2.2.2005
a book a week three: the history of sexuality, vol. 1
this week i read the history of sexuality, vol.1: an introduction by michel foucault (and the fact that it took all week to read it should indicate how slow and easily distracted a reader i am). rather than arrogantly assume i have anything substantial to add to the already-infinite debate surrounding foucault, i'll simply say i found it fascinating, and make three points that sort of evade my usual reviewy-ness...
1. my copy of this book is ugly. though i like to delude myself into thinking "i do not judge a book by its cover," i've spent at least three years in a state of non-commital noodling with this one, and i think it's because its design is so unattractive. i mean, look at it:
it looks like someone took stock footage from a late-eighties PBS documentary and dipped it in a bowl of sherbert. dear vintage books: this one's due for an update...
2. i discovered foucault (in a roundabout sorta way) when i was 20 or 21 i guess. i was very excited to have found a figure who provides a comprehensive & convincing analysis of power dynamics, without resorting to a totalizing "higher cause" of some sort (at least for the most part). i also liked that foucault's skepticism didn't point to some sort of fundamental loss (unlike, for example, jean baudrillard). years later, it would also thrill me to discover that foucault looked like this:
3. i know that as a fellow who reads foucault, i'm expected to be a fun-sucking mad scientist intent on ridding the world of its wonder and poetry (at least that's what a solid 25% of my fellow ex-art students would have me believe), but i must insist that foucault is occasionally a hell of a stylist. no one ever talks about his way with words (unless, of course, i'm merely admiring richard hurley's translation). take a look at this:
Among its many emblems, our society wears that of the talking sex. The sex which one catches unawares and questions, and which, restrained and loquacious at the same time, endlessly replies. One day a certain mechanism, which was so elfin-like that it could make itself invisible, captured this sex and, in a game that combined pleasure with compulsion, and consent with inquisition, made it tell the truth about itself and others as well. (vintage books edition, march 1990, page 77)
... not exactly page-turnin' stuff, mind you... but not without a certain sass, either...
1. my copy of this book is ugly. though i like to delude myself into thinking "i do not judge a book by its cover," i've spent at least three years in a state of non-commital noodling with this one, and i think it's because its design is so unattractive. i mean, look at it:
it looks like someone took stock footage from a late-eighties PBS documentary and dipped it in a bowl of sherbert. dear vintage books: this one's due for an update...
2. i discovered foucault (in a roundabout sorta way) when i was 20 or 21 i guess. i was very excited to have found a figure who provides a comprehensive & convincing analysis of power dynamics, without resorting to a totalizing "higher cause" of some sort (at least for the most part). i also liked that foucault's skepticism didn't point to some sort of fundamental loss (unlike, for example, jean baudrillard). years later, it would also thrill me to discover that foucault looked like this:
3. i know that as a fellow who reads foucault, i'm expected to be a fun-sucking mad scientist intent on ridding the world of its wonder and poetry (at least that's what a solid 25% of my fellow ex-art students would have me believe), but i must insist that foucault is occasionally a hell of a stylist. no one ever talks about his way with words (unless, of course, i'm merely admiring richard hurley's translation). take a look at this:
Among its many emblems, our society wears that of the talking sex. The sex which one catches unawares and questions, and which, restrained and loquacious at the same time, endlessly replies. One day a certain mechanism, which was so elfin-like that it could make itself invisible, captured this sex and, in a game that combined pleasure with compulsion, and consent with inquisition, made it tell the truth about itself and others as well. (vintage books edition, march 1990, page 77)
... not exactly page-turnin' stuff, mind you... but not without a certain sass, either...
what bothers me about richard linklater...
... is that he treats "poignancy" as if it were an exploitation genre.
...yes, i just watched before sunset... and yes, following his insufferable waking life, i sorta wanted to hate it. but what bothers me, i hope, is deeper than simply an art-dude aversion to sentiment. i love, for example, cameron crowe's humble and well-intended say anything. i want to describe where i think linklater goes wrong, & i apologize if i seem fickle and reactionary (i really think i'm not)...
in sunset, as in the majority of linklater stuff i've seen, what really irks me is the immense choreography that goes into his personal version of "sincerity." his films always strike me as existing in some sort of "reality drag"-- a hyper-real world of constant epiphanies which i, as a spectator, am under strict obligation to admire. linklater takes the little insights that make life meaningful, and crams a billion of them into some sort of emo-philosophical mixtape. he disguises his own coercive presence with long camera shots, everyday settings, plotlessness and digressive dialogue-- arriving at a kind of "reality chic." inevitably, i end up feeling an inverse manipulation. the artiface of a linklater film arises out of his oppressive desire to escape it.
the presence of ethan hawke, of course, doesn't help. as an actor, hawke combines the hot-shot anti-charisma of tom cruise with the overblown, artsy neurosis of quentin tarantino. it's hard to listen to him when he won't stop moving his hands. julie delphy swims against tide and manages to find the film's few charming moments (walking up the stairs at the end, for example). but inevitably the ghost of linklater posesses her, and as soon as she's found a certain stride, she's shuffled off to the next poignant revelation.
my frustration with this film doesn't arise out of cynicism. i believe in love, i believe that two people can spend a decade wondering about what happened to one another, etc. what i don't believe is that life's romantic majesty springs forth at a rapid-fire pace. what offends me is the way linklater constructs, engineers and eventually consumes my potential sense of wonder. in a film like before sunset, the spectator is spoon fed the sort of soapy, metaphysical fantasy he/she has been dreaming of since that first day at the liberal arts college. but there is no air to breathe in this world; no space to contemplate what is occurring. linklater is so busy orchestrating the everyday that he forgets its deep and meaningful boredom. he dismisses the real-deal poignancy of hesitation and deep-rooted conflict (note how hawke's poor son is brushed aside with a few shallow lines about "what he's willing to sacrifice for him," etc.). he leaves you with the rhetoric of sentiment with little indication of the layered, laborious and often brilliant process of legitmately constructing it.
...yes, i just watched before sunset... and yes, following his insufferable waking life, i sorta wanted to hate it. but what bothers me, i hope, is deeper than simply an art-dude aversion to sentiment. i love, for example, cameron crowe's humble and well-intended say anything. i want to describe where i think linklater goes wrong, & i apologize if i seem fickle and reactionary (i really think i'm not)...
in sunset, as in the majority of linklater stuff i've seen, what really irks me is the immense choreography that goes into his personal version of "sincerity." his films always strike me as existing in some sort of "reality drag"-- a hyper-real world of constant epiphanies which i, as a spectator, am under strict obligation to admire. linklater takes the little insights that make life meaningful, and crams a billion of them into some sort of emo-philosophical mixtape. he disguises his own coercive presence with long camera shots, everyday settings, plotlessness and digressive dialogue-- arriving at a kind of "reality chic." inevitably, i end up feeling an inverse manipulation. the artiface of a linklater film arises out of his oppressive desire to escape it.
the presence of ethan hawke, of course, doesn't help. as an actor, hawke combines the hot-shot anti-charisma of tom cruise with the overblown, artsy neurosis of quentin tarantino. it's hard to listen to him when he won't stop moving his hands. julie delphy swims against tide and manages to find the film's few charming moments (walking up the stairs at the end, for example). but inevitably the ghost of linklater posesses her, and as soon as she's found a certain stride, she's shuffled off to the next poignant revelation.
my frustration with this film doesn't arise out of cynicism. i believe in love, i believe that two people can spend a decade wondering about what happened to one another, etc. what i don't believe is that life's romantic majesty springs forth at a rapid-fire pace. what offends me is the way linklater constructs, engineers and eventually consumes my potential sense of wonder. in a film like before sunset, the spectator is spoon fed the sort of soapy, metaphysical fantasy he/she has been dreaming of since that first day at the liberal arts college. but there is no air to breathe in this world; no space to contemplate what is occurring. linklater is so busy orchestrating the everyday that he forgets its deep and meaningful boredom. he dismisses the real-deal poignancy of hesitation and deep-rooted conflict (note how hawke's poor son is brushed aside with a few shallow lines about "what he's willing to sacrifice for him," etc.). he leaves you with the rhetoric of sentiment with little indication of the layered, laborious and often brilliant process of legitmately constructing it.
top twenty films
so, the good folks at artofvision convinced me to make a YMDB top twenty of my favorite films. here's the link. YMDB lists foreign films in their native language, so if it seems like there's a lot of high-falutin' nonsense, just click on the title and you'll figure out what you're looking at. the list is volatile, and will certainly change (at least in my brain). i made a somewhat self conscious effort to have at least some range, which inevitably resulted in cutting off some beloveds. they're listed according to english-title-alphabet (i.e. non-hierarchical).
that's all. i'm a total dork, etc.
that's all. i'm a total dork, etc.
"a book a week" number two: walt whitman's america
i cheated. i've been reading this for over a month. but i did finish the final 225 or so pages this week...
david s. reynolds' walt whitman's america: a cultural biography is exactly what it purports to be-- a cultural biography. i wish most biographies were "cultural," actually... i'm personally less interested in the nuts and bolts of a figure's life than i am in how he/she relates to, differs from, contributes to, and is affected by their culture/environment. reynolds recognizes the value in this direction of inquiry, and stretches his "biography" into a 600 page investigation of 19th century american culture.
whitman is at the core of it, of course, but some of the most interesting passages occur when he is little more than a catalyst. with whitman's experience as his guiding light, reynolds immerses himself deep within whitman's universe, colliding (eventually) with such topics as fourierism and related socialist/populist/spiritual movements of the time (my favorite section), the culture of oratory (and its effect on whitman's artistic practice), the notion of male-on-male affection (cast in a light that surprised my victorian expectations), theatre, music, and-- of course-- the civil war. walt whitman's america is a history lesson recast as personal narrative, and carries with it the quality of a novel in third person. it effectively translates historical data into flavors of a time long gone, and thereby justifies its occasionally challenging length (the blurps on the inside of the book are full of adjectives like "exhaustive" and "comprehensive"-- i guess i'm not the only one who needed the occasional coffee break from this one).
and then there's whitman... i've always preferred the "earthly" whitman (of song of myself, for example) to the later, more spiritual whitman. having read this bio, i'm as affectionate towards him as ever. which isn't to say there isn't plenty to reject: "whitman the essayist" was reactionary and occasionally curmudgeonly, he avoided alignment with abolitionism throughout his life and occasionally spoke out against it, he was a bit of an opportunist, he grew increasingly conservative in his old age... the list goes on. but in his finest poetry, you get a sense that he has fine-tuned his own desires. it's as if he has sculpted his ideal self. and that self is one of radical optimism. an optimism that is almost terrifying if you consider it in its complexity.
david s. reynolds' walt whitman's america: a cultural biography is exactly what it purports to be-- a cultural biography. i wish most biographies were "cultural," actually... i'm personally less interested in the nuts and bolts of a figure's life than i am in how he/she relates to, differs from, contributes to, and is affected by their culture/environment. reynolds recognizes the value in this direction of inquiry, and stretches his "biography" into a 600 page investigation of 19th century american culture.
whitman is at the core of it, of course, but some of the most interesting passages occur when he is little more than a catalyst. with whitman's experience as his guiding light, reynolds immerses himself deep within whitman's universe, colliding (eventually) with such topics as fourierism and related socialist/populist/spiritual movements of the time (my favorite section), the culture of oratory (and its effect on whitman's artistic practice), the notion of male-on-male affection (cast in a light that surprised my victorian expectations), theatre, music, and-- of course-- the civil war. walt whitman's america is a history lesson recast as personal narrative, and carries with it the quality of a novel in third person. it effectively translates historical data into flavors of a time long gone, and thereby justifies its occasionally challenging length (the blurps on the inside of the book are full of adjectives like "exhaustive" and "comprehensive"-- i guess i'm not the only one who needed the occasional coffee break from this one).
and then there's whitman... i've always preferred the "earthly" whitman (of song of myself, for example) to the later, more spiritual whitman. having read this bio, i'm as affectionate towards him as ever. which isn't to say there isn't plenty to reject: "whitman the essayist" was reactionary and occasionally curmudgeonly, he avoided alignment with abolitionism throughout his life and occasionally spoke out against it, he was a bit of an opportunist, he grew increasingly conservative in his old age... the list goes on. but in his finest poetry, you get a sense that he has fine-tuned his own desires. it's as if he has sculpted his ideal self. and that self is one of radical optimism. an optimism that is almost terrifying if you consider it in its complexity.
a book a week: denton welch's maiden voyage
ok, another late new year's resolution: i will read a book a week (hopefully for the rest of the year) and jot something down about it each monday or tuesday. sound good???
first up is denton welch's autobiographical memoir maiden voyage, which is available from the always interesting exact change press. the story documents welch's sixteenth year, during which he runs away from school, travels to shanghai and, with great british understatement, begins to realize that he is homosexual.
i read this knowing little about it, other than that erin f. liked it (which is, here and elsewhere, a good sign). and it ended up complimenting the considerable amount of graham greene i read last year rather nicely. voyage feels almost like a greene novel seen through the eyes of a charlie brown character. with its youthful immediacy and stubborn sense of wonder, it envisions a world on the scale of a comic strip-- one where adults are seen only from the waist down, and life occurs in the shadow of their ignorance. welch becomes a kind of aristocratic wild-child left to his own devices. it took me a while to adapt to his prissiness and pervasive sense of entitlement, but it was well worth the adjustment.
maiden voyage captures the solipsism of adolescence with unapologetic honesty. he wanders through a graham-greene-esque "oriental" world, and approaches, fears and examines it with equally problematic assumptions. but instead of resulting in woeful christian melancholia (which i think greene is the master of, in both good ways and bad), welch provides one with a worm's eye view of its various intensities. the book is alternately seductive, fetishistic and peevish. welch objectifies his environment as he examines it. he judges it with a shockingly dead-on sixteen-year-old foolishness, and somehow avoids articulating his personal sovereignity in the process. maiden voyage is an archival collection of rash judgements and superficial enticements, but one handled delicately and with great warmth.
first up is denton welch's autobiographical memoir maiden voyage, which is available from the always interesting exact change press. the story documents welch's sixteenth year, during which he runs away from school, travels to shanghai and, with great british understatement, begins to realize that he is homosexual.
i read this knowing little about it, other than that erin f. liked it (which is, here and elsewhere, a good sign). and it ended up complimenting the considerable amount of graham greene i read last year rather nicely. voyage feels almost like a greene novel seen through the eyes of a charlie brown character. with its youthful immediacy and stubborn sense of wonder, it envisions a world on the scale of a comic strip-- one where adults are seen only from the waist down, and life occurs in the shadow of their ignorance. welch becomes a kind of aristocratic wild-child left to his own devices. it took me a while to adapt to his prissiness and pervasive sense of entitlement, but it was well worth the adjustment.
maiden voyage captures the solipsism of adolescence with unapologetic honesty. he wanders through a graham-greene-esque "oriental" world, and approaches, fears and examines it with equally problematic assumptions. but instead of resulting in woeful christian melancholia (which i think greene is the master of, in both good ways and bad), welch provides one with a worm's eye view of its various intensities. the book is alternately seductive, fetishistic and peevish. welch objectifies his environment as he examines it. he judges it with a shockingly dead-on sixteen-year-old foolishness, and somehow avoids articulating his personal sovereignity in the process. maiden voyage is an archival collection of rash judgements and superficial enticements, but one handled delicately and with great warmth.
nostalgic post concerning hit to death in the future head by the flaming lips
one of the many great things about soulseek is that it allows you to revisit records you've owned lousy dubbed cassettes of for years but never upgraded. one such record of mine is hit to death in the future head by the flaming lips. i will now revisit that record autobiographically...
...when i look back on my high school years, one thing that always strikes me is the lack of older siblings that populated it. i'm the oldest child in my family, and out of all of my close friends, all but one of us was also the oldest. the only older brother we did have around was somewhat lacking in the misfit wisdom department. he was cool and all, but spent more time discovering new aftershaves than new bands or whatever.
accordingly, when i think of how i found the important things that would form "bohemian dan" (ponytail and all), it was either through somewhat humdrum means or a comedy of errors.
my exposure to the flaming lips was of the latter variety. i can claim quasi-hipness (which i will soon ruin if you continue reading) in that it was hit to death, not its follow-up (1993's transmissions from the satellite heart, or, if you'd like, "the one with 'she don't use jelly' on it") that got me interested in the lips. this was due to the most cherished connection that my high school clan could claim-- our friend ian was cousins with the drummer from the dead milkmen. i never met the guy, but his name would often appear in conjunction with any fantasy regarding our glamourous adulthood-yet-to-come. my friend gabe (), however, being obsessed with the milkmen at the time, was once invited to a dinner at ian's featuring said drummer. and thankfully, gabe had the good sense to ask him that quintessential high-school-kid question-- "what kind of bands do you listen to?"
hence hit to death in the future head. a record pop-rock enough for us to like at the time, and intelligent enough for me to like still. it sits comfortably in that vein of early nineties rock that learned equally from early grunge and shoegaze, without fully committing to either. good stuff.
whenever i think of this album, i immediately recall seeing them live. and i saw them at a certain underground vault you've probably never heard of, namely lollapalooza 1993 (you may now retract my "punk points," dear reader). that summer, with "she don't use jelly" having not quite made the jump yet from 120 minutes to buzz clip status, the lips were cast out to the second stage. but me, gabe and a handful of others were still ready to greet them.
if i remember correctly, more than half the set featured songs from hit to death, and i remember taking great delight when "hit me like you did the first time" was the second song performed. to add to the delight, i found myself standing next to one of the most memorable alterna-rock amazon women of my hormonally formative years...
one of the best (and least affectionately remembered) off shoots of that embarrassment known as "the mosh pit" was what might be called "the happy mosh pit." the happy mosh pit was a blessing in disguise borne out of the early-nineties insistence on moshing to anything fucking imaginable. but when the music being played was upbeat enough to provoke movement, yet too effeminate to facilitate sadistic machismo, a great bouncing would occur. thus the happy mosh pit-- an enthusiastic, collective bouncing-up-and-down. one that would mark many of the finest shows of my late high school career, only to regress into the head-nodding anti-theatrics of my indie-rock college years.
when bopping along in the happy mosh pit, i would occasionally find myself squeezed up against the same person for long periods of time. when fifty or so people are packed together like happy sardines, this is less creepy than it sounds. but it does schematically lead to an inevitable question: could someone be deliberately remaining at my side??
at lollapalooza '93, i asked myself this question about fifteen minutes into the second stage bop-fest. rocking beside me for at least three songs had remained a girl at least a foot taller than me, shaved head dyed red, clothed in riot grrl bra-and-skirt-combo, being in every way 1993 gorgeous and entirely out of my league. i was enthralled with the flaming lips, but peripherally enthralled with the girl to my left. and she seriously made no attempt to leave my side... and i wasn't hanging all over her either. also, she was clearly as into the band as i was-- which was heaven to an alienated nerd-youngster like myself. meanwhile, the flamings lips grew increasingly delightful with each note played, it was early in the day, and things were looking whole-heartedly good...
to top it off, they closed their set with a cover of "under pressure" by queen and david bowie. it was arguably the best cover i've ever heard live, pulling that irresistible anthem up from the still-fresh ashes of "ice ice baby," and paying a rich and loving tribute to it. as the band left the stage i was beside myself. i turned to leave, and alterna-amazon-girl began talking to me! i remember the conversation being something like "that was awesome!", "yeah, that was awesome!" followed by some still-not-inappropriate bouncing. not exactly cary grant stuff, but i was feeling a rare confidence and preparing to invite my new friend along for a fifteen dollar falafel/"smart drink" combo (or whatever the fuck you eat at lollapalooza), when my periphery was once again activated. off in the distance, moving forward, was a huge, fat skinhead dude (seeming more s.h.a.r.p.-ish than nazi, thankfully) with "boyfriend" written all over him. tall, tough, probably about 25, and potentially ready to beat the crap out of me. every inch of him proudly triggering my return to reality. my enthusiasm simmered, i cut things off politely, and i walked away.
...when i look back on my high school years, one thing that always strikes me is the lack of older siblings that populated it. i'm the oldest child in my family, and out of all of my close friends, all but one of us was also the oldest. the only older brother we did have around was somewhat lacking in the misfit wisdom department. he was cool and all, but spent more time discovering new aftershaves than new bands or whatever.
accordingly, when i think of how i found the important things that would form "bohemian dan" (ponytail and all), it was either through somewhat humdrum means or a comedy of errors.
my exposure to the flaming lips was of the latter variety. i can claim quasi-hipness (which i will soon ruin if you continue reading) in that it was hit to death, not its follow-up (1993's transmissions from the satellite heart, or, if you'd like, "the one with 'she don't use jelly' on it") that got me interested in the lips. this was due to the most cherished connection that my high school clan could claim-- our friend ian was cousins with the drummer from the dead milkmen. i never met the guy, but his name would often appear in conjunction with any fantasy regarding our glamourous adulthood-yet-to-come. my friend gabe (
hence hit to death in the future head. a record pop-rock enough for us to like at the time, and intelligent enough for me to like still. it sits comfortably in that vein of early nineties rock that learned equally from early grunge and shoegaze, without fully committing to either. good stuff.
whenever i think of this album, i immediately recall seeing them live. and i saw them at a certain underground vault you've probably never heard of, namely lollapalooza 1993 (you may now retract my "punk points," dear reader). that summer, with "she don't use jelly" having not quite made the jump yet from 120 minutes to buzz clip status, the lips were cast out to the second stage. but me, gabe and a handful of others were still ready to greet them.
if i remember correctly, more than half the set featured songs from hit to death, and i remember taking great delight when "hit me like you did the first time" was the second song performed. to add to the delight, i found myself standing next to one of the most memorable alterna-rock amazon women of my hormonally formative years...
one of the best (and least affectionately remembered) off shoots of that embarrassment known as "the mosh pit" was what might be called "the happy mosh pit." the happy mosh pit was a blessing in disguise borne out of the early-nineties insistence on moshing to anything fucking imaginable. but when the music being played was upbeat enough to provoke movement, yet too effeminate to facilitate sadistic machismo, a great bouncing would occur. thus the happy mosh pit-- an enthusiastic, collective bouncing-up-and-down. one that would mark many of the finest shows of my late high school career, only to regress into the head-nodding anti-theatrics of my indie-rock college years.
when bopping along in the happy mosh pit, i would occasionally find myself squeezed up against the same person for long periods of time. when fifty or so people are packed together like happy sardines, this is less creepy than it sounds. but it does schematically lead to an inevitable question: could someone be deliberately remaining at my side??
at lollapalooza '93, i asked myself this question about fifteen minutes into the second stage bop-fest. rocking beside me for at least three songs had remained a girl at least a foot taller than me, shaved head dyed red, clothed in riot grrl bra-and-skirt-combo, being in every way 1993 gorgeous and entirely out of my league. i was enthralled with the flaming lips, but peripherally enthralled with the girl to my left. and she seriously made no attempt to leave my side... and i wasn't hanging all over her either. also, she was clearly as into the band as i was-- which was heaven to an alienated nerd-youngster like myself. meanwhile, the flamings lips grew increasingly delightful with each note played, it was early in the day, and things were looking whole-heartedly good...
to top it off, they closed their set with a cover of "under pressure" by queen and david bowie. it was arguably the best cover i've ever heard live, pulling that irresistible anthem up from the still-fresh ashes of "ice ice baby," and paying a rich and loving tribute to it. as the band left the stage i was beside myself. i turned to leave, and alterna-amazon-girl began talking to me! i remember the conversation being something like "that was awesome!", "yeah, that was awesome!" followed by some still-not-inappropriate bouncing. not exactly cary grant stuff, but i was feeling a rare confidence and preparing to invite my new friend along for a fifteen dollar falafel/"smart drink" combo (or whatever the fuck you eat at lollapalooza), when my periphery was once again activated. off in the distance, moving forward, was a huge, fat skinhead dude (seeming more s.h.a.r.p.-ish than nazi, thankfully) with "boyfriend" written all over him. tall, tough, probably about 25, and potentially ready to beat the crap out of me. every inch of him proudly triggering my return to reality. my enthusiasm simmered, i cut things off politely, and i walked away.
