A Few Relevant, Irrelevant and Irreverent Things

A few nights ago I started watching the film The Falcon and the Snowman, a film I was given months ago but only watched in a fit of boredom. It has Sean Penn with the ugliest teenstache I’ve seen in a while. More importantly, there are some creepy parallels to the recent Wikileaks case.

I watched most of it last week, and last night I caught the last 20 minutes, and the film seemed different due to my changed mindset. The film is a true story about a young man who sells US government secrets to the Russians, based solely on his own principles. In the New Yorker’s fascinating profile on Julian Assange, it paints a portrait of a man who I think would have acted similar to Christopher Boyce in the film’s interrogation scene. Here are some excerpts:

Boyce: “I know a thing or two about predatory behaviour, and what once was a legitimate intelligence agency is now being used on weaker governments. I've never been an agent for the KGB. I work for no one but myself.”

Police: “What are you afraid of?

Boyce: “Of people who can imagine and create sophisticated weaponry and a government that can't be trusted with it. We're the only nation that ever used atomic weapons on other human beings. We "are" capable of it.”

               

Police: “By turning over US secrets to the Soviet Union you're putting every man, woman and child here in jeopardy.”

Boyce: “They're already in jeopardy.”

Police: “There are other forms of protest. You don't feel you hurt anybody? The government's worried, Charlie. This case could cause serious political damage. There's debate now whether prosecution is worth the disclosures that might arise in a trial.”

Whether what was done was right or wrong is irrelevant here, but I wanted to highlight how I feel like if Assange were presented with these points, his rebuttals would be quite similar.

I also watched Airplane! last night (I also love that the second one is called Airplane II: The Sequel) because of Leslie Neilson’s recent death which is…just, the worst. While watching it however, I was reminded of the recent TSA controversy. 

In the first few minutes, you see the hilarious sight gag of having to pass through an x-ray to get on a plane, and a passenger having to remove their prosthetic limb. It's presented in a context of upmost silliness. I hope my next flight isn't piloted by a blowup doll. Again.

I Make Music!

HERE is where some of it is.

Couldn’t Have Said it Better Myself

I watched one of my favourite films last night, Synechdoche, New York. Written by the man who is perhaps the best writer in Hollywood, and maker of other favourites, it is one of the few movies that where came out of the theatre crying. As you know, I’m pretty manly, and that doesn’t happen very often.

There have been a few times. The Elephant Man is one of them. Merrick, the disfigured protagonist, carries such a consistent dignity and kindness which breaks the heart. The film also luckily keeps the melodrama low. It’s a film that isn’t about the moments but about the extended performance. (Some fun facts: probably the most mainstream film that David Lynch ever made, and was produced by Mel Brooks, who elected to remove his name from the billing, since it may draw unwelcome comparisons).

I’ll expand on The Elephant Man for a moment to describe the theatrical version as well. I saw it about three years ago in Toronto, and what makes the theatrical version different from the film version is largely the makeup. The film’s was great, and in fact prompted them to introduce the Academy Award for Best Makeup after it came out. The theatrical version however deliberately had no makeup for the Elephant Man.

Brent Carver came out, 55 years-old yet looking like the Di Vinci anatomy of a man (a picture which reminds me of something else). He came out and performed as John Merrick, contorted, distended and speaking with difficulty – it creates an awkward distance with our perception of the character. (On a similar note, I want to link to one of the best Wikpedia page titles ever). I don’t know if it was moving for the same reasons that the film was, and I’m not sure which method was more effective.

Another film that brought me to tears was not in the slow-building way of Elephant Man was that one scene from Cast Away. The scene where Tom Hanks’ character (as if anyone actually knows the character’s name) is escaping from the island where he lived for four years. His only friend and companion, the volleyball Wilson, falls off his raft and floats away. When our hero finds out, he starts wailing and crying, reaching for the smiling volleyball floating just out of reach.

It may sound a little silly, because it’s just a ball. But maybe the scene is powerful not only despite the fact that it is only a ball, but because of it. The fact that Hanks’ character attached so much value to something that is inherently useless makes the emotional connection even more valuable. The ball is a neutral target for all of our protagonist’s emotions, so when it floats away we are basically seeing a manifestation of the protagonist’s entire social and emotional life float away, just out of reach.

But back to Synecdoche, New York. Like I said, it was one of the few films that have made me cry. And it does it in both of the ways specified earlier – the moment and the whole. The overall tone of the film, while bleakly funny at times, is just so heartbreaking. Last night was only my second time watching it, because I am so rarely in that specific mood that I will really want to go through it, even though it’s one of my favourite films. My roommate exclaims, “it’s not that depressing!” I’ll quote here part of the closing monologue.

What was once before you - an exciting, mysterious future - is now behind you. Lived; understood; disappointing. You realize you are not special. You have struggled into existence, and are now slipping silently out of it. This is everyone's experience. Every single one. The specifics hardly matter. Everyone's everyone. So you are Adele, Hazel, Claire, Olive. You are Ellen. All her meager sadnesses are yours; all her loneliness; the gray, straw-like hair; her red raw hands. It's yours. It is time for you to understand this. 

Walk.  

As the people who adore you stop adoring you; as they die; as they move on; as you shed them; as you shed your beauty; your youth; as the world forgets you; as you recognize your transience; as you begin to lose your characteristics one by one; as you learn there is no-one watching you, and there never was, you think only about driving - not coming from any place; not arriving any place. Just driving, counting off time. Now you are here, at 7:43. Now you are here, at 7:44. Now you are... 

Gone. 

And this one:  

Now it is waiting and nobody cares. And when your wait is over this room will still exist and it will continue to hold shoes and dress and boxes and maybe someday another waiting person. And maybe not. The room doesn't care either. 

And I can't forget about this: 

Dear diary, I'm afraid I'm gravely ill. It is perhaps times like these that one reflects on things past. An article of clothing from when I was young. A green jacket. I walk with my father. A game we once played. Pretend we're faeries. I'm a girl faerie. My name is Laura Lee. And you're a boy faerie. Your name is Tita Lee. 

Pretend, when we're faeries we fight each other, and I say "Stop hitting me I'll die!" And you hit me again and I say, "Now I have to die." And then you say, "But I'll miss you." And I say, "But I have to. And you'll have to wait a million years to see me again. And I'll be put in a box, and all I'll need is a tiny glass of water and lots of tiny pieces of pizza and the box will have wings like an airplane." And you'll ask, "Where will it take you?" "Home." I say. 

It just speaks to those moments that everyone shares. It’s about the sad fact of life that is: life. The film is peppered with existential ruminations like this, but it is summarized so well in a funeral monologue. Presented here, video and text:

Everything is more complicated than you think. You only see a tenth of what is true. There are a million little strings attached to every choice you make; you can destroy your life every time you choose. But maybe you won't know for twenty years. And you may never ever trace it to its source. And you only get one chance to play it out. Just try and figure out your own divorce. And they say there is no fate, but there is: it's what you create. And even though the world goes on for eons and eons, you are only here for a fraction of a fraction of a second. Most of your time is spent being dead or not yet born.

But while alive, you wait in vain, wasting years, for a phone call or a letter or a look from someone or something to make it all right. And it never comes or it seems to but it doesn't really. And so you spend your time in vague regret or vaguer hope that something good will come along. Something to make you feel connected, something to make you feel whole, something to make you feel loved.

And the truth is I feel so angry, and the truth is I feel so fucking sad, and the truth is I've felt so fucking hurt for so fucking long and for just as long I've been pretending I'm OK, just to get along, just for, I don't know why, maybe because no one wants to hear about my misery, because they have their own. Well, fuck everybody. Amen. 

It feels like Kaufman ripped that monologue from my brain, word-for-word. It is one of the best times that I could say, “couldn’t have said it better myself”.

So I’ve got a few million-dollar ideas. Somehow, I haven’t ended up with several million dollars. There must be a problem with exchange rates. Here are just a few, which you can read FOR FREE – patent pending!

1. TV Show: “Great Caesar’s Ghost!”: A young man finds himself moving to Rome, transferred due to his marketing job. His father has recently died. He had a dysfunctional relationship with him and he is haunted by his memory. But there is a mystery behind the true life of his father. His father was a historian, and young…Jim, no, Greg, no, Eric, nah…Steven! Young Steven always hated history, and the pursuit of knowledge that took his father away from him while he was still alive.

Until he moves to Rome, where he can’t escape it! He goes to get a coffee and sees old gorgeous things everywhere. And to make everything worse (except the title of the show), his apartment is haunted by the ghost of one Caesar. Ghost-Nero is ebullient, wacky and magical. Steven starts a grease fire in his kitchen and Nero starts singin’ and playing the Lyre. His powers can take Steven through time, and let him replicate anything he wants! They go on various zany adventures through various-century Rome, missing trains in the 1920s, and hanging out with the Popes that knew how to throw a party. Finally, Steven is brought back in time to meet his father, and the exciting results will finally be revealed on the season finale! 

2. Invention: “Braille Speed-Reader” We all have the ability to scan over a page; and in the 21^st century it’s constantly useful (admit it: you either skimmed to get to this part, or you’re not reading it because you’ve already skimmed past it). I think the blind should be able to do anything we can.* So in that spirit, I would make a Slip n’ Slide, covered all the way down with Braille writing. The blind (visually impaired!) person would take off all of their clothes and slide all the way down, reading through some dense text in a matter of minutes!

3.  Another TV Show: “Prison Bitch” It would be similar to the classic HBO prison drama, Oz. It would be an animated romp set in a dog pound, with talking cartoon dogs. You would have the Latinos, the Aryan Brotherhood, the Mafia and the Yakuza Yakuza. They would fight over cage territory, vie for control of the treats and do it doggy-style to the new inmates. It would appear like various Disney movies about dogs, but would actually more closely resemble certain movies about cats. 

*I’ll use this moment to rant against Helen Keller (who’s always had it way too easy!) She once said “The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched - they must be felt with the heart.” Maybe Helen is right, but why should anyone take her as an authority on it? She’s never seen a painting or heard a song, how can she compare the beauty of them? It’s like someone saying “the feeling of running down an empty road at dawn is the only thing that will make you feel truly alive” when they have no feet. They’re not qualified to make that statement!

The Rally

I am of two minds on how to go about describing my trip from Ottawa to Washington DC to attend the Stewart/Colbert Rally to Restore Sanity and/or Fear. Part of me wants to describe the rally, and what happened. The other part wants to describe the road trip part. Both aspects of the weekend seem equally important to me. Probably not for you.

2000km of driving. Two days spent in a car; I got to know some strangers pretty quickly. Picked up high-proof alcohol at the border. Spent hours telling jokes. Railed against Venn diagrams (it’s not fair that John Venn will get remembered forever for drawing two freakin’ circles). My friend beside me was reading a book that at some points seemed to include me as a character.

DC is a funny place. Being in DC reminded me of something. I feel like I’ve been there before. It’s a city that seems to be made up of wide open boulevards, huge buildings and ghettos. The rally had over 200 000 people there. I saw several signs that said “I hate crowds” and sympathized. It is one of the few things that just locks me up with anxiety, to be herded like cattle.

I got the same feeling I got when in the Vatican Museum: my fists clench and loosen, my toes curl and I feel trapped trapped trapped. Once we stopped moving places (we tried to get into a safe tree to see better but got stuck behind some giants and giantesses) I relaxed a bit and could enjoy the show.

For information on the rally itself, the rest of the internet can provide it ad infinitum/naseaum. It was funny, it was too political, it wasn’t political enough, what difference will it truly make etc. It’s a conversation I have nothing to add to.

I’m certainly glad I went. It will be something to tell my grandchildren, immediately before they say “who the hell are you? Get out of my room!” 

microcosm: my guitar is leaning against my closet door, and it will only stay up if all of my mess stays wedged on the other side

something for me to ponder about.

Smell Ya Later Ottawa, Smell Ya Later FOREVER

In just a few hours I'm leaving for Washington DC for the Stewart/Colbert rally. This should be interesting!

I'm Seein’ Double Here: Four Krustys!

Pretty much everyone lives a double life. Some hide it better than others. You could say that if you aren’t living at least a bit of a double life, you’re not even living a single one.


Of course, it’s no startling revelation that people have multiple selves. Beyond the garbs we change for situation – as employee, as parent, as friend and nemesis, we also have the duality of our inner and outer lives. When it comes to the veracity of these shades of self, it’s tempting to look at it like a series of concentric circles, with the private self being the most real, but that may not be valid.


It has been a weekend of twos for me. It’s what inspired me to write this. On Saturday night I attended a burlesque show. To highlight the dualism: it took place in a huge, old church. In fact, there was a large statue of JC in the background, seeming a little neutered by the hedonistic festivities.


I was invited by a co-worker, who works in the HR section for my department in the government. In our office, we have grey-blue carpeting, grey wallpaper and purple-tinged beige cubicles (or maybe grey, I think I’ve discovered a new shade.) To go from that in the daytime to flaming nipple tassels at night is almost the definition of a double life (although it’s subjective: he thinks that it’s not a distinct difference from his work-self). One of the starkly evident signs of this disconnect was the strict insistence of no photography.


Yet, is one more ‘real’ than another? One would be tempted to say that the version of the man that is doing what he is passionate about is him at his truest self.


But maybe that’s a bit romantic, because most of our lives are spent doing boring crap we just slog through. If you want an accurate representation of my life, me sitting at a desk with eyes glazed reflects a greater portion of my life than me being on stage, doing fulfilling and inspiring activities.


And what of the performance? Look at the act of going on stage and acting out a prepared routine, showing off one’s talents. If a person considers their “true self” as an actor and they are pretending to be someone else – is that the actor at their most candidly real self in the act of being candidly someone else?


That’s not even going into the whole sexual element. Sex might the easiest form of a double life, or perhaps the most common. When does sexual instinct end and sexual performance begin? Is it natural expression or just a rendition of what our ideas of sex are. Is the burlesque performer like a writer or a director? Creator or interpreter?


The question of the “true self” arose during another thing I did this weekend – attending an improv show. Here too we are faced with assumptions about the true self, like the idea that when someone is acting spontaneous, we see them at their most vulnerable and real. It’s why psychologists may ask word-association questions. Beyond this, this particular show was “Dangerprov”, which is sort of a Fear Factor/Jackass interpretation of improv.


One of the most memorable hijinx that occurred was getting a performer with an established fear of snakes to do a scene while getting huge snakes (including one I had seen before) placed on him. He went through varying levels of terrified while trying to keep calm and perform a scene. Was this display the improv performer at his most base animal instincts?


On top of all of this, we have to take other factors into effect. A layman (partial) definition of the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle is that you cannot measure/observe something without changing that which you are measuring/observing. This should be kept in mind in any performance setting. When a performer expresses their ‘true’ emotions wherever they are, there is an audience and there is an awareness of this audience.


This may be my cynicism and self-consciousness talking, but it can apply to any social situation. In a setting of two people in low light, soft tones and deeply emotional confessions, one person may break into sobs (or othersuch intimate emotional expressions). It is tempting to think that this is their true character, a glimpse into what their inside life is like. But if there is an awareness of the spectator, I’m convinced there is something altered (intentionally or not).


I suppose my inadvertent conclusion to this is that you can’t know anyone fully. This will either seem overly jaded or unsurprising. Even if you want to tell the person you love something deeply important to you, even to articulate and verbalize reframes the actual idea. Words are a performance, with meanings that require coding and decoding. Although there may be ways around this, there are constantly walls around us, even if we wish that weren’t true.


So we are left with as kaleidoscopic selves (sounds like an indie rock band!) talking through tin cans to our broken-mirror loved ones. If we’re a series of concentric circles, then I suppose the goal is to make a nice venn diagram.

Thesis #2: How I Met Your Human Centipede

Okay, I went to go see it. Standing in the cold rain outside the theatre, I was alone, tucked inconspicuously in my jacket. For some reason (okay maybe a good reason?) I felt embarrassed to be out there. I had a Harvey’s burger hidden in my pocket. I swear I’m not a pervert! I was there to see the Human Centipede.

It’s an unlikely comparison between shocking gross-out horror film The Human Centipede and young Manhattanite, post-Friends sitcom How I Met Your Mother. Stay with me for a bit on this one.

The concept behind the aforementioned CBS laugh-track laden hip sitcom is that the main character, Ted, is telling his children in the future the story of how he met their mother. It’s an interesting gimmick, and it changes some of the dynamics of the typical narrative; particularly in the element of suspense. You are explicitly told in the beginning of the first episode that the main character will indeed find his true love. You are shown that characters Marshall and Lily,  half of the principle cast and the main couple throughout the show, will stay together forever. 

For this reason, an element of the tension is removed, because the audience knows that whatever conflicts occur between these characters, everything will turn out okay. Indeed, this assumption is often implicit in a sitcom, and on some level we usually know that by the end of the 22-minute ordeal, things will turn out largely unchanged from how they began. But when we know the couple is going to stay together, their fights lose much of the importance. Whatever happens to them, they’ll be okay.

Now, keep this predestination for comfort in mind and reverse it.

If you haven’t seen the trailer for the Human Centipede yet, first of all you’re not spending enough time on the internet. Second of all, you’ve basically seen the entire film. You see that the characters get captured by a mad doctor, and that he turns them into the centipede. This is hardly a spoiler. We go into the movie knowing this central element, and it too removes much of the tension, and our sense of empathy starts to become twisted. 

You know that whatever happens they certainly won’t be okay, and all of a sudden when a character tries to run away and almost gets drowned, you think to yourself, “jeez, I hope she drowns”. Or if a gun is pointed at their face, the thought arises “I hope she gets shot.” Because whatever happens, it will be better than getting turned into the centipede.” We know she won’t escape her fate, and like How I Met Your Mother, this assured fate removes an element of the tension. The difference is, while in the light-hearted TV show you aren’t afraid for them because you know everything will turn out peachy, in The Human Centipede you aren’t hopeful for victims because you know they will fall to their eventual horrible fate. It’s the same device, used for opposite effect.

--

OH, AND

On the topic of the implicit/explicit formulas of the horror movie, I want to bring up the Final Destination series of films.  First of all, I know they’re not really that good. But what is interesting about them is that they too eschew any kind of suspense, except it’s even more deliberate. We are made not to wonder if the cast of teens is going to die, but how. Again, this is not especially different from the implicit assumption when watching a teen slasher film that most of the characters will be killed, but in this case the film is winking at the audience, and making no illusions. It exists to satisfy our bloodlust. So does Friday the 13th, but at least the Final Destination series pretty much admits it.

Thesis #1: Snorlax: Gandhi of Pokémon?

The one thing I’ve always thought is unrealistic about the Pokémon universe (the one and only thing) is the meek subservience of all of those creatures cute and clawed, small and psychic. None seem to mind turning into some sort of energy and getting imprisoned in a tiny torture-sphere (“Pokéball” is the euphemism for these killdomes). Imagine this hypothetical situation:


“Honey! The boss is coming over soon and this cheese plate isn’t up to snuff. I know one way we could improve it, but he’ll be here any minute and we need it now. I know: we’ll get ol’ Charizard to do it for us!”

And Charizard will do it. Never mind that he is a badass flying dragon; these ‘trainers’ will treat him like their illegal Mexican maid. If they have a bonfire out back, they don’t need to bring a bucket of water out, just bring Blastoise (aside: hey why does Charizard get his own Wikipedia page but Blastoise doesn’t?). Even though he’s a huge creature with friggin cannons on his back, he’ll suck it up and do it. When ordered to, Blastoise would even attend the owner’s daughter’s lame Christmas recital even though he knows that it will be like, totally lame. He’s just following orders.

But this is nothing new. We’ve been controlling animals for a long time. One could even say the foundations for Pokémon trainers are even laid out in The Good Book. Just see for yourself:

Psalms 32:9 – “Man's dominion over animals includes the right to harness them by bit and bridle. Man has the right to use and control animals for the benefit of man.”

James 3:3-7 – “Again, we put bits in horse's mouth so that they obey us. We tame every kind of beast. Man is in control. Animals should obey us. Thy got to catch them all!”

The hierarchy is established. Marx has no hope, until...


“Snorlax: Leader of the Revolution.” It’s so obvious, isn’t it. I’m sure I don’t even need to explain it. 

But in case I do: Snorlax is the rebel Pokémon, the one who does what he wants and only helps you on his terms. “Hey Snorlax, go and fight that Pokémon for me!” you’ll say; and what does he do? He keeps sleeping. There’s no way he’s going to do what you say just because you said it. Snorlax is his own master! The only way to get Snorlax to do what you want is to play his game: feeding him or playing the flute. Can you blame him? The dude loves the Tull, and will help out as long as he can get his groove on. 

Snorlax’s name comes from a portmanteau of “snore” and “relax”, and consequently I’ve always felt a deep affinity and connection to him, more than any other Pokémon. (and dare I say...human?). He’s an inspiration to us all, a model for which we can base ourselves on. He resists oppression through passive resistance, and he knows that you need him more than he needs you. And he always gets what he wants. He is literally (yes, literally!) the Mahatma Gandhi of Pokémon, maybe with a little bit of Jesus Christ thrown into the mix as well. Now that dude loves the Tull.

In the unlikely event that still you don’t believe me, keep in mind that my theory is peer-reviewed by other scholarly sources.

What the hell is this, some kind of tube?

I have become self-aware.