Archive for the 'Arts' Category

Object Lesson

Often I ask myself: what’s the “tipping point,” new-content-wise, that distinguishes a comment on another blog from a post on this one?

Today I figured out the answer.

Comment: wondering what Alicia Keys is doing in the new James Bond theme.

Post: realizing that — of course! — she’s there because she’s supposed to be Amy Winehouse.

The video makes so much more sense now. The lingering shots of eyelids and wrists. The excessive mic-seducing pouts. The retro-raunchy that keeps its edges so jagged that it turns out retro-pushy — but in a loose, tame way, like a girl lip-synching in front of her mirror.

Seriously, did the James Bond Theme Song Brain Trust rethink anything after jettisoning her? Or did they just try to find two musicians who, if morphed together, might approximate Amy Winehouse — and then, upon deciding that Jack White and Alicia Keys fit the bill reasonably, skip the crucial step of morphing them? (And don’t tell me that’s scientifically impossible. This is the Bond franchise, people.)

I mean, I like the song (almost despite myself), and I guess I appreciate their attempts to think ahead to the (likely near) day when we won’t have her around anymore. But if imitation can’t compare to the real thing, sometimes innovation can’t either.

UPDATE: Okay, so it problematizes my distinction just a little bit to point out that Poulos didn’t see this as worth posting on when he wrote his comment — before I wrote mine — on the original post…

Without Limits

Just as TKB and The Reactionary Epicurean are disputing the level of barbarism entailed in the Olympics, I come upon this gem from Simon Barnes at The Times. When it comes to the subject of doping, TKB takes The Economist as her crib to applaud gene doping, while the Transhumanist Epicurean agrees that gene doping consists of using our “God-given Reason (a part of our Nature) to tweak our God-given Bodies (another part of our Nature)”. Where Barnes goes further than them, however, is in his presentation of the arguments for allowing even those performance enhancers that will cause long term damage to the athlete’s health and life expectancy: “Normally, someone who knowingly does something dangerous in order to achieve great things is regarded as a bit of a hero…so isn’t someone who knowingly takes a dangerous drug to win a gold medal for his country also a hero?” I would agree with his logic if it weren’t for the nagging feeling that the real beauty of the Olympics is that, whatever we pretend, it is not a celebration of the collectivist spirit. It’s about the triumph of the individual will, whatever coloured labels those individuals stick on their backs in return for a bit of cash and support. Indeed, it’s the athletes whose lives do become enslaved to the good of the nation whose stories most sully the reputation of the Games.

Nonetheless, one can be sympathetic to Barnes’ point on individualistic grounds. The achievement of excellence at extreme personal cost is truly heroic according to our traditional conceptions, even when it entails no shared benefits beyond the agent. That’s why Achilles is the foundational hero of the West, and even Macbeth compels our sympathy. Pushing your body to the limit has always been par for the course for athletes - hence the high injury rate - and no one has ever denied that overly building up one aspect of your physique will actually damage your life expectancy. Just look what happens when supermen retire and run to seed. More seriously, we allow people to make their own choice between health and buzz when we let them buy cigarettes and alcohol (yes, you can sell yourself into slavery). But where Simon Barnes is at his most compelling is in his very first paragraph. ‘The worst decision sport ever made was to start testing for drugs. Once they began to catch the cheats, all hell broke out and we began to lose the faith…Now the world is full of people declaring that they don’t care who wins what at the Olympic Games, because “they’re all on something”.’ Constant obsession about drugs takes the magic out of sport. The Tour de France, after all, was created precisely as a superhuman contest that no one was ever expected to endure without boosting their performance artificially - in the good old days, long before doping tests, the athletes were all known to be on cocaine, but people still wondered at and lauded them, because their achievements were so unnatural as to be miraculous. Once we accept that we can’t stop people doping, the less active 99.99% of us might just be content to sit back in our armchairs and watch the sheer spectacle of athletes transgressing the frail limitations of this too too solid flesh.

Which leads me back to the real point at issue between TKB and the Epicurean. For TKB, the Olympics represents “a collective unwillingness to abandon the mud from which we rose”. But her opponent counters that “they represent striving and excellence, not wallowing in our filth. Tacky, contrived, commercialized striving to be sure; but striving nonetheless.” This is precisely why the Olympics is a mark of a civilised world. I say this grudgingly - as a hopelessly nerdy, library-inhabiting child, I watched the sporty girls with a mixture of disdain and envy, asking myself why anyone could take pride in success on the netball field when reading Milton was evidently of far more practical value, because it was a real tool for understanding the world and living the examined life. Yet it’s precisely in celebrating skills without immediate practical value that we demonstrate that we have developed beyond “pagan exhibitions of all that fascinates the reptilian brain within us”. The practical benefits that sports training can bring - teamwork, leadership, confidence and so forth - can only be discovered and harnessed after we’ve historically developed such training for its own sake, as any civilised society should the arts. This isn’t entirely modernistic either, for modernism has always enshrined a cult of utility. To the modernist, human experience only makes sense if there is a practical, evolutionary explanation for it. We no longer live in the pagan world in which one’s skill at the javelin directly correlates to the amount of food on one’s plate, although the biological determinists would surely have us return there. So at the Olympic level, such skills serve a purely aesthetic celebration. And if that aesthetic is one of transgressing humanity, then the Olympics must be an essentially transhumanist celebration.

This Charming Man

I am to Maureen Dowd columns as kids with drunkard nursemaids are to whiskey: my grandmother used to clip her columns and mail them to me during the Starr Report years. (I turned 10 years old in 1998, so the politics and sex were every bit as exotic as the snark.) So while I’m sure that my blood ought to be boiling at the faux-intimacy of her column today (and its totally vapid Homer references), I’m instead gushing over the insight she’s given me into New Toryism, as revealed by Barack Obama’s party favors:

The British opposition leader David Cameron gave Obama a copy of Winston Churchill’s “A History of the English-Speaking Peoples” and a box of CDs by British bands, including the Smiths, Radiohead and the Gorillaz.

Radiohead, I concede, is a fairly safe choice in general and for Obama in particular: it’s the sort of act that a man whose passions are for jazz and the Stones would find to be intriguing and worthwhile, though he might admire it more than he liked it in the end. (I’m assuming Cameron chose In Rainbows rather than, say, Hail to the Thief.) But the other two are legitimately inspired choices. I find Gorillaz to be consistently underrated and just plain fun — furthermore, by turning up the bass a bit more than Radiohead does, the songs are probably a bit more likely to hit Obama’s sweet spot.

And the Smiths? That’s just a matter of consciousness-raising, man. Though I’m concerned that Mr. Cameron may be trying unfairly to influence the veepstakes.

Admittedly, Reggie Love is the man responsible both for keeping Obama’s iPod hip and for presenting gifts to foreign dignitaries, so Cameron might have someone equivalent on his side. Still, though, someone out there in Toryland has very good taste — yet another thing major parties here would do well to emulate.

But can the robot love?

I just got back from (finally) seeing Wall-E. So much ink, virtual and otherwise, has been spilt over the film that I’m not sure I have anything fascinating or original to share. My favorite moment of the film — besides the ought-to-be immortal phrase “I don’t want to survive, I want to live” — was very simple.

Wall-E bumps into the floating chair of one of the Axiom’s inhabitants, turning off the ever-present screen that keeps her virtually connected to all her friends. (Irony levels rising…) Suddenly, she sees the starfield beyond the ship’s windows, the panoply of multimedia advertisements, the wonder both of nature and of what man has wrought. She looks down: “Hey, I didn’t know we had a pool!”

That feeling it just familiar enough to make me wistful. Every so often, I pause and look around. Suddenly, instead of seeing “just” a tree, I remember the complicated dance of photosynthesis and respiration, the compact mystery of the atoms, the sheer alien wonder of a thing that turns sunlight into leafy shade. And then I blink, and check my email.

The joy of Wall-E isn’t in the story or the animation, but in the discovery. Like the best science fiction, the robots and spaceships are only there to make us remember the wonder of home.

We Are All Mods Now

For all the hullabaloo about how 2008 is the new 1968 (a narrative that’s turned, conversationally at least, from “The Democrats will eat each other alive!” to “Generally Transformative Cultural Change and the Rise of Youth Movements”), it’s becoming impossible to notice that pop culture’s new mine for nostalgia is the period that 1968 destroyed: that of 1962-66, more or less.

Exhibit A: Mad Men. How do you produce a second season of a show so dominated by the aesthetics of the period that keeps the content fresh without sacrificing the self-absorption (not to mention those exquisitely lit costumes)? Move the action ahead from 1960 to 1962, of course! Incidentally, it’s my suspicion that the forward shift will mitigate what I perceive to be the actors’ biggest weakness, but I’ll explain that theory further once it’s had the chance to be proved or disproved by the new season.

Exhibit B: Schlitz Original 1960s Formula. Tragically, the ads I’m seeing in bus kiosks in Minneapolis don’t seem to be posted anywhere online (the official site for the beer only has ads up to the 1980s, which is probably better marketing). They’re nostalgia-soaked triptychs — “The Cars Were Cooler/The Girls Were Hotter/The Beer Was Better”, with accompanying illustrations — whose central image is a a perfectly vintage sex kitten, complete with flipped hair and heavily lined eyes. (The alternate version is a little more aggressively reactionary: “The Music Didn’t Suck/The Athletes Didn’t Cheat/The Beer Was Better”, also not available online.)

Exhibit C: The music video for Beck’s new single, which Adrian has been kind enough to embed in this post. It’s 1966, maybe: only the tiniest bit psychedelic and utterly mod-tastic. The palette! The Factory-esque cinematography! The dress-on-wall geometric action!

I only wish I could tell you why the period’s become so popular, or which of our own attributes we recognize in it. Is it the glorious artificiality and cult-of-celebrity that a worship of new media promotes? (Edie Sedgwick might have been the first celebutante.) The allure of a counterculture that was hedonistic but not nihilistic? The recognition that the traditional 20-year nostalgia cycle would bring us around to the late 1980s, which (as I understand it) was a very ugly time? Further evidence of alliance between the Boomers and Gen-Y against Gen-X?

Post theories, examples and counterexamples here.

I refuse to use the term “Millennials” on this blog. It may be chronologically true but the associated traits bear little to no resemblance to the reality of my generation.

American Birthday Defamiliarization Blogging

Savage Minds seems fairly willing to follow the Los Angeles Times in anointing Christian Lander, of Stuff White People Like, a “satirical ethnographer.” (The Times also calls him a “grassroots anthropologist” — would someone please tell them that’s more or less the only kind there is?) I appreciate the willingness to connect anthropology to cultural criticism, of course, but if it were actually anthropology it’d be funnier.

The key to this particular style of observational humor is the defamiliarization it accomplishes, which dovetails, SM notes, with “the idea that anthropologists cleverly reveal the deep structure of the seemingly close at home or obvious.” But the reason that Lander’s site is neither anthropological nor really that funny is that defamiliarization is stylistically tougher than it looks. It’s not just a matter of zooming out and noticing that all of these self-styled individualists that populate the hipster class (a class which Lander admits includes himself) are just the same, but pointing out that their everyday preferences and practices are completely ridiculous. The former gives you one joke, perhaps two; the possibilities of the latter are as limitless as the conventions and neuroses of the culture itself. But in order to properly achieve this kind of critical distance, the way in which the humorist leads his audience toward the subject — themselves — has to jar them out of their own skin: defamiliarization. (The best example I can come up with of humor that embodies this without being at all anthropological is Breakfast of Champions-era Vonnegut.)

The problem that I have with Lander isn’t that he’s unwilling to look beyond his own social circle for content (not even “lifting a Google,” to borrow a cringeworthy phrase from the Times piece). The subculture he’s describing is small and uniform enough that it works. My problem is that, at the end of the day, he doesn’t bother to disguise the fact that he knows he’s writing for them, too — or at least for people familiar with them — so he needs to do no more than point out an item on a list for his readers to start with the ironic smiles and knowing nods.

When he does continue to the “anthropological” analysis in the second part of the post, he continues to rely on the shared point of reference. Tying a phenomenon that the audience understands completely into an unfamiliar framework is about as jarring as tying an ornament to a Christmas tree. It’s not defamiliarization if they get it from the beginning. This is especially true on a blog, where any paragraph over two sentences has a drastically lower chance of actually getting read — especially if it’s not the first or last. (Lander’s less unfunny when he breaks with form, such as the post on scarves which opened with the assertion that “White People’s body temperatures do not operate on logical or consistent levels…”)

The result is that Lander doesn’t write about white people anthropologically — he’s not actually writing about them at all. He sticks quite faithfully to the name of the blog, less an ethnographer than a curator.

If you want to read a more effective (if dated) defamiliarization of the American bourgeois, check out another of my guilty-pleasure favorites of classic anthropology: Horace Miner’s “Body Ritual among the Nacirema.” In fact, I’d strongly recommend it. Holiday weekends are as much for reflection as for anything else, after all, and the Fourth — despite our continued narcissism over our origin myth — isn’t just about a moment but about the people, or peoples, to whom it gave a name.

Incidentally, when we read the Nacirema piece in my twelfth-grade English class, I was the last person to get the joke. Then I went off and became an anthro major. Funny, that.

Friday Border Skirmish Blogging

Because if Helen gets to link to anthropology blogs, I get to link to movie reviews.

I’m sure I’ve gotten more of a kick reading merciless reviews of The Happening than I possibly could have by watching the movie itself, and Chris Orr’s non-review review obviously takes the cake. But Anthony Lane, taking advantage of the mini-time-warps of print media (the review is published weeks after the movie comes out? Bizarre!), engages in a meta-review of both movie and reception, and in the process manages to turn M. Night Shyamalan into something like an Old Testament prophet:

he is trying to reinsert the fear of death into a moviegoing culture that would prefer to think of it as laughable, dismissible, or gross. People around me in the cinema were cackling…the same audiences who go tense and quiet on the rare occasions when, as Shyamalan did in “The Sixth Sense,” he makes sombre and controlled use of the same anxieties.

It’s an interesting read on his career: a cautionary tale against trying to be Buckley’s “man who stands athwart history yelling ‘Stop!’” by means of shock therapy. Because shock is just another peculiarly modern thrill.

Meanwhile, Sudes’ review of Wanted (which is thoroughly great) wins for the image of the week:

my dog-eared copy of Summer Action Movies: Theory and Practice (eds. Joel Silver & Jerry Bruckheimer).

Not least because the second edition of said book would totally include my as-yet-unwritten essay on why Iron Man is the first truly postmodern action movie.

Tate Postmodern

You heard it here first (well, unless you subscribe to email updates from the Yale Daily News): Aliza Shvarts’ work will be presented at the Tate Modern.

Not the piece that got her in so much trouble in April, mind you, and not on display; she just created “two seconds” (according to a curator) of a two-hour presentation at the Tate about the media. A Yale faculty member invited her to include her work under the rationale that “she seemed to be more affected by the media than most of us are in our whole lifetimes…I thought she would have some reaction to how the media manipulates stories and truths.”

Well, sure. But will two seconds of an event called “Grammaphones, Films, Typewriters” during a two-day celebration of the work of “German media theorist Friedrich Kittler” (who?) really get to the depth of that? More likely, it seems that one of two rationales were used: either the Tate just wants to gain access to Aliza Shvarts, the controversy, without having to open itself up to criticism of Aliza Shvarts, the artist; or the Tate, unlike almost everyone who passed judgment on the controversy this spring, recognizes that — regardless of whether this is what Shvarts is trying to do with her art — she’s at her most compelling as a performance artist who forces the public sphere to recognize its own tendencies toward the farcical. The hysteria, the gullibility, the breathless search for the New Big Controversy — the Tate seems to have brought Shvarts on less as a documenter or analyst of these things, but as a lightning-rod artifact of them.

Good for the Tate. There is no easy way to collect a performance artist, especially one whose medium is news cycles. Using her only for a few seconds — name-checking her, really — seems like the right way to recognize what she does best.

(While we’re on the topic of gullibility, Yale College Dean Peter Salovey finally admitted to the YDN that “we could never determine unambiguously what she did.” So much for the readily-believed explanation that it was a “fabrication” all along, eh?)

Literature ≥ Philosophy

If you want to be more like me — and why wouldn’t you? — you should read the following books.

  1. Snow Crash, by Neal Stephenson.
  2. American Gods, by Neil Gaiman.
  3. The Vorkosigan series, by Lois McMaster Bujold. (Start with Cordelia’s Honor, then Young Miles.)
  4. The Principia Discordia, by Malaclypse the Younger.
  5. Cat’s Cradle, by Kurt Vonnegut.

You may have noticed that all five (well, six) are science fiction or fantasy. This is entirely appropriate, because it’s in the realm of speculative fiction that we can best explore the cultural and philosophical implications of our society.

American Gods explores our spiritual desolation:

“This is a bad land for gods,” said Shadow. As an opening statement it wasn’t Friends, Romans, countrymen, but it would do. “You’ve probably all learned that. The old gods are ignored. The new gods are as quickly taken up as they are abandoned, cast aside for the next big thing.”

Cat’s Cradle is a parable on emptiness and the absurdity of love:

Man blinked. “What is the purpose of all this?” he asked politely.

“Everything must have a purpose?” asked God.

“Certainly,” said man.

“Then I leave it to you to think of one for all this,” said God.

And He went away.

The Principia Discordia responds with both mysticism and a call to chaos:

“Gentlemen,” he said, “why does Pickering’s Moon go about in reverse orbit? Gentlemen, there are nipples on your chests; do you give milk? And what, pray tell, Gentlemen, is to be done about Heisenberg’s Law?” He paused. “SOMEBODY HAD TO PUT ALL OF THIS CONFUSION HERE!”

Snow Crash offers a stateless dystopia full of metaphysical confusion and low-level heroism:

“Wait a minute, Juanita. Make up your mind. This Snow Crash thing—is it a virus, a drug, or a religion?”
Juanita shrugs. “What’s the difference?”

The Vorkosigan books give us whole worlds, with vastly different human cultures, but always return to backwards, neo-feudal Barrayar, a planet the Nisbetcons should love:

“Reputation is what other people know about you. Honor is what you know about yourself. Guard your honor. Let your reputation fall where it will. And outlive the bastards.”

There’s far more to all of them than this, of course, and if you are unconvinced I’d be thrilled to discuss at length.

Words, words, words. (Non-Hamlet edition.)

This is awesome. Below are most frequently used words on Iqra’i, in attractive and colorful form. (Click for full version.)