I finished this novel the other day, and near the quite surprising end, I found myself actually crying. It's a wonderful book -- insightful, beautifully written, interesting, and may very well be a contender for best novel by E. M. Forester, although I haven't reread A Passage to India in quite some time, so it remains to be seen.
Mrs. Wilcox must be the most important character in the novel. She is manipulative, frightening, and embodies an interpretation of the woman's movement in the sense that she is felt more than she is seen, and that her most powerful act in the novel is something she writes. Margaret and Helen do not write, they simply discuss writing, and mostly men's writing. But Mrs. Wilcox is a writer. She goes out with Margaret for stationary, and her note concerning her plans for Howard's End is the most provocative bit of information in the plot, pulling up truths hidden deep within the superficial goings on of the Wilcox family. I don't know if I like Mrs. Wilcox or not -- but her influence on the novel is transcendent, and cannot be denied.
Her involvement with the plot reminds me a little of the women of Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness: influencing their husbands, weaving the future of men from small offices of the African Trading Company, and pushing and pulling men out of and into various destinies. Mrs. Wilcox doesn't so much as demand, as she suggests -- but her presence commands, and like many great leaders who become even more persuasive in myth than in life, she appears to control matters when she isn't present.
The forward says Only connect..., which is of great importance to Margaret, who feels Mr. Wilcox's tragic flaw is his inability to connect. But what is this connection she so craves and desires for herself and for others? I want to imagine it as the moments where we break the Subject/Object hierarchy and simply exist together. Yet, I'm not sure much of this connecting occurs in the novel. If it does, it is between Margaret and Helen. I'm almost sure that this book is about sisterhood as much as it is about homes, land, economy, love, family, and nature. I don't know if there is another relationship where the kind of connection described as preferred occurs. It may occur between Helen and Mr. Bast -- but so much social consequence occurred to put them together and break them apart, I feel that option is troubled.
There is so much more in this book -- so much about land ownership, possession, class (of course), women, men, outcasts (Tibby), sons, parenting, fathers, mothers, siblings, friends. It's quite a package. I think the narrator quite unreliable, but who knows.
I think I will read it again, maybe not soon, but certainly. It seems that Forester owes a great deal to Austen, Dickens, Bronte, and probably the whole Victorian era. Its definitely Modernist -- there are passages that seem to be written in stream of consciousness.
I'm getting the film from Netflix in a few days. Can't wait to see Emma Thompson. She just simply is Margaret.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Monday, September 15, 2008
Have you read Infinite Jest?
In 1996 I was seventeen, a high school drop out, in beauty school, and dating a boy who liked to read as much as I did. However, while I was busy reading William Sommerset Maugham, Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and the like, my boyfriend was scouring the book review section of the Los Angeles Times for new fiction to read. Ever the insolent competitor, I began to at least try and keep up with him, and bought this new massive novel that all the papers were talking about, Infinite Jest. I managed to read it on breaks in between lessons on how to tint and perm hair. It was funny; it was crass; it was slightly incomprehensible; there were these footnotes that would take forever to get through, but always seemed worth it; I loved it. My snobby soon to be ex boyfriend had the book, but couldn't get through it, and I considered my tackling of it a triumph, and soon began recommending it to those I felt would enjoy it.
Five years later, I would still be recommending it to certain, special people. When I ran into the boyfriend, he would ask me, like a dunce, "oh, did you ever get around to reading Infinite Jest?", and I would have to remind him that I read it before he did. I recall the previous not only in the attempt to prove my ex a pretentious dufus (and myself?), but also to show that even betwixt rancorous old lovebirds there stands the mutual appreciation of David Foster Wallace and Infinite Jest. It's always on my list.
There are others, certainly more well read than I, who have loved this book with a fierceness I haven't approached, yet. Brandon wrote an eloquent and lovely synopsis here. I haven't read the novel in a few years, so I can't remember all of the plot and sub plots that dominate the pages. What I do recall is knowing, even as an uneducated mid-teen, that this book was special, and was something to be paid attention to, and demanded to be shared. It's a guide to an era I am familiar with, but that many fail to understand, or find reason for. It tries. It overachieves and conquers, and yet tragedy befalls it's every turn. It is like Shakespeare. It makes the simple expand into the infinitely complicated. It's so funny.
The novel arrived at a time in my life when my creative energy was gathering a lot of momentum. I was writing all the time: letters, prose, and stories. None of it comes close to the genius of Wallace, but it does remind me that he had this energy that shone out of his work. His energy and prolific writing style were inescapable.
He passed away, yesterday. He apparently committed suicide by hanging. My reaction to this reminds me of when I read that Hemingway had killed himself. Although I believe Hemingway was 20 years older than Wallace, and his suicide occurred long before I was born, I still felt a loss that was indescribable. Valuing someone's art, and even a general consensus that someone's art is valuable, is no real basis for a hope that the individual will feel valued to the extent that life becomes tolerable. And even though I believe in free will, and know that there may be no connection whatsoever, I can't help but be frustrated for the American artist's plight in a culture glutted with false promises of meaning and satisfaction. For some, it never comes.
On the other hand, Wallace's last action doesn't surprise me. The irony of his death is in line with his work. However, the loss remains. The immediate future of American Literature is darkened by his demise. I will miss reading something new from DFW.
Also, as he was an instructor at Pomona College, I would like to take this opportunity to share with you that he was a much beloved professor, and that for those of you who feel you are not appreciated, or not of any use, or fighting a rising tide of apathy that holds no promise of ebbing, let me assure you, you are loved and esteemed as much, if not more, than he was and is. It may not keep you off the ladder, but it is my attempt at consolation for those who search for meaning in existence.
Five years later, I would still be recommending it to certain, special people. When I ran into the boyfriend, he would ask me, like a dunce, "oh, did you ever get around to reading Infinite Jest?", and I would have to remind him that I read it before he did. I recall the previous not only in the attempt to prove my ex a pretentious dufus (and myself?), but also to show that even betwixt rancorous old lovebirds there stands the mutual appreciation of David Foster Wallace and Infinite Jest. It's always on my list.
There are others, certainly more well read than I, who have loved this book with a fierceness I haven't approached, yet. Brandon wrote an eloquent and lovely synopsis here. I haven't read the novel in a few years, so I can't remember all of the plot and sub plots that dominate the pages. What I do recall is knowing, even as an uneducated mid-teen, that this book was special, and was something to be paid attention to, and demanded to be shared. It's a guide to an era I am familiar with, but that many fail to understand, or find reason for. It tries. It overachieves and conquers, and yet tragedy befalls it's every turn. It is like Shakespeare. It makes the simple expand into the infinitely complicated. It's so funny.
The novel arrived at a time in my life when my creative energy was gathering a lot of momentum. I was writing all the time: letters, prose, and stories. None of it comes close to the genius of Wallace, but it does remind me that he had this energy that shone out of his work. His energy and prolific writing style were inescapable.
He passed away, yesterday. He apparently committed suicide by hanging. My reaction to this reminds me of when I read that Hemingway had killed himself. Although I believe Hemingway was 20 years older than Wallace, and his suicide occurred long before I was born, I still felt a loss that was indescribable. Valuing someone's art, and even a general consensus that someone's art is valuable, is no real basis for a hope that the individual will feel valued to the extent that life becomes tolerable. And even though I believe in free will, and know that there may be no connection whatsoever, I can't help but be frustrated for the American artist's plight in a culture glutted with false promises of meaning and satisfaction. For some, it never comes.
On the other hand, Wallace's last action doesn't surprise me. The irony of his death is in line with his work. However, the loss remains. The immediate future of American Literature is darkened by his demise. I will miss reading something new from DFW.
Also, as he was an instructor at Pomona College, I would like to take this opportunity to share with you that he was a much beloved professor, and that for those of you who feel you are not appreciated, or not of any use, or fighting a rising tide of apathy that holds no promise of ebbing, let me assure you, you are loved and esteemed as much, if not more, than he was and is. It may not keep you off the ladder, but it is my attempt at consolation for those who search for meaning in existence.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Coming soon...
...an update on my vacation to Puerto Vallarta coupled with an analysis of Night of the Iguana (the film), my progress in the PhD application process, and general exciting news having to do with Shakespeare, poetry, Dickens, Long Beach, smelly people I have to sit by in class, new pictures, and plans. Soon!
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
First days...
My niece had her first day of kindergarden today. I am usually a little scared for my little ones; elementary school can be so influential on one's life. It was for me, anyhow (see institutionalized prejudice, bullying, bullying by a teacher, sexual harassment, as well as simply falling through the cracks). I have tried to supplement my nieces' government regulated education with controversial ideas like the people living here before Europeans were slaughtered in order for the colonizers to steal their land, homes, and goods, as well as Thanksgiving is a myth, and pressure to participate in religious holiday celebrations like is in violation of the separation of church and state -- including saluting the flag. I'm amazed that parents aren't up in arms about their children's education. I don't think I will send my kids to public school. I'm not a snob! Really! I don't like not having any control over who my children spend time with, and I REALLY don't like not having control over the quality of their education. Of course, I don't have any children. Yet.
I had my first day of the Fall 2008 semester today, at Cal State Dominguez Hills. I have five classes, three are English. I am taking British Lit: Victorian to Modern, Shakespeare, and African American Poetry and Drama. I'm revisiting a lot of lit that I love, including Othello, Romeo and Juliet, Heart of Darkness, and Raisin in the Sun, as well as reading some works for the first time, like Tennyson, Top Dog/Underdog, and Measure for Measure. I'm excited about these classes.
The instructor I have for African American Poetry and Drama is a really good guy. I don't know how to explain why I like him. I like his manner. He's an African American Literature specialist, and he's all about discussion in class. He just seems like a really good person. He also makes a concerted effort to dress and groom well and is always squeaky clean. Very polite, too. He is the instructor I had for Literary Criticism, and despite my frustration with the texts in that class I had a great time with him.
The other two teachers I have this semester are new (to me). There is Fuer, and White. Fuer is the Shakespeare instructor. She opened her introduction today by declaring that if we were taking this class under the impression we wouldn't have to read, write, or think, then we could drop, no questions asked. I loved that. She knows her stuff, she's tough, she wears her feelings on her face (I do too -- it's a blessing and a curse), and she hates nonsense and excuses. Finally. I've heard that her favorite thing to say is where is that in the text. A woman after my own heart.
Finally, the instructor I have for Brit Lit is boring, but not dumb. I have a feeling that it will be my least favorite -- there were already a lot of sub-par discussions in class. I'll try to raise the bar -- but sometimes I'm just outnumbered and banging my head against a brick wall. I LOVE Heart of Darkness, and want to expand my thesis for a paper, so it won't be all bad. And Great Expectations kind of follows that triangle desire diverted thing I've been thinking so much about.
There is a pack of about four or five students that I have all three classes with. One is this kid who looks like Dawson from Dawson's Creek, and who annoyed the heck out of me in Poetry and Restoration Brit Lit last semester. He would give these comments in class that sounded like he was really pleased that he seemed to be thinking critically, and gave them in such a way that he imagined he was doing everyone a favor in speaking his mind. In poetry class, after he tried to suggest that Blake was not using symmetry in his Tiger/Lamb poems I finally had to burst out and say, "What you're saying is absurd. It's not smart. It's not clever. It's absurd." I felt guilty afterward. Then, one day after class he came up behind me and swatted a bee away that had landed on me, I felt really guilty. I'm going to try to be more tolerant of Dawson this time around, but man, THREE classes, back to back. I think it was Blythe who said, it won't be the quality of your work that suffers, but the quality of who you work with will go way down. Have I mentioned that Blythe is right about everything?
I'm sure there will be updates as the semester progresses. The other classes I'm taking are Humanities: Gender, Race, Class, and Natural Disasters. Hey, they kind of sound related! Teehee.
I had my first day of the Fall 2008 semester today, at Cal State Dominguez Hills. I have five classes, three are English. I am taking British Lit: Victorian to Modern, Shakespeare, and African American Poetry and Drama. I'm revisiting a lot of lit that I love, including Othello, Romeo and Juliet, Heart of Darkness, and Raisin in the Sun, as well as reading some works for the first time, like Tennyson, Top Dog/Underdog, and Measure for Measure. I'm excited about these classes.
The instructor I have for African American Poetry and Drama is a really good guy. I don't know how to explain why I like him. I like his manner. He's an African American Literature specialist, and he's all about discussion in class. He just seems like a really good person. He also makes a concerted effort to dress and groom well and is always squeaky clean. Very polite, too. He is the instructor I had for Literary Criticism, and despite my frustration with the texts in that class I had a great time with him.
The other two teachers I have this semester are new (to me). There is Fuer, and White. Fuer is the Shakespeare instructor. She opened her introduction today by declaring that if we were taking this class under the impression we wouldn't have to read, write, or think, then we could drop, no questions asked. I loved that. She knows her stuff, she's tough, she wears her feelings on her face (I do too -- it's a blessing and a curse), and she hates nonsense and excuses. Finally. I've heard that her favorite thing to say is where is that in the text. A woman after my own heart.
Finally, the instructor I have for Brit Lit is boring, but not dumb. I have a feeling that it will be my least favorite -- there were already a lot of sub-par discussions in class. I'll try to raise the bar -- but sometimes I'm just outnumbered and banging my head against a brick wall. I LOVE Heart of Darkness, and want to expand my thesis for a paper, so it won't be all bad. And Great Expectations kind of follows that triangle desire diverted thing I've been thinking so much about.
There is a pack of about four or five students that I have all three classes with. One is this kid who looks like Dawson from Dawson's Creek, and who annoyed the heck out of me in Poetry and Restoration Brit Lit last semester. He would give these comments in class that sounded like he was really pleased that he seemed to be thinking critically, and gave them in such a way that he imagined he was doing everyone a favor in speaking his mind. In poetry class, after he tried to suggest that Blake was not using symmetry in his Tiger/Lamb poems I finally had to burst out and say, "What you're saying is absurd. It's not smart. It's not clever. It's absurd." I felt guilty afterward. Then, one day after class he came up behind me and swatted a bee away that had landed on me, I felt really guilty. I'm going to try to be more tolerant of Dawson this time around, but man, THREE classes, back to back. I think it was Blythe who said, it won't be the quality of your work that suffers, but the quality of who you work with will go way down. Have I mentioned that Blythe is right about everything?
I'm sure there will be updates as the semester progresses. The other classes I'm taking are Humanities: Gender, Race, Class, and Natural Disasters. Hey, they kind of sound related! Teehee.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
From the Vacation, the mind wanders and wants to get lost.
Being away from the U.S. -- watching American television is depressing. Except for the Simpsons, which is oddly a relief. Watched an episode of Oprah -- most of the cast of the Cosby show was on -- and while my sentiment and nostolgia were aroused, I was mostly saddened that Bill Cosby is apparantly ill or ailing or just old and ill-looking. Growing up, my brothers and I (the four of us shared two rooms) would listen to his comedy tapes as we went to sleep. I suppose he was my mammy at bedtime. He was comforting. When I see him on TV (or like when I saw him in person two years ago), I trust him implicitly. I don't believe for one second he would do anything wrong to me or anyone else. He is my television father. Of course most of my father figures have come from TV. There was Sam from Cheers; he always seemed to be the nice guy, if sex wasn't involved. However, for all the Michael Landons and Mr. Rogers (who I did love), I think Bill Cosby comes out on top as my #1 TV surrogate father.
I remember Bill holding his TV daughters when they had been in some sort of trouble with friends or boys. This is something my father never did. Of course my father held me as a baby, but he didn't hold me when I needed comfort. He was no shoulder to cry on -- he's not a giver of tissue or an offerer of a sleeve. He's a stony man with something more important than your tears on his mind. He's a man who when a lovely speech was being read to him about his daughter and her impact on the school she got herself through and the award she was to receive could be found leafing through the purple program appearing uninterested. He has been the father deathly afraid of being branded a nepotist, failing to understand that he is still free to support, praise, comfort, and love his children. Yeah, if you haven't noticed, I'm working through some issues here.
On Oprah, there was some talk about the Cosby show itself, about how it portrayed an unrealistic situation within a black family, possibly discouraging black viewers. I never knew of this controversy, because I was watching this in a white neighborhood and thinking to my little white self, these are just people -- a big family, like mine, I wish I had such a big house, with my own room -- and I wish I had a dad that cared that much about what was going on in my life and would put his arm around me and tell me I was special and smart. A dad that believed in me. A dad that wanted me to go and get what I wanted out of life.
Listening to BIll Cosby at night before bed stepped in as that voice to say get out, get out of a bad situation and find your own road. I took my dad to see Bill Cosby at the OC Fair last year, and it was less meaningful to him than to me. The reality hits then -- I only have one dad. It's not the funny, charismatic person on the stage. It's the bored and uncomfortable white man down the way.
Saying goodbye to the fantasies that got me through the ideas I held on to in my youth has been hard. It's all part of the death of youth. The countdown to 29-07-09, when I will be thirty years old, with no fanfare, but maybe, with some hope. Kissing things goodbye only means that you create a space for more things to kiss. So here's goodbye to all the stand-in dads that I leaned on in times of dad-abandon. Thanks. I needed that.
I remember Bill holding his TV daughters when they had been in some sort of trouble with friends or boys. This is something my father never did. Of course my father held me as a baby, but he didn't hold me when I needed comfort. He was no shoulder to cry on -- he's not a giver of tissue or an offerer of a sleeve. He's a stony man with something more important than your tears on his mind. He's a man who when a lovely speech was being read to him about his daughter and her impact on the school she got herself through and the award she was to receive could be found leafing through the purple program appearing uninterested. He has been the father deathly afraid of being branded a nepotist, failing to understand that he is still free to support, praise, comfort, and love his children. Yeah, if you haven't noticed, I'm working through some issues here.
On Oprah, there was some talk about the Cosby show itself, about how it portrayed an unrealistic situation within a black family, possibly discouraging black viewers. I never knew of this controversy, because I was watching this in a white neighborhood and thinking to my little white self, these are just people -- a big family, like mine, I wish I had such a big house, with my own room -- and I wish I had a dad that cared that much about what was going on in my life and would put his arm around me and tell me I was special and smart. A dad that believed in me. A dad that wanted me to go and get what I wanted out of life.
Listening to BIll Cosby at night before bed stepped in as that voice to say get out, get out of a bad situation and find your own road. I took my dad to see Bill Cosby at the OC Fair last year, and it was less meaningful to him than to me. The reality hits then -- I only have one dad. It's not the funny, charismatic person on the stage. It's the bored and uncomfortable white man down the way.
Saying goodbye to the fantasies that got me through the ideas I held on to in my youth has been hard. It's all part of the death of youth. The countdown to 29-07-09, when I will be thirty years old, with no fanfare, but maybe, with some hope. Kissing things goodbye only means that you create a space for more things to kiss. So here's goodbye to all the stand-in dads that I leaned on in times of dad-abandon. Thanks. I needed that.
Friday, August 15, 2008
Big Baby!
At the Long Beach Museum of Art, a large orange fiberglass baby measuring fifteen feet tall has held court for the last year or so. Amidst the post-nuclear charm and malice that dance around Long Beach's Ocean Blvd. waterfront, the stark and tragically oversized infant has brought a sense of urgency; standing so aloft and so aglow, the Big Baby, as we affectionately called him and yelled out in the car as we passed him, helped us see that our young nation is awkward and lonely, goofy and imposing. I loved it. I thought it powerfully metaphoric, and even a little rebellious, especially for our LBMA, known for it's collection of impressionist works, and strange colored pencil 1980's works.
Well, the Big Baby is gone; now in storage somewhere. The empty space that he once occupied now feels cold and drab. He took with him all the promise of a new Long Beach, an appreciative and refreshingly hopeful Long Beach; a Long Beach that wouldn't tear down it's historical buildings to the tune of 2 million dollars -- and I know, 2 million dollars sounds really good right now -- but you can't get these buildings back, people! Someone laid bricks, someone cut a ribbon, someone (okay, me) found first editions and excellent used copies of her favorite authors in your establishment. Legends are being razed, and we don't even have our Big Baby to turn to.
But I have found a new Big Baby. Marlene Dumas is a painter from South Africa and the Netherlands who paints babies, big.
Her painting, The Painter, currently on display along with dozens of others at the Museum of Contemporary Art on Grand, downtown, is magnetic. It's a painting of a washed out nude threeish year old, with one red hand and one blue hand, and it's breathtaking. Her works are disturbing, but of course that's the point, and I am moved by them. Her more obvious shocking images, like a Marilyn Monroe death mask painting, and several paintings of dead bodies and people hanging from the scaffold, are not joyful, but they are somewhat sublime.
What is even more spectacular is that she is this bubbly blonde European woman with a fast tongue and an eagerness to talk that pleasantly surprises one, as these days you have to be on a New York society page to get coverage as an artist -- see Schnabel (Dumas' work is in an other, vastly superior, realm than his is), or these other connected artists that you could never have a conversation with about zits or sit with and eat a Greek omelette.
I really recommend seeing this show, not only for the NBB (New Big Baby), but for her whole body of work. It is something to see.
Well, the Big Baby is gone; now in storage somewhere. The empty space that he once occupied now feels cold and drab. He took with him all the promise of a new Long Beach, an appreciative and refreshingly hopeful Long Beach; a Long Beach that wouldn't tear down it's historical buildings to the tune of 2 million dollars -- and I know, 2 million dollars sounds really good right now -- but you can't get these buildings back, people! Someone laid bricks, someone cut a ribbon, someone (okay, me) found first editions and excellent used copies of her favorite authors in your establishment. Legends are being razed, and we don't even have our Big Baby to turn to.
But I have found a new Big Baby. Marlene Dumas is a painter from South Africa and the Netherlands who paints babies, big.
Her painting, The Painter, currently on display along with dozens of others at the Museum of Contemporary Art on Grand, downtown, is magnetic. It's a painting of a washed out nude threeish year old, with one red hand and one blue hand, and it's breathtaking. Her works are disturbing, but of course that's the point, and I am moved by them. Her more obvious shocking images, like a Marilyn Monroe death mask painting, and several paintings of dead bodies and people hanging from the scaffold, are not joyful, but they are somewhat sublime.
What is even more spectacular is that she is this bubbly blonde European woman with a fast tongue and an eagerness to talk that pleasantly surprises one, as these days you have to be on a New York society page to get coverage as an artist -- see Schnabel (Dumas' work is in an other, vastly superior, realm than his is), or these other connected artists that you could never have a conversation with about zits or sit with and eat a Greek omelette.
I really recommend seeing this show, not only for the NBB (New Big Baby), but for her whole body of work. It is something to see.
Saturday, August 9, 2008
Desire Diverted, or Maybe Freud Inverted, and Bros Before Hos
I haven't read Freud, so I don't know why I act the fool and use him to explain ideas floating around in my head. I do sort of know that he had this idea that at a certain age boys want to have sex with their mothers and girls their fathers, and that they become jealous and possessive of them. Yet, in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, it seems that the inversion of Freud's idea is true, as least where males are involved: Brick's troubled relationship with his father and his friend Skipper has diverted his desire for his wife and inspired him to numb his feelings and cares with alcohol. I think it was Blythe who informed me that there is a theorist who suggests that homosexual desire is often sublimated through a third party in literature -- I agree with this observation. I find it apparent in Gatsby, within the relationships between Nick, Jay, Daisy, Jordan, and Tom, as well as in much of Tennessee's work, like Cat, Streetcar, Glass M, and Suddenly.
I don't know just what I can add to that discussion. I don't know enough. But it's something I am thinking about for a paper. I could just stick to Fitzgerald's novel, or try and have a discussion of William's works as a collective. I'm not sure how that kind of paper is received by the academy nowadays, but I suppose there's no harm in trying.
Loosely related, the oft mocked phrase "bros before hos" bears some significance here. Although the poetry of this phrase might give it a modern edge, the meaning behind it is timeless. It is also an idea used to support army life; you have to leave the one you are in a relationship with in order to live with and possibly die for an army of others. Now, in our capitalistic country, the citizens do not have to join any of the armed forces. But when they do, they must employ the BBH philosophy in order to justify putting aside personal commitments to lovers in the name of allegiance to unknown others.
Yet, the BBH philosophy has retained it's strict gender control in a few recent successful films. In Todd Phillips and Judd Apatow's most recent comedies the BBH mentality is taken to a new level of frustrated sexuality. Blythe mentioned to me that Telladega Nights is a good example of this, as well as Old School, and then as I got to thinking...Anchorman, The 40-Year-Old Virgin, Superbad...etc. I don't include Forgetting Sarah Marshall, because the "Bros" in effect actually put their love interests before their relationship (making that a sure-fire post ironic film, Brandon? I'm not sure), and even the quintessential "Bro" in the film only puts himself before others -- everyone else in on the same level to him. As far as the other films are concerned, they seem to have BBH as a common thread. Sometimes the Bros in the movies must unlearn their BBH behavior, and come to appreciate their Ho even more than their Bro, as is the case in Telladega Nights and Old School. And it is usually a Bro that doesn't have (or doesn't get many) a Ho, or is tired of his Ho, see Old School's Beanie or Telladega Night's Cal.
Doesn't it seem as the though the BBH mentality is a rationale for the third party sublimation theory, as well as the inversion of Freud's theory? Certainly the BBH philosophy is present in Cat, as Paul Newman is overwhelmed by his self-pity concerning Skipper's death, and must have the love and approval of his Father in order to resume any sexual activity with his wife. He was active with her before, when Skippy was alive, and was there to keep his desire alive. His relationship with his father becomes the new same-sex component of the triangle of sublimation, with a nod to Freud. Big Daddy, indeed.
It's rather complicated and somewhat pedestrian, but I feel like I'm on to something.
I don't know just what I can add to that discussion. I don't know enough. But it's something I am thinking about for a paper. I could just stick to Fitzgerald's novel, or try and have a discussion of William's works as a collective. I'm not sure how that kind of paper is received by the academy nowadays, but I suppose there's no harm in trying.
Loosely related, the oft mocked phrase "bros before hos" bears some significance here. Although the poetry of this phrase might give it a modern edge, the meaning behind it is timeless. It is also an idea used to support army life; you have to leave the one you are in a relationship with in order to live with and possibly die for an army of others. Now, in our capitalistic country, the citizens do not have to join any of the armed forces. But when they do, they must employ the BBH philosophy in order to justify putting aside personal commitments to lovers in the name of allegiance to unknown others.
Yet, the BBH philosophy has retained it's strict gender control in a few recent successful films. In Todd Phillips and Judd Apatow's most recent comedies the BBH mentality is taken to a new level of frustrated sexuality. Blythe mentioned to me that Telladega Nights is a good example of this, as well as Old School, and then as I got to thinking...Anchorman, The 40-Year-Old Virgin, Superbad...etc. I don't include Forgetting Sarah Marshall, because the "Bros" in effect actually put their love interests before their relationship (making that a sure-fire post ironic film, Brandon? I'm not sure), and even the quintessential "Bro" in the film only puts himself before others -- everyone else in on the same level to him. As far as the other films are concerned, they seem to have BBH as a common thread. Sometimes the Bros in the movies must unlearn their BBH behavior, and come to appreciate their Ho even more than their Bro, as is the case in Telladega Nights and Old School. And it is usually a Bro that doesn't have (or doesn't get many) a Ho, or is tired of his Ho, see Old School's Beanie or Telladega Night's Cal.
Doesn't it seem as the though the BBH mentality is a rationale for the third party sublimation theory, as well as the inversion of Freud's theory? Certainly the BBH philosophy is present in Cat, as Paul Newman is overwhelmed by his self-pity concerning Skipper's death, and must have the love and approval of his Father in order to resume any sexual activity with his wife. He was active with her before, when Skippy was alive, and was there to keep his desire alive. His relationship with his father becomes the new same-sex component of the triangle of sublimation, with a nod to Freud. Big Daddy, indeed.
It's rather complicated and somewhat pedestrian, but I feel like I'm on to something.
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