It seems these days that pregnancy is all the rave. In popular magazines across the land the gossip orbits around the burgeoning bellies of Hollywood's most famous. Pregnancy is so popular that it has become the plot for several movies.
In the 2007-2008 year of American cinema, three popular movies all navigated the familiar terrain of accidental pregnancy: Knocked-Up, Juno and Waitress.
Pregnancy is not only an issue in Hollywood, but it also informs the political arena as well. That is, the debate between Pro-Life and Pro-Choice rages. The conversative administration of George Bush introduce the Roe vs. Wade decision into political rhetoric once more. More importantly, it has been said that the evangelical constiutency that is such a political force these days, put Busy into office in the 04' election. And it is well known that on the top of their agenda is abortion.
Given these phenomenas, among others, critics of the movies above have gone as far to suggest that whether the filmmakers like it or not are making a political statement with respect to this controversial issue. The purpose of this essay will be to explore each of these films, after situating them in a wider socio-political context, to see if this dichotomy appropriately captures the content of the films.
1) I will review the three films
2) Search for critical commentary on the films.
3) Look at Bush Administration rhetoric
4) Situate these films historically among others with the same topic
5) Draw a connection between these seemingly opposed and contradictory phenomena
2.27.2008
2.26.2008
80th Academy Awards Reflects Hope for Art
This year’s Academy Awards Ceremony offered something completely new: authentic change. Last year’s show was historic because Martin Scorsese won his long-overdue first Oscar, and the show itself went “green.” Al Gore and Leo DiCaprio’s lecture about the environment was a bitter pill to swallow against the backdrop of an event that held fast to its glitz and glamour.
Progressive politics couldn’t do it, but a drawn-out writers’ strike brought the industry to its knees and its biggest event down to size. With very real speculation that the 80th annual ceremony would not take place at all, everyone realized life would indeed go on without the Oscars. As a result, the show didn’t pretend to be the center of the universe.
If not for the writers’ strike then the movies themselves contributed to the glib mood. The two front-runners No Country for Old Men and There Will Be Blood are dark, challenging and nihilistic. The closest nomination to a romance story was Atonement, a film that embodies a kind of hopelessness. Critics suggested that the movies of 2007 and 2008 expressed the complexity of this historical moment: America and Americans are changing; escapism is no longer an option.
The Academy, in turn, reflected this shift in perspective rather than remaining steadfast in their marketable optimism.
While no single film swept the categories, the academy chose not to be defiant in the face of art. The new American classic No Country for Old Men was honored with four awards: best supporting actor (Javier Bardem) as well as best adapted screen play, best directors and best picture (Joel and Ethan Cohen).
Notably, no American actors took home Oscars. Marion Cotillard of France won best actress for her portrayal of the tragic Edith Piaf in La Vie En Rose. The superb Daniel Day Lewis won for his complex performance in There Will Be Blood.
The high moment of the night, however, was the result of an error. Czech musician/actor Marketa Irglova of Once was abruptly cut off when accepting her award for best song, but Host Jon Stewart invited Irglova back after the commercial break to applause from the audience. It was that rare moment when an artist who isn’t inhibited by the maintenance of her image says something authentic.
She declared that Once, a small, Irish independent film made on a $100,000 budget, offered hope in its tale of two alienated people who reached each other through song. Hope is for everyone, she said, reminding the Hollywood and television audience that art comes from the imagination of individuals, not studios and industry.
At the end of the night, the results were more or less expected, but this year’s ceremony was anything but predictable. In a year marked by strife, difference, depth and death, the Academy acknowledged the changing face and attitude of American culture. It doesn’t take Al Gore or a political agenda to promote change; art, when given a chance, can and will do that on its own.
Progressive politics couldn’t do it, but a drawn-out writers’ strike brought the industry to its knees and its biggest event down to size. With very real speculation that the 80th annual ceremony would not take place at all, everyone realized life would indeed go on without the Oscars. As a result, the show didn’t pretend to be the center of the universe.
If not for the writers’ strike then the movies themselves contributed to the glib mood. The two front-runners No Country for Old Men and There Will Be Blood are dark, challenging and nihilistic. The closest nomination to a romance story was Atonement, a film that embodies a kind of hopelessness. Critics suggested that the movies of 2007 and 2008 expressed the complexity of this historical moment: America and Americans are changing; escapism is no longer an option.
The Academy, in turn, reflected this shift in perspective rather than remaining steadfast in their marketable optimism.
While no single film swept the categories, the academy chose not to be defiant in the face of art. The new American classic No Country for Old Men was honored with four awards: best supporting actor (Javier Bardem) as well as best adapted screen play, best directors and best picture (Joel and Ethan Cohen).
Notably, no American actors took home Oscars. Marion Cotillard of France won best actress for her portrayal of the tragic Edith Piaf in La Vie En Rose. The superb Daniel Day Lewis won for his complex performance in There Will Be Blood.
The high moment of the night, however, was the result of an error. Czech musician/actor Marketa Irglova of Once was abruptly cut off when accepting her award for best song, but Host Jon Stewart invited Irglova back after the commercial break to applause from the audience. It was that rare moment when an artist who isn’t inhibited by the maintenance of her image says something authentic.
She declared that Once, a small, Irish independent film made on a $100,000 budget, offered hope in its tale of two alienated people who reached each other through song. Hope is for everyone, she said, reminding the Hollywood and television audience that art comes from the imagination of individuals, not studios and industry.
At the end of the night, the results were more or less expected, but this year’s ceremony was anything but predictable. In a year marked by strife, difference, depth and death, the Academy acknowledged the changing face and attitude of American culture. It doesn’t take Al Gore or a political agenda to promote change; art, when given a chance, can and will do that on its own.
2.20.2008
Language as Instrument
George Orwell has made a fool of me. Admittedly, the style of writing I have come to take as my own appears within several of his examples. And yet, I’m not offended. After all, Orwell’s classic piece reminds us of the intimate connection between politics and writing.
While there are a few points of contention I have with Orwell with respect to the nature of language and its development, the article nevertheless emphasizes a dimension of language that is rarely discussed. That is, language as an instrument or that thing which can, if used properly, can be manipulated for the clarity of thought.
I particularly like Orwell’s image of ‘meaning choose the word.’ There is a sense that the authorial intent regains the primacy that it was robbed on at the close of 20th century. Despite these insights, Orwell comes off as sounding typically Anglo in his description of language. There is a darker side to understanding language as an instrument. He does, however, make the crucial distinction between language and literary language. In that case, I would be interested to hear what he has to say about the latter.
While there are a few points of contention I have with Orwell with respect to the nature of language and its development, the article nevertheless emphasizes a dimension of language that is rarely discussed. That is, language as an instrument or that thing which can, if used properly, can be manipulated for the clarity of thought.
I particularly like Orwell’s image of ‘meaning choose the word.’ There is a sense that the authorial intent regains the primacy that it was robbed on at the close of 20th century. Despite these insights, Orwell comes off as sounding typically Anglo in his description of language. There is a darker side to understanding language as an instrument. He does, however, make the crucial distinction between language and literary language. In that case, I would be interested to hear what he has to say about the latter.
2.18.2008
A Fine Sense of the Ridiculous
The WholeArt theatre of Kalamazoo opened Thursday night with Edward Albee’s now classic play Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? Ambitious, given that the play demands from its actors a level of psychic engagement that could only lead to a state of exhaustion.
And this was the case for most of cast as indicated by Richard Philpot’s (George) occasional stammering and line confusion. But, Albee’s play has plenty of room for these occurrences; in fact, it necessitates that the actor, in all of his or her idiosyncrasies, occupy the vacant spot to embody the language. This after all is Albee’s point.
The set on Thursday night was both intimate and accessible. It was a large square, outfitted in the furnishings of 50s era east coast socialites: jazz records, the Kinsey report, ashtrays, and plenty of the finest booze. Four bleachers crowded the small space where the action took place. The audience almost sat on top of the actors, clouding the distinction between illusion and reality so essential to the play. It also evoked a kind of voyeurism. At times the Philpot’s seemed to get-off in the heavy gaze of the audience, as they unloaded on one another as the disillusioned Martha and George.
Perhaps the only thing out of place was the empty bottle of Popov that Mr. Philpot hurls at the bookshelves in the culmination of scene one. No socialite would touch that shit!
Edward Albee came across the phrase “Who’s afraid of Virigina Woolf?” in a bar restroom. It was written with soap on the mirror. For Albee, it was an intellectual’s joke; the kind of quip that socialites lay awake at night trying desperately to come up with, so as to arouse a haughty laugh at the next dinner party. It was not only the perfect frame for the erudite characters of his play; it held a greater significance: It pointed to the fundamental antagonism of human existence.
Albee embeds this antagonism in the boundaries of our definitions. In a barely veiled allusion to Epimenides’ “Liar’s Paradox”, Nick (Trevor Maher, K Alum), the young and fit genetic engineer, ignorantly shouts, “That of course would make us Cretans!” I speak, I lie: Deal with it! – Albee definitely says to his bewildered audience.
Nothing in our collective understanding remains unchallenged. George and Martha interrogate each and every taken for granted linguistic tic in their twisted search for truth.
While such attitudes can most certainly lead (and they most certainly do) to the cruel and manipulative ploys that the characters develop in a kind of ‘survival of the shrewdest’; there, nevertheless, remains a sense of hope. When the two men are deep in a moment of sparring, Nick desperately yells, “Tell you why? To make contact? To communicate?”
It is in these moments of betrayal: when what you meant to say and how you expected someone else to hear it, is twisted and contorted in such a way that you can neither recognize yourself or the other. This is a moment when it is apparent that beneath the humiliation and selfishness of the most vile of encounters, there persists the desire to authentically connect.
And this was the case for most of cast as indicated by Richard Philpot’s (George) occasional stammering and line confusion. But, Albee’s play has plenty of room for these occurrences; in fact, it necessitates that the actor, in all of his or her idiosyncrasies, occupy the vacant spot to embody the language. This after all is Albee’s point.
The set on Thursday night was both intimate and accessible. It was a large square, outfitted in the furnishings of 50s era east coast socialites: jazz records, the Kinsey report, ashtrays, and plenty of the finest booze. Four bleachers crowded the small space where the action took place. The audience almost sat on top of the actors, clouding the distinction between illusion and reality so essential to the play. It also evoked a kind of voyeurism. At times the Philpot’s seemed to get-off in the heavy gaze of the audience, as they unloaded on one another as the disillusioned Martha and George.
Perhaps the only thing out of place was the empty bottle of Popov that Mr. Philpot hurls at the bookshelves in the culmination of scene one. No socialite would touch that shit!
Edward Albee came across the phrase “Who’s afraid of Virigina Woolf?” in a bar restroom. It was written with soap on the mirror. For Albee, it was an intellectual’s joke; the kind of quip that socialites lay awake at night trying desperately to come up with, so as to arouse a haughty laugh at the next dinner party. It was not only the perfect frame for the erudite characters of his play; it held a greater significance: It pointed to the fundamental antagonism of human existence.
Albee embeds this antagonism in the boundaries of our definitions. In a barely veiled allusion to Epimenides’ “Liar’s Paradox”, Nick (Trevor Maher, K Alum), the young and fit genetic engineer, ignorantly shouts, “That of course would make us Cretans!” I speak, I lie: Deal with it! – Albee definitely says to his bewildered audience.
Nothing in our collective understanding remains unchallenged. George and Martha interrogate each and every taken for granted linguistic tic in their twisted search for truth.
While such attitudes can most certainly lead (and they most certainly do) to the cruel and manipulative ploys that the characters develop in a kind of ‘survival of the shrewdest’; there, nevertheless, remains a sense of hope. When the two men are deep in a moment of sparring, Nick desperately yells, “Tell you why? To make contact? To communicate?”
It is in these moments of betrayal: when what you meant to say and how you expected someone else to hear it, is twisted and contorted in such a way that you can neither recognize yourself or the other. This is a moment when it is apparent that beneath the humiliation and selfishness of the most vile of encounters, there persists the desire to authentically connect.
2.14.2008
In Patience, Out of the Box
HBO’s new series In Treatment daringly opens onto the remote topic of psychotherapy and delivers a television classic. Unlike its predecessors, who have similarly incorporated psychotherapy (i.e. The Sopranos and State of Mind) – if only to inflect the already dysfunctional lives of their protagonists – In Treatment develops the characters within the doctor’s office and only there. The result: psychotherapy becomes something more than a prop, something less sensational and taboo, more raw and authentic; it offers the opportunity for a tightly woven creative exploration into the potential of an affective minimalism.
The genius of the show is, without a doubt, realized in a collective effort. The writers have taken on the Herculean task of restoring the forgotten art of conversation. In today’s culture, where television is for the large part unscripted or dulled by laugh tracks, a show of pure dialogue is a thorn in the side. There is something novel about the idea of an hour of dialogue. It not only places the heavy burden on the actors to realize the demanding nature of their characters. It also demands the subtle craft of the technical crew. In the case of the cinematographer, the intimacy of the office is never intruded: the camera is always the unobserved observer.
Each episode of In Treatment unfolds like an orchestral set. There are typically a series of movements that arise from the dizzying circularity of the patient’s logic. The therapist, Paul (Gabriel Byrne), is a conductor; whose sonorous linguistic acts gives shape to the ground swell that evades description. At his best, Paul is able to loop the conversation back onto itself, and fabricate a kind of crescendo. If successful, this artistic will has the ability to culminate in an epiphany for the patient (and viewer). Although, more often than not, Paul and his patients plummet deeper into the piece, leading Laura (Melissa George) to say: “I came here in darkness , and now I’m leaving into an even bigger one.”
The most tantalizing moments of sessions are Paul’s own therapy session. It is here where the seeming artistry is exposed for its vanity. Gina (Dianna West) – former mentor and estranged friend – is quite and unassuming. She lets Paul perform acrobatics, yet at every moment holds him to the literal meaning of his expressions. The omnipotent and collected Paul becomes agitated, insisting each time that she is twisting his words. This is a fine moment in television today. The craft is seamless, subtle and clean. Byrne and West generate more action with their performances than any stunt crew.
As to be expected, there will be those in the chorus of popular media that demand more action. To do so, however, would be to miss the point of this carefully crafted show. The action is in the inaction: the pauses and moments between soliloquy. It is the unintentional as opposed to the intentional that the viewer will have to develop sensitivity for. Admittedly, there isn’t much to the show, but dedicated viewers will reap unexpected benefits.
The genius of the show is, without a doubt, realized in a collective effort. The writers have taken on the Herculean task of restoring the forgotten art of conversation. In today’s culture, where television is for the large part unscripted or dulled by laugh tracks, a show of pure dialogue is a thorn in the side. There is something novel about the idea of an hour of dialogue. It not only places the heavy burden on the actors to realize the demanding nature of their characters. It also demands the subtle craft of the technical crew. In the case of the cinematographer, the intimacy of the office is never intruded: the camera is always the unobserved observer.
Each episode of In Treatment unfolds like an orchestral set. There are typically a series of movements that arise from the dizzying circularity of the patient’s logic. The therapist, Paul (Gabriel Byrne), is a conductor; whose sonorous linguistic acts gives shape to the ground swell that evades description. At his best, Paul is able to loop the conversation back onto itself, and fabricate a kind of crescendo. If successful, this artistic will has the ability to culminate in an epiphany for the patient (and viewer). Although, more often than not, Paul and his patients plummet deeper into the piece, leading Laura (Melissa George) to say: “I came here in darkness , and now I’m leaving into an even bigger one.”
The most tantalizing moments of sessions are Paul’s own therapy session. It is here where the seeming artistry is exposed for its vanity. Gina (Dianna West) – former mentor and estranged friend – is quite and unassuming. She lets Paul perform acrobatics, yet at every moment holds him to the literal meaning of his expressions. The omnipotent and collected Paul becomes agitated, insisting each time that she is twisting his words. This is a fine moment in television today. The craft is seamless, subtle and clean. Byrne and West generate more action with their performances than any stunt crew.
As to be expected, there will be those in the chorus of popular media that demand more action. To do so, however, would be to miss the point of this carefully crafted show. The action is in the inaction: the pauses and moments between soliloquy. It is the unintentional as opposed to the intentional that the viewer will have to develop sensitivity for. Admittedly, there isn’t much to the show, but dedicated viewers will reap unexpected benefits.
2.13.2008
The Absurd Life of Edward Albee
The life of Edward Albee sounds like the kind of stuff found in one of his plays. Well, that’s not far from the truth given that several of his plays were biographically informed. Born a parentless, Albee was adopted by a pair of New York socialites. Richard and Frankie Albee were conservative, Christian and cold. Albee, a homosexual, was at odds with his adoptive parents, causing him to leave at the age of 21.
I am not one for biographies and I am typically annoyed by the practice of referring the work of the artist to the life of the artist. In the case of Albee, the life of the artist is a work of art in many respects. The strange title “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?” is taken by Albee to mean, “Who’s afraid to live a life without illusion?” Seems appropriate coming from a homosexual born to a family of conservatives.
Albee has dedicated his life (and art) to expunging American culture of illusion with his witty and biting dialogue. Included in the Theater of Absurd, Albee is an essential contribution to the tradition of American playwrights.
I am not one for biographies and I am typically annoyed by the practice of referring the work of the artist to the life of the artist. In the case of Albee, the life of the artist is a work of art in many respects. The strange title “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?” is taken by Albee to mean, “Who’s afraid to live a life without illusion?” Seems appropriate coming from a homosexual born to a family of conservatives.
Albee has dedicated his life (and art) to expunging American culture of illusion with his witty and biting dialogue. Included in the Theater of Absurd, Albee is an essential contribution to the tradition of American playwrights.
2.04.2008
No Criticism for Old Ethos
What is the difference between a critic and polemicist? That is, where does one draw the line between criticism and opinion? This is precisely the question Renata Adler raises with respect to the venerable Pauline Kael whose tenure at The New Yorker elevated her to the pantheon of film criticism. Who could be a better case to test this delicate and fragile distinction? And what time more appropriate to raise the question, considering that so much of contemporary criticism has devolved into mere punditry?
There is no doubt that Pauline Kael revolutionized the practice of the critic. If it wasn’t for her poignant and clear writing, then it was most certainly for her unapologetic opinions with respect to those edifying topics in cinema that result in the residual dogmatism of social morality. No topic – not the even Holocaust! – was important enough to escape the critical scrutiny of Kael. Rather, Kael wanted to talk about sex, abjection and the violence that shoots through the sinews of American culture; the sustenance of culture that takes on its phantasmal form in cinema.
One of the most compelling examples of Kael’s refusal to submit to the pressures of piety is with respect to the work of Steven Spielberg. In Afterglow, Kael laments the work of the young Spielberg disgusted with his turn the heavy-handed moralism of Schindler’s List and Saving Private Ryan (we need only cite Munich and Flags of Our Fathers to complete this list). This criticism is far from unsubstantiated. Kael makes the keen observation that this high-handed morality affects the quality of the film in everything down to the actors. Kael points out that the very presence of Liam Nielsen anticipates the resolution, thus negating the moral ambiguity required for Schindler. Furthermore, Kael is quite right to object to directors like Spielberg who feel entitled to awards by virtue of topic alone.
Renata Adler, however, raises the important question as to whether Kael is simply a critic or polemic. To add weight to her claim, Adler suggests Kael’s tenure is to be taken as an exemplar of the negative effects of institutional support’. Adler identifies a ‘’turn’ in the career of Kael, noting that when she secured the position of ‘staff critic’ her writing degenerated: “A voice that may have seemed, sometimes, true and iconoclastic when it was outside can become, with institutional support, vain, overbearing, foolish, hysterical.” From here, Adler unleashes an entire arsenal of critical vocabulary to identify this phenomenon (e.g., In her later works, Kael exhibits a knowingness that sets her apart from the audience). In addition to this, Adler dissects the writing of Kael for the purpose of exposing the minutia that constitutes Kael’s otherwise robust rhetoric. Finally, the most devastating critique of Kael comes with Adler’s assertion that Kael relies on her own set of uncritical dogmatism, namely ‘abjection.’
Adler’s points are well taken and her close-reading of Kael is telling. In many senses, Adler’s piece suggests that the flaws of Kael are endemic of an entirely different phenomenon (e.g., the above mentioned punditry). Likewise, Adler’s assertion that ‘institutional support’ has deleterious effects on critics is well received. There is something that Adler elides in the course of the piece, however, that was intimated in the above passages on Kael. That is, the ability of the critic to make fluid those ossified opinions (e.g. heavy-handed morality), which themselves have institutional support. Thus, there is something anemic about the ideal that Adler espouses and that which Kael seems to have devoted her career to undermining.
There is no doubt that Pauline Kael revolutionized the practice of the critic. If it wasn’t for her poignant and clear writing, then it was most certainly for her unapologetic opinions with respect to those edifying topics in cinema that result in the residual dogmatism of social morality. No topic – not the even Holocaust! – was important enough to escape the critical scrutiny of Kael. Rather, Kael wanted to talk about sex, abjection and the violence that shoots through the sinews of American culture; the sustenance of culture that takes on its phantasmal form in cinema.
One of the most compelling examples of Kael’s refusal to submit to the pressures of piety is with respect to the work of Steven Spielberg. In Afterglow, Kael laments the work of the young Spielberg disgusted with his turn the heavy-handed moralism of Schindler’s List and Saving Private Ryan (we need only cite Munich and Flags of Our Fathers to complete this list). This criticism is far from unsubstantiated. Kael makes the keen observation that this high-handed morality affects the quality of the film in everything down to the actors. Kael points out that the very presence of Liam Nielsen anticipates the resolution, thus negating the moral ambiguity required for Schindler. Furthermore, Kael is quite right to object to directors like Spielberg who feel entitled to awards by virtue of topic alone.
Renata Adler, however, raises the important question as to whether Kael is simply a critic or polemic. To add weight to her claim, Adler suggests Kael’s tenure is to be taken as an exemplar of the negative effects of institutional support’. Adler identifies a ‘’turn’ in the career of Kael, noting that when she secured the position of ‘staff critic’ her writing degenerated: “A voice that may have seemed, sometimes, true and iconoclastic when it was outside can become, with institutional support, vain, overbearing, foolish, hysterical.” From here, Adler unleashes an entire arsenal of critical vocabulary to identify this phenomenon (e.g., In her later works, Kael exhibits a knowingness that sets her apart from the audience). In addition to this, Adler dissects the writing of Kael for the purpose of exposing the minutia that constitutes Kael’s otherwise robust rhetoric. Finally, the most devastating critique of Kael comes with Adler’s assertion that Kael relies on her own set of uncritical dogmatism, namely ‘abjection.’
Adler’s points are well taken and her close-reading of Kael is telling. In many senses, Adler’s piece suggests that the flaws of Kael are endemic of an entirely different phenomenon (e.g., the above mentioned punditry). Likewise, Adler’s assertion that ‘institutional support’ has deleterious effects on critics is well received. There is something that Adler elides in the course of the piece, however, that was intimated in the above passages on Kael. That is, the ability of the critic to make fluid those ossified opinions (e.g. heavy-handed morality), which themselves have institutional support. Thus, there is something anemic about the ideal that Adler espouses and that which Kael seems to have devoted her career to undermining.
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