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.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
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.
Friday, January 8, 2010
Don't I Know You?
Missed a month. Blogging, that is. I don't want you to think I'd decided to, you know, grow a mini-me in my inner regions. December was a tough one. Let's just say that I went through a terrible bout with déjà vu. Sometimes you can just laugh off that pesky feeling that you've been here, done this, before...sometimes you can't, and you have to listen to angry music, mope around your house, refrain from activities you enjoy, and drink a lot. Thank goodness for therapists, and good friends, and that literature doesn't just get up and walk out when things get rough.
This is just the beginning of my ease back into activities that I love, so I don't have any literary analysis to share, or any real news. I've been inexcusably lazy about applying for grad school. I've been terribly discouraged...by a number of things, not the least of which is the state of the State, and Nation. I can justify my love of literature and my pursuit of education that springs from that love, but I can't justify spending thousands of dollars on at least two more years of University when jobs are nonexistent. Alright. I know it's really not that hopeless. There's also some truth in the idea that maybe, I just might be, I could possibly be, you know, scared to apply. It just never goes away, this feeling that I'm not good enough. But I must apply to at least two second tier schools, so that I don't feel like a total idiot. I really don't want to. I don't want to do the work. It's grueling, and stressful, and for me, this is an utterly personal dream. I don't have any parents telling me how proud they are, I don't have any pressure to get this done. I just have a relentless desire to read and write. Sometimes, I wish I were a man. When men pursue their dreams, they are hardly ever asked why, or why they're not interested in putting around the garage, or pushing the corporate button on demand, or, I don't know, growing a baby in their junk. Oh, don't listen to me.
I don't want to be getting more bitter...I swear. I just need to pull out of this winter slump, allow myself to have dreams and to pursue them, and, I don't know, maybe take a swim in the ocean somewhere.
"There's no pills for what I fear..." -- Neko Case
This is just the beginning of my ease back into activities that I love, so I don't have any literary analysis to share, or any real news. I've been inexcusably lazy about applying for grad school. I've been terribly discouraged...by a number of things, not the least of which is the state of the State, and Nation. I can justify my love of literature and my pursuit of education that springs from that love, but I can't justify spending thousands of dollars on at least two more years of University when jobs are nonexistent. Alright. I know it's really not that hopeless. There's also some truth in the idea that maybe, I just might be, I could possibly be, you know, scared to apply. It just never goes away, this feeling that I'm not good enough. But I must apply to at least two second tier schools, so that I don't feel like a total idiot. I really don't want to. I don't want to do the work. It's grueling, and stressful, and for me, this is an utterly personal dream. I don't have any parents telling me how proud they are, I don't have any pressure to get this done. I just have a relentless desire to read and write. Sometimes, I wish I were a man. When men pursue their dreams, they are hardly ever asked why, or why they're not interested in putting around the garage, or pushing the corporate button on demand, or, I don't know, growing a baby in their junk. Oh, don't listen to me.
I don't want to be getting more bitter...I swear. I just need to pull out of this winter slump, allow myself to have dreams and to pursue them, and, I don't know, maybe take a swim in the ocean somewhere.
"There's no pills for what I fear..." -- Neko Case
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
The Stranger Chapter 2
Today was the first day I actually rode my new "city" bike, a Schwinn Sprint, in the city. It's incredibly cute, but oh my dear goodness, what a pain to ride. If pain equals success, I think riding this thing will turn me into a champion.
In other news, I am going to submit my paper on The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao to a conference in Texas. I'll let you know.
Chapter Two
Chapter two opens with Mersault having returned home from his mother's funeral. Is the novel therefore primarily about grief? Or is Camus simply using grief as an emotion or a state of being within which the reader expects a greater show of emotion from Mersualt? No matter what, the loss of the mother will affect the tone of the novel. In the introduction, Matthew Ward declares that the opening line of Chapter one is a "sacred cow" of French literature in English translation. Ward keeps his comments limited to translation, but I can't help wondering if the intention of the first sentence important also in the sense that it is a demand for all of our expectations about grief and loss to be pulled up the front lines of the battlefield that is reading.
I have thought of different categories in which to divide the contents of the novel. There are:
1. Mersualt's daily actions and mundane activities
2. Goings on outside of Mersault, or, things he can't control, things he experiences
3. Ceremonies or activities in which he feels he must act or say things out of an obligation to social expectations
4. Mersault's random ideas, thoughts
In line with Stanley Fish's ideas about reader response, I think also present are the readers' expectations and reactions, in between the lines and all that.
So, to begin the novel, Camus presents the death of the mother. This has a lot of meaning, because it falls under daily activities, things M can't control, and then her death begets ceremonies, ideas, and most important, is a highly reactive topic that dives headlong into existence.
Chapter two investigates Mersualt's sexuality a bit. The style of writing is very mechanical, with each sentence advancing the plot forward like clockwork. But there are bits where we discover a little about Mersault's personality. He has some pretty interesting ideas about his boss. He thinks his boss was annoyed about his asking for vacation time for his mother's funeral because he'd "be getting four days vacation that way, including Sunday, and he couldn't have been happy about that." So his boss was jealous? This seems really odd, because it suggests his boss was so indifferent about Mersault's mother's death, so devoid of compassion, that he let his annoyance and jealously come through in his dealings with Mersault. I think that whatever reaction the boss had to the request for time off, it wasn't annoyance, or that if it was, it was annoyance at the discomfort aroused by awkwardness associated with death. Maybe Mersualt cannot even recognize compassion? Does he mistake it for annoyance?
His interaction with Marie is more personable. Yet, the only time he really feels anything is when she recognizes that he's in mourning, and then he feels defensive, wanting to say, "it wasn't my fault." He admits, "you always feel a little guilty." Who always feels guilty? People? Has Mersault lost a mother previous to this one? Is guilt just a common emotion to him?
Also, he tells Marie that Maman died "yesterday," when in fact she had died maybe two or three days before. This adds to my theory that his mother isn't "really" dead until the ceremony completes it.
In chapter two we also learn that Mersault used to live with his mother, but since her removal to the old folk's home, he has moved into one room, and has "let the rest go." Does this mean that he has let the rest out to rent, or simply abandoned the extra space? Has he "let go" of the idea of mother? He also collects advertisements, and tells us when he washes his hands. This seems to be either in accordance with an already popular stereotype of, or creates, the portrait of a sociopath. I mean, he sits and looks out of the window for five hours, right? Watching people with M is tiring. We get tired of Sunday with him, not in the least because he sees people and really has no feelings about them. It's only as he's going to bed that he senses his feelings, well, one feeling, really, and it's apathetic, "Maman was buried now...nothing had changed." I don't think this feeling, or lack thereof, is really all that shocking. It's all of the other things that he doesn't feel, like sadness, or anger, that make this disturbing. It's not like M has feelings that he is trying to escape, or shove down. He simply doesn't have them. He even almost seems to wait to have them, and then doesn't. The only one he acknowledges in this chapter is guilt. Now, that is odd, because you think that if he were a sociopath, he wouldn't have any remorse, or wouldn't acknowledge it if he did.
I also don't know why Mersault dislikes Sundays. If he doesn't desire companionship, why does he stare out of the window all day? Acknowledge the social groups he sees? He says that several girls wave to him...hmmmmm. I wonder if he is only social enough to fulfill his sexual desire, and has no other contact with people? He doesn't seem to like people asking him questions. It's kind of becoming clear that relationships are kind of troubling to M. His mother's presence in his life was awkward enough that the had her live away from him, and then her absence was also uncomfortable, but only physically; Marie seems to be a relief from loneliness, but she also appears to emote too much -- she's always laughing, and seems "very surprised." Her enjoyment of life gives her an almost childlike and innocent appearance, especially compared to Mersault's stoicism and isolation.
There is a relatable truth to Mersault's life and ideas. Of course the actions are normal, but when the constant barrage of ideas, thoughts, and emotions, the cacaophony that seems to plague humans, are removed from the narrative, it seems like so much of Mersault's humanity is lost. It's like Camus is employing an strategy opposite of stream of consciousness. I mean, what would we think of Dewy Dell if we didn't have her thoughts? Yet, there would still be her dialogue to give us access to her emotions. Mersault is silent most of the time. There's so much nothingness in this novel. The reader brings all of the emotional and mental chaos to the novel. Plus, we still haven't gotten a face.
There's more I want to talk about -- especially about gender. Next time.
In other news, I am going to submit my paper on The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao to a conference in Texas. I'll let you know.
Chapter Two
Chapter two opens with Mersault having returned home from his mother's funeral. Is the novel therefore primarily about grief? Or is Camus simply using grief as an emotion or a state of being within which the reader expects a greater show of emotion from Mersualt? No matter what, the loss of the mother will affect the tone of the novel. In the introduction, Matthew Ward declares that the opening line of Chapter one is a "sacred cow" of French literature in English translation. Ward keeps his comments limited to translation, but I can't help wondering if the intention of the first sentence important also in the sense that it is a demand for all of our expectations about grief and loss to be pulled up the front lines of the battlefield that is reading.
I have thought of different categories in which to divide the contents of the novel. There are:
1. Mersualt's daily actions and mundane activities
2. Goings on outside of Mersault, or, things he can't control, things he experiences
3. Ceremonies or activities in which he feels he must act or say things out of an obligation to social expectations
4. Mersault's random ideas, thoughts
In line with Stanley Fish's ideas about reader response, I think also present are the readers' expectations and reactions, in between the lines and all that.
So, to begin the novel, Camus presents the death of the mother. This has a lot of meaning, because it falls under daily activities, things M can't control, and then her death begets ceremonies, ideas, and most important, is a highly reactive topic that dives headlong into existence.
Chapter two investigates Mersualt's sexuality a bit. The style of writing is very mechanical, with each sentence advancing the plot forward like clockwork. But there are bits where we discover a little about Mersault's personality. He has some pretty interesting ideas about his boss. He thinks his boss was annoyed about his asking for vacation time for his mother's funeral because he'd "be getting four days vacation that way, including Sunday, and he couldn't have been happy about that." So his boss was jealous? This seems really odd, because it suggests his boss was so indifferent about Mersault's mother's death, so devoid of compassion, that he let his annoyance and jealously come through in his dealings with Mersault. I think that whatever reaction the boss had to the request for time off, it wasn't annoyance, or that if it was, it was annoyance at the discomfort aroused by awkwardness associated with death. Maybe Mersualt cannot even recognize compassion? Does he mistake it for annoyance?
His interaction with Marie is more personable. Yet, the only time he really feels anything is when she recognizes that he's in mourning, and then he feels defensive, wanting to say, "it wasn't my fault." He admits, "you always feel a little guilty." Who always feels guilty? People? Has Mersault lost a mother previous to this one? Is guilt just a common emotion to him?
Also, he tells Marie that Maman died "yesterday," when in fact she had died maybe two or three days before. This adds to my theory that his mother isn't "really" dead until the ceremony completes it.
In chapter two we also learn that Mersault used to live with his mother, but since her removal to the old folk's home, he has moved into one room, and has "let the rest go." Does this mean that he has let the rest out to rent, or simply abandoned the extra space? Has he "let go" of the idea of mother? He also collects advertisements, and tells us when he washes his hands. This seems to be either in accordance with an already popular stereotype of, or creates, the portrait of a sociopath. I mean, he sits and looks out of the window for five hours, right? Watching people with M is tiring. We get tired of Sunday with him, not in the least because he sees people and really has no feelings about them. It's only as he's going to bed that he senses his feelings, well, one feeling, really, and it's apathetic, "Maman was buried now...nothing had changed." I don't think this feeling, or lack thereof, is really all that shocking. It's all of the other things that he doesn't feel, like sadness, or anger, that make this disturbing. It's not like M has feelings that he is trying to escape, or shove down. He simply doesn't have them. He even almost seems to wait to have them, and then doesn't. The only one he acknowledges in this chapter is guilt. Now, that is odd, because you think that if he were a sociopath, he wouldn't have any remorse, or wouldn't acknowledge it if he did.
I also don't know why Mersault dislikes Sundays. If he doesn't desire companionship, why does he stare out of the window all day? Acknowledge the social groups he sees? He says that several girls wave to him...hmmmmm. I wonder if he is only social enough to fulfill his sexual desire, and has no other contact with people? He doesn't seem to like people asking him questions. It's kind of becoming clear that relationships are kind of troubling to M. His mother's presence in his life was awkward enough that the had her live away from him, and then her absence was also uncomfortable, but only physically; Marie seems to be a relief from loneliness, but she also appears to emote too much -- she's always laughing, and seems "very surprised." Her enjoyment of life gives her an almost childlike and innocent appearance, especially compared to Mersault's stoicism and isolation.
There is a relatable truth to Mersault's life and ideas. Of course the actions are normal, but when the constant barrage of ideas, thoughts, and emotions, the cacaophony that seems to plague humans, are removed from the narrative, it seems like so much of Mersault's humanity is lost. It's like Camus is employing an strategy opposite of stream of consciousness. I mean, what would we think of Dewy Dell if we didn't have her thoughts? Yet, there would still be her dialogue to give us access to her emotions. Mersault is silent most of the time. There's so much nothingness in this novel. The reader brings all of the emotional and mental chaos to the novel. Plus, we still haven't gotten a face.
There's more I want to talk about -- especially about gender. Next time.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
The Strange The Stranger Chapter 1
Oh, a post about literature? Welly, well, well, well. Astonishing. Right before I started college, I read Camus,' The Stranger. I had gone to Australia and met a great guy there who shared my love of The Cure, and discussions about their music led to him asking me if I had read The Stranger, for one of The Cure's early songs is heavily influenced by it. I had heard of Camus, through popular culture and all of that, but had not tried French literature beyond some of Rimbaud's translated poetry, and Lautremont's "Chants de Maldoror." My Australian friend said I should read the novel, commenting that it is a short little thing, and very good. I ended up reading Matthew Ward's "American" translation, not for any real reason. Just coincidence.
So I read it, and I liked the style. I ended up also reading The Plague, which I liked immensely. Then, right after I started college, I picked up The Rebel, Camus' ideas about the rebel and revolution. I tried to read it then, which was, I would say, in 2003 or 2004. I liked the beginning, but as it got more difficult, I put it aside. I don't think I had really read enough theory to understand it well enough to enjoy it.
I haven't actually picked it back up with the intention of reading it all the way through, yet. I was skimming it the other day, and noticed that it has a section on the rebel in novels. I read a little bit of that, and I really liked it. I had pulled The Stranger off of the shelf at the same time that I yanked The Rebel, also by coincidence, because The Stranger is so skinny, and they were sort of stuck together. I knew what a brief read it was, so I decided that I should read it again, as a graduate.
I'm always a little nervous reading translated work, and even more when analyzing it. Oh, well. I will do this as usual:
Part 1
Chapter 1
This novel has a Part 1, so this is presumably the beginning of something that will happen in stages. Something, it seems, will build.
The opening sentence is great: Maman died today. The death of the mother, the creator, the collapse of the cave from whence we all came, is an excellent setting. It is a reminder of that long since forbidden intimacy that Meursault later seems to both crave and abhor. It's a sentence which reminds of that particular intimacy, and is also a renewal of the loss of it, or the extinguishing of the hope of ever having it again. It is Freud that postulated that we all want to get back into the womb? I don't know. I should really read more philosophy. Anyway, we are dealing with the death of a mother -- kind of like in As I Lay Dying. I wonder if Camus was a fan of Faulkner.
I guess you could say that this novel is written in the first person. I wonder, though, who the speaker is talking to, and if we are in what I can only think to describe as "real time." Are we experiencing a story past tense or present tense? We seem to be in the speaker's mind, but also floating at times outside of him, looking either at him or away from him. I don't get the feeling that the narrator is really aware of us. When he says things like, "I don't have anything to apologize for," referring to needing time off from work, and feeling guilty for asking for it, I'm not sure if he's telling us, or trying to convince himself.
I think Camus wants us to believe that what we are reading is all that goes on in Meursault's head. There is such a lack of any kind of judgement, but perhaps this is because, as he tells us, he's been influenced by the fact that Maman had never in her life given a thought to religion. It's interesting that instead of saying that his mother wasn't religious, he uses the phrase, "never given a thought." This implies that thoughts are not intrusive, but extrusive. They could just be sitting there, with no subject, no predicate, simply waiting for you to choose what to give them to. That means that there is another consciousness deciding, or thinking, what to think about. In that case, there is another consciousness that Meursault is not disclosing, or perhaps cannot disclose to us. The one that chooses what he is going to give his thoughts to. Or at least that is his experience -- so he's not acknowledging the super-ego? Alas, there I go again, quoting that which I'm not familiar enough with.
The action at the funeral and the senior home is probably what initially establishes the novel's reputation as concerning a "detached" man. Yet, I didn't find it hard to identify with Meursault as he finds the home a virtual prison for the elderly, and the behavior of the attendants there absurd. What I noticed about this episode was the various systems that he has to deal with to get this ceremony over with in order for Maman's death to "have a more official feel to it." Until these systems are dealt with and used, "it's almost as if Maman isn't dead." The structures, the systems, are what pronounce her dead, for Meursault doesn't even glimpse her dead body. It's an experience made up of bare nerves and intolerable foreignness.
I suppose Camus begins with this because it is one of the more absurd moments in life that we construct. We don't usually personally bury our loved ones; others, strangers, bury our dead. Others do all of the work for us, so that we do not really have the experience. When Meursault arrives at the "old people's home," he wants to "see Maman right away," but he must see the director first. He is a little old man of some distinction, wearing a ribbon from the French Legion of Honor. It's been over 140 years since the Legion was established, and the director is described as little and old. Camus could be commenting on the futility of newness, and new orders. I do think that in The Rebel, he notes that every rebellion is only a rebellion until order is restored again. Then rebells cease to be in revolt, and they are either policemen or tyrants. So which is the director? I guess since the director holds Meursault's hand until he "didn't know how to get it loose," he seems like more of a gentle tyrant, overpowering, but only just enough to make the Meursault uncomfortable. But there isn't a clear connotation. The director uses modified language to keep from "criticizing" Meursault, while simultaneously justifying the existence of the old people's home, and acts as the authority on the matter.
There's a slight refrain in this novel, that begins in chapter one. It's something like, "that doesn't mean anything." The meaningless that Meursault is referring to seems like a relief from the forced meaning involved in the old folks' home, and even involved in his job and relationship with his boss, and even in his later relationship with Marie. Meaninglessness becomes the answer to confusion, or the option for freedom from feeling. Thus, the compulsion to find meaning, or to make meaning, becomes uncomfortable for the reader.
A good friend and reader explained the feeling I was having about setting and space as dislocation. Dislocation came up a lot for me in Faulkner. I find it very interesting that Camus has achieved a similar sense of dislocation, but uses more subtle literary techniques than say, stream of consciousness. It's almost as if the realm of ideas is a location that both Faulkner and Camus take us to, some psychological personality place where the self is detached from the present, but not entirely unaware of it. Is this the attempt to know the unknowable? Fittingly, I don't know.
So I read it, and I liked the style. I ended up also reading The Plague, which I liked immensely. Then, right after I started college, I picked up The Rebel, Camus' ideas about the rebel and revolution. I tried to read it then, which was, I would say, in 2003 or 2004. I liked the beginning, but as it got more difficult, I put it aside. I don't think I had really read enough theory to understand it well enough to enjoy it.
I haven't actually picked it back up with the intention of reading it all the way through, yet. I was skimming it the other day, and noticed that it has a section on the rebel in novels. I read a little bit of that, and I really liked it. I had pulled The Stranger off of the shelf at the same time that I yanked The Rebel, also by coincidence, because The Stranger is so skinny, and they were sort of stuck together. I knew what a brief read it was, so I decided that I should read it again, as a graduate.
I'm always a little nervous reading translated work, and even more when analyzing it. Oh, well. I will do this as usual:
Part 1
Chapter 1
This novel has a Part 1, so this is presumably the beginning of something that will happen in stages. Something, it seems, will build.
The opening sentence is great: Maman died today. The death of the mother, the creator, the collapse of the cave from whence we all came, is an excellent setting. It is a reminder of that long since forbidden intimacy that Meursault later seems to both crave and abhor. It's a sentence which reminds of that particular intimacy, and is also a renewal of the loss of it, or the extinguishing of the hope of ever having it again. It is Freud that postulated that we all want to get back into the womb? I don't know. I should really read more philosophy. Anyway, we are dealing with the death of a mother -- kind of like in As I Lay Dying. I wonder if Camus was a fan of Faulkner.
I guess you could say that this novel is written in the first person. I wonder, though, who the speaker is talking to, and if we are in what I can only think to describe as "real time." Are we experiencing a story past tense or present tense? We seem to be in the speaker's mind, but also floating at times outside of him, looking either at him or away from him. I don't get the feeling that the narrator is really aware of us. When he says things like, "I don't have anything to apologize for," referring to needing time off from work, and feeling guilty for asking for it, I'm not sure if he's telling us, or trying to convince himself.
I think Camus wants us to believe that what we are reading is all that goes on in Meursault's head. There is such a lack of any kind of judgement, but perhaps this is because, as he tells us, he's been influenced by the fact that Maman had never in her life given a thought to religion. It's interesting that instead of saying that his mother wasn't religious, he uses the phrase, "never given a thought." This implies that thoughts are not intrusive, but extrusive. They could just be sitting there, with no subject, no predicate, simply waiting for you to choose what to give them to. That means that there is another consciousness deciding, or thinking, what to think about. In that case, there is another consciousness that Meursault is not disclosing, or perhaps cannot disclose to us. The one that chooses what he is going to give his thoughts to. Or at least that is his experience -- so he's not acknowledging the super-ego? Alas, there I go again, quoting that which I'm not familiar enough with.
The action at the funeral and the senior home is probably what initially establishes the novel's reputation as concerning a "detached" man. Yet, I didn't find it hard to identify with Meursault as he finds the home a virtual prison for the elderly, and the behavior of the attendants there absurd. What I noticed about this episode was the various systems that he has to deal with to get this ceremony over with in order for Maman's death to "have a more official feel to it." Until these systems are dealt with and used, "it's almost as if Maman isn't dead." The structures, the systems, are what pronounce her dead, for Meursault doesn't even glimpse her dead body. It's an experience made up of bare nerves and intolerable foreignness.
I suppose Camus begins with this because it is one of the more absurd moments in life that we construct. We don't usually personally bury our loved ones; others, strangers, bury our dead. Others do all of the work for us, so that we do not really have the experience. When Meursault arrives at the "old people's home," he wants to "see Maman right away," but he must see the director first. He is a little old man of some distinction, wearing a ribbon from the French Legion of Honor. It's been over 140 years since the Legion was established, and the director is described as little and old. Camus could be commenting on the futility of newness, and new orders. I do think that in The Rebel, he notes that every rebellion is only a rebellion until order is restored again. Then rebells cease to be in revolt, and they are either policemen or tyrants. So which is the director? I guess since the director holds Meursault's hand until he "didn't know how to get it loose," he seems like more of a gentle tyrant, overpowering, but only just enough to make the Meursault uncomfortable. But there isn't a clear connotation. The director uses modified language to keep from "criticizing" Meursault, while simultaneously justifying the existence of the old people's home, and acts as the authority on the matter.
There's a slight refrain in this novel, that begins in chapter one. It's something like, "that doesn't mean anything." The meaningless that Meursault is referring to seems like a relief from the forced meaning involved in the old folks' home, and even involved in his job and relationship with his boss, and even in his later relationship with Marie. Meaninglessness becomes the answer to confusion, or the option for freedom from feeling. Thus, the compulsion to find meaning, or to make meaning, becomes uncomfortable for the reader.
A good friend and reader explained the feeling I was having about setting and space as dislocation. Dislocation came up a lot for me in Faulkner. I find it very interesting that Camus has achieved a similar sense of dislocation, but uses more subtle literary techniques than say, stream of consciousness. It's almost as if the realm of ideas is a location that both Faulkner and Camus take us to, some psychological personality place where the self is detached from the present, but not entirely unaware of it. Is this the attempt to know the unknowable? Fittingly, I don't know.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Theater Rage
Being as it's probably the most interesting thing I've been doing lately, besides having a job, and planning European vacations, going to the movies will have to be the subject of yet another post. I wrote about Bright Star, and I'm sticking with my notion that it's simply the best film this year. I'm seeing it again on Monday. It's brilliant.
Tonight Todd and I went to see Drew Barrymore's directorial debut, Whip It. The film isn't extraordinary, but I suppose it is mildly amusing. The best thing in it by leaps and bounds is Andrew Wilson's performance as the derby girl's coach. I love those Wilson brothers. They have a genuineness about them that I can't help but admire. What is it? A vulnerability? Charm? Confidence? Coolness? They are just a wildly talented, if a bit limited, trio of men.
The movie was alright, but there's something else I have to tell you. There's something I have to admit to. I have a problem. Let's call it theatre rage. I find myself unconscionably angry when people around me incessantly talk, chomp on popcorn, and open loud candy during films. I mean it really gets me mad. Mutant comic book character mad, where I don't care about getting my butt kicked. This happens to me at concerts, too, but it is never more annoying then when I'm at a movie theater. I have a terribly unreasonable expectation that people watching a film together will be quiet. I mean, before most movies there is actually a message from the theater telling you to be quiet. I mean, I understand that sometimes you have to whisper something, like, I have to pee, or you say, oh, that's Andrew Wilson, but there's this technique called whispering that I don't know people learn anymore.
And I think to myself, am I just getting old and cranky? Am I going to the wrong theater? Apparently not, because when I saw Appaloosa at the Arclight in a 21+ screening with assigned seating, there was a douchebag sitting behind us that wouldn't shut up until we got an usher to remind him. And even then we had to shush him several times. I think -- do I have to see movies at midnight? Especially in movies where the sound is actually kind of important, almost a character unto itself, is the unbecoming knowledge that you "just can't believe that she would do that" -- which is an actual quote from a woman sitting behind me blurting out random statements during that quiet, dialogue heavy movie with Kate Winslet and Leonardo di Caprio. When Todd and I saw Bright Star together, there was a row of popcorn chompers behind us, at least three of them, who must have been trying to win some kind of contest for loudness.
Tonight, there was a highschool-aged couple behind us who talked throughout the trailers, and then continued to talk for the first five minutes of the movie, making comments through every line like they were reactionary robots with no control over their impulse to respond. I glared, I shushed. The guy looked like a total bro douche bag, so I finally decided I needed to change seats. Todd tends to kind of panic when I get theater rage, because he feels like I'm going to say something really nasty (like that time I told someone that they had the decorum of a junkyard dog) that will cause him to have to get into a fight, but mostly I think my snobbery and confrontational nature simply embarrass him. I got up in my rage, and spilled all my Junior Mints. Dad blam it. I booked it angrily to some upper seats on the aisle, and we watched the rest of the film a little askew, but it's so much better to be away, away, away from the noise.
I don't know what to do. Anger shaves time off of lives. I love going to the movies. Remember when theaters used to have one screen, and there were ushers inside the auditorium who ensured that no one was disrupting the movie? Sigh.
Tonight Todd and I went to see Drew Barrymore's directorial debut, Whip It. The film isn't extraordinary, but I suppose it is mildly amusing. The best thing in it by leaps and bounds is Andrew Wilson's performance as the derby girl's coach. I love those Wilson brothers. They have a genuineness about them that I can't help but admire. What is it? A vulnerability? Charm? Confidence? Coolness? They are just a wildly talented, if a bit limited, trio of men.
The movie was alright, but there's something else I have to tell you. There's something I have to admit to. I have a problem. Let's call it theatre rage. I find myself unconscionably angry when people around me incessantly talk, chomp on popcorn, and open loud candy during films. I mean it really gets me mad. Mutant comic book character mad, where I don't care about getting my butt kicked. This happens to me at concerts, too, but it is never more annoying then when I'm at a movie theater. I have a terribly unreasonable expectation that people watching a film together will be quiet. I mean, before most movies there is actually a message from the theater telling you to be quiet. I mean, I understand that sometimes you have to whisper something, like, I have to pee, or you say, oh, that's Andrew Wilson, but there's this technique called whispering that I don't know people learn anymore.
And I think to myself, am I just getting old and cranky? Am I going to the wrong theater? Apparently not, because when I saw Appaloosa at the Arclight in a 21+ screening with assigned seating, there was a douchebag sitting behind us that wouldn't shut up until we got an usher to remind him. And even then we had to shush him several times. I think -- do I have to see movies at midnight? Especially in movies where the sound is actually kind of important, almost a character unto itself, is the unbecoming knowledge that you "just can't believe that she would do that" -- which is an actual quote from a woman sitting behind me blurting out random statements during that quiet, dialogue heavy movie with Kate Winslet and Leonardo di Caprio. When Todd and I saw Bright Star together, there was a row of popcorn chompers behind us, at least three of them, who must have been trying to win some kind of contest for loudness.
Tonight, there was a highschool-aged couple behind us who talked throughout the trailers, and then continued to talk for the first five minutes of the movie, making comments through every line like they were reactionary robots with no control over their impulse to respond. I glared, I shushed. The guy looked like a total bro douche bag, so I finally decided I needed to change seats. Todd tends to kind of panic when I get theater rage, because he feels like I'm going to say something really nasty (like that time I told someone that they had the decorum of a junkyard dog) that will cause him to have to get into a fight, but mostly I think my snobbery and confrontational nature simply embarrass him. I got up in my rage, and spilled all my Junior Mints. Dad blam it. I booked it angrily to some upper seats on the aisle, and we watched the rest of the film a little askew, but it's so much better to be away, away, away from the noise.
I don't know what to do. Anger shaves time off of lives. I love going to the movies. Remember when theaters used to have one screen, and there were ushers inside the auditorium who ensured that no one was disrupting the movie? Sigh.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Bright Star
My excellent friend Willow and I went to see Jane Campion's new film, Bright Star. I noticed that it was playing at the Arclight in Hollywood on the midnight of its opening day, and thought it would be fun to see a late movie, for it's been ever so long since I've done anything like that. Well, you know, at least since Star Wars III. I'm a little ashamed to admit it, but I also knew that people who are in films often see their film or their "friends" in films at midnight showings at the Arclight in Hollywood, so I quietly hoped we might catch a glimpse of Paul Schneider, Abbie Cornish, or Ben Wishaw. I'm not afraid to admit that it would have been exciting, anyway. But, no matter, there were just four of us in the theater.
I have to admit, it's been a long time since I've seen any of Campion's films. There are even a few I haven't seen, like Holy Smoke, In the Cut, An Angel at my Table, or A Girl's Own Story. I didn't even really like Portrait of a Lady, except I thought it was beautiful. In spite of my lack of experience with Campion, I was very excited for Bright Star. I'm not really a huge fan of really long poems, but I love Keats's sonnets and shorter poems. I'd read a few of his letters included in the Longman Anthology of British Literature, but was unaware that he wrote love letters to anyone. Therefore, the subject matter intrigued me.
The film focuses mostly on Cornish's character Fanny Brawne. I love the way Campion does this. We identify with her as she becomes aware of her self as a creature who loves the beauty of words and human hearts, and not just fashion, and we also get to fall in love with her as Keats does, entering the world of romance alongside the utmost Romantic. Brilliant. As an interpretation of British literature that includes biographical material, I think this film is on par with The Hours. I am in awe of Campion; she investigates the idea of their affair exploring how it must have felt to be the being with whom the greatest, youngest Romantic poet is madly in love. What is that creature like? What is their relationship like? Campion makes it so simple; they are, it is, like us -- only imagined, so, more beautiful, and more accessible. The film rides the perilous line of fantasy and reality at exhilarating speed, and with unending amounts of grace.
The acting is so generous. Perhaps that is due to Campion's script, which is perfect, but I really felt that the silent bits were played with such vulnerability that I felt the players were truly opening up to us, and allowing themselves to let us witness the purity of the most intimate moments of our lives. I know it is going to sound awfully silly and selfish, but I often wish I could see myself at different moments in my life. The moment I first knew I was in love with a man, and he me. The moment I first felt my heart crack. I can remember these moments, but I wonder what they looked like. I know not half as beautiful as a Campion film set in the English countryside, but those moments are just as beautiful, and that is what this film does. It reminds you through utterly romantic artifice that those moments in your life were ideal. And she helps you not burst into a thousand pieces by only showing you a story about first love, and first loss. And maybe those are the most beautiful. This movie can convince you of that.
I think I'll see it again this week, by myself. Perhaps, as it so often occurs with love, the second time around will be different.
I have to admit, it's been a long time since I've seen any of Campion's films. There are even a few I haven't seen, like Holy Smoke, In the Cut, An Angel at my Table, or A Girl's Own Story. I didn't even really like Portrait of a Lady, except I thought it was beautiful. In spite of my lack of experience with Campion, I was very excited for Bright Star. I'm not really a huge fan of really long poems, but I love Keats's sonnets and shorter poems. I'd read a few of his letters included in the Longman Anthology of British Literature, but was unaware that he wrote love letters to anyone. Therefore, the subject matter intrigued me.
The film focuses mostly on Cornish's character Fanny Brawne. I love the way Campion does this. We identify with her as she becomes aware of her self as a creature who loves the beauty of words and human hearts, and not just fashion, and we also get to fall in love with her as Keats does, entering the world of romance alongside the utmost Romantic. Brilliant. As an interpretation of British literature that includes biographical material, I think this film is on par with The Hours. I am in awe of Campion; she investigates the idea of their affair exploring how it must have felt to be the being with whom the greatest, youngest Romantic poet is madly in love. What is that creature like? What is their relationship like? Campion makes it so simple; they are, it is, like us -- only imagined, so, more beautiful, and more accessible. The film rides the perilous line of fantasy and reality at exhilarating speed, and with unending amounts of grace.
The acting is so generous. Perhaps that is due to Campion's script, which is perfect, but I really felt that the silent bits were played with such vulnerability that I felt the players were truly opening up to us, and allowing themselves to let us witness the purity of the most intimate moments of our lives. I know it is going to sound awfully silly and selfish, but I often wish I could see myself at different moments in my life. The moment I first knew I was in love with a man, and he me. The moment I first felt my heart crack. I can remember these moments, but I wonder what they looked like. I know not half as beautiful as a Campion film set in the English countryside, but those moments are just as beautiful, and that is what this film does. It reminds you through utterly romantic artifice that those moments in your life were ideal. And she helps you not burst into a thousand pieces by only showing you a story about first love, and first loss. And maybe those are the most beautiful. This movie can convince you of that.
I think I'll see it again this week, by myself. Perhaps, as it so often occurs with love, the second time around will be different.
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