Summer Movies and Eternal Questions

Slate has a wonderful feature on this year's Hollywood summer movies, which includes:

1. An almost-relieved Dana Stevens, who celebrates the return of brawny, '80s style action movies such as Live Free or Die Hard. I can understand how the all-too grim realities of severed limbs and faces reduced to so much hamburger hash can make one long for the indestructible heroes of yore. I will admit though that my tastes lean more to Willis' John McClane rather than Stallone's John Rambo, an inclination that is addressed partially by...

2. Eric Lichtenfeld, who joyfully dissects the evolution of McClane's classic one-liner, "Yippee Ki Yay Mo—." Licthenfeld insists that, and I apologize if, by way of quoting Licthenfeld properly, I offend anyone's sensibilities:

A quarter of the line (or half, depending on how you count) is profane, and yet "Yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker" is actually a delicate wisecrack. Underscoring the line's bridging of generations is the symmetry of its construction. On either side of the comma, past and present each get four syllables. This balance is manifested in the evenness of Willis' first—and best—delivery of the line. Subtly, he eases off "fucker," the word that, by virtue of its syntactical position, and its very nature, we might expect to land hardest on our ears. That Willis does not employ the same deftness in the sequels is a pity. The phrase is most effective not as a buildup to some hammer punch, but as one seamless unit of defiance.

3. Which leads us, in the disjointed, barely rational, associative way in which random items are strung along together to "mean" something, to Marisa Meltzer's observations regarding stoner movies, an article that sadly, receives more column space than...

4. Matt Feeney's remarkably lucid analysis regarding the misconceptions regarding loving masculinity and homoeroticism in movies. Feeney writes:

A good way of grasping how the claim of homoeroticism misfires sociologically comes from a more recent example: the Spartan blood bath 300. Critic after critic sneered that 300 was transparently homoerotic. Blogger Andrew Sullivan approvingly cited a (presumably gay) correspondent who wrote, "Everyone in the film is gay." Why? Because of those short shorts and all those exposed muscles. (The correspondent dug the movie because of the hot, sweaty men. Ergo, everyone dug the movie because of the hot, sweaty men. I hope the entanglement of this interpretation in a hermeneutic circle is obvious.)

Now, 300 has earned more than $200 million in America alone, from an overwhelmingly male audience. What more plausibly accounts for this? That 20 million closet cases snuck off to see an illicit fantasy about bare-chested men in Hellenic Speedos, or that young men from the vast heartland of this very conservative, Christian, pro-military country flocked to see an unabashedly heroic tale of Occidental, republican military glory? To believe the latter, all you have to accept is that, in imagining the sort of heroic figures they themselves would like to be, straight men would project onto them not just excellence but physical beauty. Shouldn't a guy be able to do such a thing without being called gay?

Photo Credits:
Illustration of Bruce Willis as John McClane is by Deanna Staffo.

A Mighty Heart

The cheeky Anthony Lane is at it again, with review of celebrity so delightfully insightful that it surpasses the artistic merits of the commendable films that it purports to comment on. But before the review, a confession: one of the reasons why I find The New Yorker reviews so irresistible (the literary equivalent, if you may, of chocolate truffles on an indolent summer's day) other than the irrepressible wit of Anthony Lane is the artistry of the illustrations that fix the reading experience indelibly, pleasurably, in my mind. No one else quite puts a movie review together like The New Yorker.

But, on to the review. Mr. Lane insists, celebrity and notoriety to the contrary, that Ms. Jolie is an actress. This assertion need not have been made should Ms. Jolie continued to star in movies in the vein of Girl, Interrupted, but one that needs to be repeated lest we lose Ms. Jolie completely to a world of celebrity and notoriety that threatens to consume her, or worse, "brand" her. Here are some choice passages from Mr. Lane's review:

Mariane is French-speaking, with a Cuban mother, and Jolie is equipped with corkscrewed hair, tinted skin, and murmuring accent. We brace ourselves for a star turn, a hundred minutes of vanity project, but here’s the thing: it never happens. Jolie slips into the part, ducks in and out of the action, and generally plays second string to the onrush of events. Blessed with the world’s most recognizable mouth, she confines herself to a single, skeptical pout...

Only once does Mariane crack. Informed of her husband’s death and of its savage circumstances, she goes to her room, crouches over, and keens. It could be the howl from a Greek tragedy, except that our heroine is not disporting herself on a stage, majestic in her grief, but filmed from so close that you can count the knobs of vertebrae at the top of her spine. By this time she is heavily pregnant, and her screams are a terrible parody of birth pangs—an echo that Winterbottom makes explicit, without needing to, in the closing scenes. This hasty, high-intensity, barely consolable film is just the kind of tale on which he thrives—and, more surprisingly, on which Jolie will come to depend if she wants to keep her head above the tides of madness in which, partly on her own initiative, she has chosen to float. Will success spoil Angelina Jolie? Not yet. Can she help it? Yes, she can.

Angelina Jolie. Actress. Who'd have thunk? Sadly, not a lot.

Credits:

Illustration of Angelina Jolie in "A Mighty Heart" by Lara Tomlin. The image comes courtesy of The New Yorker.

I AM STRONG: La Union!

My apologies for being virtually incommunicado this past week; the lovely Oasis Country Resort in La Union provided internet access, but I would have needed a time machine, or at the very least a Time-Turner such as the one Hermione Granger used just to find the time to write.

Still, despite the interminably long and eventful ten-hour travel time, the strength sapping humidity, and a workload which recalls the statement "Death is light as a feather; duty, heavy as a mountain", I had a wonderful time working for I AM STRONG in La Union. Why? In the very best Elizabeth Barrett Browning fashion, let me count the ways:

1. I was reunited with the ever-so-jolly Dr. Antonio Torralba, who I finally reduced to some sort of speechlessness with my dinner reference to "Barrel Man-ilow". I just realized that without any knowledge of the peculiarities of the "Barrel Men" figurines of Baguio and the subtle phonetic delights in tweaking Filipino accents for English use, the joke above is probably beyond translation. And yet I try. Beating a bad joke into submission is not like me at all. Odd, that.


2. I was reunited with former students, some of whom have blossomed beautifully into happily married mothers (such as Chelina delos Trinos Gutierrez), some of whom blossom even more whenever you say the name Brian (such as Ms. Vina Arenal) and some of whom have, happily, changed not at all (such as Ivanna Aguiling, the only lady in our company who deliberately planned "spontaneous outbursts" just to prove that she isn't the reserved square we all know and love).

3. I was able to share what little I knew with the very warm-hearted public school teachers and student leaders who, despite my ineptitude, took down practically everything I said, and probably induced blindness in my right eye due to the number of photographs that they had me pose for. Digression: my right side is my best side. End digression.

4. I was able to make new friends, bury old enemies (no, just checking to see if you got this far), and have a great deal of fun doing what I love best.

Pictures are in my Multiply. Enjoy!

Ordinary Work, Extraordinary Grace

Earlier, the San Antonio Spurs delivered another workmanlike drubbing to the young Cleveland Cavaliers, and despite the enormity of that accomplishment, the very manner in which I described the victory might seem an indictment of the soon-to-be champion Spurs. Before the Finals began, Michael Rosenberg made the following observation:

Ah, the San Antonio Spurs. The more they win, the more you want them to hide under a rock.

In a week and a half — maybe two weeks, depending on LeBron James' level of brilliance — the Spurs will almost certainly win their fourth championship in nine years. It will also be their third title in the last five years.

This will place San Antonio among the elite of the elite. Since the end of the Bill Russell Celtics, only two dynasties won more than four championships: the Magic Lakers and the MJ Bulls. And the Spurs should contend for several more years. Tim Duncan is only 31, Manu Ginobili is 29 and Tony Parker is 25.

And what do the Spurs get for their hard work, no-nonsense attitude and unparalleled excellence? Yawns.

This must be the least popular great team in recent sports history. The Spurs do not even evoke the hatred of the Yankees or Notre Dame, institutions that have long had the best of everything and lord it over the masses. They make you feel the way you once felt about chemistry class — as soon as you sit down, you get a headache and can't wait for the bell to ring so you can go anywhere else in the world.

Recently, Henry Abbott of TrueHoop took Rosenberg's assessment even further, insisting that there is a cautionary tale in there somewhere, that the basketball fan has gotten exactly what he or she wants, and is just a little embarrassed at what getting that preference implies:

That's the thing about digging your heels in and howling about what you want. Sometimes the worst thing that can possibly happen is that you get it, and realize you were wrong all along.

It's not a proud moment for anyone.

Like, all us who have been upset for, oh, the last twenty years, about how the players in the NBA don't have a solid grasp on fundamentals. Or they commit too many crimes. Or they are too flashy, top hip hop, too spotlight hungry, too violent, too ... whatever it is.

World of hand-wringers, your team is here. Has been here for years. The San Antonio Spurs are exactly what you said you always wanted.

Abbott goes on, by way of citing Harvey Araton of The New York Times, that:

They put the Spurs on the cover of a magazine, and the numbers show you won't buy it. They put the Spurs on posters and DVDs and the numbers show you're more interested in Paris Hilton. They put the Spurs on national TV, and the numbers will likely show tonight that many of you prefer to watch violent mob shows on premium channels.

The New York Times' Harvey Araton (Select) is marveling at the same thing.

But where is the love for a franchise that thrives on visionary planning, progressive thinking, commitment and continuity? That over the past decade has become the furthest thing from a big-market bully that owes its success to a carnivorous payroll? That has seldom housed me-first braggarts, incorrigible trash talkers, gun toters or pit-bull players?

In San Antonio, the retired David Robinson spent millions of dollars to found and operate a private school for disadvantaged children. Duncan and others blend seamlessly into the city, where people seem to address them all on a first-name basis.

No player's personal issue is bigger than the team, as demonstrated this season when Coach Gregg Popovich made Manu Ginóbili, a player with All-Star credentials, his sixth man. On the whole, aren't the loyal and law-abiding Spurs exactly what those most critical of the N.B.A. have said the league has lacked after it embraced the shoe-company-driven agenda of selling style over substance?

"No character issues, professionalism, preparation - everything people always say they want, it's all happening right here," the Spurs' Brent Barry said.

Araton blames the trend at least a little on regionalism. If the Spurs were based in New York, he says, Tim Duncan would be hailed as the next Willis Reed. Eva and Tony would be in all the tabloids.

And no doubt, he's right, to a point. But it's not only about big market vs. small market. Even San Antonio isn't totally in on the secret -- according to the box score, Game 1 of the Western Conference Finals was almost 500 seats short of a sellout.

The conference finals! The only major league team in town! The pride of South Texas! Empty seats!

Maybe in a big market this team is a compelling narrative. Maybe if Tim Duncan would let the media in a little it would be different. Or maybe it's time to admit that, despite what we may have told the waitress when we sat down, we wanted to watch Kobe Bryant and Allen Iverson all along.

With the gauntlet thus thrown, where rooting for the Cavaliers (as my good friend Jason de Villa is inclined to doing) is tantamount to associating one's love of the game with the tradition of the epic hero (or at the very least, a larger than life figure) and rooting for the Spurs is tantamount to associating one's love of the game with a profound sense of community (such as teamwork, unselfishness, and an appreciation for the virtues of work), how shall this blogger meet this challenge?

There's nothing wrong with wanting to be inspired by larger than life figures. After all, for most casual NBA fans, basketball is primarily about rooting for (literally) larger than life figures. However, while it is almost a singular joy to witness individual superhuman feats such as LeBron's coming of age game against the Pistons, there is a particularly satisfying joy to be derived from reveling in the quiet, consistently excellent play of the Spurs. Basketball is an apt metaphor for many good things in life, as my friend Joel Parcon takes pains to illustrate in his wonderful entry on theater and basketball. I enjoy rooting for the Spurs because their dedication to selfless team play and intelligent basketball is in fact inspirational, if not quite spiritual.

There's nothing wrong with simply getting the job done. Moreover, getting the job done in such workmanlike fashion. The Spurs are more than craftsmen. The very ordinariness of their victories, and the fact that they thrive on one another's sacrifices to produce sublime basketball performances make them artisans of the highest order. Ordinary Work, Extraordinary Grace.

Photo Credits:

Picture of Tim Duncan comes courtesy of Tim Duncan Rooting For Cavaliers For Good Of NBA. Click on the link. You know you want to.

Flotsam and Jetsam

For the lack of a better term, I've decided to share the hopefully cool, but surely random (fantastic, an effortless bit of irony halfway through my first sentence) items that I encountered while trying to "work" under the general heading of flotsam and jetsam. At times, a decent internet connection is the kiss of death insofar as productivity is concerned. Oh well. I suppose that I could suffer from interminable boredom and slog on like the dutiful soldier that I could be, but that just wouldn't be me. Besides, there's so much cool stuff out there, it would be a travesty not to point them out.

1. First of, here's an interesting article that budding multimillionaires and people of leisure should read, The anatomy of a diversified portfolio.

2. Bill Simmons updated his Basketball Blog, most recently with a mailbag, but he had an even better entry before that on LeBron James' masterful Game 5 performance against Detroit. A Simmons-esque moment characterized the latter, where Simmons writes:

After it ended, I had a reader compare it to a player catching fire in the old "NBA Jam" arcade game, when every jump shot would result in the basketball being on fire. I had a Pistons fan named Duane e-mail me, "Watching LeBron's performance in Game 5 made me feel like Ron Burgundy. LBJ pooped in my refrigerator, ate the whole wheel of cheese and I'm not even mad. That was amazing."

The NBA and Ron Burgundy. Classic Simmons.

3. Here's an excellent countdown of The Sopranos' 10 Most Memorable Whackings, which ought to help people keep score while waiting for this excellent series to complete its final run.

Acquired Tastes: What Passes for Humor

It's been awhile since I linked to some items on the Web that made me laugh, which horrified me. I've always been a big believer in the redemptive qualities of joy, and the ability to laugh is precious. So sorry. If ever this blog degenerates into dour, unrepentantly serious whining without even the dim prospect of laughter on the horizon, you have my permission to spam me with products guaranteed either to bring back a lush head of hair, or improve my, er, "intimate relations". Wow, that sentence descended rather suddenly into stilted discomfort. At any rate, here's one from our friends at The Onion:

Unconventional Director Sets Shakespeare Play In Time, Place Shakespeare Intended

MORRISTOWN, NJ—"When most people hear The Merchant of Venice, they think 1960s Las Vegas, but it's time to shake things up," said maverick director Kevin Hiles.

This one comes courtesy of Slate, and is labeled Church Sign Smackdown! You know you want to click on it. Who can resist clicking on something that promises such a tantalizing mix of the sacred and the profane? So, click!

iTunes U

I've only recently been introduced to the many different educational possibilities that our brave new, interconnected world has to offer, and I must say, with the odd gloriously brave failure that crops up every once in a while, that thus far, I've yet to be disappointed by the efforts of Apple to push the boundaries of technology. Case in point: iTunes U.

According to Apple, they're simply offering a service that allows higher learning institutions to disseminate audio and video resources to its students through the, by now, intuitive iTunes interface. In the end, these institutions get to supplement classroom instruction by allowing their students to bring substantive content with them wherever they go.

Colleges and universities build their own iTunes U sites. Faculty post content they create for their classes. Students download what they need, and go. Learning isn’t just for the classroom anymore. It’s for anytime and anyplace you’ve got a Mac, a PC, or an iPod.

So far, iTunes looks to be, at the very least, one of the gloriously brave failures that will, eventually, lead to something truly revolutionary. I've been to the iTunes store, and have delighted in the many FREE and varied resources that schools are offering for download.

The video podcasts of Professor Hubert Dreyfus on "Existentialism in Literature and Film" are worth visiting UC Berkeley's section for. Dreyfus is considered one the world's leading analysts of postmodern philosophy from Edmund Husserl to Michel Foucault, Maurice Merleau-Ponty, and especially Martin Heidegger.

Stanford is also offering a wonderful series of audio lectures on literature, particularly the classics, courtesy of Professor Susanna Braund, whose analysis of the Aeneid is both lively and comprehensive.

The Web is opening up, and a brave new world emerges. Excuse me while I put on my iPod. I have a class to attend.

Photo Credits:

Picture of iTunes U comes courtesy of Webware.