Critically Speaking

Recently, I watched Life Itself, a documentary about film critic Roger Ebert directed by Steve James (Hoop Dreams) and was reminded of just how counter Roger Ebert and Gene Siskel were to the public's perception of a critic's role. Most see a critic as someone who can’t be a musician or a filmmaker or a writer and has to resort, often bitterly, to critiquing those who are.  What better representation do we have than Salieri in Milos Forman’s 1984 film, Amadeus: 

All I wanted was to sing to God. He gave me that longing... and then made me mute. Why? Tell me that. If He didn't want me to praise him with music, why implant the desire? Like a lust in my body! And then deny me the talent?

Metaphorically Speaking

If you go online and look up “Bad Metaphors and Similes,” here are a few examples you’re likely to find:

The young fighter had a hungry look, the kind you get from not eating for a while.

The red brick wall was the color of a brick-red Crayola crayon.

He was as tall as a six-foot-three-inch tree.

What makes these so comically terrible? For one, they each violate the blueprint of a good joke: recognizable set up, a moment of tension, then a hard right turn.  With the examples above, the turn, rather than being poetic or descriptive, is blunt and obvious- a U-Turn.
 

I realize that being a former English teacher makes me part of the home team so to speak, but it's difficult for me to imagine understanding anything complex or abstract without having a coinciding metaphor illustrating it. I would even go one step further and say that metaphors can become a part of our personal stories, and that like personal stories, they become our "compasses and architecture; we navigate by them, we build our sanctuaries and our prisons out of them, and to be without a story is to be lost in the vastness of a world that spreads in all directions like arctic tundra or sea ice." Solnit, Rebecca (2013-06-13). The Faraway Nearby (p. 3). Penguin Group US. Kindle Edition. 

Is this overstating the importance of metaphor?  Before you answer, let's look at a scene from Steve Jobs: The Lost Interview that was filmed in 1996, several years before Jobs was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. In fact when this particular interview occurred, he had been fired from Apple and the company was only a few months away from bankruptcy. During the interview, Jobs is unusually reflective, a bit sullen, and completely unaware that within a year's time, he will return to Apple and eventually make it one of the most successful companies in the world. 

This first quote is in response to when Jobs was asked about the team he put together to create the first Apple Macintosh computer and how there were reports of in-fighting and tension among the team. Interestingly, Jobs doesn’t get defensive or dispel the rumors but instead does the opposite by explaining how this tension actually led to the team’s success.  To illustrate his point, Jobs incorporates a metaphor he gleaned from a childhood experience:  

When I was a kid, there was a widowed man that lived up the street and he was in his 80s. He was a little scary looking. And I got to know him a little bit. I think he might have paid me to cut or mow his lawn or something. And one day, he said come into my garage, I want to show you something and he pulled out this dusty old rock tumbler, and it was a motor and a coffee can and a little ban between them. And he said come with me, and we went out to the back and we got some rocks. Some regular, ugly old rocks. And we put them into the can with a little bit of liquid and a little bit of grit powder. And he closed the can up and turned this motor on and he said come back tomorrow. And the can was making this racket as the stones were turning. And I came back the next day, and … opened the can, and we took out these amazingly, beautiful polished rocks.  The same common stones that had gone in, through rubbing against each other like this [smacking his hands together] creating a little bit of friction, creating a little bit of noise, had come out these beautiful, polished rocks. And that’s always in my mind a metaphor for a team working really hard on something they’re passionate about. Is that it’s through the team, through that group of incredibly talented people that, bumping up against each other, having arguments, having fights sometimes, making some noise, and working together, they polish each other.  

Jobs goes on to say that everyone on the original Macintosh team, in spite of the conflict, admitted it was one of the most enriching and meaningful experiences of their lives. I would imagine that it was Jobs' expanded understanding of what makes an effective team along with his ability to enlist such metaphors that allowed the team members to ultimately see beyond their frustrations. Near the end of the interview, Jobs incorporates another metaphor, this time for the computer itself: 

I read an article when I was very young in Scientific American and it measured the efficiency of locomotion for various species on the planet, so for bears and chimps and raccoons and birds and fish- how many kilocalories per kilometer they spend to move and humans were measured too and the condor won. It was the most efficient, and mankind, the crown of creation, came in with a rather unimpressive showing about a third of the way down the list. But somebody there had the brilliance to test a human riding a bicycle. Blew away the condor. All the way off the charts. I remember that this really had an impact on me. I really remember this, that humans are tool builders and we build tools that can dramatically amplify our innate human abilities. And to me, we actually ran an ad like this very early on at Apple that the personal computer was the bicycle of the mind. 

And finally, let's look at a third metaphor that, for Jobs, illustrated Apple’s mission statement. It was posted on Apple's website on the 1 year anniversary of his death. During the tribute video, we hear a voiceover of Jobs: "There is an old Wayne Gretzky quote that I love: ‘I skate to where the puck is going to be, not where it has been.'” 

One would be hard-pressed to find a literal connection between personal computing and kilocalories, rock grinders, or hockey, yet if one could turn counter-clockwise for a moment and venture into a metaphorical or symbolic understanding of computers, the connection becomes quite clear, even profound. I would even go as far to say that it gives us insight into the idea of genius and one of the ways the term could be defined. Genius isn’t simply doing one thing or a series of things brilliantly; that’s what we call expertise and we shouldn’t just assume they're the same. I would argue “Genius” should be reserved for those who are not only experts but go one step (or several steps) further by taking disparate ideas and/or skills and combining them to form an entirely new idea. Jobs saw the computer as an efficient tool, and, with his interest in calligraphy, also imagined combining it with a graphic user interface. Isn’t this what metaphors do as well? Gleaning understanding through the combining of unrelated ideas: a bicycle and the role of the personal computer; a rock polisher and team management, a hockey player’s instincts and the mission statement of an innovative tech company?  When we find a metaphor that articulates what we are trying to say, it can act as, not just a guide, but a lifeline, much like the rope from Midwestern folklore that people would tie from their house to the barn so they wouldn’t get lost in a blizzard.  

To get a better understanding of symbolic or metaphorical language, let's look at a few definitions from Karen Armstrong’s book, History of God. Armstrong writes, "In most premodern cultures, there were two recognized ways of thinking, speaking, and acquiring knowledge. The Greeks called them mythos and logos." Logos signified the rational, objective, and literal; while Mythos represented a metaphorical, non-direct, symbolic interpretation. Armstrong goes on to write: 

Both were essential and neither was considered superior to the other; they were not in conflict but complementary. Each had its own sphere of competence, and it was considered unwise to mix the two. Logos (“reason”) was the pragmatic mode of thought that enabled people to function effectively in the world.... People have always needed logos to make an efficient weapon, organize their societies, or plan an expedition.... But it had its limitations: it could not assuage human grief or find ultimate meaning in life’s struggles. For that people turned to mythos or ‘myth.‘  Myth or figurative language was “designed to help people negotiate the obscure regions of the psyche, which are difficult to access but which profoundly influence our thought and behavior. Armstrong, Karen (2009-09-11). The Case for God. Random House, Inc.. Kindle.

You can learn a lot about yourself (including what subject you should probably study in college) when determining which of the two, Logos or Mythos, you deem more important. If you’re interested in learning how to fly a plane, Mythos won’t be of much use. You will need Logos to fully comprehend Bernoulli's theorem and the inverse relationship between the velocity of fluid flow and air pressure. However, one could say it was Mythos behind the inspiration to apply this theorem to flight in the first place. One could argue it was imagining being a hawk or an eagle soaring high into the sky and daydreaming about being free from earth's gravitational pull, free from mortality itself, that actually led Orville and Wilbur Wright to perform that fateful first flight on December 17, 1903 in Kitty Hawk, North Carolina. 

Then again, why are we referring to academics and scientists to understand figurative language?  Emily Dickinson wrote in nothing but metaphors. She even has a poem that explains how metaphor works: 

Tell all the truth but tell it slant -
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth's superb surprise
As Lightning to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind —

What is a metaphor if not an attempt to tell the truth slant? And why do we need metaphors in the first place? Because Logos or literal language is limited; it can be “too bright.”  Consider the pin-hole projector; a device used to assist children when learning about a solar eclipse without looking at the sun. By looking through the projector, the students see the reflection of something that would otherwise be blinding. 

A few years ago, I had a friend who survived a massive heart attack, and afterwards when he was physically recovered but still a bit shaken emotionally, we had a lengthly conversation about the experience. We had no difficulty talking about the "How" or Logos of the situation. He could explain exactly what occurred from a physiological standpoint that led to the heart attack and what exactly occurred when he had surgery and how exactly the doctors were able to save him. We discussed his treatment and his diet and exercise regiment moving forward. This part of the conversation was easy. What was much more difficult was talking about the deeper meaning of the moment- the Why of the occurrence. Logos was completely inept at answering such questions, and I didn't really know what else to say. Then for whatever reason, a scene from Tender Mercies, a film we've talked about over the years, came to my mind. It was the scene near the end of the movie when Mac Sledge (Robert Duvall) is heartbroken and trying to make sense of his daughter's recent death. He is digging in a small garden, trying to get his mind off of things while talking to his wife. Unsure of what to say or even feel, Mac quietly begins:

I was almost killed in car accident once. I was drunk. I ran off the side of the road and I turned the car over 4 times. And they took me out of that car for dead, but I lived. And I prayed last night to know why I lived and she died, but I got no answers to my prayers. I still don’t know why she died and I lived.  I don’t know the answer to nothin. Not a blessed thing. I don’t know why I wandered out to this part of Texas drunk and you pitied me and took me in and helped me to straighten out and marry me. Why? Why did that happen? Is there a reason that happened? And Sonny’s daddy died in the war. My daughter was killed in an automobile accident. Why? You see, I don’t trust happiness. I never did. I never will.  

Mac’s wife doesn’t attempt to answer his questions, but she does listen. I didn’t have any answers either. In situations like this, I’ve heard people try to console someone by saying You’ll be in our thoughts and prayers or Things happen for a reason, but these sentiments, while sincere, often seem hollow or anemic. That’s because these moments require Mythos, not Logos. For moments like this, understanding, instead, is found “in [c]ircuit” or around the truth. Stories, liturgy, poems, metaphors, and in this case with my friend, a scene from Tender Mercies, is how one can tell the truth but "tell it slant.” After I mentioned the scene with Mac and his wife in the vegetable garden, my friend quickly referred to the next scene in the film.  After some time passes, Mac and his stepson, Sonny, go across the road to play catch with a football. Sonny is happy and so is Mac as they throw the ball and enjoy each other’s company.  Another metaphor at work- a ball being tossed back and forth through the air; connecting a father and son together both literally and figuratively. 

Working with Meaning (Part One)

There's a great scene in Stanley Kubrick's film 2001: A Space Odyssey where HAL says “I am putting myself to the fullest possible use, which is all I think that any conscious entity can ever hope to do.”  The fact that HAL is a computer is disconcerting enough but even more unsettling is how it nudges the viewer, who is in fact a conscious entity, to ponder am I putting myself to the fullest possible use? 

Occasionally, I'll hear the phrase What's the meaning of life? spoken in a casual conversation. I say "phrase" and not question because it's usually said more as a punchline than an honest inquiry.

The meaning of life is at the core of HAL’s quote.  He (it) has found it: I am putting myself to the fullest possible use. Of course, the word "use" here does seem subjective. If HAL were a philosophy professor, I doubt he would tell his students that his reference point for usefulness was, in an a priori sense, THE reference point. HAL seems content because he has found his own fullest possible use.

Working with Meaning (Part Two)

In Part One, I quoted a passage from an essay by John T. Price suggesting work in and of itself is redemptive. I hear echoes of Price's essay in this passage from Jack Schaefer's western novel Shane when the father of the narrator is laboring with the title character, Shane, to uproot an enormous tree trunk:

What impressed you as Shane found what he was up against and settled to it was the easy way the power in him poured smoothly into each stroke. The man and the axe seemed to be partners in the work. The blade would sink into the parallel grooves almost as if it knew itself what to do and the chips from between would come out in firm and thin little blocks.  

[My father] picked a root on the opposite side from Shane. He was not angry the way he usually was when he confronted one of those roots. There was a kind of serene and contented look on his face.   Shaefer, Jack. Shane. (pp. 25-26). Houghton Mifflin Harcourt. 

When the boy's mother, Marian, comes to see what they are doing, she is surprised because initially her husband intended to take the day off and rest.  Not sure what to make of the behemoth task her husband and Shane are attempting, Marian says: 

'Humph... [t]his is a funny kind of resting you're doing today.'  

The boy's father puts the axe on the ground, leans on the handle, and responds, 'Maybe it seems funny... [b]ut this is the best resting I've had for about as long as I can remember.'

Of the entire passage, I find these sentences to be the most interesting. Shaefer is working with a paradox here- not only illustrating the physical strain required to accomplish their task, but suggesting one can simultaneously feel "rested" within and during the task. 

Working with Meaning (Part Three)

Earlier, we discussed the scene from Cat on a Hot Tin Roof where Brick is looking for an ever-elusive click "that turns the hot light off and the cool one on."  A few years ago, Wright Thompson wrote a great article titled “Michael Jordan Has Not Left the Building” that illustrates Jordan looking for this same click.  Why is it soothing to hear that in spite of his accomplishments Michael Jordan is still a restless, unhappy soul? Is this the sentiment Shakespeare's Richard II suggests when he says let's sit upon the ground and tell sad stories of the death of kings? It's clear this is the appeal Thompson's article is trying to foster. He even uses some of Jordan’s material possessions as pointed metaphors: his cigar not staying lit, a lost championship ring, a missing pair of glasses.  It's an easy story to tell:  If I can't be like Mike, I want him to be like me. 

Obviously, work is how many turn the hot light off and the cool light on. Yet, why does some work provide meaning while other work offers only boredom or dread?  Similarly, how was the narrator's father in Shane able to feel "rest" while actually doing a grueling task? Is any of this related to what Jordan experienced as an athlete that he seemingly hasn't found as an executive? I think a possible answer to all these questions can be found within the work of Hungarian Psychologist Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi. He has spent decades studying the phenomenon of FLOW which he describes as a sort of hypnosis where all sense of self, time, and place drift away and only a singular focus on the task at hand remains. For Flow to occur, some fundamental components have to be in place. For one, a person's skill has to be in proportion to the difficulty of the task being performed, and as one's skill increases, so must the challenge.  According to Csikszentmihalyi, Flow can be achieved within a wide variety of activities- athletes, musicians, artists, even a mother piecing together a puzzle with her child can all experience it. Within each scenario though, there are always 3 common denominators:

Working with Meaning (Part Four)

Previously, we discussed the three common denominators for reaching a state of Flow:

1. A clearly defined goal as well as agreed upon rules and boundaries that dictate the terms of how this goal can be accomplished.
2. Freedom for decision making and creativity within these set rules and boundaries.
3. Immediate feedback for the incremental steps made toward achieving the goal and recognition when the defined goal has been accomplished.

In the previous posts, we were primarily discussing how these components related to work, but Csikszentmihalyi's ideas expands to even game theory. Of the three components, the second is the most nuanced and I would argue, often what makes one game more or less enjoyable than another.  In fact, the next time you’re playing a game and find yourself sort of bored, it’s likely from an inability to make creative decisions within the game's rules or boundaries. 

For participants and fans alike, professional sports display a nearly perfect execution of the these three components. Most of the major sports have not only rules in place but referees and umpires to enforce them, as well as instant replay to enforce this enforcement. The vast differences among players in style and skill illustrate the range of creativity and decision making allowed within the rules set into place. Immediate feedback is not only displayed on the scoreboard during each second of the game, channels like ESPN and sports radio provide recognition and commentary about each accomplishment. In addition, there are myriad awards presented each season, culminating with the most gifted players being inducted into a Hall of Fame.

Working with Meaning (Part Five)

In my prior post, I referred to Csikszentmihalyi describing how many people feel “Sunday mornings are the lowest part of the week, because with no demands on attention, they are unable to decide what to do….For many, the lack of structure of those hours is devastating.”  

Years ago, I read Susan Orlean's The Orchid Thief and heard echoes of the same theme: 

The world is so huge that people are always getting lost in it. There are too many ideas and things and people, too many directions to go. I was starting to believe that the reason it matters to care passionately about something is that it whittles the world down to a more manageable size. It makes the world seem not huge and empty but full of possibility.”  Orlean, Susan. The Orchid Thief: A True Story of Beauty and Obsession (Ballantine Reader's Circle) (p. 133). Random House Publishing Group. Kindle Edition.  

Working with Meaning (Part Six)

 As we think about the idea of work, we should look at a peculiar scene in David Lean’s WWII epic The Bridge on the River Kwai. Colonel Nicholson and his men are held as prisoners of war by the Japanese army and ordered to build the bridge stated in the film's title. Initially, the men are not taking their work seriously and are even trying to undermine their enemy’s command. 

Nicholson realizes this and orders them to stop thwarting the effort and begin taking pride in their work. Shortly after, Clifton, a physician, notices the progress of the bridge and questions Nicholson:

CLIFTON: The fact is, what we’re doing could be construed as, forgive me sir, collaboration with the enemy. Perhaps even as treasonable activity. 

NICHOLSON: Are you alright Clifton? We are prisoners of war, we haven’t the right to refuse work. 

CLIFTON: I understand that sir, but must we work so well? Must we build them a better bridge than they can build themselves? 

NICHOLSON: Would you prefer to see this battalion disintegrate in idleness? Would you have it said that our chaps can’t do a proper job? Do you realize how important it is to show these people that they can’t break us in body or in spirit. Take a good look, Clifton. One day the war will be over and I hope the people who will use this bridge in years to come will remember how it was built and who built it. Not a gang of slaves, but soldiers. British soldiers even in captivity. 

 

How is the viewer supposed to interpret this odd scene? On one hand, Clifton is
right. The bridge will help their enemy. On the other, we again hear echoes of Price’s grandfather from “Good Work” in that how one works is just as important as the work itself. Likewise for Nicholson, “shoveling shit” or building a bridge- “work is work” and the value isn’t just in what’s accomplished but in the way it’s accomplished. 

Could we go a step further and suggest that Colonel Nicholson is an artist? An artist wishing to create something functional, yes, but also something beautiful; a monument to hard work and craftsmanship, independent from any military or political objective. Nicholson’s men only see the bridge within utilitarian terms- a passageway from point A to point B. The bridge isn’t a work of art at all which makes it easy to undermine and eventually destroy. Conversely, Colonel Nicholson only sees it as a work of art. Even though their enemy is using the bridge with the intent to destroy the Colonel’s own military, the bridge has inherent value in and of itself- art for art’s sake in other words.  

Form or Function? Understanding the Role of Genre in PULP FICTION

Danny Boyd has put together a nice montage of interviews where Quentin Tarantino discusses his inspiration behind Pulp Fiction and in particular, his reliance on genre. In this case, stories in the crime genre "you've seen a zillion times." I’ve always found Tarantino’s affection for genre intriguing since many artists consider the term pejorative- being too simple, broad, formulaic. 

Is it fair to label genre this way or should we maybe reconsider these perceived limitations? What if we think about genre within the context of poetry and instead of the term GENRE, we say, FORM? Poetry scholars don’t read “On Chapman’s Homer” and say, well, that’s just a sonnet or deem Shakespeare’s dialogue as just being iambic pentameter. The ability to communicate such expression within these specific constraints are actually lauded. Poet Billy Collins in his Masterclass series quotes Yeats, saying “All that is personal will rot if not packed in salt and ice.” Here, “salt and ice” are metaphors for rhyme, meter, cadence, structure. In other words, form. Form preserves and elevates. It is how something moves beyond being just a declarative statement or comment or interesting idea. 

In interviews over the years, David Lynch has discussed the role of routine and habit in his daily life.  For seven years, he went to Bob’s Big Boy and ordered the exact same thing at 2:30 p.m. every day.  This wasn’t just some quirk or eccentricity. Instead he explains, “I like habitual behavior because it’s a known factor and your mind is freed up to think about other things. When there is some sort of order there, then you’re free mentally.” Can genre do the same thing? Can it be another “known factor” that frees the mind to think about other things? 

Of course, in doing so, it's important to understand all of the different ways genre can be used or known. If Genre is a type of container through which to deliver a story- the type of story being delivered dictates the type of container needed.  For instance, narrative drama never seems best suited for direct moral teaching or proselytizing. There's something even insulting when a narrative sermonizes. Oddly, it’s insulting even when we agree with the “message” or "moral," similar to someone doing sleight of hand yet not admitting to being a magician. You may say you don’t like any proselytizing but I would push back on that as well.  The polemic essay, sermon, parable, philosophical treatise, tract, and even a political speech all allow and are expected to have a specific point of view and/or to proselytize. Why do we allow these "genres" in particular to elicit a specific idea or moral, yet when a narrative does the same, we label it didactic, or, if it’s really effective, propaganda? 

Whether we're cognizant of it or not, I think there's an instinctive expectation that a narrative story presents a variety of subtexts which in turn offer multiple points of view. Part of the experience and enjoyment is navigating through these points of view and ultimately determining meaning, if any, on one’s own.  There is something disappointing if we discover or determine the director and/or writer is too intentional here and had a message in mind all along. On the contrary, the very nature of the speech, the sermon, the persuasive essay, etc. is to be intentional, direct, and specific. It’s expected. We can read fiction or watch a movie and receive moral instruction or be motivated to change, but it can only happen if arrived at indirectly through the readers/viewers own personal experience and interpretation. 

Throughout his career, Tarantino has demonstrated a keen understanding of genre and its wide variety of shapes and sizes. However, it would be unfair to say Tarantino only creates genre films. He "loves" and "respects" genre, but he also wants “real life to intrude on genre.” One can't do this though without a true understanding of genre itself. On the set of Apocalypse Now, Dennis Hopper complained to Francis Ford Coppola about having to memorize his lines and if it were necessary. Coppola answered, you have to memorize your lines first- then you can forget them. Tarantino has certainly memorized the lines of his favorite genres which has in turn allowed him to move beyond any restrictions or limitations. In fact, you could say he understands genre so well that he has been able to subvert it entirely.  With Pulp Fiction, we see a great example of this. A traditional genre picture would show the fight where Butch double crosses Marsellus Wallace. It likely would be the climax of the film as we watch Mia sitting next to Marsellus in the audience and his reaction the moment he realizes Butch isn’t going to follow through with their agreement. We’d see Marsellus and his henchmen, probably even Vince and Jules, frantically trying to get Butch as he evades them, with one close call after another. Of course, in Pulp Fiction, we see none of this. We only see the ancillary or tangential events leading up to and following this climactic moment. Tarantino not only understands genre but, brilliantly, is assuming his audience does too so he doesn’t have to show what is expected.  We all have memorized the lines and Tarantino, through the film, gives us permission collectively, to forget them. Consequently, Pulp Fiction is the perfect example of how genre can satisfy both form and function. 

Saul Leiter's TAXI

Saul Leiter's TAXI (American, 1923-2013)

Why is this such a great photo? What stands out to you? Certainly the colors demand our attention. The wall in the background is orangish-red complimenting the reddish-orange paint on the cab, which in turn reflects off the dashboard of the car from which the picture is taken. Add a flash of brilliant yellow and viola you have a color palette rivaling the most dazzling of any desert sunset.  

What about the photo’s action? Why do we seem to be moving? Is it that our perspective is slightly behind the car we’re looking at- like we’re trying to catch up? Everything changes if we’re ahead of the car, looking back.  What about the man’s hand?  Maybe he’s trying to find something to hold on to or he’s pointing while yelling directions. The entire photo is different, stagnant even, without this hand. We're simply next to a car stopped in traffic. What about the back window in brilliant silver? Hints of a rocket ship? An overstatement maybe, but we can't see through the glass, which does cause a blur of light and speed.

What about the man being dressed in a suit? This too influences our impression. An important person pointing or holding on to something or both?  Not only does the photo change entirely if the cab is empty, it changes if the person is dressed casually. Then it’s the weekend or just a tourist perhaps.  With our photo here, it’s a workday: the streets are bustling and we have an important person with an important place to be!  

Also, you can’t ignore the the camera’s exposure which puts a quarter of the photo into darkness.  The cab driver in silhouette adds mystery, forcing us to imagine this person. The exposure also creates the black space in the bottom left corner that extends across the entire bottom of the photo. This space not only provides an entry point into the photo but also a place where we can sit (hide?) and observe. The photo would be cluttered and claustrophobic without this black space. 

Upon first glance, this photo seems like just an abstract blur of color. Upon second, you notice how the photo changes entirely if even the smallest of detail was different.    

Dick Johnson is Dead

 Kirsten Johnson's film- Dick Johnson is Dead is an ode to her father who is not only nearing the end of his life but also showing signs of Alzheimer's. In order to cope with her father's mortality and get ahead of things so to speak, she stages various scenarios through special effects and clever editing where her father dies or is outright killed. When I first started watching Johnson's film, I couldn't help but think of James Keach's 2014 documentary Glen Campbell: I'll Be Me which follows Campbell on his final tour and well into the throws of Alzheimer's. Keach's film was cringeworthy and, like the tour itself, seemed exploitive at times. 

While Dick Johnson is Dead seems to start in this direction, it actually veers down a different path entirely.  About 15 minutes or so in, a crew member talks about the death of his own father which prompts a tender moment where Dick talks about the death of his wife. At this point, we realize the slapstick irony of the film's premise is secondary to what the film's actually about: the portrait of a kind and sensitive soul. A point illustrated even clearer when Dick talks about the childhood shame he had towards his own body and in particular, his deformed feet.  We see a closeup of his feet as he describes this shame. What's illuminating is the way he describes it which is similar to how an elderly person often describes such things- not with the shame once felt, but with a sort of curiosity or amusement, almost as if it happened to someone else. I say all of this to say, don't let the premise of Dick Johnson is Dead turn you away (or draw you in too much). The film is more about Mr. Johnson living than dying.   

Paul Simon Writes a Song

Wanted to share this great interview with Paul Simon where he offers insight into his own creative process and how a song shapes itself while he's writing it.   It all starts with a melody...

A few years ago, I came across a documentary by Classic Albums where Simon discussed the making of Graceland. If you like the above interview and would like to hear the conversation continue, watch  Classic Albums: Graceland.  I initially saw it on Netflix streaming, but the entire Classic Albums series is now on Quello.

Leonard Cohen, briefly.

Recently, I rewatched Lian Lunson's I'm Your Man, the 2005 documentary about Cohen and his career. It's is a concert video of sorts with clips of other singers covering Cohen's songs. Interspersed throughout concert footage are interviews by the singers as well as interviews with Cohen himself.
I've included quotes from my four favorite scenes:

“If it is your destiny to be this laborer called a writer, you know you’ve got to go to work everyday, but you also know that you’re not going to get it everyday. You have to be prepared, but you really don’t command the Enterprise.”

"Is this the true burden of being a writer? Being a part of a craft that among other things, demands a strange faith? There is no goal line, no clock, no score? Being a writer demands faith. It's true, you're not commanding the Enterprise, but you're still on board as it hurls through space. You have to trust that you are going in the right direction and that you will get to where you're going, when you need to get there."

“Sometimes when you no longer see yourself as the hero of your own drama, expecting victory after victory, then you understand that this is not paradise. Somehow we embrace the notion that this veil of tears is meant to be perfection that you have to get it all straight. I’ve found that everything became a lot easier when I no longer expected to win.”

"After my father died when I was nine, I took one of his bowties and slit it open. I put a little message in it and I buried it in the backyard in the garden. I had no other way of connecting with the event that was so mysterious, and curiously, not devastating. It seemed to be alright that my father died. It seemed that he died and it was in the realm of things that couldn’t be disputed or rejected or even judged. And so, my writing, and I don’t remember what it was, perhaps just some kind of prayer to speed him along in whatever realm he was traveling."

Notes on MINDING THE GAP

Webpage for Bing Liu's Minding the Gap 

Criterion Collection- Minding the Gap 

Nike's: Skateboarding is Not a Crime commercial

The Document: Return to Rockford

Hollywood Reporter Roundtable: Elizabeth Chai Vasarhelyi, Bing Liu, Rashida Jones

Bing Liu interviewed by Salon

Bing Liu on The Daily Show

A.O. Scott; New York Times: 

They grew up together in Rockford, Ill., three boys united by their love of skateboarding. At a certain point — around middle school, it seems — one of them, Bing Liu, began videotaping their exploits.

 A pleasure of Minding the Gap, his astonishing debut feature, is to observe how skating and filmmaking flow together. As the young men get stronger, bolder and more dexterous, Mr. Liu’s camera skills keep pace, and he captures the sense of risk, freedom and creativity that makes their pastime more than just a hobby. 

It’s not only the glue that binds them to one another through tough times but also a source of identity and meaning, a way of life and a life saver. “Minding the Gap” is more than a celebration of skateboarding as a sport and a subculture. With infinite sensitivity, Mr. Liu delves into some of the most painful and intimate details of his friends’ lives and his own, and then layers his observations into a rich, devastating essay on race, class and manhood in 21st-century America.

Daniel Fienberg; The Hollywood Reporter:

Liu is in a unique position because he's become almost a priest hearing confessions, forcing him to ponder the line between dispassionate filmmaker and concerned friend, while also looking for the right opportunity to get his mother on camera for a talk they've never had about their unspoken family secrets.

Michael Phillips; Chicago Tribune:

Around the midpoint Liu turns to his own part of the story. He interviews his mother, born in China as was the director, drawing out her memories of Liu’s abusive stepfather. The director’s half-brother, Kent, appears briefly on camera as well, recalling the “unnerving screams of anguish” coming from his sibling’s room at night. 

Much of “Minding the Gap” is painful to witness, but as past and present intersect and recombine and Liu’s wealth of footage coalesces, the finished film becomes a cautiously hopeful and even cathartic experience. It’s fully responsive as cinema. Liu, who served as editor along with Josh Altman, deploys the lyric skateboarding interludes just often enough to keep everything flowing. Akin to Michael Apted’s “7 Up” series, or Richard Linklater’s narrative feature “Boyhood,” at one point we see Zack hurtle through a few formative years in a lovely video montage. Life is beautiful, and cruel, and this film is a dialectic between the harshness and the beauty.

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As most of the critics describe, Minding the Gap has a deep vein of violence that runs down the center of the film. What's more disturbing is that we see how such violence is perpetuated.  One of Liu’s friends, Zack, has a child with his girlfriend, Nina, when both are just teenagers and we witness the difficulties in their relationship. In a revealing scene, we see the boogieman face to face as Zack tries to explain when it's justifiable to hit a woman.  Until this scene, the abusive men were lost in the past, but here, we see exactly how the pattern of violence comes full circle and is passed down from one generation to the next. 

When Nothin' Can Be a Real Cool Hand: The Use of Projection in COOL HAND LUKE

(Originally written in 2011) If you haven't read my previous posts Imagining the Real or Fooling Them All: The Use of Projection in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, please do so before proceeding. This essay is an extension of both of those pieces. 

It's difficult to ignore the inherent existentialism in Stuart Rosenberg's 1967 classic, Cool Hand Luke. Luke confronts God twice in the movie. The first time is during a thunder storm when everyone is running back into the trucks, afraid of the lightening. Luke stands in the middle of the road, shouting into the sky in defiance: "Love me, hate me, kill me, just let me know you're up there!" When nothing happens, Luke smirks as if he expected as much. At the end of the film when Luke enters a church, the place where he is shot and killed no less, he kneels down and prays:

Eastwood of Eden: The Maturation of Eastwood’s Messiah Complex in Million Dollar Baby

(Originally written in 2004) It’s remarkable how many films made with or by Clint Eastwood use revenge as their primary plot device. A group of guys do something wrong and Eastwood spends the entire film finding the sons of bitches to make them pay. 

In Mystic River, we see a variation on this theme, as Eastwood is not in the film, but uses Sean Penn as his proxy who must avenge the murder of his young daughter. What becomes complicated about this particular story is that after the revenge is carried out, we realize that it has been exacted upon an innocent man. The film leaves the viewer with this knowledge and does not offer any resolution or recompense. Upon first glance, it appears that Eastwood is interrogating the theme of revenge and possibly illustrating that revenge can be blinding or misleading. Certainly, Dennis Lehman's intriguing novel from which the film is adapted does; the weight of the incident in Dave’s (Tim Robbins) childhood as well as his murder orchestrated by his one-time friend do not quickly disappear from the reader’s imagination.

In Eastwood’s hands though, something peculiar happens. He creates a story where you actually feel more sympathy for Jimmy (Sean Penn) than you do for the one who is wrongly accused and murdered by him. This is accomplished in part by Tim Robbins’ acting as it is so mannered and self-conscious that it’s difficult to see him as anything more than a caricature. His mannerisms and ticks are so extreme that any sympathy is strictly superficial. We’re not even shocked when his own wife Celeste (Marcia Gay Harden) tells Jimmy that she thinks her husband is guilty. By the end of the film, very little is said about Dave’s death. On the other hand, there is a revenge manifesto, a soliloquy really, spoken by his wife, Annabeth, (Laura Linney) explaining Jimmy’s actions and making the murder sound justified and noble.

The Devil's in the Details; Realism as Satirical Device in Stanley Kubrick's DR. STRANGELOVE

(Originally published in 2014) One can tell by the title alone that Dr. Strangelove or How I learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb is a satirical, even playful look at the nuclear arms race between the United States and Russia during the Cold War. While being comedic, the film is not whimsical or only ironic. Oscar Wilde once said that satire should be more frightening than comedic. With Strangelove, Kubrick achieves this effect, yet does so through a device not often used in satire. He not only shows a keen awareness of the subject matter at hand, and its inherent ironies, he also incorporates a hyper-realism which adds a haunting authenticity as well as a sense of gravity to the film's rich humor.

To begin with, Kubrick forgoes color and instead uses black and white film so as to utilize shadows more effectively. Many scenes have only a single source of light inside a large room which provides a dark and somber tone. Also, Kubrick's much discussed "War Room" has state of the art technology, as one would assume, yet also incorporates an odd combination of space and confinement. On one hand the room is cavernous; one literally can't tell how big it is as its walls are never seen. Yet in spite of this immense size, when the military officials are sitting at the table to discuss military strategy, the lights are placed just above their heads creating an enclosed and confined space. If this isn't claustrophobic enough, the "big board" looms over them letting them know exactly when total annihilation will occur.

Bat to the U.S.S.R.: A Brief Study of Marxism in Christopher Nolan's BATMAN BEGINS

(Originally written in 2005) One wonders if Warner Bros. would have decided to retool the Batman franchise if it were still making money. In spite of incredible star power, the last few installments have been laughable. Of course, there's a part of me that would like to think the studio's intentions to Begin the franchise again were motivated more from artistic inclinations and not merely financial ones. This may seem a bit far-fetched I realize, especially when dealing with a Summer Blockbuster. However, when looking at some inherent themes within Batman Begins as well as the way it was marketed, some interesting conclusions could be made. To reach these conclusions, let's first look at a few lines from Karl Marx's A Contribution to the Critique of Political Economy:

In the social production of their life, men enter into definite relations that are indispensable and independent of their will, relations of production which correspond to a definite stage of development of their material productive forces. The mode of production and material life conditions the social, political and intellectual life process in general. It is not the consciousness of men that determines their being, but on the contrary, their social being that determines their consciousness.

According to Marx, one’s wealth or relation of production not only shapes one socially, politically, and intellectually but also determines one’s very “consciousness.” This consciousness (conscience?) is not pre-existent or independent but determined by one’s position of power within the mode of material production. In Christopher Nolan’s Batman Begins, there is a radical reversal of this ideal (or in other words a pro-Marxist ideal) where Nolan’s characters are not seen as modes of production, nor is their consciousness shaped by wealth or “material life.”

Fooling Them All: The Use of Projection in ONE FLEW OVER THE CUCKOO'S NEST

(Originally written in 2011) Before you proceed, I would recommend reading my previous essay- Imagining the Real as this is an extension of that post. 

In Milos Forman's 1976 classic, One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, the lead character R.P. McMurphy (Jack Nicholson) presents an interesting case study in the use of Projection.  To the other patients, McMurphy represents freedom, virility, joy; perhaps even a personification of youth itself. The patients can live vicariously through McMurphy and experience emotions and ideas they're unable to express on their own. We see this most clearly when they escape from the hospital for the day and go on a fishing expedition. McMurphy introduces them as doctors and one can see the confidence and pride it instills. For a moment, they are doctors and not just patients.

A Polack with a Gun: Clint Eastwood's Peculiar Study of Racism in GRAN TORINO

(Originally written in 2008) In Clint Eastwood’s Gran Torino, we get a story about a racist old codger named Walt Kowalski (Eastwood) who slowly and begrudgingly befriends an ethnic family of Hmong decent who lives next door to him. Even though there aren't a lot places for a story like this to go, many elements work exceedingly well in the film. There is a humorously awkward clash of cultures as well as several tender moments. Eastwood also looks great on screen. He may no longer have the quickdraw of Josey Wales, but his fists are still hard and his squint still piercing. Even with his wiry gray hair, he hasn’t lost any of his onscreen charm and charisma, and though he is playing a grumpy old bastard, he is our grumpy old bastard.

Apparently, this is Eastwood last onscreen performance, so it's hard not to get a bit nostalgic. Eastwood has not only survived an entire lifetime within a cutthroat business that has a penchant for eating people alive, he has done something else even more rare in Hollywood: he has evolved. In the last 10 or 15 years, Eastwood has really proven himself to be a sincere and calculated artist who seems to do little without heartfelt reasons or thought. Directing Flags of Our Fathers and then showing the Japanese counterview in Letters from Iwo Jima was both radical and brave. I also think that Gran Torino, much like Unforgiven, works brilliantly as an homage while simultaneously deconstructing many of the revenge films upon which he built his career. In theory, Gran Torino is the perfect choice with which to exit the screen, and it offers a nice bookend to a prolific career.