It goes:
Language is a moral cloud-chamber, through which the world passes, emerging charged with desire.
I love that line. It is lovely, perhaps for its imagery. I imagine that shiny earth passing into a mist, within staticky exchanges of electricity go back and forth. The earth comes out of the cloud, and the remaining films of the cloud pull away.
But what does Hass mean my "moral" cloud-chamber (and why do I insist on hyphenating it? and I do)? I like to think that it is an image meant to correct the notion of morality as something silent, like two orbs flitting through space, self-same and immutable. Whereas good and evil are always objects of desire--and repulsion. And the desire is not there by accident, but makes good and evil into what they are. The good is always an object of desire ... and the evil is always an object of desire.
And mediocrity is the neutralizing cloth that kills all life (and desire).
Friday, September 11, 2009
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Quickly: The Myth of Equality and Plato's Republic
Perhaps this will be the format for a number of soon-to-be blog posts, but since time is short, they will take the form of "quickly."
Every now and again Y and I see children and I comment on their aptitude and say, oh, he's part of the bronze cast, or she's silver, recalling the "myth of the metals" described at the end of Book 3 of Plato's Republic. As you shall remember, according to the myth of the metals, individuals in the community are differentiated in their education, at birth, based on the metal in their soul. Should you have gold, you shall be trained to be a guardian; silver, an auxiliary; and bronze, a craftsperson. I think this is a funny joke, but Y mentioned the other day that it made her a bit anxious.
I explained to her that Socrates proposed this myth in order to best organize the city that he and his interlocutors are describing. In other words, it is not that Socrates necessarily thinks that there is such a differentiation of individuals according to metal (or blood), but that there needs to be in order to train people properly, create the just regime, etc. As well, I mentioned, the consequence of this myth is that each occupation is treated and valued for herself insofar as they fulfill their occupation, not in relation to other occupations. Namely, that the craftsperson is judged as a craftsperson and not as a guardian. I summarized, drawing from my lectures, that this is the myth of difference.
In my lectures I counterpose this to our own myth of equality. Namely, that all people are equally capable of doing anything, via bootstraps or saving their pennies or education or whatnot. Yet it seems to me, and I didn't realize this until the conversation with Y, that the myth of equality has the unforeseen and unintended consequence of devaluing the different occupations of others. Instead, it treats only the highest, most lucrative, most powerful, occupations as those worthy of esteem. Thus, the myth of equality has the unintended consequence of making all except those who have "succeeded"--which by nature must be a limited number--failures.
Every now and again Y and I see children and I comment on their aptitude and say, oh, he's part of the bronze cast, or she's silver, recalling the "myth of the metals" described at the end of Book 3 of Plato's Republic. As you shall remember, according to the myth of the metals, individuals in the community are differentiated in their education, at birth, based on the metal in their soul. Should you have gold, you shall be trained to be a guardian; silver, an auxiliary; and bronze, a craftsperson. I think this is a funny joke, but Y mentioned the other day that it made her a bit anxious.
I explained to her that Socrates proposed this myth in order to best organize the city that he and his interlocutors are describing. In other words, it is not that Socrates necessarily thinks that there is such a differentiation of individuals according to metal (or blood), but that there needs to be in order to train people properly, create the just regime, etc. As well, I mentioned, the consequence of this myth is that each occupation is treated and valued for herself insofar as they fulfill their occupation, not in relation to other occupations. Namely, that the craftsperson is judged as a craftsperson and not as a guardian. I summarized, drawing from my lectures, that this is the myth of difference.
In my lectures I counterpose this to our own myth of equality. Namely, that all people are equally capable of doing anything, via bootstraps or saving their pennies or education or whatnot. Yet it seems to me, and I didn't realize this until the conversation with Y, that the myth of equality has the unforeseen and unintended consequence of devaluing the different occupations of others. Instead, it treats only the highest, most lucrative, most powerful, occupations as those worthy of esteem. Thus, the myth of equality has the unintended consequence of making all except those who have "succeeded"--which by nature must be a limited number--failures.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
How to Speak about the Affective Qualities of Film
Having just spent more than two hours watching "In the Valley of Elah" (2007), there are many things that I feel. The movie is about the story of a father trying to determine what has happened to his son, who is discovered dead shortly after arriving back from a tour of duty in Iraq. Because of the grief presented in the film, I find myself touched by this grief. I am very sad because of the loss of the main character, Hank Deerfield, played by Tommy Lee Jones. We quickly learn, in the first half-hour of the film, that he had also lost another son some ten years earlier. So now he and his wife have lost both of their children.
But the grief for the loss of a son is one thing, yet this narrative is more complex. It happens that the son was killed by one of his army buddies and that there is no good explanation for why the killing occurred. Instead, we are presented with the conditions that made the killing possible. Namely, the return of these young men from a tour of duty in land where there are no marks of achievement or signs of meaning in their actions. The son, we learn, was involved in the accidental death of a child in Iraq, yet this has nothing to do with the narrative, but to show the fragile mental state of the young man. Thus, our grief is accentuated by the lack of purpose and the moral confusion of the son's killing.
The director of the film frames the movie around two mirror episodes, where Deerfield explains to an immigrant how to hang the national flag. In the first episode, the immigrant has hung it upside down. Deerfield explains that this is a sign of "distress." Thus, he shows the immigrant how to hang it properly, signifying national honor, not distress ... turpitude. At the end of the film, in the second episode, after Deerfield has returned from his trip to uncover the mysterious end of his son's life, he reverses what he has done, hanging the flag for the immigrant upside down, to indicate "distress."
The world that we leave as the movie closes, is one of solitude and sadness and loss. It is a very powerful image, particularly for those who mourn the deaths of soldiers and those who love them, who sometimes fall into their way. The image is clearly also a critique, or better a commentary, on the state of American foreign politics, the conflict in Iraq in which we are entrapped. The film presents no answers and in this regard does not attempt to assuage the affect it provoked.
Is it necessary to identify with Deerfield in order to experience the grief and confusion the film presents? This would be difficult because he is an Army man, former military police, and it was because of his service that his sons both joined the armed forces. Thus, Deerfield has a unique responsibility for the deaths of his sons, because they followed him. Had he led them astray? The viewer is certainly not expected to be able to identify with his character. We feel a sadness and a confusion because we appreciate both Deerfield and another character that assists his search for answers.
Must the affective power be measured by my individual response? I am particularly interested in this topic, because I have read news stories like the one told in this film. I have also learned a little bit about the intense psychological trauma that soldiers suffer and wish that solutions existed to solve their problems. I wonder if they, like the soldiers of other wars, will bear that trauma their entire lives.
Falling into a pattern that is well-wrought by intellectual history preceding me, I am tempted to separate these affective events from the purported "content" of the film. Yet this would be an artificial distinction that would fail to comprehend the film in its breadth. But this then leads to the judgment that the affective qualities of the film cannot be separated from this particular story and its narrative unfolding. Thus, the judgment would not be limited to the individual response, that in this case I felt.
But how do we speak about the affective qualities of a film? We describe the conditions and events that provoke affective reactions. For example, how the moral clarity of Deerfield, which is represented by his well-organized and productive life, slowly devolves, like a man who at first is sitting up straight, but by and by begins to slump. We might remark the power of Jones' face, marked with lines of time and emotion and how they perfectly accept the emotional tasks that he has in presenting Deerfield's character. How he responds to finally hearing the confession of his son's killer, with a blank face that does not register reaction. In point of fact, during the confession the scene is dominated by shots of the killer describing the deed and his relation to the victim. Yet the fact that, at a crucial moment, the killer directs his account to Deerfield, is unmistakeable. The audience watches the killer from Deerfield's perspective and hears the killer apologize to Deerfield, the audience.
Can these affective qualities be put into words and must we separate ourselves from them in order to judge the film (is judgment necessary and is our emotional state, upon the completion of the film, that judgment itself)?
But the grief for the loss of a son is one thing, yet this narrative is more complex. It happens that the son was killed by one of his army buddies and that there is no good explanation for why the killing occurred. Instead, we are presented with the conditions that made the killing possible. Namely, the return of these young men from a tour of duty in land where there are no marks of achievement or signs of meaning in their actions. The son, we learn, was involved in the accidental death of a child in Iraq, yet this has nothing to do with the narrative, but to show the fragile mental state of the young man. Thus, our grief is accentuated by the lack of purpose and the moral confusion of the son's killing.
The director of the film frames the movie around two mirror episodes, where Deerfield explains to an immigrant how to hang the national flag. In the first episode, the immigrant has hung it upside down. Deerfield explains that this is a sign of "distress." Thus, he shows the immigrant how to hang it properly, signifying national honor, not distress ... turpitude. At the end of the film, in the second episode, after Deerfield has returned from his trip to uncover the mysterious end of his son's life, he reverses what he has done, hanging the flag for the immigrant upside down, to indicate "distress."
The world that we leave as the movie closes, is one of solitude and sadness and loss. It is a very powerful image, particularly for those who mourn the deaths of soldiers and those who love them, who sometimes fall into their way. The image is clearly also a critique, or better a commentary, on the state of American foreign politics, the conflict in Iraq in which we are entrapped. The film presents no answers and in this regard does not attempt to assuage the affect it provoked.
Is it necessary to identify with Deerfield in order to experience the grief and confusion the film presents? This would be difficult because he is an Army man, former military police, and it was because of his service that his sons both joined the armed forces. Thus, Deerfield has a unique responsibility for the deaths of his sons, because they followed him. Had he led them astray? The viewer is certainly not expected to be able to identify with his character. We feel a sadness and a confusion because we appreciate both Deerfield and another character that assists his search for answers.
Must the affective power be measured by my individual response? I am particularly interested in this topic, because I have read news stories like the one told in this film. I have also learned a little bit about the intense psychological trauma that soldiers suffer and wish that solutions existed to solve their problems. I wonder if they, like the soldiers of other wars, will bear that trauma their entire lives.
Falling into a pattern that is well-wrought by intellectual history preceding me, I am tempted to separate these affective events from the purported "content" of the film. Yet this would be an artificial distinction that would fail to comprehend the film in its breadth. But this then leads to the judgment that the affective qualities of the film cannot be separated from this particular story and its narrative unfolding. Thus, the judgment would not be limited to the individual response, that in this case I felt.
But how do we speak about the affective qualities of a film? We describe the conditions and events that provoke affective reactions. For example, how the moral clarity of Deerfield, which is represented by his well-organized and productive life, slowly devolves, like a man who at first is sitting up straight, but by and by begins to slump. We might remark the power of Jones' face, marked with lines of time and emotion and how they perfectly accept the emotional tasks that he has in presenting Deerfield's character. How he responds to finally hearing the confession of his son's killer, with a blank face that does not register reaction. In point of fact, during the confession the scene is dominated by shots of the killer describing the deed and his relation to the victim. Yet the fact that, at a crucial moment, the killer directs his account to Deerfield, is unmistakeable. The audience watches the killer from Deerfield's perspective and hears the killer apologize to Deerfield, the audience.
Can these affective qualities be put into words and must we separate ourselves from them in order to judge the film (is judgment necessary and is our emotional state, upon the completion of the film, that judgment itself)?
Monday, April 20, 2009
This Terrifying Novel: 2666
More than a month ago I began reading Roberto Bolaño's 2666, I suppose on a lark. In fact, my bookclub (perhaps presently defunct) selected it, after reading Atmospheric Disturbances by Rivka Galchen (which I strongly recommend, particularly for one quotation: "Peculiarity is fact rumpling the bedsheets of assumption"). Around the same time I bought The Savage Detectives on my friend Jeff's suggestion. I recall him extoling the intensity of the novel and his surprise that through some 400 pages it could be maintained. I read the first 200 pages of that and then put it down, although not because of disinterest, but because I wanted to stick with one book at a time (a habit I have not cultivated well). The Savage Detectives is a beautiful record of a poet of perhaps middling talent and then an search for an infamous poetess bearing the appropriate first name Caesurea (what luck!). This vision of the literary world eclipses all televisual representations, which make authors into pompous, necessarily (because of the medium) empty talking heads.
After whatever had been keeping me from continuing with 2666 disappeared, I have been reading it fervently. It is a terrifying novel, whose center lies around the hundreds of women murdered in Ciudad Juárez. It comprises the longest part of the book, although it does not begin until 353 pages into the text (practically 900 pages long).
In fact, the first part leads one to think that this book is like others, about the world of literature, although seen from the perspective of a several European critics of the apocryphal, mysterious German writer Archimboldi. Only in the closing of the first section, more than 200 pages long, do we finally find ourselves in Santa Theresa (Ciudad Juárez). It is unmistakeably hell. The second part involves a Spanish philosopher professor with the bad luck to be teaching in Santa Theresa. The third part follows a black New York journalist named Oscar Fate (nom de plume, albeit) as he serendipitiously discovers Santa Theresa, ostensibly covering a uneventful boxing match. The fourth part is about the murders.
Bolaño here writes fragments of a consistent narrative that jump back and forth between different narrators or characters, without transition. It is not hard to follow and seems appropriate particularly in the fourth section, as the fragments jump from the account of the discovered bodies of one woman and then another. This kind of catalogue is ... I can't find the appropriate word for it. Terrifying, I suppose. Bolaño makes no attempt to bring these women back to life beyond to present their circumstances prior to their disappearance and subsequent (although sometimes separated by weeks) discovery, and I think this is a gesture of remarkable tact, given the temptations. He doesn't need to. I don't know what possesses one to read this part of the book, exactly. Bolaño is no fabulous writer, at least in translation. Which is not to say that his prose is lackluster. But the text compels you to continue reading, as you develop attachments to characters, seeing their shortcomings and intimations very clearly before even they are apprised of them. In the fourth section there are a few characters, most men peopling the police force. I have only reached 1995 or so, so the willful, incomprehensible incompetence of the police has yet to appear. Yet the investigations following the discoveries of bodies are so brief, it is clear that something is wrong. The facts, to which Bolaño is obliquely attached, indicate criminal neglect on the part of the Mexican authorities, at various levels.
The sheer volume of murders and the similarities of some leads one to conclude, as different journalists have, that serial murderers are at work. This is not to suggest, however, that only those murders indicating a pattern are included in 2666. In fact, the victims include many women killed by those closest to them, of which there is no doubt about the person responsible. Yet through the unfolding of this list a very different event begins to take focus, the kind which only large periods of time and vast areas of space can reveal. Namely, that those responsible for these murders are not just the men (and women) who have, through their individual action, taken the lives of their victims. Instead, everyone becomes a partner to the murders through the spectacle. There are two dangers to this realization: first, that the murders become inevitable, a cultural crime, and the possibility of ending them outstrips the efforts of collective action; second, that we fail to recognize the diverse forces leading to this event (NAFTA and the maquiladoras, a patriarchal culture where wife beating had been legal until 2002, the non-observance of the human rights of women).
To put this differently, there may be serial murderers as well as economically ravaged families ... but the crime of murder has been displaced by the crime of neglect, disinterest.
After whatever had been keeping me from continuing with 2666 disappeared, I have been reading it fervently. It is a terrifying novel, whose center lies around the hundreds of women murdered in Ciudad Juárez. It comprises the longest part of the book, although it does not begin until 353 pages into the text (practically 900 pages long).
In fact, the first part leads one to think that this book is like others, about the world of literature, although seen from the perspective of a several European critics of the apocryphal, mysterious German writer Archimboldi. Only in the closing of the first section, more than 200 pages long, do we finally find ourselves in Santa Theresa (Ciudad Juárez). It is unmistakeably hell. The second part involves a Spanish philosopher professor with the bad luck to be teaching in Santa Theresa. The third part follows a black New York journalist named Oscar Fate (nom de plume, albeit) as he serendipitiously discovers Santa Theresa, ostensibly covering a uneventful boxing match. The fourth part is about the murders.Bolaño here writes fragments of a consistent narrative that jump back and forth between different narrators or characters, without transition. It is not hard to follow and seems appropriate particularly in the fourth section, as the fragments jump from the account of the discovered bodies of one woman and then another. This kind of catalogue is ... I can't find the appropriate word for it. Terrifying, I suppose. Bolaño makes no attempt to bring these women back to life beyond to present their circumstances prior to their disappearance and subsequent (although sometimes separated by weeks) discovery, and I think this is a gesture of remarkable tact, given the temptations. He doesn't need to. I don't know what possesses one to read this part of the book, exactly. Bolaño is no fabulous writer, at least in translation. Which is not to say that his prose is lackluster. But the text compels you to continue reading, as you develop attachments to characters, seeing their shortcomings and intimations very clearly before even they are apprised of them. In the fourth section there are a few characters, most men peopling the police force. I have only reached 1995 or so, so the willful, incomprehensible incompetence of the police has yet to appear. Yet the investigations following the discoveries of bodies are so brief, it is clear that something is wrong. The facts, to which Bolaño is obliquely attached, indicate criminal neglect on the part of the Mexican authorities, at various levels.
The sheer volume of murders and the similarities of some leads one to conclude, as different journalists have, that serial murderers are at work. This is not to suggest, however, that only those murders indicating a pattern are included in 2666. In fact, the victims include many women killed by those closest to them, of which there is no doubt about the person responsible. Yet through the unfolding of this list a very different event begins to take focus, the kind which only large periods of time and vast areas of space can reveal. Namely, that those responsible for these murders are not just the men (and women) who have, through their individual action, taken the lives of their victims. Instead, everyone becomes a partner to the murders through the spectacle. There are two dangers to this realization: first, that the murders become inevitable, a cultural crime, and the possibility of ending them outstrips the efforts of collective action; second, that we fail to recognize the diverse forces leading to this event (NAFTA and the maquiladoras, a patriarchal culture where wife beating had been legal until 2002, the non-observance of the human rights of women).
To put this differently, there may be serial murderers as well as economically ravaged families ... but the crime of murder has been displaced by the crime of neglect, disinterest.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
"You've Got Mail" (1998), Part 1
My attraction towards this film I have trumpeted, advertised, as a kind of funny thing that entertains my friends and gives them something quirky to identify with my strange character. Or so I tell myself. But in fact, both the opening credits and images and the closing line ("I wanted it to be you. I wanted it to be you so bad") thrill me.
Like the previous film by Nora Ephron also starring Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan, Sleepless in Seattle (1994), You've Got Mail begins with now incredibly primitive animation. We see Cartesian constructions, i.e. grid spatialization, of planets passing through the image, until one approaches and grows such that its surface becomes a straight line, on which the outlines of the island of Manhattan form. The outlines of buildings in term appear within the lines of the island and 3-dimensional objects then grow out of those outlines. Everything slowly acquires increasing detail. The frame moves down a street and then stops in front of a building. The CGI runner is slowly replaced by "real" humans and a "real" building. The shot jumps to the interior of the apartment of Kathleen Kelly (Meg Ryan).
In the past I have been known to say that three problems concern the film, of which the one concerns the state of capital. Namely, the conflict between the fam
ily-owned small business, The Shop Around the Corner, owned by Kathleen Kelly, and Fox Books, of which Joe Fox (Tom Hanks), the surging mega-bookstore, yet also a family-owned business. There is a famous scene, from the beginning of the film, where Joe Fox is taking two children, to which he is related, haphazardly to the bookstore that Kelly owns. An exchange takes place between Fox and one of Kelly's employees, who is showing off a rare book. Fox, the purveyor of cheap books, asks acerbically if the book "costs" so much because of its special illustration, to which the employee responds that no, this is why it is "worth" so much. Value and value. Would that they were the same?
At the Shop Around the Corner, one may purchase books, but there one is not merely purchasing a book, as Kelly explains. Rather, Kelly sees herself as part of a tradition of booksellers (her mother previously owned the store) that also sell the experience of reading that is formative for a young person, which opens the them to the identity they will one day assume. By contrast, Fox books merely passes on a soulless book that is, presumably, denuded of all spiritual meaning, all identity-generating power.
In another famous scene, Kelly and Fox, who apparently live in the same neighborhood and therefore frequent the same grocery stores, etc., find themselves in the same grocery store and Kelly inadvertently ends up in the cash checkout line, but does not have enough cash and needs to use her credit card. This invokes the ire of others in the line. Fox intercedes when the moment appears most volatile, greases the wheels of capital so that the clerk will accept her creditcard.
The creditcard versus cash; the computer versus the typewriter; the meaningful experience of reading versus the soulless consumption of words; business exchanges versus personal exchanges; ... man and woman (the secret cipher); big business versus family business. Of course, the consequences of this encounter are real, as Fox's assistant, played by Dave Chapelle, notes when he asks Fox if he feels bad about sending Kelly's "ass back to the projects ..." Chapelle, the only person of color in the film.
Don't tell me this is a silly film. Deconstruction notwithstanding, I think you see where this is going.
Like the previous film by Nora Ephron also starring Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan, Sleepless in Seattle (1994), You've Got Mail begins with now incredibly primitive animation. We see Cartesian constructions, i.e. grid spatialization, of planets passing through the image, until one approaches and grows such that its surface becomes a straight line, on which the outlines of the island of Manhattan form. The outlines of buildings in term appear within the lines of the island and 3-dimensional objects then grow out of those outlines. Everything slowly acquires increasing detail. The frame moves down a street and then stops in front of a building. The CGI runner is slowly replaced by "real" humans and a "real" building. The shot jumps to the interior of the apartment of Kathleen Kelly (Meg Ryan).
In the past I have been known to say that three problems concern the film, of which the one concerns the state of capital. Namely, the conflict between the fam
ily-owned small business, The Shop Around the Corner, owned by Kathleen Kelly, and Fox Books, of which Joe Fox (Tom Hanks), the surging mega-bookstore, yet also a family-owned business. There is a famous scene, from the beginning of the film, where Joe Fox is taking two children, to which he is related, haphazardly to the bookstore that Kelly owns. An exchange takes place between Fox and one of Kelly's employees, who is showing off a rare book. Fox, the purveyor of cheap books, asks acerbically if the book "costs" so much because of its special illustration, to which the employee responds that no, this is why it is "worth" so much. Value and value. Would that they were the same?At the Shop Around the Corner, one may purchase books, but there one is not merely purchasing a book, as Kelly explains. Rather, Kelly sees herself as part of a tradition of booksellers (her mother previously owned the store) that also sell the experience of reading that is formative for a young person, which opens the them to the identity they will one day assume. By contrast, Fox books merely passes on a soulless book that is, presumably, denuded of all spiritual meaning, all identity-generating power.
In another famous scene, Kelly and Fox, who apparently live in the same neighborhood and therefore frequent the same grocery stores, etc., find themselves in the same grocery store and Kelly inadvertently ends up in the cash checkout line, but does not have enough cash and needs to use her credit card. This invokes the ire of others in the line. Fox intercedes when the moment appears most volatile, greases the wheels of capital so that the clerk will accept her creditcard.
The creditcard versus cash; the computer versus the typewriter; the meaningful experience of reading versus the soulless consumption of words; business exchanges versus personal exchanges; ... man and woman (the secret cipher); big business versus family business. Of course, the consequences of this encounter are real, as Fox's assistant, played by Dave Chapelle, notes when he asks Fox if he feels bad about sending Kelly's "ass back to the projects ..." Chapelle, the only person of color in the film.
Don't tell me this is a silly film. Deconstruction notwithstanding, I think you see where this is going.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
"To Live and Die in L.A." (1985)
The title of this film announces its trajectory, although it seems, in its content, to be more or less a story of cops that go bad in trying to do good. This story-arch, namely up and then down--although in this film, really, things just get bad and then get worse--requires that the film absorb its actors within a grand scope in which they are merely events that occur. But the real subject of the film would be the city.
There are few directors that are capable of making films about a city. Among them, off the top of my head, I would include Michael Mann (Mann made one of Peterson's first films, "Manhunter" which constituted the first installment of the laborious Hannibal Lector saga, long before Jonathan Demme got ahold of it in the "Silence of the Lambs") and Federico Fellini ("Fellini Roma"; "La Dolce Vita"; etc.). In this register, Mann has undoubtedly been more successful, although to do this issue justice one must acknowledge the different meanings of the city between Mann and Fellini. In Fellini, the city is the people and the culture, whereas in Mann the city is the image. For Americans, only the latter, it seems to me, is really meaningful, although I think that "To Live and Die in L.A." contributes to Fellini's city-perception.
To summarize, William Peterson (now best known for CSI, unfortunately) plays Richard Chance, a secret service agent that is pursuing the counterfeiter Rick Masters, played by a young, luminous Willem Dafoe. Chance and Dafoe typify, in almost the same way, the image of L.A. Chance, in addition to his profession, is a base jumper. This we discover at the beginning, when we see him perched on the edge of a bridge that, a moment later, he jumps from. Of course, the images intend our confusion, thinking Chance suicidal. Then we see the cord attached to Chance's leg. His surname, is, I guess, a blatant indication of the same. The only meaningful life involves extreme risk.
Masters, by contrast, is an artist who burns his paintings, and then counterfeits cash. He has a girlfriend who is a dancer, that at first, appears a man whom Masters passionately kisses (it seems pertinent to point out that the director, William Friedkin, also directed "Cruising"). He has no qualms about killing that interfere in his business or try to cheat him. He seems unassailably cool and calm and lives a life of narcissistic contemplation (several scenes of him with girlfriend, in flagrante delicto, videotaping himself).
And the moral of this story is (pace Lewis Carroll) that in L.A. people drive fast, are all felons or will be soon, put no real value on human life, are themselves merely parts of concrete and ash and powder, momentarily in flight.
(Oh yeah: they also listen to ass music and have one of the most incredible chase sequences ever)
Monday, December 1, 2008
Rousseau and The Lost World (1997)
In his famous second discourse, the Discourse on the Origin of Inequality (1755), Jean-Jacques Rousseau preempts the vacuous call for “family values,” more than two centuries before the fact. That the family is merely a result of the unnatural socializing of human being, Rousseau concludes in his account of the transformation of human being from the state of nature to civil society. Because human being is originally independent, unsocialized, with no capacity for love beyond an anodyne sympathy against suffering, its emotions cannot attach to the visage of another.
One crucial question in this issue addresses the maternal relation to offspring. Is the mother indifferent to the child, and if not must this not be the sign of an original sociality? Rousseau answers: the mother cares for the child until it is old enough to go its own way, and then they part, such that later neither the mother nor child shall be capable of remembering the other. This will turn out to be the site of an intersection with The Lost World (1997).
Rousseau’s account is fascinating, in part, because of its audacity. Rousseau begins the Discourse with a careful outline of the difficulties confronting him. The discourse may reveal the origin of inequality among men only by recovering the original human nature, which Rousseau believes his contemporaries (Locke, Hobbes, etc.) have confused with a later stage in that development. But one of Rousseau’s presuppositions, which his contemporaries do not observe, is that human nature is subject to dramatic change within history. But how, if human nature may change so, shall it be recognized? The problem is not merely that human nature itself is changed, but that our knowledge of ourselves, in the present, grows, and as such managed to conceal our knowledge of ourselves beyond the present. With the increase in knowledge of the knower, the object known becomes unrecognizable, because of the faith required to overlook the temporal distances crossed, conditions overcome, and to see what is most familiar in what seems most different. Rousseau admits this presupposition, accepts in its greatness the difficulty of this undertaking, and submits as resolution a conjecture. In my students’ profane language, a guess.
What leads Rousseau to this most unapposite of decisions? Perhaps his conclusions, which consist largely in the critique of civil society and the endless revolutions therein. Perhaps his faith in the perfection of the original nature, befitting the design of our benevolent creator. It is not anthropological research, which although he draws upon heavily, nevertheless Rousseau claims does not admit of human being in the state of nature that he describes.
Having the chance to see Steven Spielberg’s The Lost World (1997) this afternoon, I can confidently say that the profound query Rousseau raises has not been
left to merely scholastic frippery. In fact, the root of Rousseau’s concerns appear in both this film and in its precursor, Jurassic Park (1993), but only in The Lost World is this problem so clearly stated. In one of the early sequences of the film, the basic condition appears for all of bloodshed to follow: the maternal instinct of the Tyrannosaurus Rex. Namely, the question remains, does the T-Rex have it (and no, sadly I speak of no Marc Bolan)? Dr. Sarah Harding (Julianne Moore) poses this question to her boyfriend, Dr. Ian Malcolm (Jeff Goldblum), almost in passing, after he finds her on the famous “Site B” that allowed the sequel to occur, since presumably by the first film the original “Jurassic Park” had been filled with the skeletons of lysine-deficient lizards (by the way, how did they give those dinosaurs their dose of lysine every seven days?). Harding complains that modern science has given the T-Rex a bad rap, focusing on its murderous hunger, without regard for the one capacity that might allow humans to empathize with this terrifying figure: the maternal instinct.
The entire film depends on the maternal instinct and the care it demands for offspring. Of course, this sort of thing reminds one, humorously, of Rodney Dangerfield’s character’s great line in Caddyshack (1980), after meeting the grandchild of his foe: “Now I know why tigers eat their young.” But that really is the question. Why doesn’t the T-Rex eat its young? If the instinct of the T-Rex is to hunt, to search mercilessly until it finds food, why would it not simply eat the children it bears?
Concern for offspring, real or imagined, was also a premise of Jurassic Park, in which Sam Neill’s character, though originally exclaiming no desire for children, finds himself well-suited to the paternal guidance of the two grandchildren of the pater familias of Jurassic Park. In The Lost World, it is Malcolm, the largely silent, nihilistic (because a “chaos-stitian”) cerebral type of the first film (who quickly reveals a very unreflective attitude towards scientific development—that it must be borne with reflection on its ends—as if this was the history of scientific development!), turns out to be the father of a young, precocious black girl (at one point in the film, onlookers remark “I do not see the family resemblance”) who handily follows Malcolm, albeit surreptitiously, to the famous “Site B” where his girlfriend, Dr. Sarah Harding, has been visiting alone (at her own risk). Malcolm explicitly claims, at one point, when corrected by a colleague that the dinosaurs they are watching are merely protecting their young, that he too is trying to protect his “baby,” meaning Harding. In the course of the film, it will not only be his “baby,” meaning Harding, but also his daughter, that he will try to protect. Granted, here we speak of a paternal instinct, but (sans Freud), the point is the same. Throughout all the numerous reversals of the films, the T-Rex continually follows its offspring, wherever that child may go (out of the nest, San Diego, Las Vegas, etc.).
So where does Rousseau fit in this paean to the powers of nature? Well Rousseau too is haunted by the maternal instinct. The maternal instinct describes the differance, if you will, at the basis of his argument. In both settings, the state of nature and in civil society, the mother expresses a basic care for the offspring. Now the state of nature that Rousseau describes is nothing like that of The Lost World. The latter conforms to the European, Herzogian vision found in Locke and Hobbes: the state of nature is unfettered violence (I reference Herzog in respect of his contribution to this genre, the film Grizzly Man (2005), in which Herzog plays the fool to Timothy Treadwell’s fantastic, Rousseauesque vision of nature, in which bears are social beings capable of love just as are humans—a vision revealed myopic—as Herzog puts it, “I believe the common character of the universe is not harmony, but chaos, hostility, and murder”). But the question is, does this maternal instinct betray that human being is originally social, sympathetic, possessing an underlying “moral sense”?
Rousseau’s conclusions leave plenty of space for the aforementioned frippery. And frippery indeed. The true gem of the second Discourse is the reflection on nature, its dynamic … nature, and the difficulties approaching it. Rousseau admits what The Lost World shall not: consciousness of the ideological content of the concept of nature. I am tempted to say the emptiness of the concept. But perhaps it would be better to say the overdetermined character of the concept. And The Lost World, what does it have to say to this? What lesson does it portend for Rousseau?
P.S. The picture above belongs to one of the many palimpsests of The Lost World. But which is the original?
One crucial question in this issue addresses the maternal relation to offspring. Is the mother indifferent to the child, and if not must this not be the sign of an original sociality? Rousseau answers: the mother cares for the child until it is old enough to go its own way, and then they part, such that later neither the mother nor child shall be capable of remembering the other. This will turn out to be the site of an intersection with The Lost World (1997).
Rousseau’s account is fascinating, in part, because of its audacity. Rousseau begins the Discourse with a careful outline of the difficulties confronting him. The discourse may reveal the origin of inequality among men only by recovering the original human nature, which Rousseau believes his contemporaries (Locke, Hobbes, etc.) have confused with a later stage in that development. But one of Rousseau’s presuppositions, which his contemporaries do not observe, is that human nature is subject to dramatic change within history. But how, if human nature may change so, shall it be recognized? The problem is not merely that human nature itself is changed, but that our knowledge of ourselves, in the present, grows, and as such managed to conceal our knowledge of ourselves beyond the present. With the increase in knowledge of the knower, the object known becomes unrecognizable, because of the faith required to overlook the temporal distances crossed, conditions overcome, and to see what is most familiar in what seems most different. Rousseau admits this presupposition, accepts in its greatness the difficulty of this undertaking, and submits as resolution a conjecture. In my students’ profane language, a guess.
What leads Rousseau to this most unapposite of decisions? Perhaps his conclusions, which consist largely in the critique of civil society and the endless revolutions therein. Perhaps his faith in the perfection of the original nature, befitting the design of our benevolent creator. It is not anthropological research, which although he draws upon heavily, nevertheless Rousseau claims does not admit of human being in the state of nature that he describes.
Having the chance to see Steven Spielberg’s The Lost World (1997) this afternoon, I can confidently say that the profound query Rousseau raises has not been
left to merely scholastic frippery. In fact, the root of Rousseau’s concerns appear in both this film and in its precursor, Jurassic Park (1993), but only in The Lost World is this problem so clearly stated. In one of the early sequences of the film, the basic condition appears for all of bloodshed to follow: the maternal instinct of the Tyrannosaurus Rex. Namely, the question remains, does the T-Rex have it (and no, sadly I speak of no Marc Bolan)? Dr. Sarah Harding (Julianne Moore) poses this question to her boyfriend, Dr. Ian Malcolm (Jeff Goldblum), almost in passing, after he finds her on the famous “Site B” that allowed the sequel to occur, since presumably by the first film the original “Jurassic Park” had been filled with the skeletons of lysine-deficient lizards (by the way, how did they give those dinosaurs their dose of lysine every seven days?). Harding complains that modern science has given the T-Rex a bad rap, focusing on its murderous hunger, without regard for the one capacity that might allow humans to empathize with this terrifying figure: the maternal instinct.The entire film depends on the maternal instinct and the care it demands for offspring. Of course, this sort of thing reminds one, humorously, of Rodney Dangerfield’s character’s great line in Caddyshack (1980), after meeting the grandchild of his foe: “Now I know why tigers eat their young.” But that really is the question. Why doesn’t the T-Rex eat its young? If the instinct of the T-Rex is to hunt, to search mercilessly until it finds food, why would it not simply eat the children it bears?
Concern for offspring, real or imagined, was also a premise of Jurassic Park, in which Sam Neill’s character, though originally exclaiming no desire for children, finds himself well-suited to the paternal guidance of the two grandchildren of the pater familias of Jurassic Park. In The Lost World, it is Malcolm, the largely silent, nihilistic (because a “chaos-stitian”) cerebral type of the first film (who quickly reveals a very unreflective attitude towards scientific development—that it must be borne with reflection on its ends—as if this was the history of scientific development!), turns out to be the father of a young, precocious black girl (at one point in the film, onlookers remark “I do not see the family resemblance”) who handily follows Malcolm, albeit surreptitiously, to the famous “Site B” where his girlfriend, Dr. Sarah Harding, has been visiting alone (at her own risk). Malcolm explicitly claims, at one point, when corrected by a colleague that the dinosaurs they are watching are merely protecting their young, that he too is trying to protect his “baby,” meaning Harding. In the course of the film, it will not only be his “baby,” meaning Harding, but also his daughter, that he will try to protect. Granted, here we speak of a paternal instinct, but (sans Freud), the point is the same. Throughout all the numerous reversals of the films, the T-Rex continually follows its offspring, wherever that child may go (out of the nest, San Diego, Las Vegas, etc.).
So where does Rousseau fit in this paean to the powers of nature? Well Rousseau too is haunted by the maternal instinct. The maternal instinct describes the differance, if you will, at the basis of his argument. In both settings, the state of nature and in civil society, the mother expresses a basic care for the offspring. Now the state of nature that Rousseau describes is nothing like that of The Lost World. The latter conforms to the European, Herzogian vision found in Locke and Hobbes: the state of nature is unfettered violence (I reference Herzog in respect of his contribution to this genre, the film Grizzly Man (2005), in which Herzog plays the fool to Timothy Treadwell’s fantastic, Rousseauesque vision of nature, in which bears are social beings capable of love just as are humans—a vision revealed myopic—as Herzog puts it, “I believe the common character of the universe is not harmony, but chaos, hostility, and murder”). But the question is, does this maternal instinct betray that human being is originally social, sympathetic, possessing an underlying “moral sense”?
Rousseau’s conclusions leave plenty of space for the aforementioned frippery. And frippery indeed. The true gem of the second Discourse is the reflection on nature, its dynamic … nature, and the difficulties approaching it. Rousseau admits what The Lost World shall not: consciousness of the ideological content of the concept of nature. I am tempted to say the emptiness of the concept. But perhaps it would be better to say the overdetermined character of the concept. And The Lost World, what does it have to say to this? What lesson does it portend for Rousseau?
P.S. The picture above belongs to one of the many palimpsests of The Lost World. But which is the original?
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