I spend a great deal of time thinking and writing about figurative language. As a Ph.D. candidate in Comparative Literature, the focus of my dissertation is the function and transformation of "allegoresis" in the Middle Ages, particularly on the influence of exegesis on a number of central creative texts (more on this later :) ). Aelius Donatus (c. 400 CE) in his "major" work on rhetoric the Ars maior writes that there are thirteen tropes: metaphor, catachresis, metalepsis, antonomasia, epitheton, synecdoche, onomatopoeia, periphrasis, hyperbaton, hyperbole, allegory, homoesis. Notably, irony is not among them, but perhaps it is implied by another "trope"--or even the very category itself.
Figures of speech are not just devices used by writers and artists to convey complex ideas, rather they also reflect broader cultural values. For example, one might suggest that assuming figurative language is only allegorical --as many Christian exegetes did in the Middle Ages-- is to denigrate other dimensions of a word or literary act. Though medieval exegesis tended to employ a fourfold method of understanding texts (that is, "literal," "allegorical," "moral," and "anagogical"), certain exegetes were clearly partial to one over the other. Often exegetes with an allegorical bent betrayed a discomfort with the literal subject matter of a text, but they might have been forced to reconcile that discomfort with the canonical status of said text--as in the case of the Book of Ecclesiastes or the Song of Songs, that is, biblical texts with messages that seemingly contradict certain aspects of other works in the Bible but were nevertheless seen as the word of God. In sum, the choice of device or rhetorical figure to which an age gravitates reflects the cultural values of that age as well as the very challenges to those values.
Now, from the sublime to the nauseatingly ordinary and increasingly ubiquitous: The Hipster.
In our time, irony is the great figurative stance. Everyone notes the cultural ascendancy of the hipster with his/her thick-rimmed glasses, nautical tattoos, and the seemingly affected love of all things kitsch, ugly, or formerly "uncool." Although I am by generational affiliation a millennial (born in 1983), I have always held a particular affinity for the 90's. I grew up on MTV, the Gesamtkunstwerk of the 90's music video, Kurt Loder, Kurt Cobain, disaffected slackerism, etc. Although I am an old millennial, I am still a millennial and not a Gen Xer (most sociologists set the birth cutoff at 1981 as a reflection of one's coming of age during the ascendancy of the Internet). Nevertheless, I would call myself a "90's hipster"-- a person who loved NYC when it was still dodgy (although I was a mere preteen/teen during the Giuliani years when it was being cleaned up), likes his guitar with loads of distortion, and would rather smash a mandolin and burn it along with that stupid ascot rather than go to a Mumford and Sons concert.
To what might I attribute my distaste of contemporary hipsterdom, besides a visceral dislike of their aesthetics (aside from fixed-gear bicycles, which I adore and prefer for city riding)?
In a bolt of lucidity, it finally dawned on me: it is the hipster's affected use of irony as a way of life, a posture, and not as a tool by which one determines authenticity that infuriates me about him. This calls for explanation. Whereas for the nineties "alternative" folk and the Gen X crowd irony was largely employed as a way of critiquing hypocrisy and behaviors viewed as inauthentic, contemporary ironic postures strike me as embracing irony for irony's sake.
Irony, formerly a means and not an end, has become a value in and of itself and not a means by which one can humorously critique values seen as problematical, hypocritical, mean, or stupid. For better or worse, Generation Xers--perhaps like pre-sell out Baby-Boomers--fetishized authenticity; the hipster millennials seem to have rejected it as a category. They seem to assert that if nothing is authentic to begin with, there is no problem with completely rejecting authenticity and becoming an artisan soap manufacturer or knitting grandma scarves in pricey bars just to draw the attention of other inauthentic folks who won't understand anyway. And look, I am not saying that there is anything wrong with knitting grandma scarves...quite the contrary! If you like knitting grandma scarves then by all means, knit away! (Someone has to carry the torch, and you might as well start now as you will one day be a grandmother/grandfather and need to have that skill set.) But the problem as I see it is that most hipsters knit grandma scarves and get nautical tattoos because of its inherent kitsch value and not necessarily because they personally like these things. Thus, according to hipster logic, it's ironic and generally thought of as lame, hence it must be done to prove some kind of an absent point.
I believe that the label of "hipster" needs to be reappropriated from this herd of followers with a dubious and outdated aesthetic. True "hipsters" are idiosyncratic individuals who pursue their bizarre, countercultural, or contrarian interests whether or not anyone else notices or cares, whether anyone else likes those interests or not. The individualistic, bohemian hipster will always hold a hallowed place in my heart: El Greco, Théophile Gautier, Charles Baudelaire, David Bowie, Lautréamont, Allen Ginsberg, Jean Toomer, Schopenhauer, Dante, Dalì, Débussy, Beethoven, and Jeff Buckley, just to name a few. True hipsters break the mold (as each of us should) and don't just try to squeeze into the most deformed cast that someone else has left in order to be ironic.
Monday, November 3, 2014
Tuesday, September 16, 2014
Being a "Yes"
Although as part of Elul Zman--that time of the Jewish calendar that precedes the New Year and is marked by intense self-reflection--I have not decided to become fully religiously observant again, I have decided to take up a practice for the next thirty days that I have frequently undertaken in my life. Namely, "to be a yes." My yoga teachers have frequently talked about this, and I think my penchant for cynicism and caviling is often ultimately at my own expense--as Wallace Stevens wrote "disillusion as the last illusion." Thus, I am going to literalize this practice, à la the mediocre Jim Carey film from number of years ago, and essentially say "yes" to any opportunity, request, or plea that comes my way in the next thirty days (within reason). So, here's your own chance to take advantage :)
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
Tisha B'Av and Baseless Hatred
Tisha b'Av has never been my favorite holiday. Though I currently consider myself to be more religiously heterodox, for several years I--despite whether or not others accepted this appellation--considered myself an Orthodox Jew, studied on a full-time basis at a yeshiva (place for intensive, Jewish learning), and thought often about becoming a rabbi. Yet, even then, I didn't like the holiday.
It's not the fast with which I struggle; though abstaining from drinking has never been easy for me, it was a religious experience during my first Yom Kippur that acted as the main experiential impetus for my undertaking a formal conversion to Judaism. Rather, there is something about coerced sadness that doesn't strike a chord with me. Of course, all holidays in general and Jewish holidays in particular are opportunities to force ourselves to feel a certain way: "When Adar enters, we fill with joy"; and as Jews we are constantly forced to remember something, historical, mythical, or other. But forcing oneself to feel dejected in a world where that seems all too easy just doesn't appeal to me, a person whose disposition tends to be nothing if not melancholic.
It certainly does not seem like a constructive, religious practice, and I believe that religion must be simultaneously constructive and destructive (of illusions) or it isn't worth anything. This seems ever more true considering that the pretext for our sadness during Tisha b'Av is the destruction of the Temples--stone idols which bear Abraham's mallet and overlook the other temples that they may or may not have destroyed.
Strangely though, this year in the aftermath of the shooting at the third installment of the Batman movie in Colorado, I feel uniquely attached to this dark holiday. I can feel the terror and horror of those poor people who were massacred for no reason, and it destroys me. I wish there were some way to comfort them; I wish I could hug them all and stop the tremendous pain that the victims must have felt and which their families still do.
The Talmud in Masechet Yoma famously lists sinat chinam or "baseless hatred" as a probable reason for G-d's allowing the destruction of the Second Temple. This can be and is often extrapolated as a reason for which we mourn on Tisha b'Av. I find this reading ever compelling as a reason for observing both this day, and the Three Weeks. As long as we see separateness and not wholeness, and as long as we so objectify the other that we render it acceptable to attempt to destroy that other, then Jews should mourn; sentient beings should mourn. On this holiday, we should cultivate those practices that allow us to truly see the self in the other, and the self of the other, and perhaps this could be the profoundest revelation of the year, the month, or the moment. Perhaps through an authentic experience of baseless hatred we will ultimately be able to embrace what Rav Kook saw as its only remedy, baseless love.
It's not the fast with which I struggle; though abstaining from drinking has never been easy for me, it was a religious experience during my first Yom Kippur that acted as the main experiential impetus for my undertaking a formal conversion to Judaism. Rather, there is something about coerced sadness that doesn't strike a chord with me. Of course, all holidays in general and Jewish holidays in particular are opportunities to force ourselves to feel a certain way: "When Adar enters, we fill with joy"; and as Jews we are constantly forced to remember something, historical, mythical, or other. But forcing oneself to feel dejected in a world where that seems all too easy just doesn't appeal to me, a person whose disposition tends to be nothing if not melancholic.
It certainly does not seem like a constructive, religious practice, and I believe that religion must be simultaneously constructive and destructive (of illusions) or it isn't worth anything. This seems ever more true considering that the pretext for our sadness during Tisha b'Av is the destruction of the Temples--stone idols which bear Abraham's mallet and overlook the other temples that they may or may not have destroyed.
Strangely though, this year in the aftermath of the shooting at the third installment of the Batman movie in Colorado, I feel uniquely attached to this dark holiday. I can feel the terror and horror of those poor people who were massacred for no reason, and it destroys me. I wish there were some way to comfort them; I wish I could hug them all and stop the tremendous pain that the victims must have felt and which their families still do.
The Talmud in Masechet Yoma famously lists sinat chinam or "baseless hatred" as a probable reason for G-d's allowing the destruction of the Second Temple. This can be and is often extrapolated as a reason for which we mourn on Tisha b'Av. I find this reading ever compelling as a reason for observing both this day, and the Three Weeks. As long as we see separateness and not wholeness, and as long as we so objectify the other that we render it acceptable to attempt to destroy that other, then Jews should mourn; sentient beings should mourn. On this holiday, we should cultivate those practices that allow us to truly see the self in the other, and the self of the other, and perhaps this could be the profoundest revelation of the year, the month, or the moment. Perhaps through an authentic experience of baseless hatred we will ultimately be able to embrace what Rav Kook saw as its only remedy, baseless love.
Monday, April 9, 2012
On Narrativity and Genre in Film
A running joke in literary studies suggests that there are really only two stories: A stranger comes to town, and a person goes on a journey. Though reductive, a certain degree of truth rests in this punch line; it underscores our natural desire to taxonomize narratives according to their simplest distinct components. Such a desire has found its expression in disciplines as diverse as Jungian psychology and comparative mythology. Indeed, as human knowledge is both cumulative and analogous, in oral cultures and their resulting literatures the similarities of stories are often intuited without the need for deconstruction. When reading the stories of Siddhartha Gautama and the Moses narrative from the Book of Exodus side-by-side, the similarities between the two are salient enough that the presence of narrative formulae in one story might inform how we understand them in the other, whether knowingly or not. We make no value judgments about the stories based on their structure, but somehow understand the distinctions between the figures of Moses and Siddhartha despite, for example, the narrative fact of both having grown up in a palace with at least one parent who was traditionally not biological, both having left that palace for the wilderness, achieved realization, etc. But what marks the distinction is often difficult to articulate beyond the impressionistic assertion that Moses is not Buddha, or vice versa.
In the medium of film, the formulaic construction of narrative is ostensibly more problematic and implies value distinctions. A film can be deemed good or bad simply from its diegetic elements. From such formulae come the so-called “genre films,” widely viewed as artistically inferior due perhaps to a perceived lack of imagination on the part of their creators; that is, a willingness on the part of filmmakers to merely kowtow to the dictates of genre without offering their own unique stamp on their product. The objective of this short piece is to exonerate genre films from charges that they lack artistic integrity. While film theorists such as Leo Braudy, who has been instrumental to this study, take for granted the distinction between genre films and classics,—a distinction that Braudy then proceeds to challenge by showing the reader the social merit of genre films—the present discourse questions that dichotomy entirely; its first principle is that a genre film presents a hackneyed formula that can or cannot be tweaked or transcended to create a timeless art object. In other words, all films are genre films in so far as their narratives are, to varying degrees, formulaic. Generic films have a grammar just like any other language. But just like English grammar does not define what makes an excellent poem but only informs the poet’s decision of what words can go where and how a piece can and cannot be written, generic grammar offers a skeletal structure onto which filmmakers can or cannot graft ideological presentation and shaping of that material. The linguistic distinction here would be the one that Rick Altman makes in his essay, “A Semantic/Syntactic Approach to Film Genre.” That is, the distinction between a genre’s syntax and its semantics. However, I also interject the linguistic concept of the idiolect, into this discourse. The idiolect is the personal speech patterns of a given speaker and his or her own unique manipulation and presentation of language. Extending that linguistic analogy to film, the idiolect is the unique combination of generic signs and codes claimed by a given filmic text or its filmmaker’s approach to that text. To draw a literary parallel, in the English oral tradition of the scops, everyone in attendance at the meadhall knew which story would be told on a given night and which formulaic, diegetic tropes would be invoked in order to tell those stories, but they were nevertheless enthralled by the storyteller’s performance. The truly talented scops could bring something unique to their performances; they could employ the oral formulae in such a way as to forge a new and transcendent product, an idiolectic presentation of the narrative. The scops were much less disingenuous than our modern artists, but they were likewise imaginative artists. The creative filmmaker is like any imaginative storyteller. Not only the stories employed by genre films but all stories are generic; however, great filmic texts transcend the formulaic nature of diegesis and denotation in favor of their own creatively significant and unique form of expression and connotation.
As Leo Braudy explains in his essay “Genre: The Conventions of Connection,” “Too often in genre films the creator seems gone and only the audience is present, to be attacked for its bad taste and worse politics for even appreciating this debased art” (535). Indeed, it sometimes seems as if the genre functions on autopilot, dragging the spectator as it jaunts from convention to convention and trope to trope, without any consideration of how it travels. Braudy’s project is to trace the trajectory of modern prejudice against the genre film, rooting it in the Romantic primacy of “personal vision” (536), before attempting to defend it. He continues, “Genre films offend our most common definition of artistic excellence: the uniqueness of the art object, whose value can in part be defined by its desire to be uncaused and unfamiliar, as much as possible unindebted to any tradition, popular or otherwise. The pure image, the clear personal style, the intellectually respectable content are contrasted with the impurities of convention, the repetitions of character and plot” (535). The fallacy of this notion, which Braudy clearly illustrates, is that such a pure narrative could ever possibly exist. For all narratives are at least formulaic if not palimpsestic. Braudy is of course seeking to explain the “literate” film watcher’s supercilious leer at the genre film as an ersatz art object in order to ultimately chide such a notion. For him, genre films could very well provide the vehicle for a more serious scrutiny of “self and society that more serious films, because of their bias toward the unique, may rarely touch” (536). Braudy’s project is to present the merits of the genre film without the caviling bias evinced by many of his colleagues and contemporaries. Like any other film, genres present a certain type of narrative, yet Braudy suggests an intrinsic uniqueness to the genre film, explaining, The methods of the western, the musical, the detective film, of the science-fiction film are also reminiscent of the way Shakespeare infuses old stories with new characters to express tension between past and present. All pay homage to past works even while they vary elements and comment on their meaning[…p]erhaps the main difference between genre films and classic films is the way that genre films invoke past forms while classic films spend time denying them. (538)
Genre films are constantly in dialogue with the past; they exist both as a part of and a commentary on a generic lineage. Though so-called “classic” films may or may not seek to defy narrative convention, the shortcoming in Braudy’s argument is that he does seem to purport classic films themselves as a sort of genre, pit in a binary against genre films. The question he never addresses is whether in a new medium such as film, all texts are not referential. A useful complement to Braudy’s simultaneous defense and reiteration of the presence of genre is Rick Altman’s structuralist approach to genre theory. Altman suggests the useful language of semantic and syntactic approaches to a film, exhorting theorists to view these aspects as sometimes in conflict: We need to recognize that not all genre films relate to their genre in the same way or to the same extent. By simultaneously accepting semantic and syntactic notions of genre we avail ourselves of a possible way to deal critically with differing levels of “genericity.” In addition, a dual approach permits a far more accurate description of the numerous intergeneric connections typically suppressed by single-minded approaches. (Altman 558) To paraphrase, simply classifying a given filmic text as “generic” does not capture the subtle interplay of traditions, codes, and valences within a text, or its degree of genericity. Though Altman argues from the a first principle that genre films are inferior to classics and simply mitigates the assumed negativity of film’s genericity by using this rubric, his methodology clears the way for an objective study of film aesthetics. If the diegesis or syntax is already a given, what defines a film’s merit is its semantic power. In other words, what really makes a film captivating is how it presents its diegetic form— whatever that form may be. This criterion can and must be applied to all films. In his seminal book How to Read a Film, James Monaco outlines “two axes of meaning” presented by filmic texts, “the paradigmatic and the syntagmatic” (132). This bifurcation sits quite nicely with Altman’s syntactic/semantic model and itself knowingly owes much to the work of early film semiologist, Christian Metz. Monaco continues that there are three crucial questions that present themselves to a filmmaker: 1) What to Shoot 2) How to Shoot It 3) How to Present the Shot Monaco sees the first question as primary in literature and the second as much less important, though he does not explain why. This paradigm is of course applicable to generic films as much as so-called classics; much like in literature, what a story is, does not carry the same weight as how it is told. These questions could present themselves to a filmmaker whether the text she adapts is War and Peace or a zombie flick, and the conclusions drawn from those questions is what pronounces the idiolect of each unique film. It exists within a language system, but it has its own diverse and unique set of linguistic idiosyncrasies. Monaco then further dissects these questions by presenting Peter Wollen’s tripartite model of the Icon, the Index, and the Symbol, viewing the Index and Symbol as those aspects of the filmic shot most disposed to the presentation of poetic language and abstract meaning. These fundamental questions and their accompanying models are the key to subverting the supposed dichotomy of classic and generic film. The concluding portion of this piece will apply some of these theoretical paradigms towards cursory readings of two classic films which straddle the liminal and artificial line between genre film and classic, Roman Pulanski’s Chinatown (1974) and Martin Scorsese’s Taxi Driver (1976). Chinatown has all of the diegetic and stylistic trappings of the film noir genre: J.J. Gittes is a haggard and disgraced ex-cop and current private detective who provides voiceover monologue throughout the film; sexy trumpet saunters underneath the majority of the narrative which opens with snapshots humorously documenting marital infidelity; Gittes is mysteriously hired by Evelyn Mulwray to spy on her wealthy husband; the diegetic material presents nothing syntactically new to the spectator; yet, semantically, something feels different. In the opening scene, Gittes is dressed flamboyantly in a white zoot suit with a portrait of a smiling FDR sitting atop his desk. We sense that Gittes is a comic figure, a parody of the classic P.I. Even the fact that the original femme fatale of Mrs. Mulwray is not in fact Mrs. Mulwray at all, contributes to this reading. When he does meet the actual Mrs. Mulwray, she interrupts him in the midst of making a racist and off-color joke about the sexual prowess of a Chinese man. At the time that the viewer encounters this scene— if not for the title—the presence of “Chinese” things and Chinatown only strike her as important because they are titular. In this enigmatic reference to chinoiserie, what is clear is that Gittes is a hack. He is constantly physically deterred and beaten by adversaries, whether hot on the trail or not, and seems to be only involved in his profession for money and women. He is a failed cop, which results in his career change, and is always in the way of his former colleagues. Returning to Altman’s language as presented earlier, syntactically, Chinatown is clearly an example of neo-noir, i.e. a mystery piece; semantically, it is a Bildungsroman in which Gittes and the spectator together learn the craft of private investigation. Furthermore, the shocking denouement in which Mrs. Mulwray is shot in the eye while fleeing with her daughter/sister, which appropriately takes place within the confines of Chinatown, owes more syntactically to the gangster film of the 1950s than the film noir to which Chinatown overtly draws its inspiration. In this “classic” the formulaic elements of a generic mystery are all of course present; however, Pulanski’s answers to Monaco’s pivotal questions of “how to shoot” and “how to present the shot” both comment on and undermine any generic formula, allowing the film to transcend the bounds of form through its unique comment, or idiolectic rendering of the genre. Seemingly in contrast to Chinatown, Taxi Driver (1976) is a difficult film to categorize. We know very little about its protagonist, Travis Bickle, aside from the implication that he is a veteran, the assumption that he a recent transplant to New York City, and the narrative fact that he has garnered a job as a taxi driver. In fact, that Travis drives a taxi is the one clear constant in the filmic text. Taxi Driver is the rare film that actually does offer new syntactic material—overlooking the stranger-comes-to-town construct joked about at the beginning. A film about the gradual unraveling of a sociopathic cab driver defies all genres; but semantically, Taxi Driver owes much to film noir in the way in which its diegetic material is presented. Like a good P.I., Travis spends much of the film riding along in his taxi, searching after clues (fares) which help him to solve a mystery, with his voice-over musings becoming more and more frenzied and violent as the film progresses. Travis’ mystery is that of himself and his role in the chaotic and anonymous urban landscape. In typical film noir, the femme fatale walks into the private eye’s office, insinuating herself into his life and initiating the narrative. In this film, Travis’ taxi is his office and Iris—the 12-year-old prostitute, played by Jodie Foster—is his femme fatale; however, she does not want his help. He insinuates his services on her as her sociopathic and self-righteous protector, and the process solves the “mystery” of his own macabre destiny, namely, his evolution into a lauded public vigilante. In conclusion, this short piece sought to illustrate that the binary of generic and classic film is a misleading and artificial one. Like a language, film has both syntactic and semantic functions with which it is able to communicate narratives to its viewers. Thus, a film can be diegetically formulaic (as almost all stories are), but stylistically unique by drawing different conclusions to the questions of “how to shoot” and “how to present the shot.”
In the medium of film, the formulaic construction of narrative is ostensibly more problematic and implies value distinctions. A film can be deemed good or bad simply from its diegetic elements. From such formulae come the so-called “genre films,” widely viewed as artistically inferior due perhaps to a perceived lack of imagination on the part of their creators; that is, a willingness on the part of filmmakers to merely kowtow to the dictates of genre without offering their own unique stamp on their product. The objective of this short piece is to exonerate genre films from charges that they lack artistic integrity. While film theorists such as Leo Braudy, who has been instrumental to this study, take for granted the distinction between genre films and classics,—a distinction that Braudy then proceeds to challenge by showing the reader the social merit of genre films—the present discourse questions that dichotomy entirely; its first principle is that a genre film presents a hackneyed formula that can or cannot be tweaked or transcended to create a timeless art object. In other words, all films are genre films in so far as their narratives are, to varying degrees, formulaic. Generic films have a grammar just like any other language. But just like English grammar does not define what makes an excellent poem but only informs the poet’s decision of what words can go where and how a piece can and cannot be written, generic grammar offers a skeletal structure onto which filmmakers can or cannot graft ideological presentation and shaping of that material. The linguistic distinction here would be the one that Rick Altman makes in his essay, “A Semantic/Syntactic Approach to Film Genre.” That is, the distinction between a genre’s syntax and its semantics. However, I also interject the linguistic concept of the idiolect, into this discourse. The idiolect is the personal speech patterns of a given speaker and his or her own unique manipulation and presentation of language. Extending that linguistic analogy to film, the idiolect is the unique combination of generic signs and codes claimed by a given filmic text or its filmmaker’s approach to that text. To draw a literary parallel, in the English oral tradition of the scops, everyone in attendance at the meadhall knew which story would be told on a given night and which formulaic, diegetic tropes would be invoked in order to tell those stories, but they were nevertheless enthralled by the storyteller’s performance. The truly talented scops could bring something unique to their performances; they could employ the oral formulae in such a way as to forge a new and transcendent product, an idiolectic presentation of the narrative. The scops were much less disingenuous than our modern artists, but they were likewise imaginative artists. The creative filmmaker is like any imaginative storyteller. Not only the stories employed by genre films but all stories are generic; however, great filmic texts transcend the formulaic nature of diegesis and denotation in favor of their own creatively significant and unique form of expression and connotation.
As Leo Braudy explains in his essay “Genre: The Conventions of Connection,” “Too often in genre films the creator seems gone and only the audience is present, to be attacked for its bad taste and worse politics for even appreciating this debased art” (535). Indeed, it sometimes seems as if the genre functions on autopilot, dragging the spectator as it jaunts from convention to convention and trope to trope, without any consideration of how it travels. Braudy’s project is to trace the trajectory of modern prejudice against the genre film, rooting it in the Romantic primacy of “personal vision” (536), before attempting to defend it. He continues, “Genre films offend our most common definition of artistic excellence: the uniqueness of the art object, whose value can in part be defined by its desire to be uncaused and unfamiliar, as much as possible unindebted to any tradition, popular or otherwise. The pure image, the clear personal style, the intellectually respectable content are contrasted with the impurities of convention, the repetitions of character and plot” (535). The fallacy of this notion, which Braudy clearly illustrates, is that such a pure narrative could ever possibly exist. For all narratives are at least formulaic if not palimpsestic. Braudy is of course seeking to explain the “literate” film watcher’s supercilious leer at the genre film as an ersatz art object in order to ultimately chide such a notion. For him, genre films could very well provide the vehicle for a more serious scrutiny of “self and society that more serious films, because of their bias toward the unique, may rarely touch” (536). Braudy’s project is to present the merits of the genre film without the caviling bias evinced by many of his colleagues and contemporaries. Like any other film, genres present a certain type of narrative, yet Braudy suggests an intrinsic uniqueness to the genre film, explaining, The methods of the western, the musical, the detective film, of the science-fiction film are also reminiscent of the way Shakespeare infuses old stories with new characters to express tension between past and present. All pay homage to past works even while they vary elements and comment on their meaning[…p]erhaps the main difference between genre films and classic films is the way that genre films invoke past forms while classic films spend time denying them. (538)
Genre films are constantly in dialogue with the past; they exist both as a part of and a commentary on a generic lineage. Though so-called “classic” films may or may not seek to defy narrative convention, the shortcoming in Braudy’s argument is that he does seem to purport classic films themselves as a sort of genre, pit in a binary against genre films. The question he never addresses is whether in a new medium such as film, all texts are not referential. A useful complement to Braudy’s simultaneous defense and reiteration of the presence of genre is Rick Altman’s structuralist approach to genre theory. Altman suggests the useful language of semantic and syntactic approaches to a film, exhorting theorists to view these aspects as sometimes in conflict: We need to recognize that not all genre films relate to their genre in the same way or to the same extent. By simultaneously accepting semantic and syntactic notions of genre we avail ourselves of a possible way to deal critically with differing levels of “genericity.” In addition, a dual approach permits a far more accurate description of the numerous intergeneric connections typically suppressed by single-minded approaches. (Altman 558) To paraphrase, simply classifying a given filmic text as “generic” does not capture the subtle interplay of traditions, codes, and valences within a text, or its degree of genericity. Though Altman argues from the a first principle that genre films are inferior to classics and simply mitigates the assumed negativity of film’s genericity by using this rubric, his methodology clears the way for an objective study of film aesthetics. If the diegesis or syntax is already a given, what defines a film’s merit is its semantic power. In other words, what really makes a film captivating is how it presents its diegetic form— whatever that form may be. This criterion can and must be applied to all films. In his seminal book How to Read a Film, James Monaco outlines “two axes of meaning” presented by filmic texts, “the paradigmatic and the syntagmatic” (132). This bifurcation sits quite nicely with Altman’s syntactic/semantic model and itself knowingly owes much to the work of early film semiologist, Christian Metz. Monaco continues that there are three crucial questions that present themselves to a filmmaker: 1) What to Shoot 2) How to Shoot It 3) How to Present the Shot Monaco sees the first question as primary in literature and the second as much less important, though he does not explain why. This paradigm is of course applicable to generic films as much as so-called classics; much like in literature, what a story is, does not carry the same weight as how it is told. These questions could present themselves to a filmmaker whether the text she adapts is War and Peace or a zombie flick, and the conclusions drawn from those questions is what pronounces the idiolect of each unique film. It exists within a language system, but it has its own diverse and unique set of linguistic idiosyncrasies. Monaco then further dissects these questions by presenting Peter Wollen’s tripartite model of the Icon, the Index, and the Symbol, viewing the Index and Symbol as those aspects of the filmic shot most disposed to the presentation of poetic language and abstract meaning. These fundamental questions and their accompanying models are the key to subverting the supposed dichotomy of classic and generic film. The concluding portion of this piece will apply some of these theoretical paradigms towards cursory readings of two classic films which straddle the liminal and artificial line between genre film and classic, Roman Pulanski’s Chinatown (1974) and Martin Scorsese’s Taxi Driver (1976). Chinatown has all of the diegetic and stylistic trappings of the film noir genre: J.J. Gittes is a haggard and disgraced ex-cop and current private detective who provides voiceover monologue throughout the film; sexy trumpet saunters underneath the majority of the narrative which opens with snapshots humorously documenting marital infidelity; Gittes is mysteriously hired by Evelyn Mulwray to spy on her wealthy husband; the diegetic material presents nothing syntactically new to the spectator; yet, semantically, something feels different. In the opening scene, Gittes is dressed flamboyantly in a white zoot suit with a portrait of a smiling FDR sitting atop his desk. We sense that Gittes is a comic figure, a parody of the classic P.I. Even the fact that the original femme fatale of Mrs. Mulwray is not in fact Mrs. Mulwray at all, contributes to this reading. When he does meet the actual Mrs. Mulwray, she interrupts him in the midst of making a racist and off-color joke about the sexual prowess of a Chinese man. At the time that the viewer encounters this scene— if not for the title—the presence of “Chinese” things and Chinatown only strike her as important because they are titular. In this enigmatic reference to chinoiserie, what is clear is that Gittes is a hack. He is constantly physically deterred and beaten by adversaries, whether hot on the trail or not, and seems to be only involved in his profession for money and women. He is a failed cop, which results in his career change, and is always in the way of his former colleagues. Returning to Altman’s language as presented earlier, syntactically, Chinatown is clearly an example of neo-noir, i.e. a mystery piece; semantically, it is a Bildungsroman in which Gittes and the spectator together learn the craft of private investigation. Furthermore, the shocking denouement in which Mrs. Mulwray is shot in the eye while fleeing with her daughter/sister, which appropriately takes place within the confines of Chinatown, owes more syntactically to the gangster film of the 1950s than the film noir to which Chinatown overtly draws its inspiration. In this “classic” the formulaic elements of a generic mystery are all of course present; however, Pulanski’s answers to Monaco’s pivotal questions of “how to shoot” and “how to present the shot” both comment on and undermine any generic formula, allowing the film to transcend the bounds of form through its unique comment, or idiolectic rendering of the genre. Seemingly in contrast to Chinatown, Taxi Driver (1976) is a difficult film to categorize. We know very little about its protagonist, Travis Bickle, aside from the implication that he is a veteran, the assumption that he a recent transplant to New York City, and the narrative fact that he has garnered a job as a taxi driver. In fact, that Travis drives a taxi is the one clear constant in the filmic text. Taxi Driver is the rare film that actually does offer new syntactic material—overlooking the stranger-comes-to-town construct joked about at the beginning. A film about the gradual unraveling of a sociopathic cab driver defies all genres; but semantically, Taxi Driver owes much to film noir in the way in which its diegetic material is presented. Like a good P.I., Travis spends much of the film riding along in his taxi, searching after clues (fares) which help him to solve a mystery, with his voice-over musings becoming more and more frenzied and violent as the film progresses. Travis’ mystery is that of himself and his role in the chaotic and anonymous urban landscape. In typical film noir, the femme fatale walks into the private eye’s office, insinuating herself into his life and initiating the narrative. In this film, Travis’ taxi is his office and Iris—the 12-year-old prostitute, played by Jodie Foster—is his femme fatale; however, she does not want his help. He insinuates his services on her as her sociopathic and self-righteous protector, and the process solves the “mystery” of his own macabre destiny, namely, his evolution into a lauded public vigilante. In conclusion, this short piece sought to illustrate that the binary of generic and classic film is a misleading and artificial one. Like a language, film has both syntactic and semantic functions with which it is able to communicate narratives to its viewers. Thus, a film can be diegetically formulaic (as almost all stories are), but stylistically unique by drawing different conclusions to the questions of “how to shoot” and “how to present the shot.”
Hayden White, History, and Literary Artifacts
In his essay “The Historical Text as a Literary Artifact,” theorist Hayden White tries to answer metahistorical questions by exhorting historians to embrace rather than deny the literaryorigins and confinement of historical narratives. He critiques what he views as “a reluctance to consider historical narratives as what they manifestly are: verbal fictions, the contents of which are as much invented as found and the forms of which have more in common with their counterparts in literature than they have with those in the sciences” (82). White’s comment is not
so much a value judgment as a call to re-evaluate historical narratives with heightened attunement to the degree to which poetic and mythic construction play into historical narratives.
White builds upon Northrup Frye's view "that the historian works inductively" (82),
distinguishing this position with his by introducing the idea of "emplotment." White defines "emplotment" as the stories made out of chronicles and "the encodation of the facts contained in the chronicle" (83). This notion foregrounds the literary action of constructing narrative out of a set of events. It is a product of "constructive imagination” and draws attention to the multiplicity of stories that an historian could conceivably tell with different emplotments—sometimes even with the same set of facts.
Building on R.G. Collingwood's idea of constructive imagination, White explains, "The
events are made into a story by the suppression or subordination of certain of them and the highlighting of others, by characterization, motific repetition, variation of tone and point of view, alternative descriptive strategies, and the like--in short, all of the techniques that we would normally expect to find in the emplotment of a novel or play" (84). Much like a master storyteller might decide the trajectory and telos of his or her narrative by deliberately plotting the events of a story in a certain order, an historian recounts "value-neutral" historical events in such
a way as to impart not only value but genre on those events. White gives the example of the various accounts of the French Revolution, from Michelet to de Tocqueville, as examples of different stories from more or less the same data; however, the constructive emplotment of each narrative suggests different narrative arch or even genre: "They sought out different kinds of facts because they had different kinds of stories to tell[...]Simply because the historians shared with their audiences certain preconceptions about how the Revolution might be emplotted, in response to imperatives that were generally extra historical, ideological, aesthetic, or mythical" (85). White suggests that the way in which a certain set of events is configured and presented reveals an ideology concerning those events. The historian "emplots his account as a story of a particular kind. The reader, in the process of following the historian's account of those events, gradually comes to realize the story he is reading is of one kind rather than another: romance,
tragedy, comedy, satire, epic, or what have you" (86).
Like many before him, White argues that history can never be a mere reproduction of
events; but his original take on this view is that neither should it be, for "an historical narrative is not only a reproduction of the events reported in it, but also a complex of symbols which gives us directions for finding an icon of the structure of those events in our literary tradition" (88). Semiotically, history’s reproduction necessarily implies a set of symbols which convey complex meanings in the same way as professedly literary texts. Furthermore, "The historical narrative thus mediates between the events reported in it on the one side and pregeneric
plot structures conventionally used in our culture to endow unfamiliar events and situations with meaning on the other." In other words, in order to explain an unknown a telos either unknown or known, an historical narrative must emplot an event in a generic structure which encodes how a writer interprets those facts. This process of ποίησις not only includes but also excludes events,another decision which reveals the constructed meaning of even historical narratives. White adjures us to read history properly, "as symbolic structures, extended metaphors, that 'liken' the
events reported in them to some form with which we have already become familiar in our literary culture" (91).
The discussion which concludes his essay includes an extended analysis of the play of
figurative language—especially metaphor and metonymy—in concretizing historical narratives. His understanding of the historian’s role is to familiarize the reader with the “unfamiliar” face of history; with that as his goal, the historian “must use figurative, rather than technical language” because technical language implies commonality and shared experience whereas figurative language seeks to convey the unfamiliar. To White, history is suffering today “because it has lost
sight of its origins in literary imagination”(99).
To conclude, I would speculate as to whether White’s paradigm only holds true for
generically simplistic historical narratives in which the author’s ideology is less ambiguous and his act of construction more heavy-handed. And what would White have to say about texts that overtly and consciously blur history and myth and not just implicate the weaving of such threads?
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Politics, politick, Ayn Rand and vicious pricks...
With the upcoming presidential election, I have begun to get political again. I generally consider myself apolitical, preferring the curve of "a ballet dancer's leg" or a new film to the uninteresting infotainment, or propagandistic drivel that passes for news. Yet, as many pundits have noted, election years force people to define themselves and learn to clearly articulate what they truly believe. For me, this process has been a gradually evolving one which began when I was an adolescent.
My African-American grandparents, who lovingly raised me and whose values and ideas have shaped me more than those of anyone else, were both simultaneously New-Deal Democrats, altruists, and avowed individualists. Having lived through the Depression and Roosevelt's ostensible American Renaissance, they were convinced of the notion that government could be a force for good, and that America was the world's savior, a conviction which I accepted for most of my childhood and early adolescence.
My parents were on opposing sides of the political spectrum. My mother had been a Black Panther in the 70's, but married my father (a Conservative-leaning, Irish-Catholic) and thus left her party.
As I had been an artsy kid with a hatred of authority, in high school my closest friends were far-left anarchists and some of their convictions certainly left (pardon the pun) their impact on me. Still, I felt as if none of these influences in particular seemed thoroughly thought out or in any way well articulated.
My wife and her family--Soviet Jews who escaped the Iron Curtain and fled to Israel--are Zionist moderates. Having experienced antisemitism and the failures of socialism firsthand, they believe wholeheartedly in the necessity of a Jewish state and in free markets--yet they are socially very liberal. Their views are very well thought out and have been relayed to me quite frequently, although I sometimes feel their insistence on Zionism to be more emotional than intellectual.
Originally, I fell in love with Judaism through a love for Israel: Israeli music and food being a kaleidoscope of cultures, the land haunted with history, and the gorgeous, beach-drenched people. Zionism became important to me, but I doubted the necessity of nation states. Jews needed a state because otherwise they would be in danger. I am not sure that I believe this anymore. After all, does any people really need its own state in the cosmopolitan West of which we are a part?
My blog is called "Platonic Blues." This is largely rooted in the influence of my undergraduate philosophy professor and mentor, Paul Guay, who is an avowed transcendentalist and Platonist and has influenced much of my own religious thought. "Blues" was added for aesthetic reasons--my favorite color juxtaposed with my years as a professional blues guitarist. However, my admiration for Plato stops in the political realm. Despite a love of Ezra Pound, I find the notion of a philosopher-king or any other lapse into fascism morally repulsive.
As I grow older, my own politics have become increasingly based in a conviction that politics, government, and any central authority are ineffective means in and of themselves because of the shortcomings of egoistic human beings. I have been asked as to why I am not a Marxist by leftist friends (a school of thought with which I was for a time somewhat enamored, but more so by the Bakunin, anarchist-left), to which my answer is simple--Marx advocates a change of the human spirit enabled by a new Communist order; although he was supposedly an atheist, this view betrays a religious and clearly messianic view of the world which I don't share. Collectivism only works if it begins in the human heart.
I am firstly an individualist. We should all aspire toward the cultivation of virtue and altruism--this is the very meaning of existence and the state/action of eudaimonia of which Plato and Aristotle spoke so much; however, government cannot force us to be virtuous and any attempt to do so will lead to virtue's opposite--depravity, greed, and violence.
Hence, I am a libertarian. Despite a number of issues on which he and I disagree (abortion and immigration, to name two), and much to the dismay of many of my spiritual teachers, I supported Ron Paul's campaign both this year and in 2007. When he doesn't receive the Republican nomination :), I will gladly cast my ballot for Gary Johnson. However, I am not a Randian objectivist nor a Rothbardian market anarchist. I model my own libertarianism after my fellow progressive, spiritually-minded, non-conformist New Englander, Henry David Thoreau, who first said "that government is best which governs least." Thoreau was critical of both all forms of authority and materialism and wanted to be left alone in order to cultivate virtue.
Personally, I believe that you should by all means be voluntarily cultivating altruism and compassion for others through awareness of the unity of all, but in the meantime, you have the right to do whatever you want, whenever you want, with your person and property in absolute liberty--as long as your pursuit of happiness does not impinge on the liberty of others. Only after a given individual perpetrates an unprovoked act of violence does he or she relinquish that liberty. Liberty only exists in the relationship between individuals with others. A man on a deserted island is by definition free, yet he does not enjoy liberty. In my view, political, social, and religious liberty are the necessary prerequisites of existential liberation.
And where does government fit into this? Government has overstepped and continues to overstep its bounds. Government officials think they know best how an individual should live his life. And, much like government cannot force a person to be virtuous, religious coercion cannot liberate an individual from his ego; this must be a voluntary decision. In my opinion, much of Ayn Rand's anti-religious vitriol stems from a reductive view of religion and the belief that it is coercive and irrational. If I misunderstood religion as much as most atheists--and unfortunately, the majority of herd-mentality theists--I might share her critique.
Yet, reason only knows that which it is able to comprehend and if religion--or art--were merely ethical or rational, I wouldn't be interested in either. Rand tacitly concedes this in the Romantic emotionalism of her novels, but never grants it to her philosophy. No, religion and art represent a complex map of symbols that leads to personal revelation and transcendence. Rand couldn't make her peace with this and her near deification of reason (or "Reason") in itself betrays a bit of a religious view--in the sense that I understand it.
So, where do markets and capitalism come into my worldview? Isn't such a system oppressive and encouraging of egoism--which all religions rightfully claim must be negated or transcended as it doesn't truly exist--and superficiality? Well, yes. However, unlike in a government-led regime in which a citizen has no choice but to join the collective or face the consequence of violence, in a capitalist, Democratic system a person can always choose not to patronize unethical or simply poor quality businesses like McDonald's or Walmart, as I do, and consume (or not consume) based on his or her values. In a political system with few choices, perhaps our power as consumers and producers is the only real power we have to affect the world in which we live; and choosing to minimize either pursuit is also a legitimate choice.
My African-American grandparents, who lovingly raised me and whose values and ideas have shaped me more than those of anyone else, were both simultaneously New-Deal Democrats, altruists, and avowed individualists. Having lived through the Depression and Roosevelt's ostensible American Renaissance, they were convinced of the notion that government could be a force for good, and that America was the world's savior, a conviction which I accepted for most of my childhood and early adolescence.
My parents were on opposing sides of the political spectrum. My mother had been a Black Panther in the 70's, but married my father (a Conservative-leaning, Irish-Catholic) and thus left her party.
As I had been an artsy kid with a hatred of authority, in high school my closest friends were far-left anarchists and some of their convictions certainly left (pardon the pun) their impact on me. Still, I felt as if none of these influences in particular seemed thoroughly thought out or in any way well articulated.
My wife and her family--Soviet Jews who escaped the Iron Curtain and fled to Israel--are Zionist moderates. Having experienced antisemitism and the failures of socialism firsthand, they believe wholeheartedly in the necessity of a Jewish state and in free markets--yet they are socially very liberal. Their views are very well thought out and have been relayed to me quite frequently, although I sometimes feel their insistence on Zionism to be more emotional than intellectual.
Originally, I fell in love with Judaism through a love for Israel: Israeli music and food being a kaleidoscope of cultures, the land haunted with history, and the gorgeous, beach-drenched people. Zionism became important to me, but I doubted the necessity of nation states. Jews needed a state because otherwise they would be in danger. I am not sure that I believe this anymore. After all, does any people really need its own state in the cosmopolitan West of which we are a part?
My blog is called "Platonic Blues." This is largely rooted in the influence of my undergraduate philosophy professor and mentor, Paul Guay, who is an avowed transcendentalist and Platonist and has influenced much of my own religious thought. "Blues" was added for aesthetic reasons--my favorite color juxtaposed with my years as a professional blues guitarist. However, my admiration for Plato stops in the political realm. Despite a love of Ezra Pound, I find the notion of a philosopher-king or any other lapse into fascism morally repulsive.
As I grow older, my own politics have become increasingly based in a conviction that politics, government, and any central authority are ineffective means in and of themselves because of the shortcomings of egoistic human beings. I have been asked as to why I am not a Marxist by leftist friends (a school of thought with which I was for a time somewhat enamored, but more so by the Bakunin, anarchist-left), to which my answer is simple--Marx advocates a change of the human spirit enabled by a new Communist order; although he was supposedly an atheist, this view betrays a religious and clearly messianic view of the world which I don't share. Collectivism only works if it begins in the human heart.
I am firstly an individualist. We should all aspire toward the cultivation of virtue and altruism--this is the very meaning of existence and the state/action of eudaimonia of which Plato and Aristotle spoke so much; however, government cannot force us to be virtuous and any attempt to do so will lead to virtue's opposite--depravity, greed, and violence.
Hence, I am a libertarian. Despite a number of issues on which he and I disagree (abortion and immigration, to name two), and much to the dismay of many of my spiritual teachers, I supported Ron Paul's campaign both this year and in 2007. When he doesn't receive the Republican nomination :), I will gladly cast my ballot for Gary Johnson. However, I am not a Randian objectivist nor a Rothbardian market anarchist. I model my own libertarianism after my fellow progressive, spiritually-minded, non-conformist New Englander, Henry David Thoreau, who first said "that government is best which governs least." Thoreau was critical of both all forms of authority and materialism and wanted to be left alone in order to cultivate virtue.
Personally, I believe that you should by all means be voluntarily cultivating altruism and compassion for others through awareness of the unity of all, but in the meantime, you have the right to do whatever you want, whenever you want, with your person and property in absolute liberty--as long as your pursuit of happiness does not impinge on the liberty of others. Only after a given individual perpetrates an unprovoked act of violence does he or she relinquish that liberty. Liberty only exists in the relationship between individuals with others. A man on a deserted island is by definition free, yet he does not enjoy liberty. In my view, political, social, and religious liberty are the necessary prerequisites of existential liberation.
And where does government fit into this? Government has overstepped and continues to overstep its bounds. Government officials think they know best how an individual should live his life. And, much like government cannot force a person to be virtuous, religious coercion cannot liberate an individual from his ego; this must be a voluntary decision. In my opinion, much of Ayn Rand's anti-religious vitriol stems from a reductive view of religion and the belief that it is coercive and irrational. If I misunderstood religion as much as most atheists--and unfortunately, the majority of herd-mentality theists--I might share her critique.
Yet, reason only knows that which it is able to comprehend and if religion--or art--were merely ethical or rational, I wouldn't be interested in either. Rand tacitly concedes this in the Romantic emotionalism of her novels, but never grants it to her philosophy. No, religion and art represent a complex map of symbols that leads to personal revelation and transcendence. Rand couldn't make her peace with this and her near deification of reason (or "Reason") in itself betrays a bit of a religious view--in the sense that I understand it.
So, where do markets and capitalism come into my worldview? Isn't such a system oppressive and encouraging of egoism--which all religions rightfully claim must be negated or transcended as it doesn't truly exist--and superficiality? Well, yes. However, unlike in a government-led regime in which a citizen has no choice but to join the collective or face the consequence of violence, in a capitalist, Democratic system a person can always choose not to patronize unethical or simply poor quality businesses like McDonald's or Walmart, as I do, and consume (or not consume) based on his or her values. In a political system with few choices, perhaps our power as consumers and producers is the only real power we have to affect the world in which we live; and choosing to minimize either pursuit is also a legitimate choice.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Good and Evil: Heroism and Monstrosity
This fall I will be teaching a stock course in comp lit at UMass-Amherst entitled Good and Evil: East and West. I elected to teach the course--which I hear has always been wildly popular--and am honored and excited to have been given the opportunity by my department. Despite and perhaps precisely because of my committed effort to question all binaries, I found the "east and west" component of this course more problematic in planning than the more global topic of "good" and "evil." However we interpret the categories of good and evil--either as reductive, self-evident, nuanced, or non-existent--these two categories define our lives more than any other. What would you do if your father were tied to the train tracks, about to be obliterated by an oncoming train that you could derail, but in that derailing wipe out an entire village? These sorts of hypothetical and outright absurd questions have always interested me because of the broader questions that underlie them-- namely which is the correct choice, and is it amoral, neither concerned with good or evil.
Since taking ethics as a college undergraduate with my dear professor, Paul Guay, I have graduated from New England pragmatist to committed teleologician to a more Nietzschean reevaluation of values in order to truly understand and ultimately ( I think) reassert that morality that is most authentic.
Great...but how does one go about selecting texts that reveal the hairiness of this topic? Obviously, I want to steer clear of the hackneyed: Nazis, Stalin, Crusades, Terrorists, et al. But is the boogyman off limits? How about vampires, werewolves, Frankenstein, Satan, and that motley crew of shadows?
I have decided to play up the element of the uncanny in my course. How does one understand the archetype of a hero without at least engaging the question of monstrosity? Superficially, my knee-jerk reaction is to deny both sides of the binary. Evil results under certain conditions in which the desired result is A, but B is a logical effect. I guess it's a philosophical working theory...
Since taking ethics as a college undergraduate with my dear professor, Paul Guay, I have graduated from New England pragmatist to committed teleologician to a more Nietzschean reevaluation of values in order to truly understand and ultimately ( I think) reassert that morality that is most authentic.
Great...but how does one go about selecting texts that reveal the hairiness of this topic? Obviously, I want to steer clear of the hackneyed: Nazis, Stalin, Crusades, Terrorists, et al. But is the boogyman off limits? How about vampires, werewolves, Frankenstein, Satan, and that motley crew of shadows?
I have decided to play up the element of the uncanny in my course. How does one understand the archetype of a hero without at least engaging the question of monstrosity? Superficially, my knee-jerk reaction is to deny both sides of the binary. Evil results under certain conditions in which the desired result is A, but B is a logical effect. I guess it's a philosophical working theory...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
