This past week was very hectic. Chaotic even because having Stephanie here sent my routine into a sort of tailspin. See, the weekends are reserved for schoolwork. I don't have any other time during the week where I can get much work done. I prefer to get each thing done all at once, or at least as much as possible in one sitting.
In any case, I had a paper due Thursday for my race and nation in 20th century cinema class. I had written the better part of it on Saturday, and I sat down on Wednesday afternoon to rewrite it. (I'd read the draft before and hated it.) But I'm getting ahead of myself. It might help to explain what the paper is about.
Feeling uninspired by the films we've seen for the class, I chose to write about American Psycho (2000). And let me tell you I really resent that almost everyone I've talked to about the film with regards to the assignment did not think I could write about it, that race was not obvious. I had to tell them each time it was about whiteness. Patrick Bateman the Wall Street yuppie/serial killer has what I have vaguely called "a particular brand of whiteness," which is tied to his job, gender, sexuality, and conformity to yuppie culture. Through him, the point of my paper was to argue that the film (and Bret Easton Ellis's book on which the film is based) claim that capitalism is evil. His materialism has driven him mad; the only thing that fulfills him is his satiating his "nightly bloodlust." Just when you thought he was an oppressive bastard because of his job, he goes and KILLS people. The fucker.
Anyway, I rewrote the paper. Almost pulled an all-nighter, working till 3.15 am. (My friend tells me that it ain't an all-nighter till at least 5 am.) All night, I tossed and turned, thinking the paper was shit. I couldn't turn my mind off; I kept thinking of the teeniest, tiniest details to add but decided not to alter the paper in the morning, thinking such minutiae wouldn't help much. To make a long story short, I have been unable to stop thinking about this paper and its flaws.
I was so depressed I took a two-hour nap today after just being up for about two hours. During that nap, I realized the bit that would have--perhaps--greatly improved my argument. And it was something I had in my original draft: at the end of the film, after Bateman has realized that his identity as a serial killer is not going to be revealed (and probably never will be), then-President Ronald Reagan is on the TV, defending himself amidst the Iran-Contra Affair. If I had mentioned this in my paper, I could have linked the Reagan Administration's murderous hypocrisy. (The scandal revolved around the U.S. selling arms to enemy Iran and then using the profits to fund the Sandinistas in Nicaragua.) Bateman's conformity to what is expected of him as a rich, white, male yuppie and all-American boy and his secret homicidal crimes sort of mirror the Scandal. If only I had mentioned this in my paper; then surely I'd get more points for discussing the historical contexts of the film. Damnit.
By the way, thinking and writing about the film and considering the book throughout this process frightened me a bit when I went to bed Wednesday night in the wee hours of the morning. I haven't scared myself in a long while. The last time I really worked myself up to a fright was thinking about an old and decrepit Howard Hughes.
Showing posts with label metaphors. Show all posts
Showing posts with label metaphors. Show all posts
Friday, November 16, 2007
Saturday, September 8, 2007
the worst toilet in ikea?
I had the strangest dream last night.
It was winter. We were all in our heavy coats and sweaters. I was with my father, brother, and sister meeting family friends for lunch. This part of the dream was not the most important part. At least, the lunch started in medias res. So I don't know who exactly we were meeting. I didn't get a good look at their faces.
As we were getting in the car, I realized that I should probably use the restroom. It was a long ride home and we were likely to get caught in traffic. Instead of going to use the facilities at the diner, I decided to go to the furniture and housewares store next door. Knowing how much they hate it whenever I say I need to pee, I vowed to try to make their wait for me as quick and as painless as possible.
There is no name for this store because it doesn't actually exist. The best way I can describe it now is that it was unbelievably huge. It looked like an upscale IKEA, perhaps like Habitat only much, much bigger. And as I went through it trying to locate the bathroom, it unfolded and unfolded in a bizarre fantasy and adventure video game sort of way.
As soon as I entered, I looked about and found a place in the back of the main room where all the women were standing outside a door. "Women" was labeled on the door. I waited, chattering my teeth. When I finally got in, when a cubicle was available for me, I realized it was a shower. I looked around and saw that the bathroom was even bigger than I originally thought, with more stalls and even rows of women in black bathing suits getting pedicures. I ditched the room without really wondering why this sort of thing existed in a furniture and housewares store. I went about looking for the toilet again.
I climbed through themed room after themed room. I even asked employees where I could find it. I followed each one's directions to a tee, but each time I found nothing. It was like a maze. I felt like every room opened up into another, putting the toilet further and further out of reach for me. It was like being stuck in Harrod's. People everywhere. But no room was as garishly decorated and there weren't multiple levels. My search for the toilet took place on mainly one level, but sometimes it was split.
Eventually, after what seemed like thirty minutes to me (was this a lucid dream?), I asked the last salesperson, and she could sense the desperation in my voice. That and I think I was probably sweating. She took me directly to this really high white shelving unit. About two feet above my head was a toaster labeled "Women." That's seriously all I saw. I pushed the button down, the same way you would push the bread slices into the toaster and wait for them to pop up. Then a tall cabinet the size of an airplane toilet appeared inside the shelving unit. I didn't want to go inside. I mean, I couldn't even get up in it, for it was raised at least two feet off the ground.
And that's where my dream ends. Sort of. No, I didn't piss my pants. And I never got in the box. I must have blinked here. I don't remember what I did to relieve myself. All I can remember is walking back to the car as soon as I could find my way out of the store. My family was pissed I took so long. I didn't tell them I didn't even go.
What does this mean? Am I afraid of peeing? Of not being able to pee? Or, rather, not peeing able to find a toilet? This is not news to me. I have always felt this way, which is why I have always "gone before leaving home" without even the insistence of my mother.
Does the peeing stand in for something else?
It was winter. We were all in our heavy coats and sweaters. I was with my father, brother, and sister meeting family friends for lunch. This part of the dream was not the most important part. At least, the lunch started in medias res. So I don't know who exactly we were meeting. I didn't get a good look at their faces.
As we were getting in the car, I realized that I should probably use the restroom. It was a long ride home and we were likely to get caught in traffic. Instead of going to use the facilities at the diner, I decided to go to the furniture and housewares store next door. Knowing how much they hate it whenever I say I need to pee, I vowed to try to make their wait for me as quick and as painless as possible.
There is no name for this store because it doesn't actually exist. The best way I can describe it now is that it was unbelievably huge. It looked like an upscale IKEA, perhaps like Habitat only much, much bigger. And as I went through it trying to locate the bathroom, it unfolded and unfolded in a bizarre fantasy and adventure video game sort of way.
As soon as I entered, I looked about and found a place in the back of the main room where all the women were standing outside a door. "Women" was labeled on the door. I waited, chattering my teeth. When I finally got in, when a cubicle was available for me, I realized it was a shower. I looked around and saw that the bathroom was even bigger than I originally thought, with more stalls and even rows of women in black bathing suits getting pedicures. I ditched the room without really wondering why this sort of thing existed in a furniture and housewares store. I went about looking for the toilet again.
I climbed through themed room after themed room. I even asked employees where I could find it. I followed each one's directions to a tee, but each time I found nothing. It was like a maze. I felt like every room opened up into another, putting the toilet further and further out of reach for me. It was like being stuck in Harrod's. People everywhere. But no room was as garishly decorated and there weren't multiple levels. My search for the toilet took place on mainly one level, but sometimes it was split.
Eventually, after what seemed like thirty minutes to me (was this a lucid dream?), I asked the last salesperson, and she could sense the desperation in my voice. That and I think I was probably sweating. She took me directly to this really high white shelving unit. About two feet above my head was a toaster labeled "Women." That's seriously all I saw. I pushed the button down, the same way you would push the bread slices into the toaster and wait for them to pop up. Then a tall cabinet the size of an airplane toilet appeared inside the shelving unit. I didn't want to go inside. I mean, I couldn't even get up in it, for it was raised at least two feet off the ground.
And that's where my dream ends. Sort of. No, I didn't piss my pants. And I never got in the box. I must have blinked here. I don't remember what I did to relieve myself. All I can remember is walking back to the car as soon as I could find my way out of the store. My family was pissed I took so long. I didn't tell them I didn't even go.
What does this mean? Am I afraid of peeing? Of not being able to pee? Or, rather, not peeing able to find a toilet? This is not news to me. I have always felt this way, which is why I have always "gone before leaving home" without even the insistence of my mother.
Does the peeing stand in for something else?
Friday, July 20, 2007
the most uncinematic disaster movie
Two nights ago, I watched World Trade Center (2006). Haven't written about it in my film journal yet, but I feel the need to elaborate here on how awful a movie it is.
I guess the way I want to approach this is to take its director Oliver Stone as a guide. Stone, as we all know, loves to court controversy. Even his Alexander (2004) was controversial. In any case, I think this flag-waving waste of celluloid is his least controversial film. In fact, it's not controversial at all. For this reason, maybe I should see United 93 (2006) to compare. While the films are not about the same thing, they deal with well-connected instances. But I digress.
What I am trying to say is that I couldn't believe Stone made this. And please don't take this to mean that I am a fan of his films. I'm indifferent to them; take them or leave them, I say. It's just kind of hard not to see that the (albeit light) cynicism exhibited in Platoon (1986) has been completely erased and replaced with hokey sentimentalism parading around as a "true story of courage and survival."
It has been suggested that it is too early to make films about 11 September 2001. There's not enough hindsight. There are so many perspectives out there (then and now) that any filmic treatment of that day's events really should be more sophisticated than a good vs. evil narrative. Oh, this movie avoided that. Instead, it just opted to tell a nationalistic and triumphalist narrative. Never too early (or too late) for ones of those, eh?
At the core, I had a problem. World Trade Center is based on the true-life accounts of Port Authority police officers John McLoughlin and Will Jimeno, two of the five cops from that station who went into the complex after the second plane hit the other tower. When the buildings collapse, all five get trapped under concrete and other heavy and sharp material. But only McLoughlin and Jimeno make it out alive. Just barely. In any case, they had not begun to save any lives when the towers crashed and buried them. And all of this happens within the first half hour.
I do not mean to make light of the situation, but I do not exactly consider McLoughlin and Jimeno heroes. Instead, they are metaphors for the country. (Oh, I guess the filmmakers did use hindsight!) They don't really know what is going on and why it has happened. They don't know if they'll make it (read: recover). In fact, McLoughlin, played by a heavily-accented mustache and a receding hairline called Nicolas Cage, very nearly dies just as he is being rescued. What gets him through it? His wife, who appears to him and says he has to survive because he hasn't finished refurbishing her kitchen. (Life must go on.) There were some lines, which I now forget, that really serve as proof of this theory that they are stand-ins for all Americans. The use of a lot of archive footage includes clips of then-NYC mayor Rudy Giuliani trying to bolster some patriotic spirit, too.
Another problem I had was with the subplot of an ex-marine from rural Pennsylvania or something. He watches the events unfold with his coworkers in the office. He is so angered that he storms off, saying something to the effect of: "They don't know it yet, but a war has just begun." Such an intensely delivered over-the-top statement only makes more sense once we viewers learn that he is a former marine. I cannot remember now, but I think this tidbit about him is revealed when he goes to church (the place he stormed off to). From there, he drives down to NYC and lends a helping--and creepy--hand. See what I mean? There are others who also contribute during the crisis. I do not mean to say it isn't wonderful that people came and helped, but please. The cheese is so hard to cut it's so thick.
In fact, the scene with the marine going to the church was the only scene that overtly reminded me of anything by Stone. Yes, he's dealt with recent American history before, but here he brought in religion. And religion played a large role in Platoon. The battle over Chris Taylor's soul. Elias's Jesus-like pose just before he dies. I point this out because before this scene, there was no religion talk or iconography. As I can recall from this time in my life, the discussion about religion only became more heated once fundamentalism was brought up, as it related to the identity of the perpetrators.
Other than these issues, the other major problem I had was that it was almost completely uncinematic. I admit that, not knowing about McLoughlin or Jimeno before seeing the film, I did not know who would make it. I didn't think both would. So in this way, it was a bit of a suspense. But it was boring, and watching their families react was just like watching any other melodrama. Other than the few moments when the filmmakers actually acknowledge that there are more than just two families in distress, the film never really seems monumental. And certainly not as monumental as that day was for those of us who remember it. It was just like any other disaster movie, but with bright red, white, and blue in the background.
As this is the narrative (and some would say, myth) that most Americans have accepted about 9/11--of all Americans banding together to survive and triumph against anyone who tried to destroy the American way of life--how could anyone call it controversial? It is totally mainstream, and the most mainstream movie Stone has ever made.
I ask myself: why did he make this? Hasn't hindsight convinced him even a little bit that there are connections between the Vietnam War and the American-led "War on Terror"? I mean, the triumphalism was missing with Vietnam and definitely from his three movies centered round it. Other than these guys fortunately surviving the attack, what is triumphal about 9/11?
I guess the way I want to approach this is to take its director Oliver Stone as a guide. Stone, as we all know, loves to court controversy. Even his Alexander (2004) was controversial. In any case, I think this flag-waving waste of celluloid is his least controversial film. In fact, it's not controversial at all. For this reason, maybe I should see United 93 (2006) to compare. While the films are not about the same thing, they deal with well-connected instances. But I digress.
What I am trying to say is that I couldn't believe Stone made this. And please don't take this to mean that I am a fan of his films. I'm indifferent to them; take them or leave them, I say. It's just kind of hard not to see that the (albeit light) cynicism exhibited in Platoon (1986) has been completely erased and replaced with hokey sentimentalism parading around as a "true story of courage and survival."
It has been suggested that it is too early to make films about 11 September 2001. There's not enough hindsight. There are so many perspectives out there (then and now) that any filmic treatment of that day's events really should be more sophisticated than a good vs. evil narrative. Oh, this movie avoided that. Instead, it just opted to tell a nationalistic and triumphalist narrative. Never too early (or too late) for ones of those, eh?
At the core, I had a problem. World Trade Center is based on the true-life accounts of Port Authority police officers John McLoughlin and Will Jimeno, two of the five cops from that station who went into the complex after the second plane hit the other tower. When the buildings collapse, all five get trapped under concrete and other heavy and sharp material. But only McLoughlin and Jimeno make it out alive. Just barely. In any case, they had not begun to save any lives when the towers crashed and buried them. And all of this happens within the first half hour.
I do not mean to make light of the situation, but I do not exactly consider McLoughlin and Jimeno heroes. Instead, they are metaphors for the country. (Oh, I guess the filmmakers did use hindsight!) They don't really know what is going on and why it has happened. They don't know if they'll make it (read: recover). In fact, McLoughlin, played by a heavily-accented mustache and a receding hairline called Nicolas Cage, very nearly dies just as he is being rescued. What gets him through it? His wife, who appears to him and says he has to survive because he hasn't finished refurbishing her kitchen. (Life must go on.) There were some lines, which I now forget, that really serve as proof of this theory that they are stand-ins for all Americans. The use of a lot of archive footage includes clips of then-NYC mayor Rudy Giuliani trying to bolster some patriotic spirit, too.
Another problem I had was with the subplot of an ex-marine from rural Pennsylvania or something. He watches the events unfold with his coworkers in the office. He is so angered that he storms off, saying something to the effect of: "They don't know it yet, but a war has just begun." Such an intensely delivered over-the-top statement only makes more sense once we viewers learn that he is a former marine. I cannot remember now, but I think this tidbit about him is revealed when he goes to church (the place he stormed off to). From there, he drives down to NYC and lends a helping--and creepy--hand. See what I mean? There are others who also contribute during the crisis. I do not mean to say it isn't wonderful that people came and helped, but please. The cheese is so hard to cut it's so thick.
In fact, the scene with the marine going to the church was the only scene that overtly reminded me of anything by Stone. Yes, he's dealt with recent American history before, but here he brought in religion. And religion played a large role in Platoon. The battle over Chris Taylor's soul. Elias's Jesus-like pose just before he dies. I point this out because before this scene, there was no religion talk or iconography. As I can recall from this time in my life, the discussion about religion only became more heated once fundamentalism was brought up, as it related to the identity of the perpetrators.
Other than these issues, the other major problem I had was that it was almost completely uncinematic. I admit that, not knowing about McLoughlin or Jimeno before seeing the film, I did not know who would make it. I didn't think both would. So in this way, it was a bit of a suspense. But it was boring, and watching their families react was just like watching any other melodrama. Other than the few moments when the filmmakers actually acknowledge that there are more than just two families in distress, the film never really seems monumental. And certainly not as monumental as that day was for those of us who remember it. It was just like any other disaster movie, but with bright red, white, and blue in the background.
As this is the narrative (and some would say, myth) that most Americans have accepted about 9/11--of all Americans banding together to survive and triumph against anyone who tried to destroy the American way of life--how could anyone call it controversial? It is totally mainstream, and the most mainstream movie Stone has ever made.
I ask myself: why did he make this? Hasn't hindsight convinced him even a little bit that there are connections between the Vietnam War and the American-led "War on Terror"? I mean, the triumphalism was missing with Vietnam and definitely from his three movies centered round it. Other than these guys fortunately surviving the attack, what is triumphal about 9/11?
Thursday, July 19, 2007
oh well
This post says nothing, means something.
Ooh, I can see the TV behind me reflected in my computer screen.
Ooh, I can see the TV behind me reflected in my computer screen.
Sunday, June 3, 2007
serial killer
I play the Hangman widget a lot. Should I feel guilty that I didn't feel guilty when the word was "homicidal"? And I couldn't help but notice the connection when the word was "decapitate." Only the head is the last--not the first--body part to go in the game.
Saturday, February 3, 2007
beetles and things
I am not used to a thick comforter or quilt, but I have a duvet here. When I lie under it and look in the direction of my feet, I notice how puffy it is, engulfing me. I call it an iron lung because it looks like one.
I hang my coat on the hook on my door. The way the sleeves droop down reminds me of a beetle because they hold their larger, stronger wings over their weaker ones as if encasing them in a shell. The outer wings are called elytra. But because the coat is long and narrower than a beetle (proportionally speaking, of course), it reminds me of a dragonfly. Dragonflies cannot hold their wings down along their thin bodies. They have to keep them outstretched when resting.
By the way, I just read The Metamorphosis (1915). I really liked it, but it made me very sad. I also think it's Gregor's family that goes through a transformation, not Gregor himself because he remains considerate, loving, and quiet as ever.
I hang my coat on the hook on my door. The way the sleeves droop down reminds me of a beetle because they hold their larger, stronger wings over their weaker ones as if encasing them in a shell. The outer wings are called elytra. But because the coat is long and narrower than a beetle (proportionally speaking, of course), it reminds me of a dragonfly. Dragonflies cannot hold their wings down along their thin bodies. They have to keep them outstretched when resting.
By the way, I just read The Metamorphosis (1915). I really liked it, but it made me very sad. I also think it's Gregor's family that goes through a transformation, not Gregor himself because he remains considerate, loving, and quiet as ever.
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