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| Thursday, July 16th, 2009 | | 1:56 am |
Dublin
The flight to Dublin was uneventful, as nighttime transatlantic flights should be. We landed Wednesday morning, bleary-eyed but ready to bum rush the city. We took a double-decker city bus to our hostel, rocking back and forth and praying we would have some clue when our stop came. Once we found our hostel and stored our bags, we set off on a long walk down the river and across the city. In many ways, Dublin could be a town from the 1800's. It's dotted with mid-level red brick buildings and anachronistic smokestacks. On the ground level, it's more modern, with Burger Kings and Subways and all the other trappings of a cosmopolitan society. But Dublin maintains an unpretentious sense of history. It's a real, old city chugging along and trying to stay relevant - not a souvenier shop. One thing we've barely found in Dublin is Irish people. I'd been led to believe that the city would be stuffed with four-leaf clovers and leprechauns begging for spare change. Instead, it's barely even green, and the inhabitants are from all around the world. In that sense, it's a lot like New York, a melting pot, almost anonymous except for the Irish translations displayed on every sign. But it's not New York. The people are friendlier and go out of their way to help you. The streets are wide and veer off in creative directions, and the River Linney glides through the center of the city, giving it a sense of openness and freedom. Amazingly, it's more expensive than New York. I don't know how anybody can afford to live in Dublin. Earning a euro (about $1.45 American) must be a major accomplishment; and it has to break an Irishman's heart to blow it on 1/4th of a slice of pizza. Stan bragged tonight, "I'm rich, I have three euros!" I countered, "Great - that'll buy you two euros." From our hostel, we headed towards the river and began a long walk through Dublin on a gloriously sunny day. The river is strewn with fancy bridges, and we crossed and re-crossed at will. After a while, we saw a sign for the Original Jameson Distillery, and I demanded that we go. It's a tourist trap, but sufficiently historic....and if I am going to spend seven dollars on a tiny shot of anything, it's going to be Jameson. Of course, we got shots. Remembering the countless times I've sipped shots and gotten flack for it, I pounded this one back - and the bartender gave me flack for not sipping and appreciating a fine whiskey. Given my sudden foggy-headedness and the satisfying burn in my throat, I'd say that I appreciated it just fine, but she wasn't one to argue. I still love Jameson, but I'm juat fine now drinking it in my own town. They're too touchy about it here. We wandered further, until the people disappeared and the area was infused with the smell of poo. Then the odor abated, and every tourist in Dublin converged, along with us, on our destination: the Guinness Factory. Built in the 1700's, the Guinness Factory is almost a city unto itself, one tall, greying brick building after another. It's a historic spot, a tourist goldmine - and they make a beer I crazy enjoy. It's win-win-win. These days, the Guinness Factory is set up as though Disney created an exhibit on alcohol - and I mean that as a compliment. It's frighteningly well done. We led ourselves through the tour, complete with waterfall and oversized "sandbox" filled with grains. TV screens and colorful exhibits explained the beer-making process step by step, treating it as though Guinness was printing money or manufacturing cancer medication. On the fourth floor, we entered the beer "testing" room, which was packed with teenagers. At first, I thought, "These kids can drink like I qualify for social security." But then I realized that the age limit is 18 here - and even that didn't stop families from bringing their toddlers to marvel at the beer-making process. No, little Seamus, not till you're eight... But I'm at least eight, so I tested the beer a few times. It all checked out. For all the weirdness of a massive tribute to beer, the tour was fascinating and user-friendly, from the first floor through the complimentary bar on the seventh floor, where families drank and admired a stunning 360-degree view of Dublin. The factory is a solid value and a fun, frendly time - even for the wee ones. After that, we walked all the way back to the hostel and crashed for a while. Since then, we've eaten unbelievably bland "chips" (french fries) and had one more beer at a bar that features riverdancing every night (it's impressive and scary at the same time). Drinking is one Irish cliche we were happy to indulge; I'm sure the real, hard-working citizens of Dublin looked at us like we were alcoholic Neanderthals. Because it's so low-key, I'm wondering how much Dublin will stick with me. But it's vibrant and relaxing at the same time, just fun to exist in. Stan thinks he could spend a lot of time here, and I see where he's coming from. And it's possible - merely possible - that spending 24 hours here isn't giving me a complete impression. In any case, I'm glad we visited. Now onward to Belfast. Posted via LiveJournal.app. | | Tuesday, July 14th, 2009 | | 6:56 pm |
Off we go...
When I got back from Russia, I declared that I had "the travel bug" - that it wouldn't be long before I again left the United States. Perhaps I overstated things. I tend to do that, every single second of my life. But tonight, 48 short months later, my buddy Stan and I are leaving from Newark, New Jersey, and tomorrow morning, we will land in Dublin, Ireland. From there, we are headed to Northern Ireland - home of hundreds of explosions in the 70's and 80's, but only one this week- and then Scotland, England, France, Holland, and Germany. All this in ten days. Is it realistic? Hell no. I should not be allowed to plan trips. Maybe I could have scheduled stops in South Africa, Japan, and Narnia while I was at it. And all in six days instead of ten. But we're doing it. Stan is a good sport for trusting me, especially since everything is on his credit card. When I was in Russia, I managed to update this journal every day, using a typewriter, two cans, and a piece of string. In Europe, it should be easier. I will do my best to keep you all updated on our adventures, or our plight, depending. I hope everyone has a great week and a half. As they say in Europe - actually, I don't know, I left our Lonely Planet guide back at my apartment. But I'll find out soon. Posted via LiveJournal.app. | | Sunday, July 12th, 2009 | | 11:35 am |
| | Monday, June 22nd, 2009 | | 8:47 am |
Shakespeare #4: Henry VI, Part 2
Henry VI, Part 2 has 43 characters, 42 of whom want to kill Henry. The young King has to watch out for close friends, relatives, and even envious horses.
Reading about Henry makes me glad that I have no real power in life. Still, there may be usurpers out there who shoot really low:
"Thy cubicle job right now is thine / But soon enough, it shall be mine!"
"Bad Match.com dates I now lack / Though soon 'tis I girls won't call back!"
Hey, hands off, buddy! This is my fabulous life. Get your own.
Everybody wants to be King. Everybody claims that their great uncle was the bastard child of the Duke of Cornblossom, and therefore they are the true ruler of England. Nobody wants to earn anything on their own.
There is no talk of whether a person deserves to be king, or whether their accomplishments have made them a good candidate. It's all about bloodline and family name. Thank God I live in the United States, where this kind of thing doesn't happen.
Meanwhile, Henry VI has grown into a young, bible-obesessed leader who is manipulated by the older members of his court. Thank God I live in the United States, where.......yeah.
The Henry VI trilogy isn't Hamlet, or even Indiana Jones. But Part 2 is much more concise and exciting than Part 1. The action is frenetic, and the play moves along at a respectable pace. Also - and stop me if I've mentioned this before - Shakespeare really can write some beautiful dialogue.
After two plays, King Henry has survived so much that I'm beginning to root for the guy. But I won't get too close, because then I might try to kill him and steal his place in life. I imagine he works in one fancy cubicle.
| | Monday, June 15th, 2009 | | 11:48 pm |
Iran
 It's hard to fathom what's going on in Iran right now. Usually seen as a closed, controlled soceiety, the country has erupted over the past few days. At first, there was joy over a nationwide Presidential election, a chance to effect real change in a stagnant theocratic system. But the joy quickly faded when the results favored incumbent and avid Holocaust-denier Mahmoud Ahmadinejad by a margin of 66%-33% (!). Most reliable polling had shown a much closer race. Now thousands of supporters of reformist candidate Mir-Hossein Mousavi are demonstrating in the streets of Tehran, alleging - probably correctly - that the election was blatantly stolen from him. It makes sense, because the numbers certainly don't. What was the Ayatollah's rationale for inventing such skewed results? If he had pretended that his henchman won in a photo finish, maybe hundreds of thousands of Iranians wouldn't be screaming for both their heads right now. Those demonstrators are currently captivating the world. They're being beaten and even shot by police and soldiers, but they're still out there. The government has done everything it can to restrict the use of the internet, but students are still using Twitter to stay united and get their message out to the world. At night they stand on the rooftops of the capital and chant their message. It's inspiring. There's certainly danger in seeing this through an idealistic lens. The "reform" candidate in a country like Iran might not be as squeaky-clean as we'd like. As President Obama recently pointed out, "there are some who advocate for democracy only when they are out of power; once in power, they are ruthless in suppressing the rights of others." Being the underdog doesn't necessarily make one virtuous. In addition, a violent mob isn't always a good thing. When the Americans took Baghdad, hundreds of Iraqi youths cheered and tore down statues of Saddam Hussein. But it doesn't take much for groups of unemployed young men to start screaming and yelling in the streets. A few months later, those Iraqis were shooting at their "liberators". Similarly, the youths on the streets of Tehran may eventually keep their rage and lose their high-minded focus. But for now, I'm willing to be an idealist. A Mousavi victory might really mean more freedoms for the Iranian people and closer ties with the West. In any case, that seems to be what his supporters want. And the demonstrators and tweeters and students don't yet seem like a nihlist mob. They seem like people who have been beaten down their entire lives but cannot accept this latest, worst indignity. If this all accomplishes one thing - short of overthrowing a facist government - hopefully it will give the world a more realistic, less cartoonish picture of Iran. Did we really have a President who named an "Axis of Evil"? We removed one corner of the axis, and it's bled uncontrollably for six years. Now we suddenly realize that another corner is - shockingly - filled with human beings. Some would force those human beings to fight us in another endless desert war. And sometimes those wars need to be fought, when a people's good intentions can't overcome the entrenched power and bullying of their leaders. But the Iranian people just might not be willing to let that happen anymore. Even if they don't topple the Ayatollah and Ahmadinejad, I can't imagine things continuing in Iran as they were before. We've seen what happens when someone who doesn't understand a region starts a war there anyway. That's why it's so dangerous even when John McCain jokingly sings "Bomb bomb bomb bomb bomb Iran" to a chuckling crowd. Many of us would have passively let him do it - and the bombs would have fallen on those who are currently fighting in the streets for a prosperous, democratic life that's strikingly similar to our own. | | 10:09 am |
Shakespeare #3: Henry VI, Pt. 1
Shakespeare's plays are usually divided into tragedies, comedies, and histories. Henry VI, Part 1, catchy title and all, is a "history".
For Shakespeare's purposes, this means including every single thing that happened in the 1400s. At one point, Columbus sails by in the background, and three cast members drop dead of bubonic plague, which was in vogue at the time.
This makes Henry VI, Pt. 1 a fairly crowded play. The English fight the French. The French predictably lose. Noblemen squabble with bishops. There are 37 characters, which I think was everybody alive back then.
To audiences in the 1600s, this was electrifying stuff. They knew all the players. So when the Duke of Whippleshire threw his glove at someone, they hooted, "Oh no he didn't!" But today, the Duke is just another inbred nobleman I've never heard of.
Like Donald Rumsfeld, Shakespeare panders to his audience by insulting the French at every opportunity. The French are whiners because they object to the English invading their land and slaughtering their people. French hero Joan of Arc is renamed Joan La Pucell, or "Joan The Whore". You know that inspired some Arsenio-barking from the peanut gallery.
There is also a jaw-dropping exchange between England's toughest soldier and his son. They argue about courage and honor and pride, all while speaking in perfectly rhymed poetry. Is this how men talked back then? It's a brilliant scene, but I was surprised that the next battle wasn't a choreographed dance-off. Then again, the French would have lost that, too.
I mostly kid. Henry VI, Pt. 1 is complex and intriguing, and often quite exciting. As always, Shakespeare's language sparkles even when it's not quite clear what's going on. But it's long, and it's only the first play in a trilogy. I joke to stay sane because I know what's ahead of me.
As for Henry VI, he's still a teenager and barely shows up in his own play. It's a sneaky bait-and-switch - like a review of Shakespeare that turns out to be a lot of ignorant rambling. The nerve of some writers.
| | Sunday, June 14th, 2009 | | 6:28 pm |
Frost/Nixon (2008)
 Was I the only one rooting for Nixon? Probably. But Ron Howard's Frost/Nixon shows why others might pull for the old grump. In his bitterness towards the rich, educated, and successful, Nixon spoke for the "silent majority" who felt dumped on by life. If he was successful himself - the movie shows him surrounded by an entourage that would dwarf Dr. Dre's - it was because he clawed and scraped his way there. It's a neat trick to lead the free world and feel sorry for yourself, but Nixon rode that seeming contradiction to six years in the White House. Howard's film, based on the hit play, brings together a disgraced President and a media star when both seemed in the twilight of their careers. The famous interviews were mostly designed as a money-making venture, nothing historic or revelatory. When David Frost suddenly rose to the occasion, it surprised everybody, including him. Nixon was already an outsized character, and if anything, Frank Langella plays him bigger than life. He walks slowly and speaks even slower, and yet when he's onscreen, nobody else is. Langella knows he's being filmed in extreme close-up, and he forces us to ponder the meaning of every scowl and facial tic. It's a monster performance because of its subtlety. Watching footage of the real Nixon, I found myself thinking, "You know, this guy's just not as good." Michael Sheen's David Frost is similarly compelling, but squirrelier. He's likeable but frothy, with depth that only emerges over time. Always cannier than he lets on - he orchestrates the entire spectacle, for better and worse - he's still usually content to be Paris Hilton in a tuxedo. But as Nixon enviously points out, Frost is absurdly likeable, and Sheen's performance is almost as magnetic as Langella's. When Nixon is at his worst, we want Frost to take down the Watergatin' bastard. As a director, Howard can be heavy-handed; he has his characters talk to the screen in mock interviews, just in case we weren't smart enough to pick up on the important points. But he wrings effective drama out of the decidedly mundane process of preparing for an interview, as well as out of Frost's redemption and the dramatic lightning rod that was Richard Nixon. When the interviews are done, and the adversaries briefly meet to say goodbye, it's unexpectedly poignant. We've liked Frost the entire time, but Howard and Langella have stealthily made us feel something for Nixon too. When it becomes clear that being a bastard hasn't made him any happier, our contempt makes way for pity, and even understanding. | | Wednesday, June 10th, 2009 | | 9:32 am |
Marlin on Bryson on Shakespeare
 Shakespeare: The World as Stageby Bill Bryson 2007. 197 pages. William Shakespeare's life would be fascinating if we knew anything about it. But as Bill Bryson points out in his recent biography of the man, we mostly don't. Shakespeare wrote volumes of unmatched literature and barely cared to publish it or save any copies. Years of research have only yielded a few dozen documents that refer to Shakespeare: his will, testimony he gave in a court case, a criticism of his plays that doesn't even mention his name. To paraphrase the title of a classic Jennifer Aniston movie, he's just not that interesting. Four hundred years later, Shakespeare's innovations as a poet and dramatist are much more important than the details of his life. He finessed a still-unwieldy language, elevated romantic longing into art, and illuminated the psychological journeys we often keep hidden even from ourselves. It's nice that we know the name of his son-in-law, and sad that we don't know the exact day he was born, but I wouldn't place either of those in the top thousand most interesting facts about the man. Bill Bryson is one of my favorite writers, uniquely equipped to take the complex and make it loveable and wryly funny. Frankly, he reminds me of somebody I hope to be when I'm 50 and buried beneath a beard. It's to his credit that I devoured The World as Stage quickly and excitedly, like I would a novel or a fine, fine slice of pizza. At the same time, I think the book's focus is misguided. Bryson has clearly been touched by Shakespeare's work, as evidenced by his choice to write the man's biography. But instead of rehashing - however interestingly - facts easily found on Wikipedia, he could have conveyed better than most why Shakespeare the artist has mattered for so long. Bryson's perspective on the lofty highs might have explained why we've spent centuries trying to fill in the dull details. | | Tuesday, June 9th, 2009 | | 12:02 pm |
iPhone Poem
I haven't written a poem since college, probably for good reason. But this one popped into my head over the weekend, inspired by the gadget I love to hate every few seconds.
It's equally influenced by Shakespeare and Mad Magazine....but I wouldn't say it's as good as Mad Magazine.
iPhone
I is for the Instant Grat,
the need to know right off the bat
who won the game,
which e-mails came.
It might not end up being the same
as last time, or the time before.
I'll check again, just to be sure.
P is for the Paucity
of life inside the battery,
which every other smartphone tops.
It drops and drops
and never stops.
It lasts for hours, just as long
as I don't turn the power on. H is for the Hours in line,
with nothing 'round to pass the time.
Brav'd summer rains
and standing pains
and made imperceptible gains,
to make obs'lete one July day,
the model which I'd bought in May. O comes twice after the one
when ev'ry billing period's done.
That's ten times ten,
again, again,
and all completely worth it when
I have my weather stats supplied
without the need to peek outside. N is for No Internet,
which is often what I get,
under shadow, roof, and sky,
in subways low and buildings high,
and anywhere I vainly try.
Except that myth'cal 3G Zone
With room to fit me and my phone. E is for the Endless apps,
which bring about with simple taps
everything that Apple hawks.
I check the time on foreign clocks,
and I could eas'ly track my stocks,
if I hadn't racked up debt,
financing Steve Jobs' private jet. When strung together, not alone,
these letters six spell out IPHONE.
And Apple, Apple, burning dim,
on some base and capricious whim,
released this fearful acronym.
Despite it all, you'll soon find me
in line again for Version Three. | | Sunday, June 7th, 2009 | | 4:43 pm |
Shakespeare #2: Macbeth
Wow, Macbeth is an asshole. I'm sorry, a scoundrel - although that probably meant about the same thing in Shakespeare's time. Egged on by his wife, the man slaughters everyone who might stand between him and the throne of Scotland. Then he butchers their wives, their children, and even their servants, presumably so nobody will bring tea to their graves. Macbeth and Lady Macbeth are supremely interesting characters, but they aren't the least bit sympathetic. The best I can say is that they are tormented by guilt - she imagines blood on her hands, he envies the dead for their clean consciences - but they just keep on killing everybody. It's dark stuff. Still, being Shakespeare, the dark tale is beautifully told. At one point, Macbeth wonders whether all the oceans in the world might wash the blood off his hands, only to conclude that his hands would likely turn the oceans red. Such an insight would and will never occur to me. So don't expect it here, is all I'm saying. Other famous quotations abound: "Fair is foul, and foul is fair"; "It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing"; "Out, damned spot!"; "Something wicked this way comes"; "Double double toil and trouble". One of them inspired a William Faulkner novel, another an Olsen Twins movie. We'll call it even. One thing that struck me about Macbeth is how many words I didn't recognize. I am reasonably well-read, but on nearly every line, I had to rush to the footnotes to understand what just happened. I've written my own example to illustrate: How flangest thee, Laught Smith? 1 2 3
Cribbled. Tho' as thence say'st, a dwendle wha' gourds hi' tangelodes wilst even' lark a' thrine. 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 Aye.18
Footnotes:1. Fare 7. Say 13. Will 2. Lord 8. Dragon 14. Eventually 3. Jones 9. Who 15. Lose 4. Cautious 10. Guards 16. All 5. Though 11. His 17. Three 6. They 12. Testicles 18. What?? Clearly, words like those meant something in Shakespeare's time, and he is brilliantly poetic in stringing them together. But the effect might confuse the modern reader. Macbeth is a bloodbath, punctuated only by the planning of killings and discussions of how the killings went. Oh, and there's a battle at the end. It's intensely gory, but still an eloquent, gripping, and ultimately satisfying play. | | Friday, June 5th, 2009 | | 10:44 am |
Obama's Islam speech
 Obama's speech to the Muslim world in Cairo impressed me deeply. If it wasn't as stirring as other speeches he's given, it was thoughtful and groundbreaking in its own way. In speaking, he attempted to sell America to a deeply cynical audience. He acknowledged American mistakes while bending over backwards to praise Muslim accomplishments. People who believe that war is the only way to untie a knot will remain unmoved; but I believe that an open-minded, conciliatory approach is fine for a first, and second, and twentieth attempt. Critics have noted that Obama backed off on promoting democracy, endorsing it tepidly instead of enforcing it with guns blazing ala George W. Bush. He also sidestepped offending the Middle East's cadre of dictators, including Saudi "royals" and Egypt's own President-4-Lyfe, Hosni Mubarak. For now, I'm willing to trust Obama's cautious approach. Threatening people ususally causes them to double back and defensively keep doing as they've always done. And we all know now that yanking a dictator out of power is, to put it mildly, a faulty approach. As Obama pointed out, dictatorships cannot sustain themselves, and societies eventually roll in the direction of democracy - even when the speed-bumps are Putin-sized. Bush would disagree, but sometimes the best you can do is nudge things in the right direction. The crowd's reaction to the speech was striking, if not surprising. They cheered when Obama praised Islam. Yet when he proferred ideas that most of the world sees as self-evident - Israel's right to exist, the need for Sunni and Shiite Muslims to peacefully coexist, the fact that there was a Holocaust (!) - he was met with dead silence. This points to the uphill slog facing anyone who wants to reform Middle Eastern politics. Presumably the crowd was filled with Egyptian intellectuals and diplomats - but even there, the opinions are such a brick wall that the world's most charismatic man can only chip at it with a nail file. His call for young people to reject violence certainly be seen as naive. That said, it's a start. Financial stability is probably the best counter to extremism - with violence the worst, because then you have to kill everybody - but words can plant a seed. The rift between Islam and the West - as well as societal problems on both sides - cannot be solved with happy-happy-joy-joy speeches. There will be wars, and buildings blown up, and kings and Presidents who die happily after decades of perpetuating corrupt systems. But with the right goal in mind, it's hard to imagine us not getting there eventually, and I can't imagine hearing that goal better articulated than it was on Thursday. | | Wednesday, June 3rd, 2009 | | 9:34 am |
Shakespeare #1: As You Like It
Of course I liked it. What's to dislike? There's nothing in the play that's even vaguely unsettling or disagreeable. The characters laugh, joke, and get married in mass numbers. Much of it takes place in a happy forest. There's a clown. He also gets married. I think you get the point. If this was a contemporary movie, it would star Anne Hathaway and Dr. McDreamy, and I would laugh at anybody who went to see it. Instead, it's Shakespeare, and reading it makes me a better person than you. Life is unfair; deal with it. As You Like It also features the lamest deus ex machina ending I've ever seen. It can be paraphrased as: "Remember your brother, who stole your land and wants to kill you? He found God yesterday, and he's giving you all your land back. Also, the lottery was just invented, and you won. Anyway, sorry to distract you from all these happy weddings." That's not a complete knock. If the plot of the play is frothy and improbable, it's also endearingly lighthearted. The romantic twists are cheeseball but fun. The lead female character, Rosalind, is clever, complex, funny, and a complete ball-buster. If she was on Match.com today, she'd ignore my e-mails and leave me in a romantic haze. In addition, the play's dialogue is mind-boggling. A character in Shakespeare never says, "Look! A tree!" Instead, he spins a soliloquy about the history of trees in classic mythology; he lists ten winking reasons why a tree is like a good woman; and he tosses off a poem about the tree's beauty that will still be quoted hundreds of years later. Remember "All the world's a stage...?" A minor character in As You Like It said that. It's not part of the plot; it's simply an observation that the character had before he went on to something else. That's Shakespeare for you. I'm not sure how he did it. This was 16th-century England. Most people were concerned about living past the age of 20 and avoiding the gangs of wild pigs that ruled the streets. And yet, William Shakespeare, with his public school education, ducked into his house and wrote play after play with dialogue that any contemporary writer would kill to duplicate. It's not fair. I went to public school too, and all I'm writing are mediocre reviews of the man's work. Plot-wise, As You Like It isn't an advance on your average episode of Sister, Sister. But the dialogue is never less than layered, clever, and utterly entrancing. It's a ride to nowhere through absolutely gorgeous scenery. I enjoyed it, adored it, rejoiced in it, ate it up. In short, I liked it. Damn Shakespeare for being so smug, and so right. | | Tuesday, June 2nd, 2009 | | 1:35 pm |
The Great Shakespeare Project
 Someone wrote me recently, complaining that it's been too long since I've embarked on a reading project. "What of the glory days?" he asked. "Of Lord of the Rings, of Lyndon Johnson, even of Richard Nixon? I'm an old man, and your literary blogging has always made me happy. Here's a hundred thousand dollars. Also, I'm single." Thanks, old man! I'm not interested, but I will take your money. Actually, I made up that whole bit. If you haven't picked up on it, most of my journal entries are peppered with lies. However, it has bugged me lately that I haven't had any long-term reading goals. So, inspired by a friend of mine, I am embarking on The Great Shakespeare Project. It's pretty simple: I will read all 38 of Shakespeare's plays, plus the narrative poems, sonnets, obscene limericks, etc. I'll be using the Arkangel Shakespeare audio series - very classy audio productions of the man's plays - to guide me along, because otherwise his beautiful poetry will turn into mush in my brain. Why am I doing this? Mostly to feel superior, but also to expose myself to some of the best-written poetry and prose in the English language. I'm interested in what I will learn and how it will affect my own writing. I'm not sure if this will last. Reading about Nixon lasted; watching and reviewing every James Bond movie didn't (Review: They're all the same). This journal has lasted; my self-improvement blog didn't, mostly because I hate helping people. So, I'm nervous about the Great Shakespeare Project, but I'm also excited. First up, in no particular order is As You Like It. I sure hope I do! Oh man. Expect a lot of that from here on out. | | Friday, May 29th, 2009 | | 8:53 am |
Chop Shop (2007)
 It's Queens Week - apparently - at Cosmicben's LiveJournal, so last night I watched Ramin Bahrani's Chop Shop. It's set in the shadow of Shea Stadium, in an industrial corner of the borough that's even dingier than the areas I visited Monday. The film focuses on Ale (Alejandro Polanco), a little scrapper of a 12-year-old who hustles and works in every conceivable way to survive. He's got a sister, but no parents, and he lives above the auto repair shop where he works instead of going to school. Ale is a sweet kid who's been forced (or forced himself) into a life of rough pragmatism. Even his fun moments are pretty stark: watching a Mets game from outside the stadium, dropping an old shopping cart off a balcony onto a decaying pile of other shopping carts. Bahrani follows Ale up close, as he sleeps in his tiny loft, sells DVDs on the subway, and even becomes a thief in order to pull himself into a better life. He suffers setback after setback; but he's a fighter, and you can tell he'll get his just rewards, even if it's after the credits roll. The movie's biggest strength is its grittiness; Bahrani makes clear over and over that Ale's life is all mud and concrete and work, with almost no natural beauty. It's a dirty world in Queens' Iron Triangle, a reminder that not everyone in the city sips martinis and wears a monocle like I do. Moment by moment, the film is bleak and touching, and we root for Ale, even when he's greedily eyeing a purse because the owner isn't. At the same time, we don't quite get to know him; he's built thick walls around himself, and it's hard to empathize when the lead character is such a cipher. Chop Shop also doesn't have much of a narrative arc; the beginning could be the end, and vice versa, and there's not always incentive to pay attention. But as a grim and unflinching portrait of a life, the film leaves a grimy mark on you. | | Thursday, May 28th, 2009 | | 12:24 pm |
The Universe of....?
One of my goals is to go through life with as much energy as possible. When I am mentally and physically energetic, life is more fun; interactions are more exciting; everything feels more alive. I'm not a narcoleptic - just energetically average. I don't want to sleepwalk through my days and collapse wearily into bed at night. When I need to charm the client / girl / angry cashier / mugger, I want to have the energy to pull it off. My gut tells me that this is possible without caffeine. I refuse to believe that humans were a drowsy species until Juan Valdez rode along. Sometimes I drink coffee or soda before a situation where I want to feel alert and alive. But that's a crutch. I don't want to rely on a drug to give me energy and personality. I don't even like coffee. I load mine with milk and sugar. The less it tastes like coffee, the better. Taste isn't the only downside for me. If you approach me after I've had Starbucks, I jump out of my chair like the boogeyman is breathing on my neck. My eyes twitch back and forth, desparately searching for something new to look at. A few hours later, the high wears off, and I suddenly have the excitement level of a coma patient. My mood deteriorates, and I become massively irritable. There are alternatives, none of them ideal. Red Bull is an exciting high, complete with the nagging feeling that every sip is a sledgehammer bashing away at my heart. The much-hyped 5-Hour Energy Drink tastes like something robots might enjoy, and the effect is still the same as a watery cup of coffee. Soda and weak coffee are a better middle ground, providing a decent high without the fierce low of a Starbucks crash. But they're still temporary solutions. Worse, they're drugs and potential bad habits. Every time I seek out a brief high, followed by a crash, I can't help feeling that I am doing something nasty to my body in the long term. I'm sure that if I ran a little more and went to sleep a little earlier, I'd have more natural energy. But I'm a reasonably healthy guy, and no combination of diet and exercise and sleep has ever provided me with the certainty of caffeine. Without it, I've never been able to count on my energy to stay consistent day-to-day or to come through in the clutch. As the tree said to the lumberjack, I have no idea what to do here. I'm open to drinks or herbal pills that aren't as volatile as caffeine. I'm less open to healthy changes in my lifestyle, but I'll try anything once. And as for developing an inner sense of passion and immediacy towards my life.....eh, not yet. Please share your ideas here. Has anyone figured out the secret to having natural, consistent, reliable energy?  Besides space aliens, I mean. | | Wednesday, May 27th, 2009 | | 8:42 am |
How to lose an audience in five words
If you love classic westerns...  ...then you'll love Red River, Howard Hawks 1948 masterpiece of the genre. I love classic westerns, but I find that they often meander or sink in a pit of hot, sandy cheese. Even my favorites, like Hawks' Rio Bravo, sometimes trudge through slow-burning, poorly-written romance plots when the audience is dying for a good gunfight. Red River wastes very little time on dames or broads. Even when guns aren't blazing, there's cutting tension between John Wayne and his adopted son Montgomery Clift as they lead 30 men and 9,000 cattle from Texas to Missouri. Wayne begins the movie on top of the world, master of his ranch and a natural leader; but by midway through the movie, he's a trigger-happy, sleep-deprived paranoid who's lost control of everything. When the cool, steady Clift takes over the drive, Wayne swears to catch up with his son and kill him. Apparently there was drama on set, with Wayne keeping his distance because Clift was a dirty homosexual (and having an affair with costar John Ireland). At the same time, Clift's subtle method performance clearly informs Wayne's tortured portrayal. There's a lot more going on here than two macho characters, and actors, staring each other down. If this makes the movie seem unpleasant, it merely provides a narrative arc for Hawks' joyous ride. Nearly every scene takes place under the sun or stars, with breathtaking vistas and thousands of cattle rumbling their way north. Despite the occasional awesome gunfight, the joy is pervasive, from Walter Brennan's grizzled, toothless sidekick to Dmitri Tiomkin's energizing score. If you can, avoid the colorized version, which paints everyone with inhuman John Boehner tans. That aside, Red River gives genre pics a good name, telling a breathless story while glorying in trappings that could only make it a western. | | Monday, May 25th, 2009 | | 8:34 pm |
A walk in no woods
This Memorial Day, I decided to take one of my famous epic walks through New York City. Manhattan has been done, so my friend Emily and I chose to explore Queens, the swingin'est of New York's five boroughs. Our destination was eight hot miles away: Flushing Meadows - Corona Park, home of the 1964 World's Fair, and to a much, much lesser extent, the New York Mets. We started from the Upper East Side of Manhattan, which, for sheer number of Starbucks, has everywhere else in the world soundly beaten. We strolled south through 30 safe, personality-free blocks on a gorgeous morning. In Midtown, we started across the 59th St. bridge, which crosses the East River and Roosevelt Island. It's not as pedestrian-friendly as the Brooklyn Bridge, but it's still a rush standing over the river, and it offers some spectacular chain-link views of New York City.   After a half-hour on the bridge, we arrived in Queens and started down Queens Boulevard. The garbage on the sidewalk did a little dance in the wind to welcome us, but nobody else really noticed. I'm not sure how to describe Queens Boulevard. Come to think of it, Queens Boulevard doesn't deserve description. It merely serves as a link between other, better places. But I'll attempt one. The best I can say is that it's a little piece of run-down Americana, minus the Americana. Used car dealership follows used car dealership, breaking only for strip clubs and Chinese buffets. Exhaust clogs the air. Planes from Laguardia rumble overhead.  There is a cemetery that rises above the sidewalk so you are charmingly walking at body-level, wondering who or what might be trying to break through the wall next to you. Then again, if I was buried there, I'd do my best to get out and terrorize my family for dumping me in Queens. Otherwise, there was nothing, for hours and hours. Nature enthusiasts might spot a rare Spotted Drifter or Speckled Trash Bag, but that's it. Mark Twain quipped that golf is a good walk spoiled; I will quip that walking along Queens Boulevard is a humongous, worthless waste of your time. Eventually we turned off and ended up in a slightly charming neighborhood, in that there was grass, and the exhaust fumes didn't threaten to knife us for being on their turf.  We even passed one of Queens' many beautiful public parks:  That area made way for another, slightly less charming neighborhood that looked like a series of back alleys without front alleys to counteract them. We didn't see any human beings caught in the maze of power lines, because I think something crawls out each night and eats them.  Finally, we reached the park. Here, I will drop my practiced cynicism and admit that it was beautiful. There was a carousel, and after I awkwardly lurched onto the wooden horse, we had a fun ride on it. Nearby, families played ball and barbecued lunch. Happy ice cream truck music played. We were whiter than anyone there, but nobody outwardly held it against us.  We saw the big spaceship thingees from Men In Black The World's Fair...  ...and the Unisphere, which I always get a thrill out of blocking your view of.  Staying in the park for a while seemed inviting. I was having an amazing time, because I'm a little cracked, and I think Emily at least enjoyed the carousel. But we were dead tired and burnt to a crisp. We trudged around Arthur Ashe Stadium, where the US Open is held each year, and then over the boardwalk to Citi Field, where some baseball team does something.  Finally, we collapsed onto the 7 train and took it back to Manhattan. Our eight-mile walk was done. Now please, don't do it. | | Thursday, May 21st, 2009 | | 2:28 pm |
Brando
The last two nights, I've watched movies directed by Elia Kazan and starring Marlon Brando. Both On The Waterfront and A Streetcar Named Desire are sharply written, excitingly directed, and well-acted across the board, but I've mostly been interested in observing Brando at his peak.
Along with a few other movies, Streetcar and Waterfront are seen as ground zero for method actors and the realistic acting that separates modern movies from Hollywood's golden age. Especially in Streetcar, the old and new styles of acting are on display in full clashing force.
As Blanche DuBois, Vivian Leigh gives a powerhouse Old Hollywood performance, full of nuance and excitement, humor and pathos. Contrast that with Brando, who slurs his words and seems comfortable substituting a silent, pained expression where other actors might have delivered a flowery speech. Leigh is verbose theatricality at its captivating peak, while Brando attempts to mirror ordinary people, who don't always have as much to say.
Much of the time, he relies on physical presence, and I've never seen anybody with more: witness him owning the screen in his ripped undershirt, or stalking in the background, a snake waiting to strike at just the right moment.
Lesser stars can rely on physical presence to mask a lack of range, but that's not the case with Brando. His Stanley Kowalski is a caveman and a rapist, but Brando never lets us forget that underneath the surface, there is righteous anger, pain, and a deep fear of insignificance. For all he snarls and yells, he's never a cartoon villain, but someone with deeply felt reasons for acting the way he does.
Similarly, his Terry in On The Waterfront is never truly cool, but a scared and unsure boy awkwardly playing cool. Brando's subtle portrayal is deceptive, almost purely surface and mumble, and yet he's the emotional center of the movie from the moment we meet him. As in Streetcar, his climactic screams at the end of the movie are not an abrupt shift of gears, but the natural rise of his always-visible hurt to the surface.
Twenty years later, Brando pulled the same trick as Vito Corleone in The Godfather. It's tempting to see Vito as one giant mannerism and to dismiss him the way I do Daniel Day-Lewis's cartoonish lead in There Will Be Blood, as an actor losing sight of the fact that he's portraying a living, breathing person.
The difference is that beneath Vito's mannerisms lies a world of feeling. As he stands over his son's bullet-riddled body, begging the mortician to clean it up- "I don't want his mother to see him this way" - he's not a strange man acting human, but a human who happens to talk in a strange way. He breaks my heart every time.
If I saw these movies when they first ran in the theatres, I don't know that I would have picked up on the seismic change in American film acting. But I do know that I would have been riveted along with everyone else. Brando is a titanic presence whom you can't help relating to and feeling for, whether he's cracking a sweet look for his viewers or trying to scare the hell out of them. | | Friday, March 20th, 2009 | | 10:56 am |
Mingus Ah Um
The AV Club posted a question today: "What songs/bands that you used to like can you not listen to anymore because of the memories you associate with them?" I'm stealing it, because, well, that's the kind of person I am. Feel free to post your answers too.
After Katie and I broke up, there were a ton of songs I couldn't listen to without collapsing. I had a problem with stiff winds, too. The years I was with Katie were also the years I listened to, read about, thought, ate, and breathed music. When things ended, I suddenly had a potential minefield of sad songs. Listening to my CD collection was a messy, explosive experience for a long time.
Time passes, though, and memories and associations loosen their grip on you. Now when, say, The Doors' "Touch Me" comes on the radio, I get a little nostalgic twinge and move on. It's a brief reminder of another life, not something relevant to who I am today.
One album I haven't touched, though, is Mingus Ah Um, by Charles Mingus. The album is a masterpiece, probably the most intricately-composed jazz album in my collection, but I haven't wanted to hear it for a long time. For a while, I thought it was because hearing the music would make me sad, but that didn't seem quite right.
I finally realized why I didn't want to go back to Mingus Ah Um. It's an album we listened to in her Nissan on calm Sunday mornings with the windows up and the air condition humming. In her car, the rollicking, yearning music blocked out the hot Miami craziness and whatever problems were bubbling under our own surface. There was no past or future, just two people, jazz, and an underlying calm. The world in the Nissan was innocent and loving and forgivably naive, with more worrying about where we would eat breakfast than whether might break up one day.
Aching love and bitter resentment fade over time; maybe it's the quietly happy memories that linger the longest. When those drives pop into my mind, they're sealed and indelibly soundtracked, little worlds unto themselves. They're not so much living memories as polished museum pieces, tucked away in places I rarely visit. Writing about them is an esoteric exercise; listening to their soundtrack flirts with revisiting them. I'd rather leave them at a respectful distance. | | Wednesday, March 18th, 2009 | | 1:23 pm |
I've had crazy writer's block lately. That's the dullest topic in the world to read about, so I'll keep this short. My mind has learned to block every impulse I've had towards blogging. My writing isn't good enough. I'm not making a point. My boss might read it. A girl might read it. It might shatter the carefully constructed facade I've built around my life. So then I fall out of practice (because writing is a habit, like everything else), and my mind tells me I'm out of practice and shouldn't even try. That's bullshit. I've had a lot to say lately, and even though I haven't had the energy, coherence, or fearlessness to say it, that's no excuse for not trying. Sometimes you have to take that blind first step. So this is my first post back. I'm thinking the second will be a ton easier. |
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