no qualms about that game, the bull will always come out charging. But, I also saw a Celtic club, for all its carnal hollering and testosterone and arrogance and intimidation, falls short of true confidence. I saw the facade up close, frail, insecure. A charade. The moments leading up to the Pierce injury saw moments of juvenile uncertainty in the eyes of supposed man-beast Kevin Garnett. All that fierce shouting, provocation, and redundant chest-pounding and head-knocking dissipating into cribbed fear.
"The Los Angeles Lakers should know by now not to expect any pity. The Lakers surely understand that they traded away their rights to sympathy, maybe permanently, when they shipped so little to Memphis and stole Pau Gasol...No one with a neutral interest in these NBA Finals is bound to feel sorry for the Zen Men. Or when they clinched a series-turning road win over the savvy Spurs on a non-call that the league later publicly acknowledged as erroneous," Marc Stein speaking reality, to be sure. But, let's apply some contextualizing. The Celtics didn't have the best offer on the table for KG, either. If not for McHale, KG could've easily been a Chi-Town phenomenon. Especially since Chicago offered up a better package of players. And, let's not be all revisionist about the Spurs series either. Those savvy Spurs until that awry 3-point attempt by Barry and uncalled foul, received the majority of the calls, similarly to the Celtics in this series.
I have no issue when a team I have love for loses deservingly, I only hate when the outcome arrives from unfairness. And Game 2 was an unfair night of inconsistent refereeing, no-calls, and overall, a game decided not by the players but by the zebras, the whistling herders that won't let the wild roam free. The first half was a joke, and I'll be the first to say when a foul isn't a foul or when there should or shouldn't have been a call. I live fair and I perceive fair. But, if it's getting called on one side, it should be the same on the other. The sheer amount of and-1's the Lakers were disparaged could have been sufficient enough to reverse the final score. As it were, symbolically, the Lakers lost, got knifed by the same way it all began, by a foul call. Down by 2, 104-102, the ghost call that sent Pierce to the line effectively ended the game. Only fitting.
The truth of the matter is the Lakers are the quicker, more athletic team, and for whatever disillusionment, perhaps that which constructs from appearance, the refs just don't believe this is true. I mean, KG looks so mean and dark, and screams and shoves his teammates. Gasol doesn't, he's soft. Let me tell ya, appearances are deceiving. So Pomo.
So, it only makes sense that insofar this series hasn't been Celtics vs. Lakers, but Lakers vs. the world. Game 1 was sincerely a loss. The Celtics came out hungry, as expected when one's own fate lies waiting, and played mediocre. The Lakers played rattled, subpar and, although not without opportunities, deserved that Game 1 loss. It wasn't the few errand foul calls down the stretch that cost the Lakers victory, but the lack of execution. I have no qualms about that game, the bull will always come out charging. But, I also saw a Celtic club, for all its carnal hollering and testosterone and arrogance and intimidation, falls short of true confidence. I saw the facade up close, frail, insecure. A charade. The moments leading up to the Pierce injury saw moments of juvenile uncertainty in the eyes of supposed man-beast Kevin Garnett. All that fierce shouting, provocation, and redundant chest-pounding and head-knocking dissipating into cribbed fear.
"The Los Angeles Lakers should know by now not to expect any pity. The Lakers surely understand that they traded away their rights to sympathy, maybe permanently, when they shipped so little to Memphis and stole Pau Gasol...No one with a neutral interest in these NBA Finals is bound to feel sorry for the Zen Men. Or when they clinched a series-turning road win over the savvy Spurs on a non-call that the league later publicly acknowledged as erroneous," Marc Stein speaking reality, to be sure. But, let's apply some contextualizing. The Celtics didn't have the best offer on the table for KG, either. If not for McHale, KG could've easily been a Chi-Town phenomenon. Especially since Chicago offered up a better package of players. And, let's not be all revisionist about the Spurs series either. Those savvy Spurs until that awry 3-point attempt by Barry and uncalled foul, received the majority of the calls, similarly to the Celtics in this series.
I have no issue when a team I have love for loses deservingly, I only hate when the outcome arrives from unfairness. And Game 2 was an unfair night of inconsistent refereeing, no-calls, and overall, a game decided not by the players but by the zebras, the whistling herders that won't let the wild roam free. The first half was a joke, and I'll be the first to say when a foul isn't a foul or when there should or shouldn't have been a call. I live fair and I perceive fair. But, if it's getting called on one side, it should be the same on the other. The sheer amount of and-1's the Lakers were disparaged could have been sufficient enough to reverse the final score. As it were, symbolically, the Lakers lost, got knifed by the same way it all began, by a foul call. Down by 2, 104-102, the ghost call that sent Pierce to the line effectively ended the game. Only fitting.
The truth of the matter is the Lakers are the quicker, more athletic team, and for whatever disillusionment, perhaps that which constructs from appearance, the refs just don't believe this is true. I mean, KG looks so mean and dark, and screams and shoves his teammates. Gasol doesn't, he's soft. Let me tell ya, appearances are deceiving. So Pomo.
Saturday, June 7, 2008
interpol: leif erikson
She says It helps with the lights out
Her rabid glow is like braille to the night.
She swears I'm a slave to the details
But if your life is such a big joke, why should I care?
The clock is set for nine but you know you're gonna make it eight.
So that you two can take some time, teach each other to reciprocate.
She feels that my sentimental side should be held with kid gloves
But she doesn't know that I left my urge in the icebox
She swears I'm just prey to the female,
Well then hook me up and throw me, baby cakes, cuz I like to get hooked.
The clock is set for nine but you know you're gonna make it eight.
All the people that you've loved they're all bound to leave some keepsakes.
I've been swinging all the time, think it's time to learn your way.
I picture you and me together in the jungle it will be ok.
I'll bring you when my lifeboat sails through the night
That is supposing you don't sleep tonight
It's like learning a new language
Helps me catch up on my mime
If you don't bring up those lonely parts
This could be a good time
You come here to me.
We'll collect those lonely parts and set them down
You come here to me...
She says brief things, her love's a pony
My love's subliminal
mccain
John McCain is just another political product of the postmodern hegemonic regime. To change, we must embrace change, for all its uncertainty, but more importantly, for all its potential. I'm currently residing in Montreal, Quebec, and even here, the sense of desperation and opportunity that this election entails is just as visceral. This moment, now, is not only American, it is a universal moment.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
lakers vs. celtics = new sincerity vs. pomo
So here we are, on the eve of a Lakers vs. Celtics NBA Finals, the two perennial forces that dominated the NBA airwaves throughout the 80s, the decade where the seeds of hypercapitalism were ever sown into the fabric of the industrial culture that have held us captive since, where the postmodern strangle we know now began its matriculation toward the vulnerable necks of our collective esteem. This series between legendary foes more than just basketball or sports, it's the symbolic culmination of the cyclical nature of transition, the final confrontation between a fading regime desperately pulling out all stops in a last-ditch effort to sustain its subliminal hegemony and the new, the fledgling movement finally prepared to come-of-age to reconstruct all the wrongs that have been wrong for so long. This is oppression, the masked illusion of contrived, postmodernity vs. change, the sincere journey toward empathy, embodiment, and the greatest beauty of all, Truth. This is a battle between being prisoners and thieves of time, and being with, finding the space in time. This, right here, this moment, is real.
This is destiny manifest. In sports and marketing are the two most succinct, indicative signifiers of where the collective esteem is moving, where it yearns to be. And this, Lakers vs. Celtics, is the most prime example. In my initial conceptions of New Sincerity, now 3 years ago, two colors always encapsulated what I felt, the potential I saw could be fulfilled: yellow and purple. The year the Lakers pushed the Suns to the brink of elimination was the same year I stumbled onto New Sincerity, the same year I found my path to lead. The following season when the team rocketed off to a supreme regular season start only to fall into disarray just as rapid and magnificently, I knew they were the reflective vessel for the fragile journey of New Sincerity, for the mountainous struggles and growing pains that lie in store for a baby asked to become a man to fight a beast with nothing behind its eyes, a beast that ingrained itself in us while we were lost in its spectacular spellbind. This, a rival more pervasive and unyielding than ever before, lifestyle.
When the Lakers lapsed that season, I knew we weren't yet ready. Nor was I, younger, naive, more stubbornly and uncompromisingly ideal. But, now, I am. We are. The Lakers of the 80s were Showtime. They were fluid, exciting, offensive, penetrating, a spectacle to watch. Like their floor general, they were Magic. Jerry West grew the components from within the organization, drafted and gave them opportunity to maturate and develop (this when it was easier, before free agency and quick-fixes). His motif was to not assemble sheer individual talent, but to find complementation, to concentrate individual personalities and skills in the ultimate mosaic, team chemistry, collaborative brilliance. The Lakers were the emblem of Los Angeles. Its personalities were diverse, effervescent, like movie characters. Their style was pure entertainment, fast, persuading, showy, Hollywood. The Celtics contrasted absolutely. Also homegrown, but the C's stormed with vicious, gritty intent, aggressive defense triggered by fiercely unadulterated hustle plays. Comparatively to the Lakers, there figures were stoic, hardened ones that rarely smiled. The Lakers thrived on talent and flow. The Celtics thrived on effort and rupture.
So, tomorrow it consummates. In green, we have the Boston Celtics, the last remnants of postmodernity. We have an organization that exemplifying the postmodern symptom, mortgaged its future by quickly-fixing its team for immediate success. The future for the next 3 years max. We have a team built around superstars, a unit dependent on the individual talent of 3. We have a Celtics team again built around brute force, intimidation, arrogance, defense, postmodern fracture and rupture. A team, thus far in the playoffs, playing without sustainment, fiendish like patterns of instant-gratification, inconsistent. We have a Celtics team where Garnett, their leader, gets angrier when his team thrives.
In yellow and purple, the new sincerity of the Los Angeles Lakers. We have a team composed of young players given time to develop, to find understanding in each other and become a cohesive unit. A team that has found bond despite culture and language barriers. We have biracialism, bilingualism, true internalization. We have a leader in Kobe Bryant that has finally become the leader he always fell short of being. He has become the most beautiful kind of leader, one that trust his teammates, that understands when to be firm, when to be a consultive, when his team needs his talent to carry them. He's a leader that has a smile that sparkles with sincerity when his team thrives, when they live their potential. He was a boy that learned from his mistakes, from his stubbornness, from his mistrust to become a man. We have a team with a leader who understands everyone is needed, every individual strength pertinent, to be complete, to consummate this championship journey. Like the Lakers of old, they have the same stylistic strength, offense, fluidity, pure speed, athleticism and agility. But as they've shown this postseason, the possibilities are limitless for pure talent when defensive effort and grit are learned. Talent finding focus and effort, whew, now that's revelation. We have a team and a leader with common flaws, but together, collaboratively, they are flawless. We have a team in the thick of the most postmodern, contrived, hypercapitalistic city, and they've found sincerity. Is this a precursor, will the City of Angels finally transition from its factory of contrivance to true, angelic beauty? Will our existence finally transition from movie magic to embody and become magic ourselves? Are we ready to join Ronny in the dance, our dance?
I believe so.
This is destiny manifest. In sports and marketing are the two most succinct, indicative signifiers of where the collective esteem is moving, where it yearns to be. And this, Lakers vs. Celtics, is the most prime example. In my initial conceptions of New Sincerity, now 3 years ago, two colors always encapsulated what I felt, the potential I saw could be fulfilled: yellow and purple. The year the Lakers pushed the Suns to the brink of elimination was the same year I stumbled onto New Sincerity, the same year I found my path to lead. The following season when the team rocketed off to a supreme regular season start only to fall into disarray just as rapid and magnificently, I knew they were the reflective vessel for the fragile journey of New Sincerity, for the mountainous struggles and growing pains that lie in store for a baby asked to become a man to fight a beast with nothing behind its eyes, a beast that ingrained itself in us while we were lost in its spectacular spellbind. This, a rival more pervasive and unyielding than ever before, lifestyle.
When the Lakers lapsed that season, I knew we weren't yet ready. Nor was I, younger, naive, more stubbornly and uncompromisingly ideal. But, now, I am. We are. The Lakers of the 80s were Showtime. They were fluid, exciting, offensive, penetrating, a spectacle to watch. Like their floor general, they were Magic. Jerry West grew the components from within the organization, drafted and gave them opportunity to maturate and develop (this when it was easier, before free agency and quick-fixes). His motif was to not assemble sheer individual talent, but to find complementation, to concentrate individual personalities and skills in the ultimate mosaic, team chemistry, collaborative brilliance. The Lakers were the emblem of Los Angeles. Its personalities were diverse, effervescent, like movie characters. Their style was pure entertainment, fast, persuading, showy, Hollywood. The Celtics contrasted absolutely. Also homegrown, but the C's stormed with vicious, gritty intent, aggressive defense triggered by fiercely unadulterated hustle plays. Comparatively to the Lakers, there figures were stoic, hardened ones that rarely smiled. The Lakers thrived on talent and flow. The Celtics thrived on effort and rupture.
So, tomorrow it consummates. In green, we have the Boston Celtics, the last remnants of postmodernity. We have an organization that exemplifying the postmodern symptom, mortgaged its future by quickly-fixing its team for immediate success. The future for the next 3 years max. We have a team built around superstars, a unit dependent on the individual talent of 3. We have a Celtics team again built around brute force, intimidation, arrogance, defense, postmodern fracture and rupture. A team, thus far in the playoffs, playing without sustainment, fiendish like patterns of instant-gratification, inconsistent. We have a Celtics team where Garnett, their leader, gets angrier when his team thrives.
In yellow and purple, the new sincerity of the Los Angeles Lakers. We have a team composed of young players given time to develop, to find understanding in each other and become a cohesive unit. A team that has found bond despite culture and language barriers. We have biracialism, bilingualism, true internalization. We have a leader in Kobe Bryant that has finally become the leader he always fell short of being. He has become the most beautiful kind of leader, one that trust his teammates, that understands when to be firm, when to be a consultive, when his team needs his talent to carry them. He's a leader that has a smile that sparkles with sincerity when his team thrives, when they live their potential. He was a boy that learned from his mistakes, from his stubbornness, from his mistrust to become a man. We have a team with a leader who understands everyone is needed, every individual strength pertinent, to be complete, to consummate this championship journey. Like the Lakers of old, they have the same stylistic strength, offense, fluidity, pure speed, athleticism and agility. But as they've shown this postseason, the possibilities are limitless for pure talent when defensive effort and grit are learned. Talent finding focus and effort, whew, now that's revelation. We have a team and a leader with common flaws, but together, collaboratively, they are flawless. We have a team in the thick of the most postmodern, contrived, hypercapitalistic city, and they've found sincerity. Is this a precursor, will the City of Angels finally transition from its factory of contrivance to true, angelic beauty? Will our existence finally transition from movie magic to embody and become magic ourselves? Are we ready to join Ronny in the dance, our dance?
I believe so.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
dream log: bowie and jesus
Probably my most viscerally enjoyable dream in recent memory. Historic. I had it in some Comfort INN in Amarillo, Texas on the first night of our journey through the American Midwest and into Montreal, Quebec.
The stage is set, the crowd awaiting Bowie under the starlight sky of an open field. He comes on, circa Diamond Dogs era, and the feeling's kinetic. Andy and I are close, if we wanted we could reach out pass a couple concert-goers and touch the stage. Bowie begins, and inexplicably, the crowd turns on him. A cup of water cuts through the air aimed in his direction. Then, another and the cups don't stop coming.
He falls to the floor, helpless. I hop on stage, Andy behind me, stepping in front and shielding him from the hostile collective. I look at him, my back rampaged by cups of water awry. He makes no attempt to meet my eyes, shattered in dejection. Intently, I say, "Bowie, have you heard of new sincerity?" It triggers something in him, he slowly raises his eyes.
I elaborate, "the age of humanity?"
He replies, spirit piqued "age of humanity?"
I see this and continue, "compromise."
His body guard rushes onto the stage. Bowie puts out his arms, and we help him to his feet. He's the Bowie we all love again, inspired. We ready for our escape. But, there's a problem, the stage is now elevated near the moon. I lean forward, look over the edge, and my knees go weak from vertigo. We all simply understand, unspoken, that the best plan is to jump, so I overcome my fear and take the long plunge.
The crowd, watching this transpire, is worried for us, or ashamed (they booed Bowie, man). We're falling, a long way down. So long it's slow and thinking has subsided to being. Andy, Bowie and his bodyguard land before me. As I near the ground, I sense doubt, this skepticism pervading from the crowd watching me below, telling me with their esteem I can't fly. There's this feeling in me that I can, as if it's always been there, just forgotten and built over. I believe, and it is, me flying given strength from an innate understanding. Something Robert relates in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance as Quality.
The crowd watches, all disbelief abstracted. Jealousy gone because they are up here with me, flying. This, a moment for all of us. I finally land, feet landing bare in the plush grass, and I see Bowie leaving with the help of his bodyguard.
"Watch out, they've got new sincerity" he says with that lovable British grin of his, talking to Jesus, who's apparently present in the crowd. Jesus steps out into sight, like hey man. I'm still perpetually smiling from my flight, "Jesus Christ!"
"Yeah?" he thinks I'm speaking to him. We laugh about it.
I've mentioned before, I experience my dreams very consciously and post-existentially, simultaneously experiencing the dream's emotion and weaving it. So, I'm laughing my ass off, the funnest dream ever. I hear Jake, a college buddy, "I don't know, it's good, but I don't know if I'd go see it, it's silly." I feel challenged, I can sense this raises some questions from the crowd and now they're caught in between.
"prophecy and comedy, what would this all be if it wasn't funny?" I reply. I can feel the collective esteem shift, agreeing with me. Jake, too.
The stage is set, the crowd awaiting Bowie under the starlight sky of an open field. He comes on, circa Diamond Dogs era, and the feeling's kinetic. Andy and I are close, if we wanted we could reach out pass a couple concert-goers and touch the stage. Bowie begins, and inexplicably, the crowd turns on him. A cup of water cuts through the air aimed in his direction. Then, another and the cups don't stop coming.
He falls to the floor, helpless. I hop on stage, Andy behind me, stepping in front and shielding him from the hostile collective. I look at him, my back rampaged by cups of water awry. He makes no attempt to meet my eyes, shattered in dejection. Intently, I say, "Bowie, have you heard of new sincerity?" It triggers something in him, he slowly raises his eyes.
I elaborate, "the age of humanity?"
He replies, spirit piqued "age of humanity?"
I see this and continue, "compromise."
His body guard rushes onto the stage. Bowie puts out his arms, and we help him to his feet. He's the Bowie we all love again, inspired. We ready for our escape. But, there's a problem, the stage is now elevated near the moon. I lean forward, look over the edge, and my knees go weak from vertigo. We all simply understand, unspoken, that the best plan is to jump, so I overcome my fear and take the long plunge.
The crowd, watching this transpire, is worried for us, or ashamed (they booed Bowie, man). We're falling, a long way down. So long it's slow and thinking has subsided to being. Andy, Bowie and his bodyguard land before me. As I near the ground, I sense doubt, this skepticism pervading from the crowd watching me below, telling me with their esteem I can't fly. There's this feeling in me that I can, as if it's always been there, just forgotten and built over. I believe, and it is, me flying given strength from an innate understanding. Something Robert relates in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance as Quality.
The crowd watches, all disbelief abstracted. Jealousy gone because they are up here with me, flying. This, a moment for all of us. I finally land, feet landing bare in the plush grass, and I see Bowie leaving with the help of his bodyguard.
"Watch out, they've got new sincerity" he says with that lovable British grin of his, talking to Jesus, who's apparently present in the crowd. Jesus steps out into sight, like hey man. I'm still perpetually smiling from my flight, "Jesus Christ!"
"Yeah?" he thinks I'm speaking to him. We laugh about it.
I've mentioned before, I experience my dreams very consciously and post-existentially, simultaneously experiencing the dream's emotion and weaving it. So, I'm laughing my ass off, the funnest dream ever. I hear Jake, a college buddy, "I don't know, it's good, but I don't know if I'd go see it, it's silly." I feel challenged, I can sense this raises some questions from the crowd and now they're caught in between.
"prophecy and comedy, what would this all be if it wasn't funny?" I reply. I can feel the collective esteem shift, agreeing with me. Jake, too.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
hot chip: look after me
Look after me and I will look after you
thats something we both forgot to do
I find it hard to see your face, du du de de hay
cannot remember it well enough, only the details such, then I see it in my head,
when I am with you its familiar and beautiful, and ?
As night comes in I know it better, seeing it clear again
Look after me and I will look after you
thats something we both forgot to do
'Cuz if I squint then I see your so, far from me, far from me
as if my miracle I see, the room I see ?
The words and images they come back to me, back to me
crystal clear in my head, but its behind the screen
Look after me and I will look after you
thats something we both forgot to do
Every time I see your face I break down and cry,
I see it in your family as they walk on by
Come back to me and I'll come back to you,
thats something we don't always do
thats something we both forgot to do
I find it hard to see your face, du du de de hay
cannot remember it well enough, only the details such, then I see it in my head,
when I am with you its familiar and beautiful, and ?
As night comes in I know it better, seeing it clear again
Look after me and I will look after you
thats something we both forgot to do
'Cuz if I squint then I see your so, far from me, far from me
as if my miracle I see, the room I see ?
The words and images they come back to me, back to me
crystal clear in my head, but its behind the screen
Look after me and I will look after you
thats something we both forgot to do
Every time I see your face I break down and cry,
I see it in your family as they walk on by
Come back to me and I'll come back to you,
thats something we don't always do
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
masculine/feminine
Part II of III triptych.
This, more than a trend. Change arising from humanity's most oppressed, this is a universal mode of redemption. Homosexuals were many of our greatest artists. LA, America. Africa. Women.
"...just as fundamentally man and woman are one, their problem must be one in essence. The soul in both is the same. The two live the same life, have the same feelings. Each is a complement of the other. The one cannot live without the other's active help.
But somehow or other man has dominated woman from ages past, and so woman has developed an inferiority complex. She has believed in the truth of man's interested teaching that she is inferior to him. But the seers among men have recognized her equal status."
Gospel spoken by Gandhi. Even with the deconstruction of gender identity, I feel it hardly arguable the fundamental dynamic between and with masculine/feminine. Everything has its place in our transits of change, in this ultimate struggle, and some are here to remind our forgetful minds of the universal nature eternally guiding us. Perhaps, the domestication of our most beloved counterparts, canine and feline, became to reiterate this woven truth in the universal fabric, this dynamic between masculine and feminine, of active and passive, of brute and persuasion, of two ones in eternal collaboration.
The oppression of her necessary to our journey. She can have multiple orgasms. If, perhaps, she began as the gender hegemony, would it not be conceivable, of no fault of her own, that woman and man would wholly succumb to the hedonism of sex? In this preoccupation where woman is boundless and man limited, less may have been achieved. Man became gender hegemony by brute physicality. While woman with her higher sensitivity and persuasion, may have hindered our transition from the physical to true spiritual embodiment.
And because of this, it may be that man became the most repressed, in the sexual act where man could not satiate the insatiable, where man was forced to maintain the facade of unwavering virility and strength. So, perhaps, man was destined to be the most tortured and repressed -- to create art, to enable transition. But, if we are to become what we are meant to be then we must meet as equals. This struggle needs us together, our mother's warm embrace.
"...who but woman, the mother of man, shows this [infinite capacity for suffering] in the largest measure? She shows it as she scarries the infant and feeds it during nine months and derives joy in the suffering involved. What can beat the suffering caused by the pangs of labour? But she forgets them in the joy of creation. Who again suffers daily so that her babe may wax from day to day? Let her transfer her love to the whole of humanity, let her forget that she ever was or can be the object of man's lust. And she will occupy her proud position by the side of man as his mother, maker and silent leader. It is given to her to teach the art of peace to the warring world thirsting for that nectar."
Gandhi.
This, more than a trend. Change arising from humanity's most oppressed, this is a universal mode of redemption. Homosexuals were many of our greatest artists. LA, America. Africa. Women.
"...just as fundamentally man and woman are one, their problem must be one in essence. The soul in both is the same. The two live the same life, have the same feelings. Each is a complement of the other. The one cannot live without the other's active help.
But somehow or other man has dominated woman from ages past, and so woman has developed an inferiority complex. She has believed in the truth of man's interested teaching that she is inferior to him. But the seers among men have recognized her equal status."
Gospel spoken by Gandhi. Even with the deconstruction of gender identity, I feel it hardly arguable the fundamental dynamic between and with masculine/feminine. Everything has its place in our transits of change, in this ultimate struggle, and some are here to remind our forgetful minds of the universal nature eternally guiding us. Perhaps, the domestication of our most beloved counterparts, canine and feline, became to reiterate this woven truth in the universal fabric, this dynamic between masculine and feminine, of active and passive, of brute and persuasion, of two ones in eternal collaboration.
The oppression of her necessary to our journey. She can have multiple orgasms. If, perhaps, she began as the gender hegemony, would it not be conceivable, of no fault of her own, that woman and man would wholly succumb to the hedonism of sex? In this preoccupation where woman is boundless and man limited, less may have been achieved. Man became gender hegemony by brute physicality. While woman with her higher sensitivity and persuasion, may have hindered our transition from the physical to true spiritual embodiment.
And because of this, it may be that man became the most repressed, in the sexual act where man could not satiate the insatiable, where man was forced to maintain the facade of unwavering virility and strength. So, perhaps, man was destined to be the most tortured and repressed -- to create art, to enable transition. But, if we are to become what we are meant to be then we must meet as equals. This struggle needs us together, our mother's warm embrace.
"...who but woman, the mother of man, shows this [infinite capacity for suffering] in the largest measure? She shows it as she scarries the infant and feeds it during nine months and derives joy in the suffering involved. What can beat the suffering caused by the pangs of labour? But she forgets them in the joy of creation. Who again suffers daily so that her babe may wax from day to day? Let her transfer her love to the whole of humanity, let her forget that she ever was or can be the object of man's lust. And she will occupy her proud position by the side of man as his mother, maker and silent leader. It is given to her to teach the art of peace to the warring world thirsting for that nectar."
Gandhi.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
game consouls
Been experiencing nights lately where I wake up in the thick of night and am not able to return to sleep. It may be a sign, haven't had it like this since living at home early in college. Back then, it would be the same, wake up around 3 or 4am and have an undeniable energy that compelled me to my desk -- a visceral eagerness to write, to create. Somewhere along my path, I lost that. Maybe as I've developed a level of comfort and contentment with myself that once virile creative force has been blunted, no longer needing to be exorcised in the meridian of the night. And lately, this has been tugging at me. As my production has wained (even though my main projects have reached pinnacle realization) over the last year, I've wondered where that hunger went, where went that creative life-force that once seized me? Well, I feel it's knocking on my door again, and in this moment, there's no lock.
Last night, I did some successful writing for The Trail of Dead, then watched King of Kong: A Fistful of Dollars, which I heard celebrated reviews about. But I didn't expect the poignancy and universal narrative that the documentary so deftly delivered. Now, up front, I do understand the pattern authorship the documentary took to tell a cogent and entertaining narrative. So I realize the contextual disadvantage I have in the reality of it. But, this is about the reality of the situation becoming a channel, a platform for art to evidence a microcosm of universal Truth that gets abstracted and sensationalized from the everyday of us -- that this is a romantic movement, that there is self-fulfillment and redemption, and that people may lose sight in the spectacle of false prophets, but will always have the potential to recognize and open themselves to the goodness of a true son.
Last night, I did some successful writing for The Trail of Dead, then watched King of Kong: A Fistful of Dollars, which I heard celebrated reviews about. But I didn't expect the poignancy and universal narrative that the documentary so deftly delivered. Now, up front, I do understand the pattern authorship the documentary took to tell a cogent and entertaining narrative. So I realize the contextual disadvantage I have in the reality of it. But, this is about the reality of the situation becoming a channel, a platform for art to evidence a microcosm of universal Truth that gets abstracted and sensationalized from the everyday of us -- that this is a romantic movement, that there is self-fulfillment and redemption, and that people may lose sight in the spectacle of false prophets, but will always have the potential to recognize and open themselves to the goodness of a true son.
Friday, March 21, 2008
los angeles and america
Part I of III blog triptych. This has been in draft since I began this. Was gonna elaborate in detail, but... Andy and I have an ongoing quip, (and even though Western academic has been equally necessary to our transition) each time we encounter a thick-worded philosophical text by a Western author, it's like "if this was written in the East, it would've been about a 1/4 as long" Besides, this has all been said, known, felt since us begun.
"The Day of Supreme Demise" as Ray Bradbury called it, has been ever mythologized in our history. And of course, in our commercial haste, sensationalized to be commodified. Like all historical record, history's dialog and its contextual process have been disconnected from our perception of it. Our abstraction of space from time has miscommunicated Judgment Day and The Apocalypse each as one, singular, spectacular event -- as a day that simply happens, without composition or moments.
As the Millennium neared, the religious right deemed it as The Moment of Judgment, and the collective esteem, religious or not, found similar interpretative incarnation of this happening. Whether it be an apathetic recognition of it, cataclysmic natural disaster, or the Y2k crash. But it was a moment in America that found us referential construction for the previously artistic and immaterial symbolism of Judgment Day, September 11th, 2001 or 9-11. More than politically and even in the semantics of its date, 9-11 was a tragic collective revelation, a 911 call to arms from a civilization slipping and torn. Yes, it occurred on the soil of America, but the reverberations of this event found our entire existence. It was the birth of a new sincerity -- from the most blamed, most guilty, most naive, most tortured, most liberated, most repressed, and most promising region, America. In the grand composition of an ironic existence striving to be sincere, it would only make sense that the impetus of our potential destiny be placed in the hands of the youngest country.
Make no mistake though, my heart belongs to a metaphorical Pangea. All signs point to that potential realization -- the advancements of mass communication and mass transit, the weakening of the Super Powers (at the very least in collective allegiance to country) spurred by a young generation cultivated in a more cultured, diverse social construction, enabled by hyper-media, immigration and dissatisfaction with the imperial conduct of their countries. And simply, a generation cultivated in a hyper-state of capitalism that wants more and new.
Why America? In simplicity, because in the place where the symptom is most pervasive, will rise minds that understand it most, and the deep resentment to resolve it. In him, the most flawed man, is our greatest potential. So, in this, it is Los Angeles as the seed. The City of Angels, the most epitomizing microcosm of America and this affliction. All the proponents of our transition toward a metaphorical Pangea are hinted in the makeup of Los Angeles -- a metropolitan so diverse. But in this, a place rootless and without a true voice. In Hollywood, the factory of affluence, beauty and magic. But in this, ultimate contrivance, gloss and vanity. Southern California, a place where substance has been substituted for personality and consequently, cool detachment and superficiality. We are young pups clambering for identity, compensating in a manifested state of artifice, and these moments, the fringe of hyperreality. So, the struggle and the transition is simple: can we, as characters in this grand narrative, humanize ourselves?
Truth lies in Judgment Day. We are in its days and moments now. Will we become the romantic existence we can be, or degrade into a pornographic film?
"The Day of Supreme Demise" as Ray Bradbury called it, has been ever mythologized in our history. And of course, in our commercial haste, sensationalized to be commodified. Like all historical record, history's dialog and its contextual process have been disconnected from our perception of it. Our abstraction of space from time has miscommunicated Judgment Day and The Apocalypse each as one, singular, spectacular event -- as a day that simply happens, without composition or moments.
As the Millennium neared, the religious right deemed it as The Moment of Judgment, and the collective esteem, religious or not, found similar interpretative incarnation of this happening. Whether it be an apathetic recognition of it, cataclysmic natural disaster, or the Y2k crash. But it was a moment in America that found us referential construction for the previously artistic and immaterial symbolism of Judgment Day, September 11th, 2001 or 9-11. More than politically and even in the semantics of its date, 9-11 was a tragic collective revelation, a 911 call to arms from a civilization slipping and torn. Yes, it occurred on the soil of America, but the reverberations of this event found our entire existence. It was the birth of a new sincerity -- from the most blamed, most guilty, most naive, most tortured, most liberated, most repressed, and most promising region, America. In the grand composition of an ironic existence striving to be sincere, it would only make sense that the impetus of our potential destiny be placed in the hands of the youngest country.
Make no mistake though, my heart belongs to a metaphorical Pangea. All signs point to that potential realization -- the advancements of mass communication and mass transit, the weakening of the Super Powers (at the very least in collective allegiance to country) spurred by a young generation cultivated in a more cultured, diverse social construction, enabled by hyper-media, immigration and dissatisfaction with the imperial conduct of their countries. And simply, a generation cultivated in a hyper-state of capitalism that wants more and new.
Why America? In simplicity, because in the place where the symptom is most pervasive, will rise minds that understand it most, and the deep resentment to resolve it. In him, the most flawed man, is our greatest potential. So, in this, it is Los Angeles as the seed. The City of Angels, the most epitomizing microcosm of America and this affliction. All the proponents of our transition toward a metaphorical Pangea are hinted in the makeup of Los Angeles -- a metropolitan so diverse. But in this, a place rootless and without a true voice. In Hollywood, the factory of affluence, beauty and magic. But in this, ultimate contrivance, gloss and vanity. Southern California, a place where substance has been substituted for personality and consequently, cool detachment and superficiality. We are young pups clambering for identity, compensating in a manifested state of artifice, and these moments, the fringe of hyperreality. So, the struggle and the transition is simple: can we, as characters in this grand narrative, humanize ourselves?
Truth lies in Judgment Day. We are in its days and moments now. Will we become the romantic existence we can be, or degrade into a pornographic film?
Thursday, March 20, 2008
dream log: outdoor ed
It's been awhile...
Whenever a dream I have has moments inside a house there's always undertones of recurrence, an understanding between me and my dreamworld that this house is a composite of all the houses that have found place in my memory's universe -- houses I've lived in, I've been in, stayed in, seen and that have blended and blurred into various incarnations to form location in the dreams my memory chooses to orchestrate for the night. And so it always feels like I've already been there.
It's beautiful, the memory within our infinite mind, and so grandly revealing to us within this universe. Our memories are always present -- not always remembered, but never forgotten, drifting in the vast, shapeless, perpetuating space of our mind. In a way, these are ours only. Memories, we as individuals, uniquely experienced. Yet, they are also touched and influenced by all, shared in creation and cultivation. So abstract and indirect, they may seem chaotic and random. But, at night in our dreams, they leave, return, disappear, reemerge, and ultimately come together to author a pattern, a story and song of sometimes overwhelming feeling and truth. As in life.
I am with two friends, a couple, lounging on an expansive white couch. The ceilings are high. The rich, velvety carpet like Pacific sand between toes. In the background are wide stairs with oak railing and a landing. Politely, my friends sitting across me are romancing, enjoying each other. While I slouch into the cushion, sadly content about being the lovelorn 3rd wheel. Watching them, there's a rebellion in me, as if they questioned my ability to love, dared that this is my fate, to be without.
Then she walks in. In waking life, a college crush. Someone I still see, albeit on occasion -- strange and somewhat stinging how you can be in such close quarters with a person, but be so distant from their warmth. She approaches, as I look to my friends. This, my moment of redemption, to prove my heart's lonesome demons wrong. She sits, finding her place beside me on the couch, her soft limbs close enough for her knee to brush mine. And I feel open, comfortable. the charming man I naturally am finds expression. And it's easy love, as she gets up and invites me back to her room. I boldly smile goodbye to my friends, inside secretly relieved.
We are outside, it's the porch of a cabin. The scene reminds me of my faint memories of 6th grade outdoor ed in Arrowhead, bordello moonlight and the afterglow of snowfall. We stand still walking, and emotions run rapid -- some spoken, which I can't recall, most emoted. I hint I love her, guarded but still honest. And she returns the sentiment. The revelation I see in her eyes, that shared intimation, washes over me like soul power. This is it. This is REAL.
As we continue on through the scenes, the silhouette stars and trees become streetlights and concrete. A dilapidated boutique appears, and we go in. It looks even worse inside, splintered and vandalized. But, cool collectibles are shown off on the shelves. She sees a corridor leading to another room, and heads in, looking back and beckoning me to follow. As she disappears into the deep corridor, I'm still graced. I follow after her, but when reaching the corridor, she's gone. It's a darkly cavernous, suffocating passageway, and when I call for her only my echo responds. I'm worried. Did something happen to her? She wouldn't just leave me. So I wait, left there alone. She never returns. I mildly feel comforted that if something did happen to her she would return to me upon its resolution.
As the space of my dream elapses, she never does. Until I see her taking instruction in class, unscathed, fine. And she just glances at me.
Whenever a dream I have has moments inside a house there's always undertones of recurrence, an understanding between me and my dreamworld that this house is a composite of all the houses that have found place in my memory's universe -- houses I've lived in, I've been in, stayed in, seen and that have blended and blurred into various incarnations to form location in the dreams my memory chooses to orchestrate for the night. And so it always feels like I've already been there.
It's beautiful, the memory within our infinite mind, and so grandly revealing to us within this universe. Our memories are always present -- not always remembered, but never forgotten, drifting in the vast, shapeless, perpetuating space of our mind. In a way, these are ours only. Memories, we as individuals, uniquely experienced. Yet, they are also touched and influenced by all, shared in creation and cultivation. So abstract and indirect, they may seem chaotic and random. But, at night in our dreams, they leave, return, disappear, reemerge, and ultimately come together to author a pattern, a story and song of sometimes overwhelming feeling and truth. As in life.
I am with two friends, a couple, lounging on an expansive white couch. The ceilings are high. The rich, velvety carpet like Pacific sand between toes. In the background are wide stairs with oak railing and a landing. Politely, my friends sitting across me are romancing, enjoying each other. While I slouch into the cushion, sadly content about being the lovelorn 3rd wheel. Watching them, there's a rebellion in me, as if they questioned my ability to love, dared that this is my fate, to be without.
Then she walks in. In waking life, a college crush. Someone I still see, albeit on occasion -- strange and somewhat stinging how you can be in such close quarters with a person, but be so distant from their warmth. She approaches, as I look to my friends. This, my moment of redemption, to prove my heart's lonesome demons wrong. She sits, finding her place beside me on the couch, her soft limbs close enough for her knee to brush mine. And I feel open, comfortable. the charming man I naturally am finds expression. And it's easy love, as she gets up and invites me back to her room. I boldly smile goodbye to my friends, inside secretly relieved.
We are outside, it's the porch of a cabin. The scene reminds me of my faint memories of 6th grade outdoor ed in Arrowhead, bordello moonlight and the afterglow of snowfall. We stand still walking, and emotions run rapid -- some spoken, which I can't recall, most emoted. I hint I love her, guarded but still honest. And she returns the sentiment. The revelation I see in her eyes, that shared intimation, washes over me like soul power. This is it. This is REAL.
As we continue on through the scenes, the silhouette stars and trees become streetlights and concrete. A dilapidated boutique appears, and we go in. It looks even worse inside, splintered and vandalized. But, cool collectibles are shown off on the shelves. She sees a corridor leading to another room, and heads in, looking back and beckoning me to follow. As she disappears into the deep corridor, I'm still graced. I follow after her, but when reaching the corridor, she's gone. It's a darkly cavernous, suffocating passageway, and when I call for her only my echo responds. I'm worried. Did something happen to her? She wouldn't just leave me. So I wait, left there alone. She never returns. I mildly feel comforted that if something did happen to her she would return to me upon its resolution.
As the space of my dream elapses, she never does. Until I see her taking instruction in class, unscathed, fine. And she just glances at me.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Monday, February 25, 2008
cheap thrills leave me quickly
Saw The Eye last night, the original version directed by The Pang Brothers, not the recent remake with Jessica Alba. I'm developing a feature horror screenplay titled The Trail of Dead and this 2002 Chinese import magnified some elements I want to address about contemporary horror.
The Eye was a mediocre Hollywood popcorn horror at best (except in Cantonese). Andy, who somehow stumbled into theaters for the American remake and watched the original with me, determined that the remake was surprisingly, sadly more polished than its source artifact. I already had a sneaking suspicion... The Pang Brothers got their shot at the American pie with 2007's The Messengers and needless to say, underwhelmed. Their direction of the The Eye epitomizes the fundamental stylistic praxis that have corroded the appeal and potential of the horror genre in the scope of cinema -- praxis that are outdated manifestations of postmodern quick-fix American slasher flicks.
We're used to our horror being centered around loud, invasive noises contrived to jolt, abrupt editing technique and camera angles asunder to evoke pseudo discomfort and tension. We're so use to cheap thrills, fractions of seconds of underdeveloped scenes that make us jump, then immediately leave us... and then we breathe and the cycle repeats itself. Us waiting and fiending for the next pseudo scare. Us anticipating the next fix. I'm not implying that these postmodern adornments in horror cinema are wholly irrelevant, only that they're meant for supplement not primary emotive device -- the jump-out-of-your-seat scare similar to slapstick in comedy, meant as minor accompaniment in the grand genre orchestra.
It's an intriguing cultural dynamic the variations between Chinese, Japanese and Korean cinema -- especially in horror where J-Horror and K-Horror are at the genre's forefront, but not 'C-Horror'.
...If you've been following my conceptual dribbles then you've caught breath of my personal cinematic recalibration, meaning as aesthetic. Horror (along with Science Fiction, Fantasy, etc.) because it lives and derives its truth from a polarized state of human reality, finds exception. It requires aesthetic to help achieve its end.
The Eye was a mediocre Hollywood popcorn horror at best (except in Cantonese). Andy, who somehow stumbled into theaters for the American remake and watched the original with me, determined that the remake was surprisingly, sadly more polished than its source artifact. I already had a sneaking suspicion... The Pang Brothers got their shot at the American pie with 2007's The Messengers and needless to say, underwhelmed. Their direction of the The Eye epitomizes the fundamental stylistic praxis that have corroded the appeal and potential of the horror genre in the scope of cinema -- praxis that are outdated manifestations of postmodern quick-fix American slasher flicks.
We're used to our horror being centered around loud, invasive noises contrived to jolt, abrupt editing technique and camera angles asunder to evoke pseudo discomfort and tension. We're so use to cheap thrills, fractions of seconds of underdeveloped scenes that make us jump, then immediately leave us... and then we breathe and the cycle repeats itself. Us waiting and fiending for the next pseudo scare. Us anticipating the next fix. I'm not implying that these postmodern adornments in horror cinema are wholly irrelevant, only that they're meant for supplement not primary emotive device -- the jump-out-of-your-seat scare similar to slapstick in comedy, meant as minor accompaniment in the grand genre orchestra.
It's an intriguing cultural dynamic the variations between Chinese, Japanese and Korean cinema -- especially in horror where J-Horror and K-Horror are at the genre's forefront, but not 'C-Horror'.
...If you've been following my conceptual dribbles then you've caught breath of my personal cinematic recalibration, meaning as aesthetic. Horror (along with Science Fiction, Fantasy, etc.) because it lives and derives its truth from a polarized state of human reality, finds exception. It requires aesthetic to help achieve its end.
Friday, February 22, 2008
gang of four: natural's not in it
The problem of leisure
What to do for pleasure
Ideal love a new purchase
A market of the senses
Dream of the perfect life
Economic circumstances
The body is good business
Sell out, maintain the interest
Remember Lot's wife
Renounce all sin and vice
Dream of the perfect life
This heaven gives me migraine
The problem of leisure
What to do for pleasure
Coercion of the senses
We are not so gullible
Our great expectations
A future for the good
Fornication makes you happy
No escape from society
Natural is not in it
Your relations are of power
We all have good intentions
But all with strings attached
Repackaged sex your interest
Repackaged sex your interest
Repackaged sex your interest
Repackaged sex your interest
Repackaged sex your interest
Repackaged sex your interest
The problem of leisure
What to do for pleasure
Ideal love a new purchase
A market of the senses
Dream of the perfect life
Economic circumstances
The body is good business
Sell out, maintain the interest
Remember Lot's wife
Renounce all sin and vice
Dream of the perfect life
This heaven gives me migraine
This heaven gives me migraine
This heaven gives me migraine
Sunday, February 17, 2008
meaning as aesthetic
I was at Blockbuster earlier after work. Had 2 online DVDs to trade-in. My plan was swoop an Asian horror (either A Tale of Two Sisters, The Eye or One Missed Call) and something American lite. None of the above were available so I settled for Takashi Miike's Ichi the Killer. Couldn't decide on the 2nd flick, scanned the new release section twice over. Wayfaring through the weak Blockbuster drama section, I hear "Hannah Takes the Stairs now available exclusively at Blockbuster"... Woody Allen pops into my mind, but then it circles back to me. Hannah Takes the Stairs, the trailer had promise, and I remember being irked that Owen Gleiberman reduced it to "mumblecore" in his review (prefer Schwarzbaum). I added Greta Gerwig as a MySpace friend solely on the trailer's merits... somewhat off-tangent, but peep the trailer for Quiet City. Anyway, I scooped it and was on my way with Ichi the Killer and Hannah Takes the Stairs... which nutshells me quite simply.
Just finished Hannah Takes the Stairs. Watched it with my roommate and others. I was watching, they were multi-tasking. Essentially, the room's permeating sentiment was that it was dull and mediocre. And really, I understand their point of perspective, but this stylistic discontent with Hannah harps at a broader cultural detachment that I'm wrestling to find compromise with: meaning as aesthetic. As an anecdote, I'll just mention they were fresh off a mini-One Tree Hill marathon before I put on Hannah so... Getting slightly irritated with some of the subtle guffs I made the comparison between reality-TV like Real World (which I know they watch) and the movie. I understand I'm in the minority, and I also understand that this is problematic, but I'd rather see the average, mundane of people and our existence than the ugliest of people manipulated for entertainment. It signifies our detachment from reality, or maybe just the incongruence between what we expect from movies and what the channel truly has to give.
Contextually, these docu-feels are closest to French New Wave cinema, which is complimentary, but also, may be Hannah and the body of these grassroot docu-feels' (or mumblecore as Gleiberman suggests) fundamental creative arrest. In meaning as aesthetic, it seems to me that the compromise is music, the revelations that came with the MTV music video. Stimulating the organic with moderated contrivance. Finding that balance between rousing the artwork with musical soul and cheapening into a soulless 90 min. music video. Despite its shortcomings, in the romantic transition, Hannah Takes the Stairs is a noble work, and glimpses into our truth: that movie magic is us.
Just finished Hannah Takes the Stairs. Watched it with my roommate and others. I was watching, they were multi-tasking. Essentially, the room's permeating sentiment was that it was dull and mediocre. And really, I understand their point of perspective, but this stylistic discontent with Hannah harps at a broader cultural detachment that I'm wrestling to find compromise with: meaning as aesthetic. As an anecdote, I'll just mention they were fresh off a mini-One Tree Hill marathon before I put on Hannah so... Getting slightly irritated with some of the subtle guffs I made the comparison between reality-TV like Real World (which I know they watch) and the movie. I understand I'm in the minority, and I also understand that this is problematic, but I'd rather see the average, mundane of people and our existence than the ugliest of people manipulated for entertainment. It signifies our detachment from reality, or maybe just the incongruence between what we expect from movies and what the channel truly has to give.
Contextually, these docu-feels are closest to French New Wave cinema, which is complimentary, but also, may be Hannah and the body of these grassroot docu-feels' (or mumblecore as Gleiberman suggests) fundamental creative arrest. In meaning as aesthetic, it seems to me that the compromise is music, the revelations that came with the MTV music video. Stimulating the organic with moderated contrivance. Finding that balance between rousing the artwork with musical soul and cheapening into a soulless 90 min. music video. Despite its shortcomings, in the romantic transition, Hannah Takes the Stairs is a noble work, and glimpses into our truth: that movie magic is us.
revival at the cinematheque
Cinema needs a structural reformation -- in how it packages itself, in the way it presents itself to us. Seeing Grindhouse in theaters last year drafted a promising outline for this reformation of the cinema experience. But, as mentioned, Grindhouse, conceived by Tarantino and Robert Rodriguez, is a rough draft and revisions still need be considered. In concept, Grindhouse is simply a remix -- recapturing and redressing the experience made popular by 60s and 70s movie houses that played B-movies and exploitation films as double and triple-features... mainly out of capital necessity.
The distinction is that Tarantino and Rodriguez (with the help of Eli Roth, Edgar Wright and Rob Zombie) personalized the entire cinematic experience. From the faux trailers to intermission to the actual pictures (Planet Terror and Death Proof), they created a thorough, blanketing cinematic atmosphere to immerse in. So, perhaps, the only modifications to the Grindhouse blueprint is its excessive run-time (191 minutes), and more broadly, that Grindhouse shouldn't be relegated to kitsch appeal and limited to only cineplexes. This can encompass all of cinema. There are already bargain double and triple-feature DVDs selling out there. Why not intentionalize the act, and not just randomly bundle together 3 abandoned, poorly-received popcorn flicks.
Again though, the 3 hrs. 11 min. run-time was exhausting. In this post-ADD era where the profile of short films have climbed and feature-lengths dip under the traditional 90 min. barrier with increasing regularity, even cinema flirting in the 2 hr. zone leans toward overdrawn. And this isn't meant to debase the epic 3 hour narratives, but constructing a concentrated cinematic experience centered around 2 feature-films each running around 45-60 min. in length would enable more efficient, mediated works of cinema and offer the audience a more economical and enveloping adventure complete with connective theme and adornments such as brief behind-the-scenes interviews, faux trailers, etc. ... and all in comfortable 1 hr. 45 minutes. But, the fulcrum relies on the collaboration of auteurs, at least in the onset. Inspired by Three...Extremes, where Fruit Chan, Chan-wook Park and Takashi Miike each offer up a 45 min. segment on the macabre, I imagined going to the cinema and experiencing a Sofia/Roman Coppola double-feature collaboration or a platform showcasing an upcoming auteur coupled with an established artist like P.T. Anderson. Or even embracing our "mash-up" construction, the double-feature could also be David Jacobson's Down in the Valley and Scorsese's Taxi Driver or Wes Anderson's Rushmore and Ashby's Harold and Maude, whatever the auteur sites as his/her fundamental inspiration for the piece.
...As a side note: America, we need to stand up and recognize our true artists -- we may be the only region that rather than celebrate our artists, makes the process more difficult for them.
The distinction is that Tarantino and Rodriguez (with the help of Eli Roth, Edgar Wright and Rob Zombie) personalized the entire cinematic experience. From the faux trailers to intermission to the actual pictures (Planet Terror and Death Proof), they created a thorough, blanketing cinematic atmosphere to immerse in. So, perhaps, the only modifications to the Grindhouse blueprint is its excessive run-time (191 minutes), and more broadly, that Grindhouse shouldn't be relegated to kitsch appeal and limited to only cineplexes. This can encompass all of cinema. There are already bargain double and triple-feature DVDs selling out there. Why not intentionalize the act, and not just randomly bundle together 3 abandoned, poorly-received popcorn flicks.
Again though, the 3 hrs. 11 min. run-time was exhausting. In this post-ADD era where the profile of short films have climbed and feature-lengths dip under the traditional 90 min. barrier with increasing regularity, even cinema flirting in the 2 hr. zone leans toward overdrawn. And this isn't meant to debase the epic 3 hour narratives, but constructing a concentrated cinematic experience centered around 2 feature-films each running around 45-60 min. in length would enable more efficient, mediated works of cinema and offer the audience a more economical and enveloping adventure complete with connective theme and adornments such as brief behind-the-scenes interviews, faux trailers, etc. ... and all in comfortable 1 hr. 45 minutes. But, the fulcrum relies on the collaboration of auteurs, at least in the onset. Inspired by Three...Extremes, where Fruit Chan, Chan-wook Park and Takashi Miike each offer up a 45 min. segment on the macabre, I imagined going to the cinema and experiencing a Sofia/Roman Coppola double-feature collaboration or a platform showcasing an upcoming auteur coupled with an established artist like P.T. Anderson. Or even embracing our "mash-up" construction, the double-feature could also be David Jacobson's Down in the Valley and Scorsese's Taxi Driver or Wes Anderson's Rushmore and Ashby's Harold and Maude, whatever the auteur sites as his/her fundamental inspiration for the piece.
...As a side note: America, we need to stand up and recognize our true artists -- we may be the only region that rather than celebrate our artists, makes the process more difficult for them.
Saturday, February 16, 2008
homage is the new spoof
This blog's been a month delayed seeing as Meet The Spartans is essentially out of theaters.
The contemporary spoof is outdated, and a purely capitalistic detriment to the transition toward romantic movement. It was dug up in the late 90s with the Scary Movie franchise, which in itself was necessary to deconstruct the frivolous slasher films that also saw revival. But since, and reflected by the latter Scary Movies, the genre has promptly become archaic, especially in this collective post-millennium esteem. Fundamentally, how can it be a "spoof" if the spoof itself is more inane than the original materials it derives itself from? The term "stupid funny" inherently and tellingly postmodern.
Sure the argument could be made that its precursors Airplane!, Naked Gun, Hot Shots worked on the same premise, but the distinction is that the former had, or at least aspired for some cinematic validity. Analyze the current stock-crop of spoofs (i.e. Date Movie, Epic Movie, Meet the Spartans) and an effort for credible narrativization and overall production value is neglected. These, sadly products on an assembly line to get in, get your money and get the hell out.
These soulless products (Date Movie, Epic Movie, Meet the Spartans), which are mass-distributed by FOX and unconsciously shat out by Aaron Seltzer and Jason Friedberg, are wholly founded in mean-spirited provocation, which again separates the former from the latter; the former lot of old-school spoofs exploiting haphazard mirth for its humor. But do we blame FOX for distributing this romantic degradation, or even the two douche bags, Aaron Seltzer and Jason Friedberg? No. We, as a collective, must signify these movies as problematic. Because hypercapitalism has no ties to us. It'll just keep insatiably satiating itself.
There's already a compromise in place: kitsch cinema, as delineated by the Grindhouse features Deathproof and Planet Terror, Edgar Wright's Shaun of the Dead and Hot Fuzz, and James Gunn's Slither or even, Roth's Hostel. The homage is the new spoof. Cinema that is existentially satirical, but founded in genuine admiration of its root material.
The contemporary spoof is outdated, and a purely capitalistic detriment to the transition toward romantic movement. It was dug up in the late 90s with the Scary Movie franchise, which in itself was necessary to deconstruct the frivolous slasher films that also saw revival. But since, and reflected by the latter Scary Movies, the genre has promptly become archaic, especially in this collective post-millennium esteem. Fundamentally, how can it be a "spoof" if the spoof itself is more inane than the original materials it derives itself from? The term "stupid funny" inherently and tellingly postmodern.
Sure the argument could be made that its precursors Airplane!, Naked Gun, Hot Shots worked on the same premise, but the distinction is that the former had, or at least aspired for some cinematic validity. Analyze the current stock-crop of spoofs (i.e. Date Movie, Epic Movie, Meet the Spartans) and an effort for credible narrativization and overall production value is neglected. These, sadly products on an assembly line to get in, get your money and get the hell out.
These soulless products (Date Movie, Epic Movie, Meet the Spartans), which are mass-distributed by FOX and unconsciously shat out by Aaron Seltzer and Jason Friedberg, are wholly founded in mean-spirited provocation, which again separates the former from the latter; the former lot of old-school spoofs exploiting haphazard mirth for its humor. But do we blame FOX for distributing this romantic degradation, or even the two douche bags, Aaron Seltzer and Jason Friedberg? No. We, as a collective, must signify these movies as problematic. Because hypercapitalism has no ties to us. It'll just keep insatiably satiating itself.
There's already a compromise in place: kitsch cinema, as delineated by the Grindhouse features Deathproof and Planet Terror, Edgar Wright's Shaun of the Dead and Hot Fuzz, and James Gunn's Slither or even, Roth's Hostel. The homage is the new spoof. Cinema that is existentially satirical, but founded in genuine admiration of its root material.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Unfortunately, I'll have to be taking a hiatus from this... takin Spanish 3 at Santa Monica. Last class to officially receive my BA, and I'll need to academically work my ass off like I've never before to pass. Last time I took Spanish 2 was 3 years ago, and retention... well, I didn't retain much, actually none.
So I'll be popping up in free moments to jot a blog, but sometimes obligations have to take the place of priorities. This brain has some heavy exertion coming its direction.
So I'll be popping up in free moments to jot a blog, but sometimes obligations have to take the place of priorities. This brain has some heavy exertion coming its direction.
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