I took a few personal days in Big Sur last month, taking with me The Madwoman in the Attic: The Woman Writer and the Nineteenth-Century Literary Imagination. I got through the first two chapters, around ninety pages. I dog-eared seven pages, and cursed myself for not bringing post-it notes. While at present I have nothing more to say except yes, yes, YES, here are some of my favorite insights, so far, with a bit of commentary:
...if as death angel the woman suggests a providentially selfless mother, delivering the male soul from one realm to another, the same woman's maternal power implies, too, the fearful bondage of mortality into which every mother delivers her children.
The Queen's Looking Glass, pg. 26
Ahhhhh, here I began to see the image of the woman as life/death giver that I have been struck with over and over again in Moby Dick. While women are almost non-existent as characters in the novel, I feel Moby-Dick is permeated with imagery and allusions to a nameless dread.
...the female monster is a striking illustration of Simone de Beauvoir's thesis that woman has been made to represent all of man's ambivalent feelings about his own inability to control his own physical existence, his own birth and death...male dread of women, and specifically the infantile dread of maternal autonomy, has historically objectified itself in vilification of women...
The Queen's Looking Glass, pg 34
Emblems of filthy materiality, committed only to their own private ends, these women are accidents of nature, deformities meant to repel...
The Queen's Looking Glass, pg 30
Some of the most sexually pervasive and grotesque imagery in Moby-Dick emerges in the form of a giant squid. It is described as "the most wondrous phenomenon which the secret seas have hitherto revealed to mankind. A vast pulpy mass, furlongs in length and breadth, of a glancing cream color, lay floating on the water, innumerable long arms radiating from its centre, and curling and twisting like a nest of anacondas, as if blindly to clutch at any hapless object within reach. No perceptible face or front did it have; no conceivable token of either sensation or instinct; but it undulated there on the billows, an unearthly, formless, chance-like apparition of life...with a low, sucking sound it slowly disappeared again." Further, Melville comments that "few have any but the most vague ideas concerning its true nature and form; notwithstanding, they believe it to furnish the sperm whale his only food...the sperm whale, unlike other species, is supplied with teeth in order to attack and tear it."
The sperm whale, so often described in the novel as "ramming," "attacking" can easily, I think, be symbolic of male sexuality; nothing new there. However, this description of a cream colored faceless mass, with curly arms numberless, clutching and sucking, submerging and unseeable, is not a bad abstract explanation of female genitalia. It's referred to as a spectre, a ghost, portentous, mysterious, and finally, a monster.
The information given about Ahab in the beginning of the novel describes a wife and a child, conceived after one night's conjugal union. It is immediately after this union that Ahab begins his encounters with Moby-Dick, and let's not forget that Moby-Dick bites Ahab in a particularly debilitating way, sexually. This is and other references to reproductive activity, intimacy, death, and dread accessorize Moby-Dick into a tale of the inescapable doom cycle of reproduction and death, down to the vortex into which the ship and its crew are swallowed. The pursuit of an all-male human society is not enough to escape, and can still result in death. A cautionary tale? Of course this doesn't even begin to explain the numerous threads that run through Moby-Dick. But it may be enough for an article.
Melville also uses the concept of "negative space" in a feminist way -- see Queequeg (Ishmael's spouse) and his coffin (Infection in the Sentence, 88). This may be the moment to highlight the novel's jovial way of dealing with female/male interchangeability, and its confusing way of jumping back and forth between what Gilbert and Gubar call male/female authority. A conflict in the narration comes from the inability to perceive if the perspective is male or female. Here is where more Queer theory would probably enlighten me.
I think the gender transcendence that occurs throughout the novel necessarily rests upon its insistence that human male-female unions result in a tragic and futile mortality, but I don't think Melville was especially hopeful concerning same sex intimacy. I do believe that these are major theme in the work. More theory is in order.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Oscars Grouch
Even though the Oscars seem to get more and more bland and predictable each year, I find myself compelled to watch. The usual hubbub draws me in, the dresses, the tuxes, the dates, the fancy party stuff, actors behaving poorly, actors behaving well, all of that rot. And while I have no real faith in the mysterious Academy or their ability to judge films, I'm always secretly hoping that my favorites will win.
This year's awards were quite boring, which is such a shame, as there were several exciting films up for Oscars, and the hosts were two young current Hollywood elite. Sadly, the show was a total snoozer. James Franco and Anne Hathaway have both proved their talent as actors, Hathaway most notably in Rachel Getting Married, and Franco in various roles ranging from the comedic absurd to the realistic/dramatic, but have yet to convince me they should be hosts. The chemistry between the two could be loosely described as the vivacious, bubbly beauty and the scrunchy-faced, wry, handsome straight. The trouble is, most of the focus was on beauty and handsome. The writing for these actors (not comedians) was bland and over-processed. It was a lot of speaking bologna and smiling. There was one "wild" moment where Hathaway came out in a tux, and Franco popped up in a dress, and that seemed to be the delight of the evening, but was overshadowed by the fact that it caused the show to peak too soon, and in a rather uninspiring way, considering Some Like it Hot was released in 1959 (which reinforces my theory that the fifties were the most radical decade in Hollywood filmmaking).
Coincidentally, the show's wildest character came in the form of the ancient stroke-damaged Kirk Douglas, whose comic timing blew both Franco and Hathaway out of the water. Even five seconds from Justin Timberlake, boldly and successfully riffing on Douglas's performance, made Franco and Hathaway appear to have all the charisma of anxious stage parents. Then, as if to truly bury their chances at successful hosting, the Academy chose to feature a few minutes, extraordinarily funny in comparison to Franco and Hathaway, of veteran Billy Crystal who introduced a hologram of Bob Hope. Oh, mother, I can feel the soil falling over my head... I believe that most of the responsibility for providing the energy fell on Hathaway, and while I don't think she was a total failure, I just don't think she has the experience in Hollywood to be as funny or as risky as an entertaining Oscars demands. She has at least a few years of work ahead of her, and after the debacle with her diamond-collar criminal ex-fiance, even if she had the goods to really rib her fellow actors and filmmakers, or even herself, she would have looked ungrateful and disloyal. It's a shame.
The Academy Award winners were all talented and deserving, but there were no surprises. I hoped with all my might that Darren Aronofsky would win for the brilliant Black Swan, but the Academy went with the guy that directed The King's Speech. I was a little perturbed at this, because I thought it was a much more spectacular feat to direct the young cast of Black Swan, with only Portman and Hershey as seasoned actors, in a complicated and unnerving plot, than to direct The King's Speech, with its cast of mega-talent and its no-surprises plot. I think a movie like The King's Speech could almost direct itself, and should have been awarded only for writing, art direction, and acting. Portman won for acting, but I was tons more impressed with Aronofsky's masterful interpretation of this complex story.
My favorite acceptance speech came from Randy Newman. He was charming, perfectly self-deprecating, and thankful. I loved it.
Between the awards and the show itself, I have to degrade my own writing by summing it up as blah. I do have suggestions, but have little faith they'll be rewarded. Firstly, I do believe that the Awards are better hosted by a comedian. And I enjoy when that comedian can fully accept the role as host, who has the difficult job of balancing an act which generates enthusiasm for the program as well as makes fun of it. I think Justin Timberlake is a possible candidate, as well as Neil Patrick Harris. I even still like Billy Crystal and Robin Williams, although they are less than relevant at this point. Also, I'm not sure that there need to be so many introductions. Let's cut out the pointless host introducing the actor who introduces the actor. I'm also willing to forgo the performances of all the songs up for an Oscar. No more strange montages, unless there is way to make them relevant to the rest of the show, or to the moment at hand. I still love the memorial montage. And I like it when last year's award winners award the winners this year. I don't know what to do about acceptance speeches that run over. Public speaking is difficult, and it's hard to pay attention to a clock. I can only recommend that anyone nominated prepare. It's the only way you aren't going to get played out.
I love movies, and fancy Hollywood stuff, and I'll always watch the Oscars. Still, I would like a simplified version, and a funny, relevant host. For now, I'm still a little miffed and underwhelmed, but happy to do it again next year.
This year's awards were quite boring, which is such a shame, as there were several exciting films up for Oscars, and the hosts were two young current Hollywood elite. Sadly, the show was a total snoozer. James Franco and Anne Hathaway have both proved their talent as actors, Hathaway most notably in Rachel Getting Married, and Franco in various roles ranging from the comedic absurd to the realistic/dramatic, but have yet to convince me they should be hosts. The chemistry between the two could be loosely described as the vivacious, bubbly beauty and the scrunchy-faced, wry, handsome straight. The trouble is, most of the focus was on beauty and handsome. The writing for these actors (not comedians) was bland and over-processed. It was a lot of speaking bologna and smiling. There was one "wild" moment where Hathaway came out in a tux, and Franco popped up in a dress, and that seemed to be the delight of the evening, but was overshadowed by the fact that it caused the show to peak too soon, and in a rather uninspiring way, considering Some Like it Hot was released in 1959 (which reinforces my theory that the fifties were the most radical decade in Hollywood filmmaking).
Coincidentally, the show's wildest character came in the form of the ancient stroke-damaged Kirk Douglas, whose comic timing blew both Franco and Hathaway out of the water. Even five seconds from Justin Timberlake, boldly and successfully riffing on Douglas's performance, made Franco and Hathaway appear to have all the charisma of anxious stage parents. Then, as if to truly bury their chances at successful hosting, the Academy chose to feature a few minutes, extraordinarily funny in comparison to Franco and Hathaway, of veteran Billy Crystal who introduced a hologram of Bob Hope. Oh, mother, I can feel the soil falling over my head... I believe that most of the responsibility for providing the energy fell on Hathaway, and while I don't think she was a total failure, I just don't think she has the experience in Hollywood to be as funny or as risky as an entertaining Oscars demands. She has at least a few years of work ahead of her, and after the debacle with her diamond-collar criminal ex-fiance, even if she had the goods to really rib her fellow actors and filmmakers, or even herself, she would have looked ungrateful and disloyal. It's a shame.
The Academy Award winners were all talented and deserving, but there were no surprises. I hoped with all my might that Darren Aronofsky would win for the brilliant Black Swan, but the Academy went with the guy that directed The King's Speech. I was a little perturbed at this, because I thought it was a much more spectacular feat to direct the young cast of Black Swan, with only Portman and Hershey as seasoned actors, in a complicated and unnerving plot, than to direct The King's Speech, with its cast of mega-talent and its no-surprises plot. I think a movie like The King's Speech could almost direct itself, and should have been awarded only for writing, art direction, and acting. Portman won for acting, but I was tons more impressed with Aronofsky's masterful interpretation of this complex story.
My favorite acceptance speech came from Randy Newman. He was charming, perfectly self-deprecating, and thankful. I loved it.
Between the awards and the show itself, I have to degrade my own writing by summing it up as blah. I do have suggestions, but have little faith they'll be rewarded. Firstly, I do believe that the Awards are better hosted by a comedian. And I enjoy when that comedian can fully accept the role as host, who has the difficult job of balancing an act which generates enthusiasm for the program as well as makes fun of it. I think Justin Timberlake is a possible candidate, as well as Neil Patrick Harris. I even still like Billy Crystal and Robin Williams, although they are less than relevant at this point. Also, I'm not sure that there need to be so many introductions. Let's cut out the pointless host introducing the actor who introduces the actor. I'm also willing to forgo the performances of all the songs up for an Oscar. No more strange montages, unless there is way to make them relevant to the rest of the show, or to the moment at hand. I still love the memorial montage. And I like it when last year's award winners award the winners this year. I don't know what to do about acceptance speeches that run over. Public speaking is difficult, and it's hard to pay attention to a clock. I can only recommend that anyone nominated prepare. It's the only way you aren't going to get played out.
I love movies, and fancy Hollywood stuff, and I'll always watch the Oscars. Still, I would like a simplified version, and a funny, relevant host. For now, I'm still a little miffed and underwhelmed, but happy to do it again next year.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Letting Go of Humanity: Lost Objects in Never Let Me Go (Rough Draft)
When telling your story, it is hard to determine what details are important. For Kathy H., the story teller of Kasuo Ishiguro's novel Never Let Me Go, the details rise to the foreground as the most compelling aspects of the tale.
How does one even summarize Never Let Me Go? It seems odd to tell the setting and idea of the novel straightforwardly. There is a school for clone children, who are raised and board together, and after their primary education they receive a sort of communal secondary education, through which they learn to drive and communicate with human society, and then comes the nursing (called "caring") and organ donating, and finally, "completing," when the clone has served its ultimate purpose, and dies. Ishiguro manages to pull out and focus on the details from a clone's life and weaves a compelling tale which frames beautifully ideas about purpose, individuality, and what it means to be in touch with our own feelings.
Part one deals mostly with Kathy H.'s time at Hailsham, the name of the boarding school where she and other clone children are educated and cared for by a rather stereotypical school master and other teachers, called "guardians." I find the name of the school intriuging. At first glance, I thought of Mrs. Havisham, the frightening woman from Dickens' Great Expectations. It's really not too far of a stretch, I think. There is a great horror associated with Mrs. Havisham, what with the spiderweb wedding cake, the unfulfilled desire, the rottenness of her body and home, and yet, the hope that she offered those who would behave according to her wishes. Her influence, as rotten as she was, allowed her a great persuasiveness, and even though we know, creeping through her house with Pip, taking in the grotesque scenery, that she is unwell and her words vitriolic, we find that perhaps she has a point, perhaps somehow we will be able to right the great wrong that was done here, our pity the catalyst for her power. Is something different going on at Hailsham? I'm not sure. The images and horrors conjured up by the association are eerie enough.
Then I looked at the name on a connotative level. Hail-sham. This stands out as more relevant now that I've finished the novel. There is a loyalty to the school to which the children cling desperately. We forgive them this, because they have never known anything else; still, their determination to trust the institution is always heartbreaking. As wizened Westerners, we know better than to trust the institution, don't we? But when we witness the trust of the children, and become aware that they can't leave the life prescribed for them, the life they were bred for, we experience the dread, the hopelessness that will surely overtake them as they come closer to realizing their fate. We are aware of the scam, the sham, from the beginning, and naming the place Hail-sham reinforces the the sadness experienced as the children salute and give reverence to that which has pulled the wool over their eyes.
Kathy H. doesn't ever come right out and say that there is no choice to walk away from the life of a donor. In fact, she rarely comes right out and declares anything. She remembers, she recalls, but even then, when suddenly in the story she is sobbing, it is shocking, for we aren't privy to her emotions. She rarely feels a certain way, she simply accepts whatever is expected of her, and when her personal choice is an option, she usually does the smart thing, or the reasonable thing, or the sensible thing. She is compassionate, to be sure, but she never shows distress, and this enables her to be a good hospice nurse for clones who are recovering from donations or are about to complete. There are times in the novel when I thought to myself, why can't you just run away? Why can't you defect? There is no information in the novel to suggest that they are tracked or micro-chipped, as in other works with the clone as backup setting. Thus, I believe that Ishiguro is suggesting that there is no need for such management. If you believe that you have a place in society, and that place is instilled in your consciousness as important, vital even, then you will not need to be monitored, or tracked. You will simply do as you're told. You won't walk away, because where would you go? You're inherently different, so who would accept you? The novel answers the Biblical question posed by Satan, what won't a man give up in exchange for his soul? The human society in Never Let Me Go has answered with a resounding nothing, deeming the clones a spiritual waste, a land ripe for harvesting. They have let the ethical question hang, and proceeded forward without investigation. It seems that once heart disease, cancer, and neurological disease were a thing of the past, the question of whether or not raising clones in order to slowly harvest their vital organs is ethical became a taboo question. So they live as a taboo, recognizable, but mostly unspeakable.
The novel sets this up, and then presents arguments against using the clones as donors. Obviously Kathy H.'s story is a testament to her humanity, however vague and remote her emotions seem. The fact that she even desires to tell her story is more human than anything else about her, including her search for her origins, her love of Tommy, and her protectiveness of Ruth. She has an idea of the infinite, as evidenced by the title of the novel, which is a reference to a song that moves her when she is a child. It's a song that she feels expresses the loss associated with infertility, and that in the event that an infertile woman was to have a miraculous baby, she would hold that baby to her chest and sing, never let me go. The idea that the clone would imagine such a thing is so ironic, for not only are the clones infertile, but their whole purpose is to ensure the health of the public. Humans can't bear to let each other go, so they grow surrogate humans to replace their diseased parts. Kathy H.'s attachment to the song reinforces her place in society. She doesn't desire to have a baby, but the scene shows her empathy for the society that created her, and the purpose for which she was "born." This underscores her humanity, but also demonstrates how important it is for the clones to identify with humans, to be subordinate to ones who need them. Kathy feels throughout the novel that she is accomplishing her work, her purpose, and she wonders only briefly if there were any alternative.
It is only later in the book that the mystery surrounding Hailsham is revealed. A few academics and scientists decided that instead of growing the clones in an animalistic way, in bad conditions, they should bring them up like proper school children. MIss Emily, the school master, and Marie-Claude, her partner, explain the school as an experiment in proving that the clones have souls and are as human as they come, aside from their all but guaranteed infertility (although it is not stated directly whether or not they are bred this way or if it is a side-effect of cloning). Miss Emily and Marie-Claude had the idea that to educate and culture their students would mean a better life for them, allow them to be "sensitive and intuitive." It gets quite muddled, and I expect that is what Ishiguro intended. The main argument for the failure of Hailsham is that the politcal climate changed, and during a time period when people were especially fearful of clones gaining human rights, their supporters vanished. Society did not want to compete with clones that were genetically altered, or bred for superiority. So, the donor program resumed as a government run institution.
This is of importance because Kathy H. has sought out a deferral; she thinks that she and Tommy can apply for a few years together, living as a natural human couple, before resuming their donations. This is a baseless rumor, and they are utterly defeated when filled in on their complete lack of any future other than that they have been raised to believe in.
I don't think Ishiguro wants his audience to admire Miss Emily, and my strongest evidence comes from the scene in which she is sitting with Kathy H. and Tommy, explaining about Hailsham, and the falseness of the deferral rumor. Before she discloses the information about Hailsham she mentions something about a piece of furniture that she is having moved that day:
It's probably a high school-ish insight, but look at what care Miss Emily takes of her beautiful, wonderful object. She is going to make sure that no man abuses it and harms it, and she is very sentimental about it, and wants the full value of it's worth. I postulate that the disappointment Miss Emily and Marie-Claude feel about the failure of Hailsham is less about the eventual process of donation and completion the students will endure, but the dissolution of their pet project, the underestimation of their beautiful, wonderful students that have turned out so well.
I wonder if Ishiguro is simply, reasonably implying that whenever we objectify humans we cross an ethical boundary that undermines our ability to practice fairness. When we come to a cloudy grey area in scientific advancement, can't an argument be that if we proceed, if we calculate the benefit, the value of the advancement in dollars, or selfish gain at another's tragic loss, then, shouldn't we just stop, and be still? Of course we want a cure for cancer, for Alzheimer's, for heart disease, but isn't it mostly because we never want to let our loved ones go? And to the professionals whose aim it is to ensure the ethical treatment of humans and other animals, what is an obvious gauge of their success? Pain free, cruelty free, good conditions, safety. organic, needs met, and so on. But it's more like the novel, isn't it? It's truly gauged by the leaning of society at the time. And we are truly a society that refuses to accept death as inevitable, suffering as reality, and lifetimes as undetermined in length.
Ishiguro is willing to tell us that yes, if we pursue stem cell research and cloning experiments we will someday have the ability to live without fear of many diseases that plague us today, but many will still suffer, and the price has to paid. He suggests that the highest price we pay is within the forfeiture of our own ability to be still, to live free from harming others, and to let go. Their cost is incalculable, but permeate our existence, as the loss permeates the novel. Our ability to be compassionate, to exercise restraint, to truly love others will be lost, caught in the fences of some windy cosmic wasteland, never to return. The lies we tell ourselves to fill the ensuing void will be rejected like a faulty transplant, as nothing can replace our humanity.
Yet, what of the use and treatment of human beings as objects, and then as lost objects, as I think Ishiguro suggests? Foremost, the clones are objectified and harvested as unfeeling, unthinking non-humans. Their objectification is justified by the immense desire humans have to hold on to life, at any cost. The clones from Hailsham are lost, because these particular clones exist outside of the role ascribed to them by the government, that is, they attend a prestigious boarding school in which they are observed and tested to determine if they are indeed objects, or if, as the book says, they possess a "soul." They are not subjected to the inhuman conditions in childhood belonging to the majority of clones. They are not like the others of their kind, and they are certainly not like humans, and yet they, or at least Katherine, feels that as such, as a former student of Hailsham, she is of more, or better use to humans than her run of the mill peers. What gave her a seemingly better life only served to solidify her worth in the society that will continue to use her inhumanely. The end, the harvesting of her life, as well as finally her vital organs, is justified because she now means more to the clone program than ever. She has learned compassion, empathy, and these serve to make her a better carer and nurse, and girlfriend, and friend, and yet, she is still lost, because these qualities only serve to make her a better person, an a person she is not. She is a clone, with no rights, with no freedom. She sets off on a journey which ends where it began, a room filled with medical equipment, designed to prolong the lives of those true human beings with rights, and precisely empowered with the ability to strip clones of their utter humanity.
Paradoxically, what gives Katherine her intimate sense of self also blinds her to the utter injustice of her existence.
How does one even summarize Never Let Me Go? It seems odd to tell the setting and idea of the novel straightforwardly. There is a school for clone children, who are raised and board together, and after their primary education they receive a sort of communal secondary education, through which they learn to drive and communicate with human society, and then comes the nursing (called "caring") and organ donating, and finally, "completing," when the clone has served its ultimate purpose, and dies. Ishiguro manages to pull out and focus on the details from a clone's life and weaves a compelling tale which frames beautifully ideas about purpose, individuality, and what it means to be in touch with our own feelings.
Part one deals mostly with Kathy H.'s time at Hailsham, the name of the boarding school where she and other clone children are educated and cared for by a rather stereotypical school master and other teachers, called "guardians." I find the name of the school intriuging. At first glance, I thought of Mrs. Havisham, the frightening woman from Dickens' Great Expectations. It's really not too far of a stretch, I think. There is a great horror associated with Mrs. Havisham, what with the spiderweb wedding cake, the unfulfilled desire, the rottenness of her body and home, and yet, the hope that she offered those who would behave according to her wishes. Her influence, as rotten as she was, allowed her a great persuasiveness, and even though we know, creeping through her house with Pip, taking in the grotesque scenery, that she is unwell and her words vitriolic, we find that perhaps she has a point, perhaps somehow we will be able to right the great wrong that was done here, our pity the catalyst for her power. Is something different going on at Hailsham? I'm not sure. The images and horrors conjured up by the association are eerie enough.
Then I looked at the name on a connotative level. Hail-sham. This stands out as more relevant now that I've finished the novel. There is a loyalty to the school to which the children cling desperately. We forgive them this, because they have never known anything else; still, their determination to trust the institution is always heartbreaking. As wizened Westerners, we know better than to trust the institution, don't we? But when we witness the trust of the children, and become aware that they can't leave the life prescribed for them, the life they were bred for, we experience the dread, the hopelessness that will surely overtake them as they come closer to realizing their fate. We are aware of the scam, the sham, from the beginning, and naming the place Hail-sham reinforces the the sadness experienced as the children salute and give reverence to that which has pulled the wool over their eyes.
Kathy H. doesn't ever come right out and say that there is no choice to walk away from the life of a donor. In fact, she rarely comes right out and declares anything. She remembers, she recalls, but even then, when suddenly in the story she is sobbing, it is shocking, for we aren't privy to her emotions. She rarely feels a certain way, she simply accepts whatever is expected of her, and when her personal choice is an option, she usually does the smart thing, or the reasonable thing, or the sensible thing. She is compassionate, to be sure, but she never shows distress, and this enables her to be a good hospice nurse for clones who are recovering from donations or are about to complete. There are times in the novel when I thought to myself, why can't you just run away? Why can't you defect? There is no information in the novel to suggest that they are tracked or micro-chipped, as in other works with the clone as backup setting. Thus, I believe that Ishiguro is suggesting that there is no need for such management. If you believe that you have a place in society, and that place is instilled in your consciousness as important, vital even, then you will not need to be monitored, or tracked. You will simply do as you're told. You won't walk away, because where would you go? You're inherently different, so who would accept you? The novel answers the Biblical question posed by Satan, what won't a man give up in exchange for his soul? The human society in Never Let Me Go has answered with a resounding nothing, deeming the clones a spiritual waste, a land ripe for harvesting. They have let the ethical question hang, and proceeded forward without investigation. It seems that once heart disease, cancer, and neurological disease were a thing of the past, the question of whether or not raising clones in order to slowly harvest their vital organs is ethical became a taboo question. So they live as a taboo, recognizable, but mostly unspeakable.
The novel sets this up, and then presents arguments against using the clones as donors. Obviously Kathy H.'s story is a testament to her humanity, however vague and remote her emotions seem. The fact that she even desires to tell her story is more human than anything else about her, including her search for her origins, her love of Tommy, and her protectiveness of Ruth. She has an idea of the infinite, as evidenced by the title of the novel, which is a reference to a song that moves her when she is a child. It's a song that she feels expresses the loss associated with infertility, and that in the event that an infertile woman was to have a miraculous baby, she would hold that baby to her chest and sing, never let me go. The idea that the clone would imagine such a thing is so ironic, for not only are the clones infertile, but their whole purpose is to ensure the health of the public. Humans can't bear to let each other go, so they grow surrogate humans to replace their diseased parts. Kathy H.'s attachment to the song reinforces her place in society. She doesn't desire to have a baby, but the scene shows her empathy for the society that created her, and the purpose for which she was "born." This underscores her humanity, but also demonstrates how important it is for the clones to identify with humans, to be subordinate to ones who need them. Kathy feels throughout the novel that she is accomplishing her work, her purpose, and she wonders only briefly if there were any alternative.
It is only later in the book that the mystery surrounding Hailsham is revealed. A few academics and scientists decided that instead of growing the clones in an animalistic way, in bad conditions, they should bring them up like proper school children. MIss Emily, the school master, and Marie-Claude, her partner, explain the school as an experiment in proving that the clones have souls and are as human as they come, aside from their all but guaranteed infertility (although it is not stated directly whether or not they are bred this way or if it is a side-effect of cloning). Miss Emily and Marie-Claude had the idea that to educate and culture their students would mean a better life for them, allow them to be "sensitive and intuitive." It gets quite muddled, and I expect that is what Ishiguro intended. The main argument for the failure of Hailsham is that the politcal climate changed, and during a time period when people were especially fearful of clones gaining human rights, their supporters vanished. Society did not want to compete with clones that were genetically altered, or bred for superiority. So, the donor program resumed as a government run institution.
This is of importance because Kathy H. has sought out a deferral; she thinks that she and Tommy can apply for a few years together, living as a natural human couple, before resuming their donations. This is a baseless rumor, and they are utterly defeated when filled in on their complete lack of any future other than that they have been raised to believe in.
I don't think Ishiguro wants his audience to admire Miss Emily, and my strongest evidence comes from the scene in which she is sitting with Kathy H. and Tommy, explaining about Hailsham, and the falseness of the deferral rumor. Before she discloses the information about Hailsham she mentions something about a piece of furniture that she is having moved that day:
Unfortunately, my dears, I won't be able to entertain you for as long as I'd like just now, because in a short while some men are coming to take away my bedside cabinet. It's a quite wonderful object. George has put protective padding around it, but I've insisted I'll accompany it myself all the same. You never know with these men. They handle it roughly, hurl it around their vehicle, then their employer claims it was like that from the start. It happened to us before, so this time, I've insisted on going along with it. It's a beautiful object, I had it with me at Hailsham, so I'm determined to get a fair price.
It's probably a high school-ish insight, but look at what care Miss Emily takes of her beautiful, wonderful object. She is going to make sure that no man abuses it and harms it, and she is very sentimental about it, and wants the full value of it's worth. I postulate that the disappointment Miss Emily and Marie-Claude feel about the failure of Hailsham is less about the eventual process of donation and completion the students will endure, but the dissolution of their pet project, the underestimation of their beautiful, wonderful students that have turned out so well.
I wonder if Ishiguro is simply, reasonably implying that whenever we objectify humans we cross an ethical boundary that undermines our ability to practice fairness. When we come to a cloudy grey area in scientific advancement, can't an argument be that if we proceed, if we calculate the benefit, the value of the advancement in dollars, or selfish gain at another's tragic loss, then, shouldn't we just stop, and be still? Of course we want a cure for cancer, for Alzheimer's, for heart disease, but isn't it mostly because we never want to let our loved ones go? And to the professionals whose aim it is to ensure the ethical treatment of humans and other animals, what is an obvious gauge of their success? Pain free, cruelty free, good conditions, safety. organic, needs met, and so on. But it's more like the novel, isn't it? It's truly gauged by the leaning of society at the time. And we are truly a society that refuses to accept death as inevitable, suffering as reality, and lifetimes as undetermined in length.
Ishiguro is willing to tell us that yes, if we pursue stem cell research and cloning experiments we will someday have the ability to live without fear of many diseases that plague us today, but many will still suffer, and the price has to paid. He suggests that the highest price we pay is within the forfeiture of our own ability to be still, to live free from harming others, and to let go. Their cost is incalculable, but permeate our existence, as the loss permeates the novel. Our ability to be compassionate, to exercise restraint, to truly love others will be lost, caught in the fences of some windy cosmic wasteland, never to return. The lies we tell ourselves to fill the ensuing void will be rejected like a faulty transplant, as nothing can replace our humanity.
Yet, what of the use and treatment of human beings as objects, and then as lost objects, as I think Ishiguro suggests? Foremost, the clones are objectified and harvested as unfeeling, unthinking non-humans. Their objectification is justified by the immense desire humans have to hold on to life, at any cost. The clones from Hailsham are lost, because these particular clones exist outside of the role ascribed to them by the government, that is, they attend a prestigious boarding school in which they are observed and tested to determine if they are indeed objects, or if, as the book says, they possess a "soul." They are not subjected to the inhuman conditions in childhood belonging to the majority of clones. They are not like the others of their kind, and they are certainly not like humans, and yet they, or at least Katherine, feels that as such, as a former student of Hailsham, she is of more, or better use to humans than her run of the mill peers. What gave her a seemingly better life only served to solidify her worth in the society that will continue to use her inhumanely. The end, the harvesting of her life, as well as finally her vital organs, is justified because she now means more to the clone program than ever. She has learned compassion, empathy, and these serve to make her a better carer and nurse, and girlfriend, and friend, and yet, she is still lost, because these qualities only serve to make her a better person, an a person she is not. She is a clone, with no rights, with no freedom. She sets off on a journey which ends where it began, a room filled with medical equipment, designed to prolong the lives of those true human beings with rights, and precisely empowered with the ability to strip clones of their utter humanity.
Paradoxically, what gives Katherine her intimate sense of self also blinds her to the utter injustice of her existence.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Motion
A good friend today asked me, aren't you in school? Aren't you going to USC? My grandmother asked me, aren't you in grad school? Sad face. I held it together, let them know that I had been rejected (following the one time that I sent in a half-witted application, which was probably late), and changed the subject. Oh, I'm still writing, I said. Oh, I'm working, I said. Aw, man, I felt.
Commitment. Investment. Hard work. Late hours. Scatterbrained. Selfish pursuit. I can't get these phrases out of my head as I think of going to grad school. I have some thinking to do. I need to get out all of my ideas about Moby-Dick. This is hard work. It's not fun, really. It's thinking. It's so fun and free and easy not to think, not to write, not to read much, even. It's intoxicatingly easy. But perhaps it's time to take myself seriously. Not seriously as in, what I want is serious, or my ideas are so grand, but in the sense that I seem to have an ability, why aren't I developing it? It's hard work, it's not drivel, it's not easy. I need to believe it's worthwhile. I need to stop looking for justification for against my doing this literary work. I need to keep a running fear of greatness, and at the same time determine to keep stretching toward my dreams. It's like trying to steel a vibrating dervish, trying to stay in perpetual motion while keeping the most extreme of focus, it's ice dancing, it's hysteria in a quiet, viscous calm. It's hard work.
Small goals, organization, things to which I am not well suited, but hopefully,to which I will someday rest on and rely.
Commitment. Investment. Hard work. Late hours. Scatterbrained. Selfish pursuit. I can't get these phrases out of my head as I think of going to grad school. I have some thinking to do. I need to get out all of my ideas about Moby-Dick. This is hard work. It's not fun, really. It's thinking. It's so fun and free and easy not to think, not to write, not to read much, even. It's intoxicatingly easy. But perhaps it's time to take myself seriously. Not seriously as in, what I want is serious, or my ideas are so grand, but in the sense that I seem to have an ability, why aren't I developing it? It's hard work, it's not drivel, it's not easy. I need to believe it's worthwhile. I need to stop looking for justification for against my doing this literary work. I need to keep a running fear of greatness, and at the same time determine to keep stretching toward my dreams. It's like trying to steel a vibrating dervish, trying to stay in perpetual motion while keeping the most extreme of focus, it's ice dancing, it's hysteria in a quiet, viscous calm. It's hard work.
Small goals, organization, things to which I am not well suited, but hopefully,to which I will someday rest on and rely.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Real Talk
I used to read these square, rectangular objects called books. Now I mostly read this square, rectangular thing called a screen.
I usually have something in mind when I write a post. Tonight I happened to notice that I published an awful lot on Facebook today, and I wondered what such writing was doing to my ability to put a coherent piece of work together. I've already been out of school for a year, and I haven't much to show for it. Nothing really worth anything. And just yesterday I noticed that my typing abilities were certainly growing thin. I need to do something. I haven't even picked up my degree from Dominguez Hills, although I think it has been ready since March. I can't bear the thought of going up there, and then leaving. It's not sentiment, but guilt that I'm not really, well, you know, doing anything.
Do I really want to teach? I don't want to answer that. I'm scared of how lazy I sound, and even more, how lazy I am. I could be an assistant. I could edit. I want to write. And I kind of want to have a baby. I know that's getting a little bit personal for The College Years, but I can't deny the hormones that are compelling me to need something to suckle. I've been growing these ideas for the past few years, and I need to form them, to manage them in the world of language, but at the same time I'm getting to an age. I'm stepping up to a plate, and there is a expiration date on my time here. I can keep practicing my swing, but sooner or later I'm going to need to connect. It's scary as hell.
I wish I could be more blase about having kids. It's not that having them that worries me. That seems like the fun stuff. It's the choosing. It's the step off the edge. It's the commitment to loving something that will change your soul. Not much does that. There are these neutron stars that form after the explosion of a supernova, and they are so powerful, they are capable of doing the brightest things in the universe, things that are so bright you can see them from any point in the universe, and they have the most power and potential energy of anything known. This having kids thing feels kind of like that, emotionally. Spiritually, I can't think of anything more poignant for me than having a child. So much confrontation.
I usually have something in mind when I write a post. Tonight I happened to notice that I published an awful lot on Facebook today, and I wondered what such writing was doing to my ability to put a coherent piece of work together. I've already been out of school for a year, and I haven't much to show for it. Nothing really worth anything. And just yesterday I noticed that my typing abilities were certainly growing thin. I need to do something. I haven't even picked up my degree from Dominguez Hills, although I think it has been ready since March. I can't bear the thought of going up there, and then leaving. It's not sentiment, but guilt that I'm not really, well, you know, doing anything.
Do I really want to teach? I don't want to answer that. I'm scared of how lazy I sound, and even more, how lazy I am. I could be an assistant. I could edit. I want to write. And I kind of want to have a baby. I know that's getting a little bit personal for The College Years, but I can't deny the hormones that are compelling me to need something to suckle. I've been growing these ideas for the past few years, and I need to form them, to manage them in the world of language, but at the same time I'm getting to an age. I'm stepping up to a plate, and there is a expiration date on my time here. I can keep practicing my swing, but sooner or later I'm going to need to connect. It's scary as hell.
I wish I could be more blase about having kids. It's not that having them that worries me. That seems like the fun stuff. It's the choosing. It's the step off the edge. It's the commitment to loving something that will change your soul. Not much does that. There are these neutron stars that form after the explosion of a supernova, and they are so powerful, they are capable of doing the brightest things in the universe, things that are so bright you can see them from any point in the universe, and they have the most power and potential energy of anything known. This having kids thing feels kind of like that, emotionally. Spiritually, I can't think of anything more poignant for me than having a child. So much confrontation.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
But, are you a Tim Burton fan?
This was the question that hit me as I recently criticized the latest version of Alice in Wonderland. I do wonder if I consider myself a Tim Burton (as director) fan. I suppose so. Of his twenty-one or so films listed in the Internet Movie Database, there are several that I haven't seen, including The Island of Dr. Igor, Stalk of the Celery, Doctor of Doom, Hansel and Gretel, Luau, Vincent, Frankenweenie, Ed Wood, Stainboy (not sure if this is a film or a series of shorts), Big Fish, and Corpse Bride. I'm not even sure that his first six or seven films are available online. With this kind of discrepancy, I can't really say for certain whether or not I am a fan.
I was kind of a goth-lover when I was younger, so I have a quaint little affinity for Burton's penchant for the darker side of things. Still, what I like most about his cinematic explorations is the way he pushes the boundaries of our expectations. We don't expect to like Beetlejuice, but, really, we do. In most of his movies, Burton emphasizes kindness over fear, but isn't unrealistic about the journey. I like this. It's fairy-tale -- but the juicy and terrifying parts are left in, way in.
When I examine the list of films I have seen, it looks something like this:
Pee Wee's Big Adventure -- 1985: When I first saw this film, Large Marge facinated me. As an adult, I relate more to Pee Wee's outsider status, as well as his glee at being in on all of his own jokes. Also, when Pee Wee is uncomfortable, it strikes a pretty big chord in me. His experience in the biker bar has resonated with me all of my life. The only problem I have with using this movie as an example of Burton's work is that Pee Wee as a character was already well established by the time the film came along. Yet, I think there are classic Burton touches -- especially in the photography, use of extended long shot to show the individual character being affected by his suroundings (his characters are so often very innocent victims of a threatening environment), and the usual kind of collapse of all known structure which leads to eventual reconciliation of the main character to his calling. So, I do think PWBA is in favor of Burton, but not really the strongest evidence of his ability.
Beetlejuice -- 1988: I put this on the list of "seen" Burton films, but really, it has been quite some time since I've seen this film. I do love Michael Keaton,I must have watched Mr. Mom a thousand times on VHS, but this film was scary to me as a child (I was only nine when I came out), and I don't think I even saw it until I was maybe sixteen. So, I think I'll have to admit that I don't recall enough about this film to really put it in either category. My husband really likes this movie, especially the dialogue. What I do remember is that the little girl is awfully lonely and misunderstood. Quite the Burton characteristic. **Update: I have now seen Beetlejuice, and I must say, although I think it is a little too campy for me, I like the overall premise. I think Keaton's performance is the best thing in the movie, and Alec Baldwin and Geena Davis are delightful.
Batman -- 1989: Of course, Burton's choice hero would be a night-loving orphan with a conflicted personality. Burton's Bruce Wayne is not only unsure how to be happy and have meaningful relationships, but he is truly a hero in existential crisis. I say Burton's Bruce Wayne, and not Sam Hamm or Warren Skaaren's (the writers), because it's not really the dialogue that I remember from this film as much as particular shots. There is a scene in which Bruce Wayne is attempting to interact with Alfred, and the look of almost amnesia-like confusion on his face is heartbreaking. It's the perfect look of someone who is not frustrated with being unable to remember something, but is deeply troubled with the concept of remembering. I give Burton kudos on this one, because he acknowledges that the reaction to the trauma that shapes Bruce Wayne into Batman can be described as an emptiness just as much as vengeful anger. Although the superhero movie genre has evolved considerably since 1989, I think Burton's work with the emotionally complex character Bruce Wayne set the bar, and left us wanting more.
Edward Scissorhands -- 1990: Well. This is the film that tips the scales far, far into Burton's favor. ES is emblematic of Burton's style in more ways than the music of Danny Elfman, encroaching twisted dead trees, and the repeated use of highly romantic actors, like Depp and Ryder. I appreciate ES conceptually. The typical fairy-tale setting, including the quaint village and the high, brooding castle, is replaced with suburban Los Angeles and, well, the high, brooding castle remains, but one could argue that it's the creepy haunted hills of Silver Lake or Hollywood, that loom over the pastel neighborhoods. There is something so inherently frightening about the nuclear suburbs, and Burton emphasizes its freaky menace, but also shows that hope shines brightly (or, darkly, even) amid such grandiose domestic facades. I like to think of those little pink houses and their housewives as a metaphor for drab, formulaic films. Burton uses the heroes of the film to prove that even though there are overwhelming odds, variety and creativity can grow and learn amid a mob mentality. This undermines traditional thinking that a mob cannot be stopped, or has no individual merit. In fact, a mob can be unpredictable, as shown by moments when the housewives recognize a world outside their own seashell pink and coral creation, and of course, in the torn passions of Ryder's character, Kim. It must be said, though, that my favorite moment is when Edward pokes a hole in Kim's waterbed. Depp absolutely shines in this role. Alan Arkin is also a hoot as the flat, predictable father.
Batman Returns -- 1992: I can't recall much of anything compelling in this film, except for that outrageously sexy Catwoman. I remember this movie as big mess, with penguins.
Mars Attacks! -- 1996: I think this is a visually interesting film, but in the end came off as a hastily thrown together homage to Ed Wood. Sometimes homage works, sometimes it falls flat.
Sleepy Hollow -- 1999: I didn't see this movie until just recently. I'm conflicted about it. There are certain aspects of it that found very compelling. I love American Gothic, and Washington Irving. I liked the analysis of early America's particular brand of mysogyny. However, I feel that there is much awry about this adaptation. Ricci was terribly miscast, and Depp's was not given enough to work with, or not enough screen time. I have one favorite part in this film, when Depp is performing the autopsy. He is truly gifted. The photography is good in this film, owing to the work of Emmanuel Lubezki, who, after some research, I'm not surprised to find photographed other films I have deeply appreciated, like Y Tu Mama Tambien, and, most brilliantly, The New World. This one, I'm afraid, had potential to be great, but collapsed under the weight of too many miscasts and just plain bad ideas. Christopher Walken as the demented Hessian rider? The bloody tree/portal to hell? So close, but so far.
Planet of the Apes -- 2001: I have no words for this needless remake.
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory -- 2005: While Planet of the Apes was I think technically Burton's first large-scale remake of an earlier iconic film, CCF truly feels like the beginning of the effort of Burton to brand movies with his particular kind of camp/'80s goth/comic-horror style. It came off brilliantly in Edward Scissorhands, but only because that story and concept was very fresh, and revealed much about Burton as a developing artist, willing to acquiesce to some conventions, while completely blowing through others. Now, Roald Dahl's original children's story is compelling. This is true. It's bizzare, it's shocking, and the addition of the sugary wonderland is dizzying. There is a lot of material in this book for another movie to be made. Yet. The 1971 film Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, in my opinion, stands alone. So, it would seem needless, foolish even, to remake the film, and not create a new movie based on or adapted from the book. I believe Burton attempted to make somewhat of a different movie. And there are artistic aspects of it that are wonderful. I love the scenes in Charlie's house. I love when Wonka tells Mike Teavee that he shouldn't go around mumbling all the time, little boy. I saw promise. But Christopher Lee's scenes with the braces? Self-reference can be fun, but often only when winked at, not displayed in fireworks. When it came to the Oompa Loompas -- disaster. And the character of Charlie, well, that little actor Freddie Highmore, has very nice shiny eyes, but it was just too soon since he and Depp moved me in the J.M. Barrie pic, Neverland. CCF felt kind of like a film for people who like to fix things up with glitter and references to other good things. Not unbearable, but ultimately, not memorable, surely not as memorable as Gene Wilder's psychotic Wonka taking Veruca Salt by her arm and reprimanding her with, "We are the makers of the music, and we are the dreamers of the dream."
Sweeny Todd: the Demon Barber of Fleet Street -- 2007: Making a movie out of musical is a Hollywood concept almost as old as filmmaking itself. Before seeing this version, I had never seen nor read the play, nor heard the music. So I had the advantage of Burton's film being my first exposure to the musical. I was a bit put off by the reviews which kind of wobbled at the film's profuse demonstrations of blood -- Todd does slit throats, after all. Also, I was a bit miffed at the thought of another Burton film in which Depp would play a palid anti-hero with crazy black hair and sharp instruments in hand. But in the end, I was lured in by Victorian (or is it Edwardian? I always get them confused) London, and, well, I kind of like musicals. I must say, I think Burton got this one right. There is campiness in Todd's troubled humor, as well as a general campiness associated with musicals, which is by this time emblematic of Burton's style. Although not included in this list, The Nightmare Before Christmas was a great, original kind of film, and is so brilliant largely in part to its songs. The songs in Todd make the movie really great. I know he didn't write them, but I enjoy his direction in the singing. Helena Bonhan-Carter was great, and Depp, as usual, didn't disappoint. Contributing to the great entertainment of the film are Alan Rickman, and Sacha Baron Cohen. I want to add that costuming and set decorating had a lot to do with the appeal of this film for me, and the credit goes to Colleen Atwood and Francesca Lo Schiavo, respectively. It's a strangely moving film, as Todd's revenge is so beautifully sad. This is most eloquently expressed by Depp, as usual. And let's just say I have a slight affinity for a salon worker who has the gall to slit his client's throats. Snip.
Alice in Wonderland -- 2010: I saw Alice in what I thought was cleverly described as "classic 2-D." I didn't have incredibly high hopes going into the film. From the trailer I gathered that there was going to be far too much computer generated animation, and too much gimicky acid trip scenery (which, I know, is rather pop-culturally relevant, but just not to my taste), and not enough emphasis on Alice's internal journey. In the end, I thought it terribly too long, overblown, disjointed, and too liberal with the story. There is a reason I love Lewis Carroll's story: it challenges so-called mature concepts of time, responsibility, education, class, gender, and revolution, and deals with them mostly by calling attention to the language used to describe and explain such ideas. Alice's true frustration is not only with the physicality of Wonderland, but the utter breakdown in communication she experiences there. Burton's Alice is flat, flat, flat. Depp's Hatter is brilliant. But, Depp's Hatter's dance is so astonishingly terrible I couldn't believe I was really seeing it. It actually made my stomach hurt.
I had a very hard time with Alice's return to the real world, where she basically told everyone around her that she loved to take a hike, and then embarked on an imperialist march to China. I don't know if Burton was being intentionally ironic -- I mean you could argue that the feminist movement has largely failed to liberate humans, but has just set up women to make the same mistakes with their power as the men before them, which actually makes sense when you think of how that logic could be applied to the movie making methods of Burton himself. When he attempts to remake something, the result tends to look like a well intentioned, but ultimately bad dye job. His best work is from the heart, when he is interpreting various genres, and not simply retelling a story in a different style.
For as much as I criticize Burton, there are several aspects of his style that appeal to me. He focuses on the outsider, often, and highlights tender moments of compassion that are unexpected and touching. The change in demeanor of the creature in Alice, the one with all the shark teeth, the way that Edward touches the lives of those around him, the amusing sqeamishness of Ichabod Crane, these are all cinematic heartbeats that I believe Burton is responsible for. He seems to shine best in small moments, within the subtleties of compassion, or empathy. Sometimes I think he is a little too much like his hero Ed Wood, and can't manage to pull the film together. Yet, I wouldn't give up Edward Scissorhands, Nightmare, or Pee Wee's Big Adventure, just because Alice in Wonderland wasn't as brilliant as I wanted it to be.
I have my own peculiarities, and perhaps, as a good friend said to me this afternoon, I might need to "just sit back and be entertained." While that sounds tempting, I can't help hoping that he will deliver me something just right, something that pushes all the right buttons for me. Well, that good friend also made we watch Surrogates with her. So, I think I'll keep my standards high, and expect growth from the talented and lucky Tim Burton, who may not yet be done showing us his full potential.
I was kind of a goth-lover when I was younger, so I have a quaint little affinity for Burton's penchant for the darker side of things. Still, what I like most about his cinematic explorations is the way he pushes the boundaries of our expectations. We don't expect to like Beetlejuice, but, really, we do. In most of his movies, Burton emphasizes kindness over fear, but isn't unrealistic about the journey. I like this. It's fairy-tale -- but the juicy and terrifying parts are left in, way in.
When I examine the list of films I have seen, it looks something like this:
Pee Wee's Big Adventure -- 1985: When I first saw this film, Large Marge facinated me. As an adult, I relate more to Pee Wee's outsider status, as well as his glee at being in on all of his own jokes. Also, when Pee Wee is uncomfortable, it strikes a pretty big chord in me. His experience in the biker bar has resonated with me all of my life. The only problem I have with using this movie as an example of Burton's work is that Pee Wee as a character was already well established by the time the film came along. Yet, I think there are classic Burton touches -- especially in the photography, use of extended long shot to show the individual character being affected by his suroundings (his characters are so often very innocent victims of a threatening environment), and the usual kind of collapse of all known structure which leads to eventual reconciliation of the main character to his calling. So, I do think PWBA is in favor of Burton, but not really the strongest evidence of his ability.
Beetlejuice -- 1988: I put this on the list of "seen" Burton films, but really, it has been quite some time since I've seen this film. I do love Michael Keaton,I must have watched Mr. Mom a thousand times on VHS, but this film was scary to me as a child (I was only nine when I came out), and I don't think I even saw it until I was maybe sixteen. So, I think I'll have to admit that I don't recall enough about this film to really put it in either category. My husband really likes this movie, especially the dialogue. What I do remember is that the little girl is awfully lonely and misunderstood. Quite the Burton characteristic. **Update: I have now seen Beetlejuice, and I must say, although I think it is a little too campy for me, I like the overall premise. I think Keaton's performance is the best thing in the movie, and Alec Baldwin and Geena Davis are delightful.
Batman -- 1989: Of course, Burton's choice hero would be a night-loving orphan with a conflicted personality. Burton's Bruce Wayne is not only unsure how to be happy and have meaningful relationships, but he is truly a hero in existential crisis. I say Burton's Bruce Wayne, and not Sam Hamm or Warren Skaaren's (the writers), because it's not really the dialogue that I remember from this film as much as particular shots. There is a scene in which Bruce Wayne is attempting to interact with Alfred, and the look of almost amnesia-like confusion on his face is heartbreaking. It's the perfect look of someone who is not frustrated with being unable to remember something, but is deeply troubled with the concept of remembering. I give Burton kudos on this one, because he acknowledges that the reaction to the trauma that shapes Bruce Wayne into Batman can be described as an emptiness just as much as vengeful anger. Although the superhero movie genre has evolved considerably since 1989, I think Burton's work with the emotionally complex character Bruce Wayne set the bar, and left us wanting more.
Edward Scissorhands -- 1990: Well. This is the film that tips the scales far, far into Burton's favor. ES is emblematic of Burton's style in more ways than the music of Danny Elfman, encroaching twisted dead trees, and the repeated use of highly romantic actors, like Depp and Ryder. I appreciate ES conceptually. The typical fairy-tale setting, including the quaint village and the high, brooding castle, is replaced with suburban Los Angeles and, well, the high, brooding castle remains, but one could argue that it's the creepy haunted hills of Silver Lake or Hollywood, that loom over the pastel neighborhoods. There is something so inherently frightening about the nuclear suburbs, and Burton emphasizes its freaky menace, but also shows that hope shines brightly (or, darkly, even) amid such grandiose domestic facades. I like to think of those little pink houses and their housewives as a metaphor for drab, formulaic films. Burton uses the heroes of the film to prove that even though there are overwhelming odds, variety and creativity can grow and learn amid a mob mentality. This undermines traditional thinking that a mob cannot be stopped, or has no individual merit. In fact, a mob can be unpredictable, as shown by moments when the housewives recognize a world outside their own seashell pink and coral creation, and of course, in the torn passions of Ryder's character, Kim. It must be said, though, that my favorite moment is when Edward pokes a hole in Kim's waterbed. Depp absolutely shines in this role. Alan Arkin is also a hoot as the flat, predictable father.
Batman Returns -- 1992: I can't recall much of anything compelling in this film, except for that outrageously sexy Catwoman. I remember this movie as big mess, with penguins.
Mars Attacks! -- 1996: I think this is a visually interesting film, but in the end came off as a hastily thrown together homage to Ed Wood. Sometimes homage works, sometimes it falls flat.
Sleepy Hollow -- 1999: I didn't see this movie until just recently. I'm conflicted about it. There are certain aspects of it that found very compelling. I love American Gothic, and Washington Irving. I liked the analysis of early America's particular brand of mysogyny. However, I feel that there is much awry about this adaptation. Ricci was terribly miscast, and Depp's was not given enough to work with, or not enough screen time. I have one favorite part in this film, when Depp is performing the autopsy. He is truly gifted. The photography is good in this film, owing to the work of Emmanuel Lubezki, who, after some research, I'm not surprised to find photographed other films I have deeply appreciated, like Y Tu Mama Tambien, and, most brilliantly, The New World. This one, I'm afraid, had potential to be great, but collapsed under the weight of too many miscasts and just plain bad ideas. Christopher Walken as the demented Hessian rider? The bloody tree/portal to hell? So close, but so far.
Planet of the Apes -- 2001: I have no words for this needless remake.
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory -- 2005: While Planet of the Apes was I think technically Burton's first large-scale remake of an earlier iconic film, CCF truly feels like the beginning of the effort of Burton to brand movies with his particular kind of camp/'80s goth/comic-horror style. It came off brilliantly in Edward Scissorhands, but only because that story and concept was very fresh, and revealed much about Burton as a developing artist, willing to acquiesce to some conventions, while completely blowing through others. Now, Roald Dahl's original children's story is compelling. This is true. It's bizzare, it's shocking, and the addition of the sugary wonderland is dizzying. There is a lot of material in this book for another movie to be made. Yet. The 1971 film Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, in my opinion, stands alone. So, it would seem needless, foolish even, to remake the film, and not create a new movie based on or adapted from the book. I believe Burton attempted to make somewhat of a different movie. And there are artistic aspects of it that are wonderful. I love the scenes in Charlie's house. I love when Wonka tells Mike Teavee that he shouldn't go around mumbling all the time, little boy. I saw promise. But Christopher Lee's scenes with the braces? Self-reference can be fun, but often only when winked at, not displayed in fireworks. When it came to the Oompa Loompas -- disaster. And the character of Charlie, well, that little actor Freddie Highmore, has very nice shiny eyes, but it was just too soon since he and Depp moved me in the J.M. Barrie pic, Neverland. CCF felt kind of like a film for people who like to fix things up with glitter and references to other good things. Not unbearable, but ultimately, not memorable, surely not as memorable as Gene Wilder's psychotic Wonka taking Veruca Salt by her arm and reprimanding her with, "We are the makers of the music, and we are the dreamers of the dream."
Sweeny Todd: the Demon Barber of Fleet Street -- 2007: Making a movie out of musical is a Hollywood concept almost as old as filmmaking itself. Before seeing this version, I had never seen nor read the play, nor heard the music. So I had the advantage of Burton's film being my first exposure to the musical. I was a bit put off by the reviews which kind of wobbled at the film's profuse demonstrations of blood -- Todd does slit throats, after all. Also, I was a bit miffed at the thought of another Burton film in which Depp would play a palid anti-hero with crazy black hair and sharp instruments in hand. But in the end, I was lured in by Victorian (or is it Edwardian? I always get them confused) London, and, well, I kind of like musicals. I must say, I think Burton got this one right. There is campiness in Todd's troubled humor, as well as a general campiness associated with musicals, which is by this time emblematic of Burton's style. Although not included in this list, The Nightmare Before Christmas was a great, original kind of film, and is so brilliant largely in part to its songs. The songs in Todd make the movie really great. I know he didn't write them, but I enjoy his direction in the singing. Helena Bonhan-Carter was great, and Depp, as usual, didn't disappoint. Contributing to the great entertainment of the film are Alan Rickman, and Sacha Baron Cohen. I want to add that costuming and set decorating had a lot to do with the appeal of this film for me, and the credit goes to Colleen Atwood and Francesca Lo Schiavo, respectively. It's a strangely moving film, as Todd's revenge is so beautifully sad. This is most eloquently expressed by Depp, as usual. And let's just say I have a slight affinity for a salon worker who has the gall to slit his client's throats. Snip.
Alice in Wonderland -- 2010: I saw Alice in what I thought was cleverly described as "classic 2-D." I didn't have incredibly high hopes going into the film. From the trailer I gathered that there was going to be far too much computer generated animation, and too much gimicky acid trip scenery (which, I know, is rather pop-culturally relevant, but just not to my taste), and not enough emphasis on Alice's internal journey. In the end, I thought it terribly too long, overblown, disjointed, and too liberal with the story. There is a reason I love Lewis Carroll's story: it challenges so-called mature concepts of time, responsibility, education, class, gender, and revolution, and deals with them mostly by calling attention to the language used to describe and explain such ideas. Alice's true frustration is not only with the physicality of Wonderland, but the utter breakdown in communication she experiences there. Burton's Alice is flat, flat, flat. Depp's Hatter is brilliant. But, Depp's Hatter's dance is so astonishingly terrible I couldn't believe I was really seeing it. It actually made my stomach hurt.
I had a very hard time with Alice's return to the real world, where she basically told everyone around her that she loved to take a hike, and then embarked on an imperialist march to China. I don't know if Burton was being intentionally ironic -- I mean you could argue that the feminist movement has largely failed to liberate humans, but has just set up women to make the same mistakes with their power as the men before them, which actually makes sense when you think of how that logic could be applied to the movie making methods of Burton himself. When he attempts to remake something, the result tends to look like a well intentioned, but ultimately bad dye job. His best work is from the heart, when he is interpreting various genres, and not simply retelling a story in a different style.
For as much as I criticize Burton, there are several aspects of his style that appeal to me. He focuses on the outsider, often, and highlights tender moments of compassion that are unexpected and touching. The change in demeanor of the creature in Alice, the one with all the shark teeth, the way that Edward touches the lives of those around him, the amusing sqeamishness of Ichabod Crane, these are all cinematic heartbeats that I believe Burton is responsible for. He seems to shine best in small moments, within the subtleties of compassion, or empathy. Sometimes I think he is a little too much like his hero Ed Wood, and can't manage to pull the film together. Yet, I wouldn't give up Edward Scissorhands, Nightmare, or Pee Wee's Big Adventure, just because Alice in Wonderland wasn't as brilliant as I wanted it to be.
I have my own peculiarities, and perhaps, as a good friend said to me this afternoon, I might need to "just sit back and be entertained." While that sounds tempting, I can't help hoping that he will deliver me something just right, something that pushes all the right buttons for me. Well, that good friend also made we watch Surrogates with her. So, I think I'll keep my standards high, and expect growth from the talented and lucky Tim Burton, who may not yet be done showing us his full potential.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
The Confidence Man
Oh, dear. Another whole month without writing anything. I'm going stale, I fear.
I know that I seemed very into The Stranger, but as I kept reading, I realized how depressing it is. Camus kind of lures you in with a lot of wide open space, and then confines you with Mersualt in a prison cell. It's very disarming. In fact, when I got to the prison sections of the book, I kind of, you know, put it back on the shelf. I don't know if I'm ready to go to prison. There will come a time when I can really face that novel, but not right now. Perhaps another time.
I have been reading some. I am currently about a third of the way through a reread of The Confidence Man, Melville's last and in my opinion most difficult novel. I just adore his writing. He is such an entertaining writer, so knowledgeable, and yet so self-deprecating. Like every good little hipster, he simply dwells in irony. The irony in The Confidence Man runs so deep, I feel like I'm implicated in some kind of pointless gesture reading it. He presents both sides of an argument, but also often works in another kind of argument, one in which the argument as a whole is seen as absurd. An acknowledgement that the argument is absurd both undercuts and underscores the importance of whatever side Melville wants you to root for. I truly think he felt his audience was an angry mob, and he wanted to slay them and please them with equal fervor. Of course, I'm drawn to dualistic mentalities, torn personalities. I just love a tortured soul.
We're trying to plan another trip to Europe. I think if we don't simply go back to visit our friends in London, we will try to take on an adventure in Spain, including Morocco. There is not a lot of other news to relate. I'm working a lot more now. I'm a senior editor, and perhaps a soon to be personal assistant to the CEO. Work is kind of hard when it's not your passion. But accomplishment is valuable. And experience is valuable. I just wish dreaming and chatter were, as well.
I know that I seemed very into The Stranger, but as I kept reading, I realized how depressing it is. Camus kind of lures you in with a lot of wide open space, and then confines you with Mersualt in a prison cell. It's very disarming. In fact, when I got to the prison sections of the book, I kind of, you know, put it back on the shelf. I don't know if I'm ready to go to prison. There will come a time when I can really face that novel, but not right now. Perhaps another time.
I have been reading some. I am currently about a third of the way through a reread of The Confidence Man, Melville's last and in my opinion most difficult novel. I just adore his writing. He is such an entertaining writer, so knowledgeable, and yet so self-deprecating. Like every good little hipster, he simply dwells in irony. The irony in The Confidence Man runs so deep, I feel like I'm implicated in some kind of pointless gesture reading it. He presents both sides of an argument, but also often works in another kind of argument, one in which the argument as a whole is seen as absurd. An acknowledgement that the argument is absurd both undercuts and underscores the importance of whatever side Melville wants you to root for. I truly think he felt his audience was an angry mob, and he wanted to slay them and please them with equal fervor. Of course, I'm drawn to dualistic mentalities, torn personalities. I just love a tortured soul.
We're trying to plan another trip to Europe. I think if we don't simply go back to visit our friends in London, we will try to take on an adventure in Spain, including Morocco. There is not a lot of other news to relate. I'm working a lot more now. I'm a senior editor, and perhaps a soon to be personal assistant to the CEO. Work is kind of hard when it's not your passion. But accomplishment is valuable. And experience is valuable. I just wish dreaming and chatter were, as well.
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