Can a Rebel Stay a Rebel Without the Claws?

LINK

I found this article ridiculously informing on Shepard Fairey, the artist of a some really prolific contemporary works of art. Ever wonder who painted the original Obama poster you saw everywhere? That's this guy. Really interesting article, too bad they're turning him into a commodity.

Dan Deacon's Bromst!

Link!

This review by Nitsuh Abebe of insane electronic Dan Deacon seemed particularly interesting to me because of Nisuh's astounding ability to portray music artfully and accurately. He understands Deacon's music on a profound level, and his review contains beautifully detailed descriptions of Bromst's music, relation to his previous album, Spiderman of the Rings, some surprising information on Deacon's musical background, and the philosophy behind Deacon's tracks and press coverage.

His but is in the 4th paragraph, as he celebrates Deacon's shift in a different direction, and gives visceral substantiation to his opinions.

Final Project Revision: Famous Furious Faces

“Religulous”, Bill Maher’s satirical documentary on religion, released in 2008, is a frustrating film to watch. Yes, it’s very funny; yes, it makes a lot of good points, but there is something unmistakably vain, even Michael Moore-ish, about it. Throughout the film, Maher makes it clear that it is his sole duty, as an icon of anti-religion and a guiding voice of reason, to ramble around America and various biblical regions of the Middle East confronting passers-by and interviewing figurehead officials to argue them into corners on their faith, riding from one stumped expression to the next. The documentary is laden with Maher monologuing about himself and his steadfast dedication to denouncing religion, clips of his standup routines, and even chats with family members. He enjoys reveling in the fact that he’s miles above this whole crazy religion nonsense, and wants to place himself, as Al Gore did with Environmentalists, as the leader of an anti-religious movement, appointing himself instructor of the choir he’s preaching to. What’s exasperating about this is that Religulous’ message is, as the late George Carlin put it, “Religion is the greatest bullsh** story ever told,” yet Maher took this message, a camera crew, and a van, and made a massive ego-trip out of it, relying on his skill in satire and the sheer ridiculousness of fundamentalist Christians, Mormons, Jews, and Muslims for humor. This message is extremely important to any atheist, being the foundation of their non-belief, and Maher chose to send this message by lampooning simpleton fundamentalists. Yes, it is hilarious when a mosque attendant defends the gender-equality of his religion by pointing to the special corner of the mosque female Muslims get to pray in, but where is the humor in convincing a devout Texan truck driver that the ludicrous he has been fed since he was an infant is, in fact, ludicrous?
Somehow, it certainly does elicit laughter, at least from me. But qhy? Why was it so enjoyable to watch these people burn? I should hold no grudge against these people, my belief being that they are hopelessly misled, but their stalwart, brazen faith in something I consider to be wholly false makes them seem amusing and aggravating. I’m ashamed to put it in these absolute terms, but I hate these people and what they believe in, and so does Bill Maher, and therefore I felt compelled to watch him conquer these foolish believers.
This sentiment is what Maher built this entire documentary around, which is what made it, regrettably, satisfying. However, he did not venture into new ground, offer a unique perspective, or even do any real investigation; he really just drove around with a camera crew trying to convince people their indoctrinated beliefs are false. His method of presentation in this documentary shifts back and forth from this intellectual terrorism on poor targets to big preachy speeches where Maher saunters towards the camera relating his anti-theistic sermon with verve as clips of Al Queda and the KKK flash by. After the third of these high-production value close-ups, one might wonder, “Where are his Bono glasses? Where is his donation speech?” Before long, the viewer has been sitting through more than an hour of Maher taking apart easy targets and reciting anecdotes of his personal stories of religious disillusionment. As the credibility and potency of this documentary begin to fall to his incessant vanity, an unsettling fact begins to rise to the surface, much like a severed finger in a baptismal font.
Bill Maher is a self-Proclaimed Libertarian, has remained unmarried for 53 years, either solely for anti-religious principles or because the porn stars and strippers he dates are more interested in filing lawsuits against him than in settling down with him, and has a habit of making uproariously bad decisions on his talk-shows, one of these taking him off the air. His lifestyle choices are comparable to those of Jimmy Swaggart. In all honesty, Bill Maher is an extremist, and Religulous is essentially a denunciation of religious extremists of every color, race, and, creed. Nothing like sitting through a straight hour and 20 minutes of hypocrisy.
And yet, Maher has a massive following that apparently lauds an Atheistic (or “apatheistic”) extremist for condemning religious extremists. What does this say about our culture? It says that a majority of the people of their own particular atheistic/agnostic persuasion that watch Bill Maher gallivanting about are frighteningly similar to Pentecostal evangelists watching Benny Hinn they despise so intensely. It wouldn’t matter if people supported the humane treatment of animals or the slaughtering of the Shiites; all we need is a famous, furious face who endorses our own beliefs to an absurd extent and who makes a very big deal out of condemning those who don’t share our particular beliefs and we’ll follow them to the ends of the earth. Think about it. How easy is it to tune into the Colbert Report and get gleefully lost in that ridiculous, caustic and superbly witty personality? It’s pleasurable to let these ostentatious personalities do all the talking and lead us, their loyal devotees, from campaign to campaign. Yes, some of these celebrated pundits provide a useful critical service in the media, but it doesn’t exactly take much to criticize fundamentalists, and Bill Maher needs to understand both that he is unfit for this job and that this service isn’t useful or constructive in any way, shape or form. He is not the anti-messiah and should not be, regardless of how many ways he can make a “Jew for Jesus” squirm under his self-assured smirk.

Kalamazoo’s winter plays prove Durang absurd, Mamet mallard-dramatic

Those who entered the dungeon theatre on Friday night at 9pm were treated to a pair of intriguing one-act plays, David Mamet’s “The Duck Variations,” directed by Terry Cangelosi, and Chris Durang’s “Sister Mary Ignatius Explains it All for You,” directed by Sarah Ludwinski. Starting with “Duck Variations,” An old man, sporting a cane and clad in plaid pantaloons, hobbles onto a stage reminiscent of Central Park to take a seat on a quaint park bench. Another gray-haired man arrives at the same bench, and the two shake hands in greeting. The two then begin to ruminate about the world around them, meandering about the stage exchanging insights on subjects such as sailboats and the lives of waterfowl, rife with allegory. They share moments of blooming friendship, growing tension, good nature and steadfast principle in genuine elderly dialect. Cangelosi certainly understood how to portray the quick wit and foggy memory of these two characters, and the student actors reflected these roles with skill, humor, and sincerity. However, this conversation holds little structure. A one-act dialogue play should balance the spontaneity of a natural conversation with the careful structure of a good script, yet their conversation seems to meander as much as they do about the stage. They discuss the natural relationships between ducks, herons, and pigeons, how death is a part of a duck’s life, and how some ducks learn to fly earlier than others, yet the allegory seems to have no overarching goal; they merely bring subjects up as they come to mind. While this lack of structure effectively demonstrates the nature of everyday conversation, one cannot help but wonder why they sat in the dark for 45 minutes to see old men have an everyday conversation about ducks.
Sister Mary Ignatius is pleasingly contrary to “duck variations,” opening with “Mouse” Courtois robed in full nun’s habit, rapping a diagram of the various levels of the afterlife with a ruler while explaining the complex conditions required to enter them upon death. She then reads from a set of notecard questions the “class” submitted (making sure to ominously skip the “if god is all-powerful, why does he allow evil in the world?” question with an angry eyebrow to the audience). Her monologue veers pointedly preposterous almost instantly, and the audience laughs time and again at these utter absurdities that nearly half our nation believes. Courtois takes on the mannerisms of the catholic nun surprisingly well, the peculiar intonations and inflections of this strange species flowing from her pursed lips like holy water. Her 7-year old minion, Jillian Reese, is hilariously apt as well, trotting onto stage to answer catechism questions and be rewarded with cookies from Sister Ignatius, much like a trained dolphin would be rewarded a fish. A few slightly disturbed graduates of Sister Ignatius’ tutelage enter midway through the play and put on excellent performances.
While Sister Mary Ignatius is truly hilarious at the beginning, it turns out to be absurdist anti-catholic propaganda, and at this point the production feels like a play set in a generation where atheism had just begun to be popular, and I can’t decide whether to write this off as another playwright’s coming to terms with religion or as something doubtful Christians should see.

A Criticism of Satire

Religulous, Bill Maher’s new religiously-satirical documentary, released in 2008, is a frustrating film to watch. Yes, it’s very funny, yes, it makes a lot of good points, but there is something unmistakably “al gore-ish” about it. Throughout the film, Maher makes it undoubtedly clear that it is his sole duty, as an icon of anti-religion and guiding voice of reason, to ramble around southern America and various religiously-important regions of the Middle East confronting passers-by and interviewing figurehead officials to argue them into corners on their faith, riding from one stumped expression to the next. The documentary is laden with him monologuing about himself and his steadfast dedication to denouncing religion, clips of his standup routines, and even chats with family members. He enjoys reveling in the fact that he’s miles above this whole crazy religion nonsense, and wants to place himself, as Al Gore did with Environmentalists, as the leader of an anti-religious movement, appointing himself instructor of the choir he’s preaching to. What’s frustrating about this is that Religulous’ message is, as the late George Carlin put it, “Religion is the greatest bullsh** story ever told,” yet Maher took this message, a camera crew, and a van, and made a massive ego-trip out of it, relying on his skill in satire and the sheer ridiculousness of orthodox Christians, Mormons, Jews, and Muslims for humor. This message is extremely important to any atheist, being the foundation of their non-belief, and Maher chose to send this message by lampooning undereducated fundamentalists. Yes, it is hilarious when a mosque attendant defends the gender-equality of his religion by pointing to the special corner of the mosque female Muslims get to pray in, but I really don’t understand the humor in convincing a devout Texan truck driver that the ludicrous he has been fed since he was an infant is, in fact, ludicrous. But did I laugh? Yes. Why? Why is it so enjoyable to watch these people burn? I should hold no grudge against these people, my belief being that they are hopelessly misled, but their stalwart, brazen faith in something I consider to be wholly false makes them seem amusing and aggravating. I’m ashamed to put it in these absolute terms, but I hate these people and what they believe in, and so does Bill Maher. This sentiment is what Maher built this entire documentary around, which is what made it, regrettably, satisfying.
Religulous is a religious satire, through and through, and Maher chose to send his anti-religious message in an intensely satirical manner because satire has gained burgeoning popularity in American media, and examples abound. Shows like Family Guy and The Simpsons became famous for their vicious satirical nature, and each South Park episode is basically a venomous spoof of one or more current events. The writing of these shows is very well done, but they place a great amount of humor in this human craving for spite. People tune into the Daily show and the Colbert Report to watch these great intellects wipe the floor with the people they hate(or the people they hear they should hate to be trendy,) and many people replaced watching the news with these shows, deriving all their political knowledge from intensely liberal-satirical-news programs. The trend of “Bush-Bashing” is perhaps the most apt example of the nature of this contemporary fascination with satire; all ignorant, hateful people had to do was Photoshop Bush’s face into a picture with Bin Laden or state some ridiculous anti-bush claim on a forum and they could be considered hip (to some extent). Yes, Bush gave plenty of reasons for criticism, but one didn’t need to know exactly what it was that Bush was doing wrong to bash him; Bush-bashing was the popularization of ignorant, often baseless, hate in the guise of contemporary political satire.
The massive popularity of satire may elicit the question, “why do we enjoy satire so much?” Satire in the vein of South Park and Religulous is, in essence, the intellectual exploration of the emotion of hate. To reference a famous psychologist, Freud states that the individual must always struggle between Society (the refusal of their base instincts), and the desire to fulfill these instincts. Satire allows humankind to fulfill this primal instinct of hate in an intellectual fashion, and thus it is greatly satisfying.
Is this a good thing? Absolutely not. If the messages in many works of satire were instead given in a truthful, non-satirical fashion, their percolation could be far more successful; few orthodox Christians would have any reason to see a documentary like Religulous, whereas they would be understandably more inclined to participate in an unbiased exploration on the subjects of the film. Maher’s virulent odium of the religions he berates in his documentary is not unlike the loathing in the eyes of the Muslim extremists shouting anti-Semitic war cries in several clips of Religulous, and Maher should have realized this similarity in intention before he started on this documentary that endeavors to champion the use of educated human reason in the battle against orthodox religions. Hate is an emotion capable of unimaginable evil, and we must strive to avoid it in everything we do, whether our goal is to stop the teaching of creationism in schools or genocide.

And here I am ranting angrily about hate and satire. I probably should have used a few less adjectives, but there it is.

NYT Defense: Strangers in Japan’s Neon Wonderland

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/03/01/movies/01lim.html?pagewanted=1&ref=movies

For my New York Times defense, I chose to critique “Strangers in Japan’s Neon Wonderland,” by Dennis Lim. Dennis Lim writes about film and popular culture for various publications including The New York Times, The Los Angeles Times, The Believer, The Oxford American, Blender, Spin, Espous, Indiewire, New York Daily News, and The Guardian. He’s also a member of the National Society of Film Critics and the editor of the Village Voice Film Guide (2006). “Strangers” is a review in last Wendesday’s NYT arts section on “Tokyo!” a triptych feature by directors Michele Gondry, Bong Joon-ho, and Leos Carax about life in 21st Century Tokyo.
Lim’s review of this triple-feature is quite unorthodox; his avid interest in modern Japan expands his review to encompass a wide array of books and films concerning Tokyo and contemporary Japan. His knowledge is quite exhaustive in this category, and he sweeps through concise explanations of the actors and directors involved in the movie, brief reviews of numerous works concerning Tokyo, and social commentary on the development and uniqueness of modern Japan in ceaseless fluidity, deft vocabulary, and an unquestionable authority on all maters Japanese. This is a professional critical writer in his element, on his favorite subject.

Final Project Proposal: Disillusionment: The American public’s loss of faith in Christianity

My final project in Arts Journalism will be a social critical essay about the American public’s gradual loss of faith in the Catholic Church and the growing popularity of Atheism, using anti-Christian pieces of popular media to explore this disillusionment. I will argue for this disillusionment, not from an agnostic perspective, but from a social perspective, examining Christianity’s maleficent effects on the societies and individuals it dominates, using examples from works such as Bill Maher’s recent documentary Religulous, the first section of the Zeitgeist documentary, 2007 film “The Golden Compass”, and Chris Durang’s “Sister Mary Ignatius Explains it All for You,” to demonstrate my views. Dogmatic religions are towering social barriers in progressive civilization, and those in charge of these theocracies are its utmost malefactors. Anti-religious works such as “Religulous” and “Sister Mary Ignatius” are the results of writers and artists coming to terms with the fallacies they have been lead to believe since their childhood, feeling compelled to share their bitter enlightenment with those still under its sway. These works are inevitable products of this disillusionment, and, while frequently one-sided and biting in nature, their percolation is necessary to mankind’s advancement.

The 2009 Oscars: A Peculiar Ordeal

Ah, the Oscars. The annual celebration of cinema where movie stars get to be famous, directors are appreciated, and the sound-editing guy gets two minutes of limelight. Only in America could such an outrageous event occur, and leave it to Hollywood to demonstrate how grandiose they can make an awards show with a multi-million dollar budget during a recession.
This year’s Oscars certainly endeavored not to disappoint, for the Kodak Theatre was lavished with an ill-fated crystal curtain and gaudy musical performances. Host Hugh “Sexiest Man Alive” Jackman, pulling a top hat and cane from thin air, commenced the ceremonies with a raucous musical number using humorously home-made banners and props. Riding a bat-cycle made of cardboard boxes and paper-mache, he admonished the academy for looking over comic book movies, and joked about how he hadn’t seen “the reader.” He went so far as to pull Anne Hathaway up onstage and addressed her as president Nixon (in a Frost-Nixon parody), Hathaway reluctantly braking into song. A later musical number graced lovely Beyonce with a spotlight as she descended a glimmering stairway in the midst of a troupe of showgirls as she and Jackman celebrated the somewhat arbitrary “return of the musical”. These musical numbers were flashy and entertaining, showcasing the voices of unexpectedly talented Jackman and Hathaway, yet, other than being in the extravagant spirit of the Oscars, had little justification within the context of the ceremonies.
Despite these flaws, all the song and dance contributed to the decidedly happy mood of this year’s Academy Awards. Seth Rogen and James Franco laughed at movie clips, baked on a sofa, Wall-E and Eva shared moments of robot-love, and the Kung-Fu Panda paraded in slow-motion.
This year’s Academy awards also featured a new method of award presentation, inviting a number of famous actors and actresses to present the award they had won previously to this year’s winners. This was an unexpected and exciting treat.
The music ceremonies featured the artists Rahman, from Slumdog Millionaire, and Thomas Neuman, from Wall-E, performing their numbers in a brilliant display of myriad musicianship and ethnic intrigue.
Penelope Cruz was especially memorable for her candid, breathless and sweet acceptance speech for best supporting actress. Kunio Kato accepted the award for best animated short film in butchered Japanglish, ending with an extremely unexpected “Domo arigatou, Mr. Robato.” Heath Ledger’s family graciously accepted the award for best supporting actor on behalf of the posthumous wonder, multiple camera angles assuring the viewer that there was not a dry eye in the audience during this respectful presentation. Ben Stiller’s bizarre appearance and gait remain a mystery.
Sean Penn’s acceptance of the best actor award was passionate and honest; he himself was astonished that the academy turned out to be “commi, homo-lovin son-of-a-guns.”
Slumdog Millionaire was decidedly the Oscar’s most celebrated film, receiving seven awards, including best picture.
This year’s Academy Awards were certainly unorthodox, and one can only assume they took the slogan of “a year of change” to heart while planning it. In these depressing times, such a lively and surprising show is refreshing, but a few more weeks of planning couldn’t have hurt.

Outline of Indefinite pronoun

INTRO & LEDE:

Introduce movie, list some featured bands for credibility on the subject, specify it as a movie about romance and music so it can be picked apart

BUT:

It’s a movie about music that’s really about stupid teenagers profiling each other
A. Compare to High Fidelity
B. Indefinite Pronoun shtick
C. Pick apart “Where’s Fluffy” bs

Conclusion:

Wrap it up with a few more scathing remarks on its utter superficiality

Nick & Norah's Indefinite Pronoun (Revised)

“Nick & Norah’s Infinite Playlist” is a romantic teen-comedy directed by Peter Sollet, based on a book of the same title by Rachel Cohn and David Levithan. It’s meant to be sweet, charming romance between two people who find each other through the eclectic melodies of the modern urban music scene, their near-identical music taste bringing them together in the chaos of high school and downtown New York. Music has served as the impetus for many relationships in this day and age, and “Nick & Norah” seeks to present a unique yet quintessential story of two people who fall into this kind of romance. However, this “Infinite” playlist comes up aggravatingly short. For all the hype the movie gave itself about sporting an indie playlist featuring names like Vampire Weekend and Band of Horses, “Nick & Norah” is not a movie about music whatsoever.
Take a movie like High Fidelity, a romantic comedy centered on music. High Fidelity used its encyclopedic knowledge of great music to explain the inexplicable complexities of life and relationships. You’d think that a movie about two people’s infinite playlist would imply that the film would focus on using good music to effectively accompany some important adolescent-romantic moments, or that they would at least talk about a song or two, of which it does neither. Other than their brief tour of Electric Lady studios and a timid Cure reference, “Nick & Norah” either leaves the music on this infinite playlist as an indefinite pronoun (Nick & Norah’s indefinite pronoun, rather) or stays so cozily in the comfort zone of mainstream music (think of two people reveling in their serendipitous mutual adoration of The Beatles) that it comes off as utterly phony.
The most irritating thing about this movie is how it scathingly mocks the lives of true music enthusiasts by starring two teenage pseudo-music enthusiasts who use the movie’s musical obsession, the fictional band “Where’s Fluffy,” as a superficial social segregator. Protagonists in the movie love “Where’s Fluffy.” Antagonists utter things along the lines of “oh yeah, I love Whose Fluffy,” to which our cool Nick and Norah sigh and roll their eyes. Throughout the movie, our heroes search for this mystery concert. After all their searching, all we see or hear of this illustrious band is a few enigmatic slow-motion clips of them waltzing onto a stage in ripped jeans and dingy converses to plug in a few guitars before N & N, satisfied entirely with their discovery of the concert, up and leave before the first song, god forbid they actually enjoy the music they blabber on about to each other. “Where’s Fluffy” is the macguffin-like, shallow embodiment of “good music taste” in the movie, that certain hip quality the writers wanted Nick & Norah to have that would identify them with the obnoxious hipster crowd. It is not a movie about two people who find each other through music, it is a movie about two teenagers who pretend to be music enthusiasts who use “good music taste” to socially profile the rest of the stereotyped cast and to serve as a hollow excuse for their affection. Sollet would have done well to watch a few music-centered romantic comedies before he got started on this bile-evoking byproduct of adolescent pretense.

Nick & Norah's Indefinite Pronoun

While not a recent release, I’ve been thinking about this movie a lot since I’ve seen it at K. I felt strongly enough about my opinions and the complexity of my arguments to write about it, and so I figured, what the hey, I’ll do so. Here’s my review of Nick & Norah’s Infinite Playlist.

“Nick & Norah’s Infinite Playlist” is a romantic teen-comedy directed by Peter Sollet, based on a book of the same title by Rachel Cohn and David Levithan. It’s meant to be about a sweet, charming romance between two people who find each other through the eclectic melodies of the modern urban music scene, their near-identical music taste bringing them together in the chaos of high school and downtown New York. Undoubtedly, this is the impetus for many relationships in this day and age, and “Nick & Norah” seeks to present a unique yet quintessential story of two people who fall into this kind of romance. However, this “Infinite” playlist comes up aggravatingly short. For all the hype the movie gave itself about sporting an indie playlist featuring names like Vampire Weekend and Modest Mouse, “Nick & Norah” is really not a movie about good music whatsoever. Take a movie like High Fidelity. Those guys knew their stuff, and the movie used its encyclopedic knowledge of great music to explain the inexplicable complexities of life and relationships. You’d think that a movie about two people’s infinite playlist would imply that the film would focus on using good music to effectively accompany some important adolescent-romantic moments, or that they would at least talk about a song or two, of which it does neither. Other than their brief tour of Electric Lady studios and a timid Cure reference, “Nick & Norah” either leaves the music on this infinite playlist as an indefinite pronoun (Nick & Norah’s indefinite pronoun, rather) or stays so cozily in the comfort zone of mainstream music that it comes off as utterly phony. “Nick & Norah” even goes so far as to botch both the selection and implementation of songs by the good New-York-area bands it chose. It feels painfully like a movie about two people who find each other through great music written by people hopelessly out of touch with the music scene they’re trying to capture. In a nutshell, the mysterious location of a concert by legendary fictional band “Where’s Fluffy,” a major theme of the movie, is indicative of what the movie is really about and what this “infinite playlist” contains. Protagonists in the movie love “Where’s Fluffy.” Antagonists utter things along the lines of “oh yeah, I love Whose Fluffy,” to which our cool protagonists sigh and roll their eyes. Throughout the movie, our protagonists search for this mystery concert. After all their searching, all we see or hear of this illustrious band is a few enigmatic slow-motion clips of them waltzing onto a stage in ripped jeans and dingy converses to plug in a few guitars before our protagonists, satisfied entirely with their discovery of the concert, up and leave before the first song, an act that screams poser music enthusiast. “Where’s Fluffy” is the macguffin-like, shallow embodiment of “good music taste” in the movie, that certain hip quality the writers wanted Nick & Norah to have that would ingratiate them with the obnoxious hipster crowd. Sollet would have done well to watch a few music-centered romantic comedies before he got started on his.

Beauty Reified

I've been thinking of this review of Fleet Foxes premier album by Stephen M. Deusner all day. Reading Oscar Wilde, I can really understand how absolutely wonderful a critic's review of a work of art can be. Again and again he reaffirmed the thoughts I had during this album, the warm and gorgeous harmonies of a more rustic age bringing the listener into, as Deusner puts it, "Fleet Foxes' old world," while bringing other more fuzzy imagery into much greater focus, placing eloquent and apt explanations in front of the frenzied frescoes the mind tends to remember. I just really liked this review, both because it so beautifully understood an album I absolutely adored, and because I understood why I enjoyed reading it so much.

The Elements of Stylin

What a cool "little" book. Brutal, concise to a dot, and simple.
I'm endeavoring to incorporate several of these "elements" in my writing, but a few in particular come to mind:
6: Do not overwrite.
I'm a fan of big words, run-on sentences, and big flowery passages. I feel My writing could use a little less overwriting, for I'm not a fan of the whole brevity thing.
17. Omit Needless Words.
This is all I've been seeing on my reviewed reviews, big loops through extraneous "subsequently"s and "obviously,"s. Gotta work on word-for-word conciseness.

The Critic as Artiste

In "The Critic as Artist," renowned playwright Oscar Wilde presents arguments, in the form of a discussion, that the Critic plays both a highly creative and interpretive role in society.
As Gilbert, Wilde attempts to prove to his companion Ernest that the Critical faculty and the Creative faculty are one and the same. Wilde argues that, like a painter or a novelist, a Critic "works with materials, and puts them into a form that is at once new and delightful." He then goes on to give the compelling theories that people who give their personal performances of material are not performers but in fact critics of the work they present; an actor is not a performer of his character but rather its critic, a musician is not a performer of his music, but rather its critic. Wilde's main theory is that the beauty art is truly within the eye of the beholder, and contends that the Critic is able to, by examining, analyzing, and giving his personal thoughts of a work of art, the Critic is able to transcend it by applying it to realms of thought the artist themselves could never have thought of in a method wonderful and descriptive.
During the second part of Gilbert and Ernest's discussion, Wilde states his theories about the Critic also acting as an interpreter, contradicting his previous views that true artistic Criticism should be entirely subjective; however, he downplays the importance of this role of Criticism.
Wilde's virtuosity as a writer and intellectual shines brilliantely even through the more mundane passages of his sound and elegant logic. Idea for idea, this was a brilliant piece of work.

Taxi to the Dark Side not exactly a Star Wars reference

Alex Gibney’s Taxi to the Dark Side is a documentary about the U.S. Government’s abhorrent maltreatment of detained suspected terrorists in Iraq, Afghanistan, and the infamous Guantanamo Bay. Featuring disturbing interviews and appalling images of torture, “Taxi” is not for the weak of heart. The documentary begins with the investigation of the tragic incarceration and murder of a young Afghani taxi driver named Dilawar at the hands of U.S. interrogators at the Bagram Air Force Base Afghanistan. Gibney uses this investigation and a series of extremely well-chosen interviews with soldiers involved in this and other incidents at Abu Gahrib and Guantanamo Bay to open the can of worms that is what the U.S. Military’s information division has become since 9/11. As the candid interviews with these interrogators become more and more shocking, it becomes dreadfully apparent that these pleasant-seeming American soldiers were, through the orders of their superiors and the ambiguity of their situation, led collectively down a path of logic frighteningly similar to the Holocaust Nazi. A British detainee offered a particularly disquieting interview, relating, in eloquent Pakistani accent, how he was abducted from his home, shackled, beaten and tortured for years without trial or even access to a lawyer. Unsurprisingly, Gibney’s investigation finds itself climbing the chain of command until it ends at the wrinkled visages of Bush and Cheney. As the documentary unfolds, it becomes truly horrifying to realize how words like “information” and “control” can be used to mask purely insidious intentions, and how easily evil can manifest and justify itself in the twisted rhetoric of official documents and memos.
However, even a documentary this powerful isn’t without issues. Time and again it couples outrageous photos and video clips with the mournful wailings of middle-eastern vocalists. Ironically, the documentary protests the use of sensory deprivation and assault in torture while it oftentimes seeks nothing more than to deprive the viewer of every sense other than empathy. While Gibney offers a reasonably fair amount of interviews of those for and against the techniques of torture used in Bagram and the like, the documentary is nowhere near unbiased. Interposing video clips of Bush and Donald Rumsfeld with shocking soundbytes and zooming-in shots of photographed documents while deep bells chime eerily in the background does little to prove the documentary objective.
Still, keeping his film unbiased was hardly Gibney’s prime objective. Gibney set out to make a documentary that would send a vehement anti-torture message, and did so masterfully. His research was impeccable, his imagery was brutally effective, and his presentation was superb. In the light of President Barack Obama’s recent order to shut down the very Guantanamo Bay investigated in this documentary, “Taxi” is extremely relevant. It is important to see this movie to understand why the standards set by the Geneva convention after World War II are so important. It is important to see this film to be informed about these atrocities, and to understand why and how they happened. For, as long as the American public has the ability to investigate and reveal the evils of power, corruption and hatred, we will remain a free nation.

Clint Eastwood's But

For my Gran Torino review, my but is ironically disguised as a "yet" in "Yes, there is plenty of acting in this movie, yet Eastwood seems to supply so much of it that sometimes it comes off as comical. " and the succeeding paragraph. I would rework this review in many ways. I definitely gave too much of a plot summary and even a spoiler at the beginning, and my but is pretty unclear.

Live from Baghdad relevant to today's War on Terror

After Barack Obama is inaugurated as President, he will do everything in his power to responsibly remove all American forces from the Middle East. Whether or not this can be done without inciting catastrophe remains to be seen. However, The Iraqi War and the War on Terror have become sodden with so much vehement anti-war sentiment and propaganda that the actual reasons for our presence in the Middle East have become horrendously skewed. A cursory yet intelligent glance at the American public’s view of our presence in the Middle East would present one with a steaming, monstrous pile of uneducated opinions, allegations, and inflamed misinformation that has been spoon-fed to and ignorantly processed by the masses for nearly a decade.
For some unbiased and informed individuals, this modern state of ignorance cries for illumination. HBO’s “Live from Baghdad” offers a desperately needed and masterfully executed recapping of the events that would cause our former president to invade Iraq and begin the ill-fated War on Terror. “Live from Baghdad” presents this story not in documentary form, but in a dramatization, relating the intriguing story of the reporters involved in CNN’s coverage of the beginning of the Gulf War in 1991.
Michael Keaton presents an excellent portrayal of CNN Producer Robert Weiner, a clever, passionate reporter who demands the opportunity to cover the escalating situation in Iraq and the rise of its new despot, Saddam Hussein. With the consent of CNN, Weiner plunges himself, shrewd companion Ingrid Formanek (Helena Bonham Carter) and their intriguing news team headfirst into the center of the dispute to report the truth. Through his impressive skill as a reporter and ardent desire for the truth, Weiner befriends the Iraqi Information Minister Naji Al-Hadithi (David Suchet) and manages to set up an interview with Hussein himself. Weiner’s observations of the media, the threats traded by Hussein and President George Bush Sr., and the overall situation lead Weiner to the realization that he is placing his news team between Hussein and the inevitable conflict of the Gulf War, remarking to Al-Hadithi that “As long as we keep the talking going, we can prevent this war”
The film’s depiction of Baghdad is superb; Keaton and his news team, sporting camera and microphone boom, conveyed by tattered, miniature European taxis, navigate through iconic images of a sand-blasted ghetto-metropolis. Armed guards that more resemble ordinary men outfitted with secondhand fatigues and AK-47’s than soldiers march the streets and harass them, Iraqi media officials shove their hands in front of the CNN camera, turbaned-peasants tote “DOWN WITH BOSH” picket signs for the camera, and anti-aircraft fire blazes in unexpectedly beautiful trails of blinding lights into the night sky.
Few scenes in this movie depict Saddam’s wickedness better than Weiner’s coverage of Hussein’s broadcasted conversation with a captive British family, in which Hussein repeatedly pats the head of an utterly terrified 10-year old while a translator bombards the poor boy with questions tailored to favorable responses for the family’s gracious host, Saddam. “Live from Baghdad” uses several clips of footage actually recorded during the events the movie depicts, including the previously mentioned recording, which give the film a documentary-like authenticity that bolsters its already-sterling presentation, an authenticity that emphatically offers a desperately needed explanation of the Gulf War and former president Bush’s invasion of Iraq. Whether or not it vindicates it is for the viewer to decide.

Gran Torino

Mike Borch
January 11, 2009
Art Journalism:
Gran Torino

Gran Torino is a movie in which Clint Eastwood asserts his unmistakable prowess as an actor and director both to tell a very real story and to reprimand the stereotypes of America as Walt Kowalski, a hardened Korean War veteran at the end of his life who begrudgingly becomes part of the lives of a family of Hmong immigrants that move in next door to him in an increasingly-foreign Detroit suburb. After Kowalski thwarts an unconfident Hmong boy named Thao’s attempt at stealing his cherished ’72 Gran Torino, a task he was bullied into by his gangbanging cousin “spider” and accompanying posse, Thao’s family insist that he make up for his trespass by working for Kowalski. A friendship is forged between the two as Walt consents to making a man out of Thao, and the two play out this plot quite well until “spider” and his posse do something unforgivable, and Walt realizes he must take matters into his own hands to protect the lives of the last few people he holds dear.
Unsurprisingly, Eastwood’s performance is powerful and solid, and it’s unlikely a better man could have been found for this part. He stands next to his wife’s open casket at her funeral, his gnarled face twisted in its iconic squinting grimace as he watches his detached relatives take their seats in the church. His thin lips contort as these upstart businessmen, spoilt young idiots cracking jokes, and an insufferable teenage princess bearing a midriff and piercing, line up in the pews. He sits, stewing in his disgruntled funk, as the 27-year old Irish boy of a preacher begins to ramble about the “bittersweetness of death.” He growls and runs down a list of racist slurs as strange Asian Hmong immigrants move into the house next door. He erupts with rage as his son starts spreading out retirement home brochures before him. He spares young Thao a glimpse of a smile as they share a moment. He coughs up blood and wonders whether he fears death, and glares down the barrel of a rifle aimed between the eyes of a Hmong gangbanger while he lays down his obligatory Dirty-Harry shtick and protects the lives of the innocent.
Yes, there is plenty of acting in this movie, yet Eastwood seems to supply so much of it that sometimes it comes off as comical. Several scenes feel added for the sole purpose of letting a true American like Clint scoff at the idiocies of pop culture, and the supporting cast and much of the script is laden with stereotypes so heavy they often seem campy rather than epitomic. My favorite example of this issue is when Clint tells this joke to his old salty bar buddies: “I’ve got a better one. So a Mexican, a Chinaman, and a Colored Guy walk into a bar, and the bartender says… get the f*** out of here,” to which there is hearty, wheezing laughter. However, it’s quite easy to take these issues in stride; it’s intriguing how Eastwood can pull off every “gook” “chink” and “dragon lady” racist quip and keep it fresh, and seeing the man fight for what’s righteous in a world mired in intolerable and unchanging stereotypes made for a very moving experience.