Individual and Collective Fate

If you haven't seen The Reader, I highly suggest that you do. It is a movie that I think will go down as one of the best movies, at least, of this decade. Upon the second viewing, I agreed with my friend Joe that the actor David Kross gives one of the best performances I've seen that deal with the themes of the film. Stephen Daldry is amazing. I can't recommend it enough, and recommend that you really contemplate the reasons why Michael is so deeply affected by Hanna's treatment. It's my choice for best film.

Cheerio

I know that for the last couple of years I have been using this blog to, well, complain. I've often come here to complain about things that no one in their right mind would give an ear to. I've also used this forum to discuss literature, film, and art, but, let's face it, not as often as I've come here to rant and moan. So to make it up to you, and me, dear reader, I've planned to make the next few posts about some of the better experiences I've had in the past couple of months, and as soon as I have access to the hard drive with some pictures, some images to go along with.

I promise I'm not always an ungrateful wretch. In fact, just today I thought that my life has been a boon of blessings, and I can't imagine that I've ever done anything to deserve it.

Just on an evil sidenote, today in American Gothic we discussed the fabulous Hawthorne story "Roger Malvin's Burial," and guess what, I commented, "You know, it seems like Malvin has no problem with Bourne leaving him, but he doesn't respect that Bourne wants to stay -- Bourne should have stuck with his gut feeling that he should stay." And the instructor kind of blew me off, then went on to discuss that Bourne is actually suffering from a horrible guilt that Freud says results from committing an act that everyone tells you is okay, but that you have a personal issue with. Am I the only one that sees that I was pretty much alluding to this?

Happy post next time, I promise.

New Template

Time for a change. I also thought I would share this poem I came across in one of my notebooks. I don't know when I wrote it, but it's nestled between note on Gwendolyn Brooks' "The Mother":


I would not really
want to
rip your clothes from
your work-weary body
and climb aboard
like so many
disillusioned tourists
I would want to take
your tireless hands
and hold them to my lips
I would want to lay you down
on a divan with seven veils
I would want to
explore the map of your face
and understand the reasons
for obscurities
I would want to
feel your pulse
like the ancient auyervedics
procure the herbal physic
to ease the injury
that is why
it cannot be
you would end up
needing me

Audiences

I went to see Revolutionary Road last week. I found the movie fascinating, everything I thought it would be, and more. I want to see it again, simply for its complexity and beauty, but I also want to see it again at the theater, for the audience I watched it with was so appalling that I want to rid myself of their memory. Talking, rustling popcorn and candy, this audience wouldn't quit making noise for the entirety of this dialogue-focused film. To make matters worse, they laughed at the most inappropriate moments. When John, the supposedly mentally ill neighbor, fantastically played by Michael Shannon, is consistently violent and vengeful towards his mother, this audience laughs. When April Wheeler tells her husband that if he comes any closer to her she will scream, and then does scream, the audience laughs. When John says one of the most satisfying lines in the film, regarding his gratitude that he's not April's unborn child, the audience expresses it's horror at this statement, recoiling with astonishment that anyone could be so cruel.

I felt like I was watching this film with an audience of Helen Givings (John's mother), individuals who cannot bring themselves to deviate from social norms (violence toward mother good, violence toward fetus bad). I felt connected to my friend Joe, who has been irritated by the viewing population for some time now.

My annoyance doesn't stop there. I have oft complained about my classmates at Dominguez Hills, and an incident yesterday in my Studies in Composition class rekindled some of my old grievances.

This class is basically taught from the point of view of the high school instructor, offering ways to look at teaching secondary English. The class is mostly English majors, with perhaps a few liberal studies/philosophy majors thrown in. Right know we are studying the notion of using visual art, such as works of art on postcards, to teach composition. We are engaging in the process ourselves, as well as trying to understand why this approach may work well in the classroom, engaging students to think at deeper analytical levels, as well as inspire them to learn English syntax,as well as literary terms and concepts. Doing group work yesterday, we were asked to pull a couple of quotes from the assigned reading, and relate them to our personal experience. I offered one, which had to do with "seeing" as an activity requiring creative effort, and my group-mate offered a quote in which the author of the article related that the group of students she was teaching were adolescents who were already living with what we conceive as adult issues, like drug addiction and pregnancy, and that this activity seems to open them up to express themselves through writing. Determined to learn from group work, and not simply obey, I asked her what she thought the visual aspect of the exercised contributed to the students participation. She got incredibly defensive, and said that it makes them think deeper. I again asked her what it was about visual stimulation that appeals to students more than language alone, because it seems like you could assign a topic, like "write about an issue you are dealing with at home," and not get the same results. I knew there were a myriad ways to answer this question, and I was genuinely interested in her thoughts on the matter. Yet, somehow she didn't understand what I was saying, because she told me, point blank, "I disagree with you completely." At this point the instructor interrupted us and asked the class to share. Her hand went up immediately, and she proceeded to claim, "Well, we are having an argument in my group, because I liked this quote [she then went on to read the quote about the issues students are facing and how this exercise opened them up, which, incidentally, is in the second introductory paragraph of the eight-page article], because I want to teach inner-city kids and I think this project would help them, but one person in my group disagrees with this." I mutter that I didn't disagree with it, but really to no avail. Our instructor, then asked if we found anything else, and I went on to discuss the quote about seeing being a creative effort, and how my experience forced me to experience the art I examined, and search my experience for ideas that I had created as a reaction to it.

There were other, more political aspects of this conversation that I have left out, but it is very clear to me that asking questions, attempting to make people think, can be understood as an attack, or a disagreement. Maybe that is why the audience during Revolutionary Road tried so hard to make light of the more uncomfortable aspects of the film -- people often try hard to not have to think. One of the greatest moments in that film was when April begs Frank to leave her alone, so that she can think, she needs to think! I'd like to see it again soon, so that I can think, too.

As far as schoolmates go, if I can just stifle my ego and my sense of justice for a few moments, maybe I can make some real good out of the situation. For instance, if I really work on being clear, and perhaps less intimidating, I can actually accomplish my objective, which is to learn from other people's ideas. I still think rustling wrapper and chomping on popcorn is rude.

My Final Weeks as an Undergarduate (With Cute Instructors!)

At this point I've become acquainted with all the professors and classes that I am going to be interacting with this semester, and I'm rather pleased with what and who I'll be working with. I am taking two early American Literature classes with the same professor, one is just the standard survey course, and the other is narrowed down to 19th century American gothic literature, which will be dealing with many of the authors that I love and want to study in graduate school. The professor is Jon Hauss, who has a fabulous reputation as one of Dominguez Hills finest literature professors, and after just one day with him, I can already see why. He's insanely personable, gracious, and smart as all get out, without any off putting pretentiousness. A friend of mine at school confessed had confessed to me a couple semesters ago that she had a massive academic crush on him, and I'm amused to be discovering the aspects of his ability that warrant so much affection for him from his students. On a side note, while I was studying in the campus bar (without a drink, by the way; darn you, phase one of the South Beach Diet!), Dr. Hauss came in with another of my new professors, Dr. Sherman (more on him later), and my old dreaded American Lit professor, Giannotti. It was priceless, Dr. Giannotti wouldn't stop yammering away for forty-five minutes while the other professors patiently waited to get a word or two in. Then, during the opening comments of my class with Dr. Hauss, later that evening, he mentioned something about evil academics who get tenure and then never do anything worthwhile for the remainder of their career, but simply orchestrate their lives as if they are doing some great committee work that means anything. His teeth were wine-stained, and he was hilarious. He's also a Melville expert. I sent him my Moby-Dick paper, and I'm eager to hear what he thinks about it.

I'm taking three other classes besides the two already mentioned. One is a Medieval Lit survey with Dr. Best, who I have already described on this blog as a sweet, quirky instructor who makes things very easy. I think this class will be much less intimidating with Dr. Best at the helm; she tends to be an excellent sport. I really appreciate her patience and her dedication, which are qualities I could work on, you know. Another class I'm taking is Studies in Composition in Literature and Reading, which turns out to be a class about teaching English (I know I could have looked at the course description in the catalog, but who does that?) to secondary students. I can only describe the class as an easy A, kind of a relief what with my schedule, and while the instructor is kind of dry and geeky (in sort of a Miguel Powers kind of way), he is very cute. It doesn't hurt.

Finally, there is my senior seminar. Dr. Hernandez, DH's primary Latino/Hispanic/Chicano Studies and Literature professor, is teaching the course, which has as its primary focus transnational American literature. It seems that we will be looking at American literature as an immigrant narrative, very interesting. We read the prologue to The New Americans, by Ruben Martinez, which is a great introduction to what we will be covering in this course. Dr. Hernandez seems to have it together, and he isn't terrible to look at, either.

What with all of my instructors under the age of fifty this semester, I feel like I have stumbled upon some fresh ideas, enthusiasm, passion, and good looks. I'm eerily contented with my lot this semester. I haven't often felt satisfied at DH, but this semester shows real promise.

Wuthering Heights Chapters 11-Fin: Look at MY Baby!

As the clock ticks off the final sixteen hours until I have to sit in a classroom and most likely listen to an already weary professor read the syllabus (to English majors!) I couldn't help but notice that I never finished discussing Wuthering Heights. I don't think I will blather more about it here. Instead, I think I will start drafting a paper. It will have something to do with possession, and how the word "mine" is used in the novel. Included, of course, are thoughts about reproduction, to add to my "Look at the Baby" thesis.

I thought I would work on Moby Dick this semester, but I never got over Wuthering Heights. Reading this novel as a grown up, I find it fascinating that it ever got published. It's so odd. Bronte turns the Bildungsroman into a never ending saga. I imagine this novel and Catcher in the Rye to be at opposite ends of the coming-of-age spectrum. I have a lot of questions about this novel. Why don't we ever get to hear Heathcliff or Cathy I's side of the story? Why is Lockwood even important? No one seems to have sex in this novel, yet babies everywhere! This novel trudges through religion, sex, classism, property, racism, sexism, incest, horror, and never once does it really tell you anything. It's quite possibly the most obsessive novel I've ever read. We're so insanely focused on these half-dozen people that it's like no one else exists. Yet, everyone just mopes around, except Heathcliff, who hits women and dogs and is always out doing something very important. It's very...emo.

Well, let's hope I get something together about it.

The Art of Seduction

I have, I don't know, a feeling about the south. I feel like there is a beating heart there that I owe some allegiance to. Not in a confederate-type way, but in a very quiet and demanding way, a way that I feel Tennessee Williams captures in his over-the-top characters, within their heart-stopping dialogue. I recently watched Baby Doll again, and I can't tell you how much this film impresses me.

Carroll Baker plays the hastily married off title role, still a virgin at nineteen, after a year of marriage to Archie Lee, who has made shady promises to shower his young bride in wealth, but has not delivered. Archie Lee's cotton gin is not an efficient machine, and Archie Lee doesn't seem cut out for managerial/owner positions, as his house and business is beset with poverty stricken shades of disrepair and wood rot. Yet, this man promised a rather influential man in town that we would lavish a royal existence on Baby Doll, who is caught between the life she was raised to have, and her current state of bankruptcy.

Everything changes when Archie Lee, distraught at the prospects of never consummating his marriage with Baby Doll, due to his financial failures, burns down the cotton gin of the prosperous Sicilian business man, Silva Vacarro, a "foreigner" who has beat out all the town's local cotton gin competition, including Archie Lee. After Archie Lee's wild night of arson, he ends up the only suspect, yet the good-ol'-boy aspect of the town's government won't allow Vacarro to accuse Archie Lee outright. He must set a trap for Archie Lee in which the suspect will hang himself.

Inexperienced Baby Doll is Vacarro's chance to gain a witness who will testify that Archie Lee wasn't home the night of the fire (as Archie Lee contests), but came home later smelling heavily of smoke. Baby Doll, who seems to despise her ne'er do well husband, needs some persuading to sign a statement fingering Archie Lee. This is where the seduction of Baby Doll begins, and the most enjoyable scenes of the movie take place. Vacarro is tireless as he leads naive Baby Doll through her southern hospitality traditions and manipulates her senses in order to put her in a vulnerable mental state. He seduces her with questions, baiting her with soft, silky chiding, arousing her curiosity, and her untapped sexual desire. Vacarro never appears desperate, like the constantly floundering Archie Lee, as he dances Baby into a corner, like a scared rabbit. Caroll Baker makes these scenes unforgettable; she is so beautiful, and so sexy -- she puts Lolita to shame. She is the real reason to see this movie, and her scenes with Eli Wallach are the most provocative performances I've seen from a 1950's film.

I think the messages are more socio-political than anything else. Poverty and slavery are presented as aspects of existence that lead to sexual repression and delaying of gratification. Baby Doll speaks often of her "five complete sets of furniture" which make her feel more of a lady. Baby Doll has the idea that when she has the accessories of the middle class around her things will fall into place for her and she can make the step from childhood into adulthood. She has a vague notion that her predicament has something to do with her fourth grade education, but Vacarro quickly convinces her that this is not the only way she can "grow up." He does this by seducing her, arousing her repressed sexuality with statements that affirm her worth and value as a southern woman. We watch as Baby Doll becomes a woman, through the acquisition of a man (who then becomes her possession, as seen by Vacarro's stint in the crib) who psychologically manipulates her in almost an animalistic way -- the way you would cajole and manipulate a frightened dog. Baby Doll learns to trust, but, tragically, Vacarro is not looking for a woman, he is merely looking for her signature on a piece of paper, which will probably make him owner of all of Archie Lee's property. The film leaves us with the possibility that Vacarro may return to claim Baby Doll as part of the package, but what with his ability to deceive, we are not certain that he will make good on the promises he's made to her and Aunt Rose. Yet, even Vacarro has to admit that since Baby Doll has made the transition from laying in her crib/bed to putting her love interest in the baby's bed, and that this shift has caused a change in her countenance. She now has poise, and she can control her voice and anger at Archie Lee. Perhaps this change has a leveling effect on her and Vacarro's relationship -- now she is able to say what it is she wants. She doesn't have to "stand at the chalk board...and cry...and cry..."

There is so much more to this film, but I will have to discuss it further some other time. As I look at the stack of novels I have to read this semester (thirteen at last count), I don't know if I will have time to watch films until June. I would like to see The Reader, and Revolutionary Road, and I might be able to this first light week of class. Also, I should be finding out in the next couple of weeks whether or not I made it into the Ph.D. program at USC. Maybe, in this year of hopes and dreams coming true, I'll get a little residual good fortune! We'll see.