2010-8_14 Art as Soul-making
“Religion (for Confucius) was a matter of doing rather than thinking. The traditional ritual of China enabled an individual to burnish and refine his humanity so that he became a junzi, a ‘mature person.’ A junzi was not born but crafted; he had to work on himself as a sculptor a rough stone and made it a thing of beauty.”
Karen Armstrong in THE CASE FOR GOD
You remember me mentioning Wolfgang Stoerchle in an email a few days ago. The arc of his creativity is relevant to our question, what is art?
Wolf came to Canada from Germany and then went from Toronto to California where he enrolled at Cal-Santa Barbara. He got there by unusual means, at least for the 20th century: by horseback. He and his older brother Peter went the 4200 miles on horseback. He was 18 at the time. It was 1964. They got written up too, by LIFE magazine, his first nod of recognition for his exploits. He started out an easel painter at Santa Barbara, but by the time he was in graduate school he was into Conceptual Art. I have a trick photograph of him arm wrestling with Ronald Reagan, who is smiling broadly as Wolf grunts. I have a photograph of him leaping feet first through a dry wall mounted on a wooden frame; his feet sticking out the other side. From there he went to New York to find out if he had the right stuff to, as we used to say, make it. He became a performance artist and gained a patron, the Philosopher of Aesthetics and Perception, and fellow German, Rudolph Arnheim. He did all his performances in galleries in both New York and L.A. Many of them dealt with sexuality, and he had a penchant to take his clothes off, too. It was a way of dealing with his own psyche and demons therein. Why or how he got chosen to be in that Dance Workshop in June 1973 is unclear to me, but that is where he teamed up with Sue to make a video together. The video they did was in that Video round-up at the Getty Museum three years ago. It was really all about her and his perception of her as woman and lover. He pictured her and dressed her as a seductress, or as he put it, a “black mother succubus,” black because she was clad in sheer black negligee and he had her doing some sexual acrobatics. She writhed and moaned in sexual agitation, her facial beauty looking rather hard and severe, as she stood on a round pedestal that rotated, at first very slowly, but eventually rapidly, spinning and simulating coitus, ending in an orgasm. The first time I saw the video I thought, wow, he really nailed it. Her dark side was in full bloom. She looked the epitome of the predatory female. Actually all three of us learned a good deal about ourselves through Wolf’s psychological stripping of a lot of artificial covering that was only skin deep. (When Sue saw it again in the Getty Show, some thirty years later, it seemed more than a little odd, as she had long ago shed that dark persona. Now she was a mother with two grown daughters who had kids and our marriage was nearly of 45 years duration. That flirtatious “bad girl” was a thing of the deep past. She now was a crone and liked it.)
My favorite piece that Wolf did in New York was called “Breath.” But it was quite unlike Manzoni’s piece called “Breath,” the red balloon mounted on a piece of wood. Wolf’s was an exercise in deconstruction. You see him bent over a brick of dirt sitting on a table. It is packed hard into a firm block of earth. Then Wolf starts to blow on it, nice and easy at first, but gradually he picks up the tempo and the intensity of his blowing. Pretty soon there some crumbling on the edges, and then more and more of the brick begins to break up, until finally we see a pile of dirt flattened out on the table top. And there is Wolf, panting, trying to recover from his exertion.
But when he and I were close he was disenchanted with the whole New York scene. He had gone there to test his mettle, but he found out it was just another “small pond,” not all that it was cracked up to be. Here is an excerpt from a letter he wrote me.
“The western notion of the ‘Great Artist’ is linked to virtuoso performance, to EGO, GLORY, and GRATIFICATION, to social status, and, finally, to fame. Fame implies a desire to identify with the dominant social forces, the moneyed class, the people who are in charge and ruining the planet. Artists today are too secular, too eager to be part of the ruling elite, and, I know this is true because that was a space I was in when I left California for New York. It took me a couple of years to find out New York was just another pond, and not the place for me to pursue a spiritual goal. There is one big obstacle: EGOTISM. It is something we need to overcome before it overshadows us. The operative word is service, and that I must surrender to the will of God.”
I have a little trouble with that business about“surrender to the will of God. “I know what he is trying to say but I’d say it differently, using another kind of metaphor, like the Tao or “the force be with you.” But otherwise I am in complete agreement with what he said.
The next time I saw Wolf was in Feb. 1974, just prior to his big move south of the border. He had made up his mind to launch his spiritual quest. He had sold all his equipment to gather some cash and pared his duffle bag down to the bare essentials. I told him I wanted to drive him to the border and bid him vaya con dios. He had burned out all the mediums of expression he was interested in trying. It was time to put his feet down and see where they would take hm. He said he felt a little like Buddha, leaving his soft life behind. I thought of the relationship between Narziss and Goldmund in the novel of that name by Herman Hesse, with me being the stay-at-home contemplative monk, and Wolf being the romantic road warrior who followed his heart and senses, not his head. A spiritual journey often starts on the road, like the Tarot cards suggest. He became THE FOOL, who takes off flush with belief and hope. He had come full round, only now his medium of self-discovery was solely his imagination. And he hit the road with little money, few possessions, and an open heart. It was up to him now to bring all his fire and focus to work on himself as a sculptor would shape a rough stone into a thing of beauty.
On Feb. 12 Wolf handed me his “Hermit’s Rod,” a sturdy walking stick he had been using the past few months, and crossed into Mexico. I had given him a hug and told him “vaya con dios.” As for the gift of the walking stick I was happy to accept it, thinking of another Tarot card, in fact I was touched by the gesture, as I knew it was a gesture of love and fraternity and I took it in that spirit. I waved my final goodbye and turned to leave, thinking I miss him already, for I haven’t enjoyed such good conversation and rapport with another male in some time.
Ten months later he was back. He got as far as small town outside Mexico City when he developed a physical problem, an abscess in his rectum and he had to have an operation which drained him of most of his money, plus the doctor didn’t do a very good job and he needed more treatment when he got back to the states. It was an ignominious end to his spiritual intentions. He hung out with us for about a week and then headed to Santa Fe to see an old girl friend. To make a long and complicated story short, he married the old girl friend and endured a rocky road with her over several months. He had a tendency to want a male dominant relationship with women; he wanted to set the agenda and the female should trust him to do the right thing for both of them. Well, his wife didn’t buy that and they went back and forth for months, not able to resolve their differences. But he was working; he had found a job at a bronze foundry that produced cowboy sculpture for tourists and collectors of that sort of thing. Then, on a Saturday night in March 1976, he and his wife had gone out to eat and on the way home a drunken Mexican American broadsided Wolf’s car after running a red light, killing Wolf. Sue told me that when he got high he always worried about his heart; he experienced palpitations and that scared him. The impact smashed his ribs and a bone splinter went right through his heart, killing him instantly. His wife was badly bruised but did survive.
For weeks afterwards I kept having these visions of Wolf trying to communicate with me behind some thick frosted glass. I could see his face as a distorted blur but could not hear a voice. Eventually the visions stopped,
Monday, August 16, 2010
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
The Pleasure Island
2010_8_08 Pleasure Island
My wife has been to the Hawaiian Islands several times and even lived there one year (1950) when her father, who was a career navy man, was stationed at Pearl Harbor. It was during that year, when she was ten years old, that her romance with the tropics began. While I talked about going to Europe, the cradle of Western Civilization, where all the great art that I was familiar with was housed in famous, historic museums, like the Uffizi and the Prado, she always wanted to see and experience the tropics. It’s all a matter of personality and personal leanings, what predispositions are locked in through one’s DNA. While we were both Gemini’s, she was strong on the sensate level, having unbelievable hearing capacity—she could hear a car door shut a block away—with an acute sense of smell and a good grasp of what was going on inside her body, which was involved in her choice of becoming a dancer and dance teacher; while I, in telling contrast, was an intuitive/feeling type with low-grade sensate capacities. She always managed to convince her mother, Florence Baker, now deceased, into going to Hawaii numerous times and to Mexico, Costa Rica, Bali, Northern Australia, Java, and Borneo. The one time I was included in their travel plans we went to the British Isles (1998) where I had my fill of great Museums, Cathedrals, Monasteries, and places like Avebury and got a first-hand sense of the age and history of the UK. Avebury blew me away. Just think: While the Egyptians were creating a dazzling civilization in the third millennium BC, a culture was flourishing in southern England that lasted some 2600 years, a culture centered on circles of stone and rituals that ranged over a large landscape. Without being there I couldn’t realize the full import of the place. I felt a lot of magic at Avebury and an ancient presence by being there.
Volcanologists and Geographers think it took between three to five million years of volcanic activity for the Hawaiian Islands to form, and many more eons for soil to develop. James Michener in his book HAWAII gives a detailed account of what the building of the islands was like, all the steps in the process, the many failures and repeated successes, the long trek toward geographic maturity, with a full complement of trees, vegetation, flowers, birds, fish and other animals. The first migration to the islands by Pacific people who could make a lengthy journey by large canoe took place between 300-1000 A.D. The immigrants came from Marquesa Island, where Herman Melville landed when he jumped ship in 1841. They were Polynesians calling themselves the MENEHUNE, which means “the little people.” The second wave came from Tahiti between the years 1000-1240 A.D. The first white man, Captain Cook, anchored off Waimea Bay in 1778, which is on the southern coast of Kauai. That was the opening salvo of Western influences in the islands. In 1820 the first Christian missionaries arrived. They were Protestants, Congregationalists.
When we visited the Kauai Museum in Lihu’e I picked up a pamphlet full of basic information about Polynesian culture which I found illuminating. I also read a pictorial book with lengthy captions about the American experience in Kauai. Talk about a study in contrast! Polynesian society had no concept for ownership and was virtually communistic in that they shared what they had communally produced. They had no concept for the ownership of the land or water; that was impossible because they belong to the Gods not men. They saw themselves as the Stewards of the land and water and a Chief Steward allocated area rights and use of these communal resources. He was aided by a council of helpers, as it were, lesser chiefs. There were basically three main occupations: fishing, farming, and harvesting forest products. Their products were shared by all members; no one went without as the harvest was divvied up and shared.
The ancient division of the land into 5 districts still makes sense because they are logical and make perfect sense geographically. Spiritual concerns were considered too, indeed, they had a high priority. Throughout Kauai can be found stone platforms called HEIAU, sacred places, locations of special power (Mana), where worship, ceremonies, and dances took place in celebration of the gods and the bounty of the land and water. HEIAU were found throughout the traditional 5 districts. 17 were located in NA PAULI District, which is located on the inaccessible and rugged western coast of Kauai. NA PAULI, which means “the cliffs,” was and still is accessible only by boat. There is some evidence that at one time there were some settlements in the region, but there is none today. Below NA PAULI was the district called KONA, the leeward southwestern area, including Waimea Canyon, which makes it by far the largest district. KONA was the only part of the island that has desert-like conditions, which makes it similar to Molokai, another island that Sue and I have visited. It likewise was desert in the west and jungle in the east. There were 81 HEIAU in Kona, more than anyplace else. The rest of the south shore and going up the eastern shore was PUNA, which means “spring.” as in water. The district had 13 HEIAU. One was near Aloha Hotel and Lydgate Park. There will be more about those places later. PUNA was and still is the fertile land between the Wailua and Hule’ia Rivers and where the islands two largest towns are located, Lihu’e and Kapa’a, the former being the seat of government and the latter the commercial and tourist center of the district. The airport is also in the district, in Lihu’e. Up the eastern shore was the district called KO’OLAU, meaning “windward.”It has remnants of 20 HEIAU. It was a smaller district whose major town is Anahola today, which is located on the coast. And finally there is the district that encompasses the northern coast, HALELE’A. We made three trips up to that region, to snorkel, swim, and see the wet and dry caves. The girls also shopped in Princeville. 22 HEIAU were found located in this northernmost district.
I considered bringing in the Americanization of the Hawaii at this juncture; you know, the negative influence of the missionaries, the degrading of the Polynesian /Hawaiian culture, the rise of entrepreneurial capitalism that eventually changed the face of the islands, the legacies of the rich American families, and such like. But I decide against it; first of all those facts are pretty well know on the mainland. Instead I’d like to share a story about Herman Melville who jumped ship in the Maquesas in 1841, the Pacific Islands that sent the first migration to the Hawaiian Islands. Raised in a Calvinistic family in Massachusetts the puritanically inclined Melville was astonished, to put it mildly, at what he encountered, for example, to quote from his novel about the experience, TYPEE, “ I saw seven beautiful young women, swimming quite naked, except for a few green leaves tied round their middle.” He wasn’t used to such sights and frank behavior and he quickly became infatuated with one of the girls, Fayaway by name, who he has immortalized in his tale about his sojourn on the island. He paints a picture of her as an incredibly free and lovely woman, who was utterly comfortable with her nakedness, like our Ryder can be. There is one scene of particular vividness that is quite memorable and says so much about Pacific Island people at that time. Melville had been lounging with Faraway in a canoe on a lake when the trade winds begun to blow. She stood up, removed her sarong and spread it out like a sail, her body and arms acting as an improvise mast. The sail caught the winds and the canoe motored right along to shore. Melville never forgot that sight of Fayaway and the freedom it showed him. He spent some happy weeks there living with the islanders but it was bound to end. But one of the chiefs forced him to exam just how western he was. He wanted to tattoo something on Melville’s face. Just about all the men had and markings all over their bodies, and faces, which is so in these days in America. But that’s where he felt he had to draw a line in the sand. Changing his appearances so drastically would not go over too well in Boston or New York society in the mid-19th century. Decorating his mask or persona was too much; he couldn’t allow it. Shortly after that he fled and found a ship that would take him back to America. In later years he must have looked back at those few weeks as a dream, something unreal. Fayaway’s image probably haunted him to his dying day in 1891.
Duke, the ex-surfer turned real estate magnet that rented us the house, came to Kauai thirty years ago to surf. Fine and dandy, but he ended up needing a kidney transplant, a story he has written a book about and is trying to publish, so far unsuccessfully. He blames all the “wipe-outs” he experienced as a surfer for the kidney loss. He claims the whole episode of the transplant was a life and death struggle that should be of interest to others. Whatever, since the transplant he has gone on to carve out his second existence on the island and seems to be doing quite well. He told Sue he is interested in selling the house we stayed in and his house, a smaller one story house that sits in front of the place we rented. He wants $1.35 million for the property. The house certainly suited us, much better than the Aloha Hotel, which was Sue’s first choice for nostalgia reasons. She and her mother had stayed there in 2002, the year before she died. Duke’s house was a two story house with plenty of room for nine people. The family members of our two daughters slept on the first floor where there was also a bath and a laundry room. The second floor consisted of a large family room with a nice kitchen at the west end, a 52 inch SONY Bravia Television against the south wall and a bedroom and bath for Sue and I off the family room on the north. There were two couches and recliner to sit on and stools around an island counter to eat on. There was also a veranda that look toward the Pacific Ocean, which we could see a strip of from the veranda. I’d estimate that the beach was about 300 yards from our house. The three boys took possession of the TV right away, although we had access after they went to bed and we used it to watch all three movies of the Bourne series.
Duke was a good landlord, fixing a couple of minor problems when asked to do so, but otherwise he never bothered us. However, on his own initiative he called the local police to rid our ‘back yard’ of some homeless people who were camped out near the river 50 yards from our house. There was a boat launching and return operation off the river a little further up; they were very busy every day. Since I more or less camped out on the veranda, reading and writing in my journal on the table out there, I tracked what was going on. On Saturday 22 boat were launched into the river and washed down when they return. Even the MENEHUNE had a word for “salt encrustation” which is why every boat was hosed down when it was removed from the water. Most of the boats were from 20 to35 long with holds for fish in the stern. Presumably they were commercial fishermen.
Something we learned right off was the chicken was king on Kauai. Roosters,, hens, and chicks were everywhere, obviously having a status on the island comparable to the cow in India. They ran free, usually in small groups, pecking away and disappearing at night. And I must say we were not bother by insects, except for small ants. Ryder called them “the tinys.”I bought a small wooden carving of a rooster and a so-called “red dirt T-shirt” with a Rooster depicted on it. We have soaked that shirt seven times and some red dirt is still coming out of the material. When I asked Sue what breed was the rooster on the island, she answered, “It’s a plain old rooster.”
Talk about cock-of-the-walk! There were plenty of young males walking around strutting their stuff for the pretty young hens. It was a kind of parade in all the shopping areas. The boys wore only bathing trunks and flip-flops, while the girls preferred shorts, take tops and flip-flops. Everyone was on the prowl in the tropical meat market. There were beach bums, surfers, college students on summer vacation, hedonists of different nationalities and inclinations, and hangers-on just looking for a hand out or a good time. No doubt the mild weather and soft, sensuous air lent itself to sensual engagement and play. The island’s physical character and splendor seemed designed for adventure and romance. We also took note of some not-so-young-anymore hippies left over from a bygone era. We saw a few up along the northern coast, more or less tucked here and there in the jungle.
The young people in our party spent a good deal of time visiting several beaches on different parts of the island, from north to south and the eastern shore. Two were “baby beaches” near Lydgate State Park, which is part of the Hotel Aloha complex, where one HEIAU was located. Connor and Ryder frolicked in the water with their mom and dad. They went to swim in the ocean at least 5 other times. I went with 4 out of the 6 times and took loads of pictures each time. By the end of the trip I had taken 158 pictures, while Nasima, who has a more expensive camera took close to 400 pictures, a good 100 of which should be edited out. Po’ipu Beach on the southern coast was fun for all. There were sea turtles to be seen close to shore and two seals who like to snooze on a sand bar while kids played around them. I took one picture of Sue in her new orange shawl that I bought for her in a shop in Princeville on the Eastern Shore. After swimming we all went to a famed hamburger joint well known for its tropical burgers. They had 12 varieties and to our surprise and delight they were quite good. The crew went to Tunnel Beach three times, with me going with twice. It was just about in the middle of the Northern Coast, a spectacular spot. It’s near Ha’ena, with a huge U-shaped beach and a camping area, with excellent snorkeling. Nasima went back alone one day to swim and snorkel for two hours. Frankly, I was surprised at her swimming ability. Where we parked our cars the cliffs went straight up about 2500’ and there were wet and dry caves at ground level that the boys just had to explore. One day we drove to the end of the road which was no more than 5 miles pass Ha’ena. It just abruptly ends. From that end point to a place at the center of the Western Shore called Polihale State Park there is no road, no access by vehicle. This is the Na PAULI Coast. I’d estimate it was about 20 to 25 nautical miles, accessible only by boat. Nasima and Aaron will long remember Tunnels Beach because they managed to touch some huge sea turtles. I’ll remember Tunnels Beach because under the Ramada where we ate lunch I found a poster of the “Laughing Jesus.” Naturally, I took a photograph of it. It was a quite unexpected find.
On the way home from Tunnels Beach we stopped at Anini Beach, which was just north and east of Princeville. We had to drive a few miles off the main highway, through some beautiful and lush country with quite a few nice homes, some barely visible from the road. After we parked at the beach we had to cross a large grassy area where several people were at established camps, some quite large and well organized. The beach itself was a narrow strip of sand and I parked my collapsible chair so I could sit with my feet in the water. The boys were more interested in building sand castles than swimming. It was Nasima again who did the snorkeling; indeed, she went so far out I could barely see her. At one point I felt a bit concerned, but it was all for naught; she came in all smiles and happy over the eel and the colorful fish she had seen. She even took seven pictures with her underwater camera. I took great shot of Sue coming out the water, a picture I later titled “Venus Rising from the Sea.”
We finished our penultimate day in Kauai by returning to the restaurant we had found and greatly enjoyed on the day of our arrival, Kauai Pasta. It was right on the main drag of Kapa’a, only 2 miles from our house. It was superb both times we were the. Nasima actually ate there three times, once alone with James on a “date.” She was much impressed with the place, which is saying a lot because she tends to be fussy about food. I had spaghetti the first time and two appetizers the second time, Bruschetta and five garlic meatballs. The food was excellent on both occasions. (We had done the same thing in London in 1998, going to the same Tandori Restaurant in Kensington that we had discovered our first day in town. It was an East Indian meal to die for. The two meals rate as classics for this family, the best ever anywhere.)
Our one other excursion came a couple of days before that last trip north. We drove southwest to Waimea Canyon after we made a stop at the Kauai Museum in Lihu’e. The museum is basically an anthropological assessment of the human history on the island presented with artifacts and loads of pictures. To do an adequate job of appreciating all that was there you would need two or three days, there was that much to read. I did pick up a free booklet on ancient Hawaiian culture which I have used extensively in this account. I also bought a book called KAUAI TALES, 18 stories basically about the mythology of the beginnings of the land and the people who were here in the beginning. I haven’t dented it yet. The gift Shop many other offerings, all of them very expensive. I wanted a beautiful hardwood cane I coveted as soon as I saw it, as I am using a $20 metal cane I bought at Walgreen’s. But when I saw the wooden cane was priced at $270 I lost interest in a hurry. There were many other craft items drastically overpriced.
Our trip to Waimea Canyon was a bust because Liam got car sick, puking on the way up and down the twisty mountain road. We only made it halfway —there were 18 miles left to an outlook where the canyon was really spectacular to see and photograph—because Liam wasn’t going to enjoy it, so we cut the excursion short. The other mistake we made is we went there too late in the day when too many dark shadows in the interior depths had taken away some of the photogenic possibilities, although I did manage to get a few good shots. Coming from a state that has the Grand Canyon, I wasn’t overawed by Waimea Canyon. Nonetheless, I am glad we did see it.
On Friday morning July29 we had to vacate Duke’s place at 11 A.M. because he had a cleaning crew coming in at that time and new tenants were arriving at 3 P.M. We got out with no time to spare, but what to do next was the problem because we weren’t scheduled to fly to the mainland until 10 o’clock that night. We needed to find some kind of base for several hours, especially with three high energy boys with us. After Suzie mentioned the possibility called a “day rate” Aaron got on his cell phone on found us a deal at, of all places, the Aloha Hotel, which was close to the airport. We could stay there for $90, so we took it. For Sue there was a sweet irony to end up where she wanted to begin at one time. Later Sue and our two daughters, who loved their grandmother, laid their leis on the junction of the Wailua River and the Pacific Ocean where, at one time, Florence requested her ashes be scattered. Staying at the Aloha Hotel gave the ending of the trip a certain poetic resonance for Sue; it was fitting and right that the hotel worked into our departure day. It rounded things off for all of us. The idea of Florence’s ashes to be distributed in Hawaii got vetoed by Uncle Jim, the only sibling left alive. He decided that her and his ashes should go in a grave next to their mother who is buried in Tennessee where she was born. Uncle Jim is 91 and lives in Detroit.
The hotel had a nice pool that we all swam in the later afternoon and , silly me, I forgot to put , sun protection cream on so I got pretty burned, which was terrible timing, given the fact I was looking at a long redeye flight back to Phoenix. After a mediocre dinner on the outside balcony at the hotel, we headed for the airport. The airport was chaos as several airlines had that redeye flight. I came very close to passing out in the Security line. Nasima noticed how white I looked so she took up to the front of the line and got me through in a jiffy so I could sit down for a while. I think it was the effect of the sunburn that got to me, as I felt hot and depleted. I felt a bit better by the time everyone else was through Security. After takeoff my problems got worse. Liam went to sleep next to me and put his legs across my lap, effectively trapping me. After a while Nasima saw I was uncomfortable—she had the window seat—so she took Liam’s body on her body and they somehow managed to sleep that way for a few hours. I never went to sleep, as the hum of the jet motor is too dominating for me to overcome. By the time we got to Phoenix I was mush, and I was even worse by the time we got off the plane in Tucson. One pays a high price to get to paradise and back.
I pretty much surprised my family by remaining even-tempered throughout our stay on Kauai. I was a little worried myself, but I was fine from the start. I knew I needed a change of scene, to be refreshed and the island gave me what I needed. As for the bickering the first couple of days I felt I had no dog in that fight. I was along for the ride—period. Sue had doubts I could get along without my “tools,” my computer, writing emails, sports on TV, the evening news, political events, my desk, and playing pool twice a week. No problem: Being on vacation meant being disengaged from those realities, at least for a while. One mainland friend complained I didn’t have a laptop computer to stay wired. I had to laugh at that. Vacations are a removal from ordinary reality, a challenge if you will. However, I wasn’t completely cut off from some of my usual habits. I did read three books while I was there. On the plane to Kauai I started reading THE GLASS RAINBOW, James Lee Burke’s latest novel. I finished it 4 days later and in my humble opinion it was one of his best books. Then I moved on to Dennis Johnson’s spoof of crime novels called DON’T MOVE. As I read it I realized it was actually a film script in novel form and I am sure if will soon appear as a movie, in the tradition of satirical stories, the kind we associate with Elmore Leonard. I also brought a book of crime short stories called THE BLUE LAGOON. I read two in Kauai, one by Mike Connelly, the other by Alafair Burke, James Lee’s daughter, who has appeared repeatedly in his novels. Both were excellent. I stayed home on two occasions to be alone for a short spell, and to read and write in my journal. But otherwise I made a conscious and determined effort to join in the activities, at least from the sidelines, behaving like a 74 year old geezer with health problems and who has trouble walking any great distance
To conclude: Kauai is called, among the Hawaiian Islands, “The Garden Island.” It is called that for good reason—because of its superabundance of luxuriate vegetative and floral excess, which suggests The Garden of Eden , or an earthly paradise of green splendor, dotted by a palette of vivid reds, yellows, tan, and blue, blue waters, with a dome of wondrous clouds overhead and around the island to cushion its beauty. The island’s wonderful and plentiful beaches have waves that invite and challenge surfers from all over the world. There is something intoxicating about being here. I suppose it is a high bestowed on human beings by the natural beauty and softness of the place. It uplifts you like a gentle giant and invites you to drift like a cloud, rolling, wavy and at ease, content to be what it is and demanding nothing else. I told Sue that that I’d like to spend what time I have left in Kauai, and if it could be worked out, in that area near Anini Beach. She liked hearing I felt like that, but her answer was about what I expected”We couldn’t afford to live here.” I guess I’ll have to start playing the lottery.
My wife has been to the Hawaiian Islands several times and even lived there one year (1950) when her father, who was a career navy man, was stationed at Pearl Harbor. It was during that year, when she was ten years old, that her romance with the tropics began. While I talked about going to Europe, the cradle of Western Civilization, where all the great art that I was familiar with was housed in famous, historic museums, like the Uffizi and the Prado, she always wanted to see and experience the tropics. It’s all a matter of personality and personal leanings, what predispositions are locked in through one’s DNA. While we were both Gemini’s, she was strong on the sensate level, having unbelievable hearing capacity—she could hear a car door shut a block away—with an acute sense of smell and a good grasp of what was going on inside her body, which was involved in her choice of becoming a dancer and dance teacher; while I, in telling contrast, was an intuitive/feeling type with low-grade sensate capacities. She always managed to convince her mother, Florence Baker, now deceased, into going to Hawaii numerous times and to Mexico, Costa Rica, Bali, Northern Australia, Java, and Borneo. The one time I was included in their travel plans we went to the British Isles (1998) where I had my fill of great Museums, Cathedrals, Monasteries, and places like Avebury and got a first-hand sense of the age and history of the UK. Avebury blew me away. Just think: While the Egyptians were creating a dazzling civilization in the third millennium BC, a culture was flourishing in southern England that lasted some 2600 years, a culture centered on circles of stone and rituals that ranged over a large landscape. Without being there I couldn’t realize the full import of the place. I felt a lot of magic at Avebury and an ancient presence by being there.
Volcanologists and Geographers think it took between three to five million years of volcanic activity for the Hawaiian Islands to form, and many more eons for soil to develop. James Michener in his book HAWAII gives a detailed account of what the building of the islands was like, all the steps in the process, the many failures and repeated successes, the long trek toward geographic maturity, with a full complement of trees, vegetation, flowers, birds, fish and other animals. The first migration to the islands by Pacific people who could make a lengthy journey by large canoe took place between 300-1000 A.D. The immigrants came from Marquesa Island, where Herman Melville landed when he jumped ship in 1841. They were Polynesians calling themselves the MENEHUNE, which means “the little people.” The second wave came from Tahiti between the years 1000-1240 A.D. The first white man, Captain Cook, anchored off Waimea Bay in 1778, which is on the southern coast of Kauai. That was the opening salvo of Western influences in the islands. In 1820 the first Christian missionaries arrived. They were Protestants, Congregationalists.
When we visited the Kauai Museum in Lihu’e I picked up a pamphlet full of basic information about Polynesian culture which I found illuminating. I also read a pictorial book with lengthy captions about the American experience in Kauai. Talk about a study in contrast! Polynesian society had no concept for ownership and was virtually communistic in that they shared what they had communally produced. They had no concept for the ownership of the land or water; that was impossible because they belong to the Gods not men. They saw themselves as the Stewards of the land and water and a Chief Steward allocated area rights and use of these communal resources. He was aided by a council of helpers, as it were, lesser chiefs. There were basically three main occupations: fishing, farming, and harvesting forest products. Their products were shared by all members; no one went without as the harvest was divvied up and shared.
The ancient division of the land into 5 districts still makes sense because they are logical and make perfect sense geographically. Spiritual concerns were considered too, indeed, they had a high priority. Throughout Kauai can be found stone platforms called HEIAU, sacred places, locations of special power (Mana), where worship, ceremonies, and dances took place in celebration of the gods and the bounty of the land and water. HEIAU were found throughout the traditional 5 districts. 17 were located in NA PAULI District, which is located on the inaccessible and rugged western coast of Kauai. NA PAULI, which means “the cliffs,” was and still is accessible only by boat. There is some evidence that at one time there were some settlements in the region, but there is none today. Below NA PAULI was the district called KONA, the leeward southwestern area, including Waimea Canyon, which makes it by far the largest district. KONA was the only part of the island that has desert-like conditions, which makes it similar to Molokai, another island that Sue and I have visited. It likewise was desert in the west and jungle in the east. There were 81 HEIAU in Kona, more than anyplace else. The rest of the south shore and going up the eastern shore was PUNA, which means “spring.” as in water. The district had 13 HEIAU. One was near Aloha Hotel and Lydgate Park. There will be more about those places later. PUNA was and still is the fertile land between the Wailua and Hule’ia Rivers and where the islands two largest towns are located, Lihu’e and Kapa’a, the former being the seat of government and the latter the commercial and tourist center of the district. The airport is also in the district, in Lihu’e. Up the eastern shore was the district called KO’OLAU, meaning “windward.”It has remnants of 20 HEIAU. It was a smaller district whose major town is Anahola today, which is located on the coast. And finally there is the district that encompasses the northern coast, HALELE’A. We made three trips up to that region, to snorkel, swim, and see the wet and dry caves. The girls also shopped in Princeville. 22 HEIAU were found located in this northernmost district.
I considered bringing in the Americanization of the Hawaii at this juncture; you know, the negative influence of the missionaries, the degrading of the Polynesian /Hawaiian culture, the rise of entrepreneurial capitalism that eventually changed the face of the islands, the legacies of the rich American families, and such like. But I decide against it; first of all those facts are pretty well know on the mainland. Instead I’d like to share a story about Herman Melville who jumped ship in the Maquesas in 1841, the Pacific Islands that sent the first migration to the Hawaiian Islands. Raised in a Calvinistic family in Massachusetts the puritanically inclined Melville was astonished, to put it mildly, at what he encountered, for example, to quote from his novel about the experience, TYPEE, “ I saw seven beautiful young women, swimming quite naked, except for a few green leaves tied round their middle.” He wasn’t used to such sights and frank behavior and he quickly became infatuated with one of the girls, Fayaway by name, who he has immortalized in his tale about his sojourn on the island. He paints a picture of her as an incredibly free and lovely woman, who was utterly comfortable with her nakedness, like our Ryder can be. There is one scene of particular vividness that is quite memorable and says so much about Pacific Island people at that time. Melville had been lounging with Faraway in a canoe on a lake when the trade winds begun to blow. She stood up, removed her sarong and spread it out like a sail, her body and arms acting as an improvise mast. The sail caught the winds and the canoe motored right along to shore. Melville never forgot that sight of Fayaway and the freedom it showed him. He spent some happy weeks there living with the islanders but it was bound to end. But one of the chiefs forced him to exam just how western he was. He wanted to tattoo something on Melville’s face. Just about all the men had and markings all over their bodies, and faces, which is so in these days in America. But that’s where he felt he had to draw a line in the sand. Changing his appearances so drastically would not go over too well in Boston or New York society in the mid-19th century. Decorating his mask or persona was too much; he couldn’t allow it. Shortly after that he fled and found a ship that would take him back to America. In later years he must have looked back at those few weeks as a dream, something unreal. Fayaway’s image probably haunted him to his dying day in 1891.
Duke, the ex-surfer turned real estate magnet that rented us the house, came to Kauai thirty years ago to surf. Fine and dandy, but he ended up needing a kidney transplant, a story he has written a book about and is trying to publish, so far unsuccessfully. He blames all the “wipe-outs” he experienced as a surfer for the kidney loss. He claims the whole episode of the transplant was a life and death struggle that should be of interest to others. Whatever, since the transplant he has gone on to carve out his second existence on the island and seems to be doing quite well. He told Sue he is interested in selling the house we stayed in and his house, a smaller one story house that sits in front of the place we rented. He wants $1.35 million for the property. The house certainly suited us, much better than the Aloha Hotel, which was Sue’s first choice for nostalgia reasons. She and her mother had stayed there in 2002, the year before she died. Duke’s house was a two story house with plenty of room for nine people. The family members of our two daughters slept on the first floor where there was also a bath and a laundry room. The second floor consisted of a large family room with a nice kitchen at the west end, a 52 inch SONY Bravia Television against the south wall and a bedroom and bath for Sue and I off the family room on the north. There were two couches and recliner to sit on and stools around an island counter to eat on. There was also a veranda that look toward the Pacific Ocean, which we could see a strip of from the veranda. I’d estimate that the beach was about 300 yards from our house. The three boys took possession of the TV right away, although we had access after they went to bed and we used it to watch all three movies of the Bourne series.
Duke was a good landlord, fixing a couple of minor problems when asked to do so, but otherwise he never bothered us. However, on his own initiative he called the local police to rid our ‘back yard’ of some homeless people who were camped out near the river 50 yards from our house. There was a boat launching and return operation off the river a little further up; they were very busy every day. Since I more or less camped out on the veranda, reading and writing in my journal on the table out there, I tracked what was going on. On Saturday 22 boat were launched into the river and washed down when they return. Even the MENEHUNE had a word for “salt encrustation” which is why every boat was hosed down when it was removed from the water. Most of the boats were from 20 to35 long with holds for fish in the stern. Presumably they were commercial fishermen.
Something we learned right off was the chicken was king on Kauai. Roosters,, hens, and chicks were everywhere, obviously having a status on the island comparable to the cow in India. They ran free, usually in small groups, pecking away and disappearing at night. And I must say we were not bother by insects, except for small ants. Ryder called them “the tinys.”I bought a small wooden carving of a rooster and a so-called “red dirt T-shirt” with a Rooster depicted on it. We have soaked that shirt seven times and some red dirt is still coming out of the material. When I asked Sue what breed was the rooster on the island, she answered, “It’s a plain old rooster.”
Talk about cock-of-the-walk! There were plenty of young males walking around strutting their stuff for the pretty young hens. It was a kind of parade in all the shopping areas. The boys wore only bathing trunks and flip-flops, while the girls preferred shorts, take tops and flip-flops. Everyone was on the prowl in the tropical meat market. There were beach bums, surfers, college students on summer vacation, hedonists of different nationalities and inclinations, and hangers-on just looking for a hand out or a good time. No doubt the mild weather and soft, sensuous air lent itself to sensual engagement and play. The island’s physical character and splendor seemed designed for adventure and romance. We also took note of some not-so-young-anymore hippies left over from a bygone era. We saw a few up along the northern coast, more or less tucked here and there in the jungle.
The young people in our party spent a good deal of time visiting several beaches on different parts of the island, from north to south and the eastern shore. Two were “baby beaches” near Lydgate State Park, which is part of the Hotel Aloha complex, where one HEIAU was located. Connor and Ryder frolicked in the water with their mom and dad. They went to swim in the ocean at least 5 other times. I went with 4 out of the 6 times and took loads of pictures each time. By the end of the trip I had taken 158 pictures, while Nasima, who has a more expensive camera took close to 400 pictures, a good 100 of which should be edited out. Po’ipu Beach on the southern coast was fun for all. There were sea turtles to be seen close to shore and two seals who like to snooze on a sand bar while kids played around them. I took one picture of Sue in her new orange shawl that I bought for her in a shop in Princeville on the Eastern Shore. After swimming we all went to a famed hamburger joint well known for its tropical burgers. They had 12 varieties and to our surprise and delight they were quite good. The crew went to Tunnel Beach three times, with me going with twice. It was just about in the middle of the Northern Coast, a spectacular spot. It’s near Ha’ena, with a huge U-shaped beach and a camping area, with excellent snorkeling. Nasima went back alone one day to swim and snorkel for two hours. Frankly, I was surprised at her swimming ability. Where we parked our cars the cliffs went straight up about 2500’ and there were wet and dry caves at ground level that the boys just had to explore. One day we drove to the end of the road which was no more than 5 miles pass Ha’ena. It just abruptly ends. From that end point to a place at the center of the Western Shore called Polihale State Park there is no road, no access by vehicle. This is the Na PAULI Coast. I’d estimate it was about 20 to 25 nautical miles, accessible only by boat. Nasima and Aaron will long remember Tunnels Beach because they managed to touch some huge sea turtles. I’ll remember Tunnels Beach because under the Ramada where we ate lunch I found a poster of the “Laughing Jesus.” Naturally, I took a photograph of it. It was a quite unexpected find.
On the way home from Tunnels Beach we stopped at Anini Beach, which was just north and east of Princeville. We had to drive a few miles off the main highway, through some beautiful and lush country with quite a few nice homes, some barely visible from the road. After we parked at the beach we had to cross a large grassy area where several people were at established camps, some quite large and well organized. The beach itself was a narrow strip of sand and I parked my collapsible chair so I could sit with my feet in the water. The boys were more interested in building sand castles than swimming. It was Nasima again who did the snorkeling; indeed, she went so far out I could barely see her. At one point I felt a bit concerned, but it was all for naught; she came in all smiles and happy over the eel and the colorful fish she had seen. She even took seven pictures with her underwater camera. I took great shot of Sue coming out the water, a picture I later titled “Venus Rising from the Sea.”
We finished our penultimate day in Kauai by returning to the restaurant we had found and greatly enjoyed on the day of our arrival, Kauai Pasta. It was right on the main drag of Kapa’a, only 2 miles from our house. It was superb both times we were the. Nasima actually ate there three times, once alone with James on a “date.” She was much impressed with the place, which is saying a lot because she tends to be fussy about food. I had spaghetti the first time and two appetizers the second time, Bruschetta and five garlic meatballs. The food was excellent on both occasions. (We had done the same thing in London in 1998, going to the same Tandori Restaurant in Kensington that we had discovered our first day in town. It was an East Indian meal to die for. The two meals rate as classics for this family, the best ever anywhere.)
Our one other excursion came a couple of days before that last trip north. We drove southwest to Waimea Canyon after we made a stop at the Kauai Museum in Lihu’e. The museum is basically an anthropological assessment of the human history on the island presented with artifacts and loads of pictures. To do an adequate job of appreciating all that was there you would need two or three days, there was that much to read. I did pick up a free booklet on ancient Hawaiian culture which I have used extensively in this account. I also bought a book called KAUAI TALES, 18 stories basically about the mythology of the beginnings of the land and the people who were here in the beginning. I haven’t dented it yet. The gift Shop many other offerings, all of them very expensive. I wanted a beautiful hardwood cane I coveted as soon as I saw it, as I am using a $20 metal cane I bought at Walgreen’s. But when I saw the wooden cane was priced at $270 I lost interest in a hurry. There were many other craft items drastically overpriced.
Our trip to Waimea Canyon was a bust because Liam got car sick, puking on the way up and down the twisty mountain road. We only made it halfway —there were 18 miles left to an outlook where the canyon was really spectacular to see and photograph—because Liam wasn’t going to enjoy it, so we cut the excursion short. The other mistake we made is we went there too late in the day when too many dark shadows in the interior depths had taken away some of the photogenic possibilities, although I did manage to get a few good shots. Coming from a state that has the Grand Canyon, I wasn’t overawed by Waimea Canyon. Nonetheless, I am glad we did see it.
On Friday morning July29 we had to vacate Duke’s place at 11 A.M. because he had a cleaning crew coming in at that time and new tenants were arriving at 3 P.M. We got out with no time to spare, but what to do next was the problem because we weren’t scheduled to fly to the mainland until 10 o’clock that night. We needed to find some kind of base for several hours, especially with three high energy boys with us. After Suzie mentioned the possibility called a “day rate” Aaron got on his cell phone on found us a deal at, of all places, the Aloha Hotel, which was close to the airport. We could stay there for $90, so we took it. For Sue there was a sweet irony to end up where she wanted to begin at one time. Later Sue and our two daughters, who loved their grandmother, laid their leis on the junction of the Wailua River and the Pacific Ocean where, at one time, Florence requested her ashes be scattered. Staying at the Aloha Hotel gave the ending of the trip a certain poetic resonance for Sue; it was fitting and right that the hotel worked into our departure day. It rounded things off for all of us. The idea of Florence’s ashes to be distributed in Hawaii got vetoed by Uncle Jim, the only sibling left alive. He decided that her and his ashes should go in a grave next to their mother who is buried in Tennessee where she was born. Uncle Jim is 91 and lives in Detroit.
The hotel had a nice pool that we all swam in the later afternoon and , silly me, I forgot to put , sun protection cream on so I got pretty burned, which was terrible timing, given the fact I was looking at a long redeye flight back to Phoenix. After a mediocre dinner on the outside balcony at the hotel, we headed for the airport. The airport was chaos as several airlines had that redeye flight. I came very close to passing out in the Security line. Nasima noticed how white I looked so she took up to the front of the line and got me through in a jiffy so I could sit down for a while. I think it was the effect of the sunburn that got to me, as I felt hot and depleted. I felt a bit better by the time everyone else was through Security. After takeoff my problems got worse. Liam went to sleep next to me and put his legs across my lap, effectively trapping me. After a while Nasima saw I was uncomfortable—she had the window seat—so she took Liam’s body on her body and they somehow managed to sleep that way for a few hours. I never went to sleep, as the hum of the jet motor is too dominating for me to overcome. By the time we got to Phoenix I was mush, and I was even worse by the time we got off the plane in Tucson. One pays a high price to get to paradise and back.
I pretty much surprised my family by remaining even-tempered throughout our stay on Kauai. I was a little worried myself, but I was fine from the start. I knew I needed a change of scene, to be refreshed and the island gave me what I needed. As for the bickering the first couple of days I felt I had no dog in that fight. I was along for the ride—period. Sue had doubts I could get along without my “tools,” my computer, writing emails, sports on TV, the evening news, political events, my desk, and playing pool twice a week. No problem: Being on vacation meant being disengaged from those realities, at least for a while. One mainland friend complained I didn’t have a laptop computer to stay wired. I had to laugh at that. Vacations are a removal from ordinary reality, a challenge if you will. However, I wasn’t completely cut off from some of my usual habits. I did read three books while I was there. On the plane to Kauai I started reading THE GLASS RAINBOW, James Lee Burke’s latest novel. I finished it 4 days later and in my humble opinion it was one of his best books. Then I moved on to Dennis Johnson’s spoof of crime novels called DON’T MOVE. As I read it I realized it was actually a film script in novel form and I am sure if will soon appear as a movie, in the tradition of satirical stories, the kind we associate with Elmore Leonard. I also brought a book of crime short stories called THE BLUE LAGOON. I read two in Kauai, one by Mike Connelly, the other by Alafair Burke, James Lee’s daughter, who has appeared repeatedly in his novels. Both were excellent. I stayed home on two occasions to be alone for a short spell, and to read and write in my journal. But otherwise I made a conscious and determined effort to join in the activities, at least from the sidelines, behaving like a 74 year old geezer with health problems and who has trouble walking any great distance
To conclude: Kauai is called, among the Hawaiian Islands, “The Garden Island.” It is called that for good reason—because of its superabundance of luxuriate vegetative and floral excess, which suggests The Garden of Eden , or an earthly paradise of green splendor, dotted by a palette of vivid reds, yellows, tan, and blue, blue waters, with a dome of wondrous clouds overhead and around the island to cushion its beauty. The island’s wonderful and plentiful beaches have waves that invite and challenge surfers from all over the world. There is something intoxicating about being here. I suppose it is a high bestowed on human beings by the natural beauty and softness of the place. It uplifts you like a gentle giant and invites you to drift like a cloud, rolling, wavy and at ease, content to be what it is and demanding nothing else. I told Sue that that I’d like to spend what time I have left in Kauai, and if it could be worked out, in that area near Anini Beach. She liked hearing I felt like that, but her answer was about what I expected”We couldn’t afford to live here.” I guess I’ll have to start playing the lottery.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
The Inception
2010_7_16 Inception
Cathy and I saw “Inception” today, deciding to see it, a movie that needed to be seen on the big screen, rather than “I Am Love,” with Tilda Swinton, a film that would be fine to see on DVD. “’Inception” throws so much at you so quickly and unrelentingly for two and a half hours that I was so busy just coping with all the words and material coming at me, sometime in pell-mell fashion, that I had little time to reflect on what I was taking in. There was plenty of violence in the movie but it was incongruous, that is, it was dream-like: there were a lots of noise and bullets flying hither and yon, but rarely was anyone hit and if they are you needed worry because almost everybody wakes up alive. In fact, on the lower levels of dream-work, you wake up by being shot or otherwise shocked. Many of the dying people in the movie are someone else’s projection. There is little blood and it is all dream action, a grinding away with no real harm done. The only exception to this rule is Moll (Marion Cotillard) who is the wifely-succubae who haunts Don Cobb (Leonardo DeCaprio.) She is a specter who taunts and prods him with guilt and a hungry love and longing that won’t quit. He has a few helpers and a man he works for (Ken Watanabe) who wants Cobb to use the ‘inception technique’ to undermine a corporation gaining too much power, which sounds like typical industrial espionage as far as I can see. He means to plant the seed of an idea in someone’s mind which gives an “extractor,” an opportunity to share the dream space and the secret coves in the mind now penetrable and available to outsiders. Ellen Page is the architect, someone who structures the dream context who develops insight into Cobb and his travail with his dead wife. He goes to dream depths, which is risky business, because he wants to get back to his two kids. The industrialist who encounters his dead father in a dream comes out of it saying “He wanted me to do my own thing,” which is not exactly a startling insight. In fact, I thought it was terribly feeble and flat.
As for the technical aspect of the film, it is dazzling and totally gripping. Shit is flying all over the place, via explosions of various sorts, gravity is suspended, people float and fight, streets fold up and fold over other streets, and the human beings in the scenes sit calmly in cafes, as if none of this minute dematerialization of matter and flying shrapnel has anything to do with their sipping of coffee. Much of the illusionary power of the film resides in the skill and convincibility of those scenes, despite their obvious dream character, as the actual dreamer’s silent participation as an acolyte of the “extractor”-- at moments as a partner in crime. The scenarios invented and memories reinvented are large scale and spectacular: two dreamers out run an avalanche, a van plunging toward the river off a bridge and it takes 10 minutes for the vehicle to hit the water and many other risk-laden dream fantasies.
So all and all the movie is fun and quite diverting, but I would question the depth of its message. All the chatter about their dream-travel, understanding, and visitations, and believe me, there is a lot of chatter about confusing ideas, that eventually sounded like sophomoric prattle to me. It made my head swim and my head ache. There is a proliferation of ideas in the narrative and a kind of crossfire format with ideas about time and memory bouncing off each other with only a promise of being something beyond articulated Grand Fantasy.
Charles Krauthammer surprised me today by warning Republicans Obama has accomplished quite a bit in 18 months, including a Health Care Bill that can be built on, which makes his presidency historic right off the bat, which has initiated a massive redistribution of wealth; passed a major financial reform bill which has given the government unprecedented power in the market place; the third biggie is the stimulus bill which neared $1 trillion dollars, which he calls the largest stimulus bill in American history; and a number of smaller scale changes that were the president agenda. He has many critical comments to make to but he does say that Obama “is underappreciated by his own side.” He calls the past 18 months the end of Act One
Act Two will hinge on massive regulation of energy economy, Federalizing higher education, and comprehensive immigration reform. Krauthammer thinks the president doesn’t care about the congressional outcome in November because even if the Republicans gain massively it would help his reelection in 2012. And it is true that Democrats are peeved at Obama because he hasn’t done much to aid democrat’s reelection. I find it hard to believe he would slough off Congress, as if they are not his partners when it comes to passing bills.
Chris Cillizza of the Wash. Post thinks the Republicans could possibly pick up 8 states in contested states. The sure bets are North Dakota and Delaware; and Indiana and Arkansas are in a strong position. The states considered in play are Illinois, Colorado, Pennsylvania and Nevada. Those hard to wrest from the Demos would be California, Connecticut, Washington and Wisconsin, although some GOP prognosticators imagine winning all 12 states, which hasn’t happened since 1980 and Ronald Reagan. But they are dreaming about that. For example, just today indications are that Harry Reid is now 7 points up on Sharon Angle in the Nevada race for the senate. The general public is beginning to understand where her head is at and they aren’t impressed. I think the GOP is overly optimistic about the off-year election. They will make gains but not as many as they think. They are engaging in a lot of wishful thinking.
Cathy and I saw “Inception” today, deciding to see it, a movie that needed to be seen on the big screen, rather than “I Am Love,” with Tilda Swinton, a film that would be fine to see on DVD. “’Inception” throws so much at you so quickly and unrelentingly for two and a half hours that I was so busy just coping with all the words and material coming at me, sometime in pell-mell fashion, that I had little time to reflect on what I was taking in. There was plenty of violence in the movie but it was incongruous, that is, it was dream-like: there were a lots of noise and bullets flying hither and yon, but rarely was anyone hit and if they are you needed worry because almost everybody wakes up alive. In fact, on the lower levels of dream-work, you wake up by being shot or otherwise shocked. Many of the dying people in the movie are someone else’s projection. There is little blood and it is all dream action, a grinding away with no real harm done. The only exception to this rule is Moll (Marion Cotillard) who is the wifely-succubae who haunts Don Cobb (Leonardo DeCaprio.) She is a specter who taunts and prods him with guilt and a hungry love and longing that won’t quit. He has a few helpers and a man he works for (Ken Watanabe) who wants Cobb to use the ‘inception technique’ to undermine a corporation gaining too much power, which sounds like typical industrial espionage as far as I can see. He means to plant the seed of an idea in someone’s mind which gives an “extractor,” an opportunity to share the dream space and the secret coves in the mind now penetrable and available to outsiders. Ellen Page is the architect, someone who structures the dream context who develops insight into Cobb and his travail with his dead wife. He goes to dream depths, which is risky business, because he wants to get back to his two kids. The industrialist who encounters his dead father in a dream comes out of it saying “He wanted me to do my own thing,” which is not exactly a startling insight. In fact, I thought it was terribly feeble and flat.
As for the technical aspect of the film, it is dazzling and totally gripping. Shit is flying all over the place, via explosions of various sorts, gravity is suspended, people float and fight, streets fold up and fold over other streets, and the human beings in the scenes sit calmly in cafes, as if none of this minute dematerialization of matter and flying shrapnel has anything to do with their sipping of coffee. Much of the illusionary power of the film resides in the skill and convincibility of those scenes, despite their obvious dream character, as the actual dreamer’s silent participation as an acolyte of the “extractor”-- at moments as a partner in crime. The scenarios invented and memories reinvented are large scale and spectacular: two dreamers out run an avalanche, a van plunging toward the river off a bridge and it takes 10 minutes for the vehicle to hit the water and many other risk-laden dream fantasies.
So all and all the movie is fun and quite diverting, but I would question the depth of its message. All the chatter about their dream-travel, understanding, and visitations, and believe me, there is a lot of chatter about confusing ideas, that eventually sounded like sophomoric prattle to me. It made my head swim and my head ache. There is a proliferation of ideas in the narrative and a kind of crossfire format with ideas about time and memory bouncing off each other with only a promise of being something beyond articulated Grand Fantasy.
Charles Krauthammer surprised me today by warning Republicans Obama has accomplished quite a bit in 18 months, including a Health Care Bill that can be built on, which makes his presidency historic right off the bat, which has initiated a massive redistribution of wealth; passed a major financial reform bill which has given the government unprecedented power in the market place; the third biggie is the stimulus bill which neared $1 trillion dollars, which he calls the largest stimulus bill in American history; and a number of smaller scale changes that were the president agenda. He has many critical comments to make to but he does say that Obama “is underappreciated by his own side.” He calls the past 18 months the end of Act One
Act Two will hinge on massive regulation of energy economy, Federalizing higher education, and comprehensive immigration reform. Krauthammer thinks the president doesn’t care about the congressional outcome in November because even if the Republicans gain massively it would help his reelection in 2012. And it is true that Democrats are peeved at Obama because he hasn’t done much to aid democrat’s reelection. I find it hard to believe he would slough off Congress, as if they are not his partners when it comes to passing bills.
Chris Cillizza of the Wash. Post thinks the Republicans could possibly pick up 8 states in contested states. The sure bets are North Dakota and Delaware; and Indiana and Arkansas are in a strong position. The states considered in play are Illinois, Colorado, Pennsylvania and Nevada. Those hard to wrest from the Demos would be California, Connecticut, Washington and Wisconsin, although some GOP prognosticators imagine winning all 12 states, which hasn’t happened since 1980 and Ronald Reagan. But they are dreaming about that. For example, just today indications are that Harry Reid is now 7 points up on Sharon Angle in the Nevada race for the senate. The general public is beginning to understand where her head is at and they aren’t impressed. I think the GOP is overly optimistic about the off-year election. They will make gains but not as many as they think. They are engaging in a lot of wishful thinking.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
THE TRIUMPH OF THE FRIENDS OF SALANDER
2010_7_05 THE TRIUMPH OF THE FRIENDS OF SALANDER
The third volume of the MILLELLIUM TRILOGY, THE GIRL WHO KICKED THE HORNET’S NEST, is mainly devoted to the two sides strategizing on how to outsmart the other; it is filled with endless long conversation about what to do at the upcoming trial of Lisbeth Salander; and by both sides I mean those who seek to put Salander away forever by having her committed permanently to a mental hospital and those who wish to help her by doing whatever is necessary to liberate her from injustices and eventually to see that she is redeemed and declared competent, rectifying the abuse she had suffered as a 13 year old girl by a cabal of authoritarian men. Indeed, the Swedish title of the first novel in the series was actually THE MEN WHO HATED WOMEN. That seems to be the overall theme of the series. There are the controlling men that are arrayed against a platoon of very competent women—Salander, Harriet Vanger, Erica Berger, Monica Figuerola, Sonja Modig, Susanne Linder, and Mikael Blomkvist’s sister, Giannini, Salanger’s lawyer at the trial. They constituted a cadre of Amazons, who weren’t going to take any shit from authoritarian males. In contrast there is Salander’s mother who was beaten into insensibility by her brutish Russian husband and who also tried to kill Lisbeth by shooting her three times, or Isabelle Vanger who did not want to challenge the past, present, or future. They represent the weak women, those too far gone to transform themselves.
The first group was called THE SECTION, or alternately, “The Zalachenko Club,” which was how Blomkvist tagged the group. Zalachenko, besides being Salander’s father, was a Russian defector, formerly a KGB member, who was, at first, the prize of the Secret Police, but then a liability when he got involved with criminal activity and his care and protection was taken over by THE SECTION which became a rogue organization within the SIS or the larger Bureaucratic Secret Police Organization. Salander stood as a threat to their existence because of her hatred of her father, as she had already tried to kill him once for what he had done to her mother. The Russian justified their existence; they were basically obsolete bureaucrats hanging on by their fingernails trying to justify their turf. Ultimately Zalachenko‘s life and death is the key to the group’s final downfall and arrest. The main reason for them being unable to compete with ‘Friends of Salander,’ was they weren’t as adept as the hip, younger crowd when it came to computers, who took full advantage of their superiority.
The Friends of Salander were composed of people from Milton Security where she had been employed as a researcher, some police officers on the case, an elderly Lawyer that had been her first Guardian, people at Millennium, a magazine headed by Blomkvist and Erica Berger, a long-time associate and part time lover of Mikael. They were determined to see she got a fair shake, for they knew she was odd and different but far from incompetent and mentally disturbed; in fact, she was brilliant. (She is probably Larsson’s darker side, his ANIMA, or female side, a PERSONA that he was capable of realizing only in fiction.) Salander was ‘Queen of the Hacker Republic.’ For example, while imprisoned in her hospital room she, using a Palm computer, hacked into some adversary’s computer to find out who was sexually harassing Berger. She did it as a gesture of gratitude to Berger. Susanne Linder strong-armed the twerp who was doing it, a colleague at SWP, the newspaper where Berger was Editor-in-Chief. The Hacker Republic kept the Friends of Salander always a few steps ahead of THE SECTION. Their antagonists had no idea what evidence they had marshaled to throw at them when the trial came around.
Along the way Blomkvist manages to fall in love with ‘Wonder Woman,’ the agent from SIS, Monica Figeurola, a muscular gal who worked out every day and ran too. She was also a real asset to the team. Erica sniffs out what was going on between the two and gives her blessing to the love affair. (There is little jealousy in these novels.)
The trial was exciting to read and it comes out well for The Friends of Salander and a disaster for Zalachenko’s Club. Giannini turns out to be a very effective criminal lawyer; she annihilates the pompous Dr. Teleborian who is totally disgrace as a latent pedophile. He was supposed to be the prosecutor’s strongest witness. The big dramatic moment arrives when Giannini shows the clip of the rape scene with Salander’s dirt-bag second guardian. That blows the opposition right out of the water. It is the tipping point that secures Salander’s release. The shrink had insisted the rape was just a fantasy of a schizoid mind.
The end of the book is a little strange, not as strong as other parts of the trilogy. Salander leaves for Gibraltar as soon as she is freed; that is where her stolen money is, administered by some lawyer/stockbroker she pays handsomely to oversee her fortune. He is a homosexual, only the second one in the series. She blows off steam by drinking heavily for a week or so and picking up a fiftyish overweight German businessman for some sexually relief and entertainment. The climax of the book is a confrontation with Lisbeth’s half-brother which brings the family drama to a close. Needless to say she outwits him and leaves him dead.
To reiterate, I think the theme of the series is indeed THE MEN WHO HATED WOMEN who are contrasted with seven very strong female personalities who combined to save the day for Lisbeth Salander, the exemplary rebel and OUTSIDER who enjoys a unique position in this Pantheon of Amazons. She is the Lunar Sister that the others circulate around. They draw strength from her fountain of resources. Mikael Blomkvist is not only the cheerleader for these women; he is their mythic partner, part lover, part trickster, and part brother.
The third volume of the MILLELLIUM TRILOGY, THE GIRL WHO KICKED THE HORNET’S NEST, is mainly devoted to the two sides strategizing on how to outsmart the other; it is filled with endless long conversation about what to do at the upcoming trial of Lisbeth Salander; and by both sides I mean those who seek to put Salander away forever by having her committed permanently to a mental hospital and those who wish to help her by doing whatever is necessary to liberate her from injustices and eventually to see that she is redeemed and declared competent, rectifying the abuse she had suffered as a 13 year old girl by a cabal of authoritarian men. Indeed, the Swedish title of the first novel in the series was actually THE MEN WHO HATED WOMEN. That seems to be the overall theme of the series. There are the controlling men that are arrayed against a platoon of very competent women—Salander, Harriet Vanger, Erica Berger, Monica Figuerola, Sonja Modig, Susanne Linder, and Mikael Blomkvist’s sister, Giannini, Salanger’s lawyer at the trial. They constituted a cadre of Amazons, who weren’t going to take any shit from authoritarian males. In contrast there is Salander’s mother who was beaten into insensibility by her brutish Russian husband and who also tried to kill Lisbeth by shooting her three times, or Isabelle Vanger who did not want to challenge the past, present, or future. They represent the weak women, those too far gone to transform themselves.
The first group was called THE SECTION, or alternately, “The Zalachenko Club,” which was how Blomkvist tagged the group. Zalachenko, besides being Salander’s father, was a Russian defector, formerly a KGB member, who was, at first, the prize of the Secret Police, but then a liability when he got involved with criminal activity and his care and protection was taken over by THE SECTION which became a rogue organization within the SIS or the larger Bureaucratic Secret Police Organization. Salander stood as a threat to their existence because of her hatred of her father, as she had already tried to kill him once for what he had done to her mother. The Russian justified their existence; they were basically obsolete bureaucrats hanging on by their fingernails trying to justify their turf. Ultimately Zalachenko‘s life and death is the key to the group’s final downfall and arrest. The main reason for them being unable to compete with ‘Friends of Salander,’ was they weren’t as adept as the hip, younger crowd when it came to computers, who took full advantage of their superiority.
The Friends of Salander were composed of people from Milton Security where she had been employed as a researcher, some police officers on the case, an elderly Lawyer that had been her first Guardian, people at Millennium, a magazine headed by Blomkvist and Erica Berger, a long-time associate and part time lover of Mikael. They were determined to see she got a fair shake, for they knew she was odd and different but far from incompetent and mentally disturbed; in fact, she was brilliant. (She is probably Larsson’s darker side, his ANIMA, or female side, a PERSONA that he was capable of realizing only in fiction.) Salander was ‘Queen of the Hacker Republic.’ For example, while imprisoned in her hospital room she, using a Palm computer, hacked into some adversary’s computer to find out who was sexually harassing Berger. She did it as a gesture of gratitude to Berger. Susanne Linder strong-armed the twerp who was doing it, a colleague at SWP, the newspaper where Berger was Editor-in-Chief. The Hacker Republic kept the Friends of Salander always a few steps ahead of THE SECTION. Their antagonists had no idea what evidence they had marshaled to throw at them when the trial came around.
Along the way Blomkvist manages to fall in love with ‘Wonder Woman,’ the agent from SIS, Monica Figeurola, a muscular gal who worked out every day and ran too. She was also a real asset to the team. Erica sniffs out what was going on between the two and gives her blessing to the love affair. (There is little jealousy in these novels.)
The trial was exciting to read and it comes out well for The Friends of Salander and a disaster for Zalachenko’s Club. Giannini turns out to be a very effective criminal lawyer; she annihilates the pompous Dr. Teleborian who is totally disgrace as a latent pedophile. He was supposed to be the prosecutor’s strongest witness. The big dramatic moment arrives when Giannini shows the clip of the rape scene with Salander’s dirt-bag second guardian. That blows the opposition right out of the water. It is the tipping point that secures Salander’s release. The shrink had insisted the rape was just a fantasy of a schizoid mind.
The end of the book is a little strange, not as strong as other parts of the trilogy. Salander leaves for Gibraltar as soon as she is freed; that is where her stolen money is, administered by some lawyer/stockbroker she pays handsomely to oversee her fortune. He is a homosexual, only the second one in the series. She blows off steam by drinking heavily for a week or so and picking up a fiftyish overweight German businessman for some sexually relief and entertainment. The climax of the book is a confrontation with Lisbeth’s half-brother which brings the family drama to a close. Needless to say she outwits him and leaves him dead.
To reiterate, I think the theme of the series is indeed THE MEN WHO HATED WOMEN who are contrasted with seven very strong female personalities who combined to save the day for Lisbeth Salander, the exemplary rebel and OUTSIDER who enjoys a unique position in this Pantheon of Amazons. She is the Lunar Sister that the others circulate around. They draw strength from her fountain of resources. Mikael Blomkvist is not only the cheerleader for these women; he is their mythic partner, part lover, part trickster, and part brother.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
The Millennnium Trilogy
2010_7_04 THE MILLENNIUM TRILOGY
Dear Mike,
Do you know who Elliott Kastner was? No, he was not my Rabbi. He made movies, of some note too. He made “Harper,” “Rancho Deluxe,” “Where Eagles Dare,” “Angel Heart,” and “Missouri Breaks,” Marlon Brando’s first film as the fat man and wildly eccentric actor. Those are all good films that you have probably seen somewhere down the line. He also made some films based on the novels of Raymond Chandler, “Farewell My Lovely,” and “The Big Sleep,” both with Robert Mitchum. The author Jim Thompson, a pulp fiction specialist, whose best novel, THE KILLER INSIDE ME, which has just been made into a movie, staring Casey Affleck, an up and coming actor playing the psychotic sheriff, had a small part in “Farewell My Lovely,” a kind of tribute to Thompson while he was still alive and not as well known and appreciated as he is today. Anyway, Kastner died last week. He may be a second tier director, but I salute him for the quality films he did.
For the past two weeks I have been concentrated on THE MILLENNIUM TRILOGY written by crusading left wing Swedish journalist, Stieg Larsson, who wrote the three novels as a form of self-entertainment, with no thought to publishing the books, which I find a little hard to believe, considering the passion and care he put into his narrative. Be that as it may, they all got published after he died of a heart attack at age 50, probably by his long time girl friend. It’s disturbing to think he didn’t live to enjoy the fruits of his labors. But life—and death—are that way, indiscriminate and indifferent to timing and age. He was an individual who was hell-bent on attacking the Neo-Nazis and other far right groups in his native land. He was so caught up with this campaign, he did not take good care of himself, chain-smoking cigarettes and living on junk food and not seeming to care about his physical health. None of his close friends were too surprised by his sudden death. But the books are luminous, written with a sure hand, and he easily handles complexity of plot and narrative, framing a coherent pattern with scores of characters and complicated action that weaves through the dense core of all three novels. They also show a mastery of several disciplines, especially computer knowledge, journalism, police procedures and government protocols. It should go without saying; all three are real page turners, very much like Henning Mankell, Mike Connelly and Dan Brown. And each novel is between 500 and 600 pages.
The driving forces through all three novels are the two main characters, Mikael Blomkvist and Lizbeth Salander. Blomkvist is Larsson’s stand in, for he is a crusading journalist and part owner of a magazine called MILLENNIUM, which is stamped with his social and political beliefs and his investigative passions, He’s a casual sort of guy, a loyal friend, and something of a ladies’ man. If he has you in his sites he’s liable to bring you down, so sure-footed and relentless is he. Lizbeth is a Mighty Mouse of a kick-ass female, a 25 year old woman who dresses like a black-clad Goth female, with rings in her nose and eyebrows, possibly autistic as she has trouble relating to people, physically adept despite her diminutive stature, 4’11” and 90 lbs, a world class hacker and computer expert, without going to college, and the target of a government conspiracy to put her in a nuthouse forever so she’ll be of no bother to them for the rest of her life. The two of them combine to unravel a cold case in the first novel, THE GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO, which includes some outstanding investigative work to uncover the corruptions of a wealthy Swedish family and then on to further sleuthing involving new characters and criminal activity in a government bureau polluted with corruption and lies, which is the tenor of both the second novel in the series, THE GIRL WHO PLAYED WITH FIRE and the first part of the third book, THE GIRL WHO KICKED THE HORNET’S NEST, which deals with her recovery from gunshot wounds and her being brought to trial by those who want her out their hair. I am at page 280 of the third novel and I can’t wait to finish it.
If you like Mystery stories, and I do, these are top drawer novels. HORNET’S NEST is currently the best selling hard back in the country, and the other books are one and two in trade-size paperback best sellers. It is no fluke that worldwide sales are 27 million books sold. Larsson is not what you would call an elegant writer or a witty one, like Raymond Chandler or Robert Parker, but if you like a pile-driving narrative pace, Larsson is your man. His three novels are timely stories with relevant characters. Lizbeth Salander is a fabulous creation and a prototypical OUTSIDER. She has won me over completely. She is my role model in the war against big shots, inauthentic shrinks who do the bidding of the Ruling Class, and governmental activity that is more for the benefit of officials then for the people they were elected to protect and serve. Wow, doesn’t that sound familiar?
Cheers,
JWP
Dear Mike,
Do you know who Elliott Kastner was? No, he was not my Rabbi. He made movies, of some note too. He made “Harper,” “Rancho Deluxe,” “Where Eagles Dare,” “Angel Heart,” and “Missouri Breaks,” Marlon Brando’s first film as the fat man and wildly eccentric actor. Those are all good films that you have probably seen somewhere down the line. He also made some films based on the novels of Raymond Chandler, “Farewell My Lovely,” and “The Big Sleep,” both with Robert Mitchum. The author Jim Thompson, a pulp fiction specialist, whose best novel, THE KILLER INSIDE ME, which has just been made into a movie, staring Casey Affleck, an up and coming actor playing the psychotic sheriff, had a small part in “Farewell My Lovely,” a kind of tribute to Thompson while he was still alive and not as well known and appreciated as he is today. Anyway, Kastner died last week. He may be a second tier director, but I salute him for the quality films he did.
For the past two weeks I have been concentrated on THE MILLENNIUM TRILOGY written by crusading left wing Swedish journalist, Stieg Larsson, who wrote the three novels as a form of self-entertainment, with no thought to publishing the books, which I find a little hard to believe, considering the passion and care he put into his narrative. Be that as it may, they all got published after he died of a heart attack at age 50, probably by his long time girl friend. It’s disturbing to think he didn’t live to enjoy the fruits of his labors. But life—and death—are that way, indiscriminate and indifferent to timing and age. He was an individual who was hell-bent on attacking the Neo-Nazis and other far right groups in his native land. He was so caught up with this campaign, he did not take good care of himself, chain-smoking cigarettes and living on junk food and not seeming to care about his physical health. None of his close friends were too surprised by his sudden death. But the books are luminous, written with a sure hand, and he easily handles complexity of plot and narrative, framing a coherent pattern with scores of characters and complicated action that weaves through the dense core of all three novels. They also show a mastery of several disciplines, especially computer knowledge, journalism, police procedures and government protocols. It should go without saying; all three are real page turners, very much like Henning Mankell, Mike Connelly and Dan Brown. And each novel is between 500 and 600 pages.
The driving forces through all three novels are the two main characters, Mikael Blomkvist and Lizbeth Salander. Blomkvist is Larsson’s stand in, for he is a crusading journalist and part owner of a magazine called MILLENNIUM, which is stamped with his social and political beliefs and his investigative passions, He’s a casual sort of guy, a loyal friend, and something of a ladies’ man. If he has you in his sites he’s liable to bring you down, so sure-footed and relentless is he. Lizbeth is a Mighty Mouse of a kick-ass female, a 25 year old woman who dresses like a black-clad Goth female, with rings in her nose and eyebrows, possibly autistic as she has trouble relating to people, physically adept despite her diminutive stature, 4’11” and 90 lbs, a world class hacker and computer expert, without going to college, and the target of a government conspiracy to put her in a nuthouse forever so she’ll be of no bother to them for the rest of her life. The two of them combine to unravel a cold case in the first novel, THE GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO, which includes some outstanding investigative work to uncover the corruptions of a wealthy Swedish family and then on to further sleuthing involving new characters and criminal activity in a government bureau polluted with corruption and lies, which is the tenor of both the second novel in the series, THE GIRL WHO PLAYED WITH FIRE and the first part of the third book, THE GIRL WHO KICKED THE HORNET’S NEST, which deals with her recovery from gunshot wounds and her being brought to trial by those who want her out their hair. I am at page 280 of the third novel and I can’t wait to finish it.
If you like Mystery stories, and I do, these are top drawer novels. HORNET’S NEST is currently the best selling hard back in the country, and the other books are one and two in trade-size paperback best sellers. It is no fluke that worldwide sales are 27 million books sold. Larsson is not what you would call an elegant writer or a witty one, like Raymond Chandler or Robert Parker, but if you like a pile-driving narrative pace, Larsson is your man. His three novels are timely stories with relevant characters. Lizbeth Salander is a fabulous creation and a prototypical OUTSIDER. She has won me over completely. She is my role model in the war against big shots, inauthentic shrinks who do the bidding of the Ruling Class, and governmental activity that is more for the benefit of officials then for the people they were elected to protect and serve. Wow, doesn’t that sound familiar?
Cheers,
JWP
Saturday, July 3, 2010
The 74th day of the oil spill in the Gulf
2010_7_02 Today marks the 74th day of the oil spill in the gulf
In his Wednesday column Paul Krugman said we are in the early stages of the nation’s third Depression, which he termed a “Long Depression” rather than a Great Depression. The dynamic of what we are experiencing is slump, improvement, relapses. There will be an immense cost due to a failure of policy and because the G20 are obsessing about inflation and belt-tightening. PK said that the real threat is from deflation and inadequate spending. The recession brought on in 2008 and 2009 by the financial crisis caused by Wall Street caused in turn the catastrophic unemployment which has ravaged the working and middle classes, now in the grips of long term unemployment, while the rich continue to get richer due to their preeminence and predominance in the country’s financial structure which has been protected by the policies of a naïve and not-aggressive-enough Obama administration. The unemployment situation shows no sign of truly abating or being remedied. According to Les Leopold 30 million people are unemployed or stuck with part time work. The Old Time Religion is in force right now—hard money and balanced budget orthodoxy—and Obama and his cohorts don’t seem able to cope with it.
In his column today PK was equally pessimistic and super-critical. He said he and some other economists have watched in amazement and horror as a policy of fiscal austerity has come out on top, rather than an expansionary policy of spending and stimulus. It is the result of conventional wisdom that has no relation to facts; he equates it with a fairy tale, with a channeling of Herbert Hoover. So the western countries remain mired in a deep Recession. He calls the counties we have borrowed from “Bond Vigilantes,” and our fear is they will call in our debt. There is a puritanical foundation to this conventional wisdom and fear, a paranoid worry that the other guy, who is so different then we are, will take us over, and that applies to Islomofacism as well as Saudi Arabia and China, the main Bond Vigilantes. Conventional wisdom argues that austerity will create confidence and economic growth, which is why we must appease the Bond Vigilantes. Alan Greenspan calls these worries “the canary in the mines.” He ends his column with this advice: “ The next time you hear serious-sounding people explaining the need for fiscal austerity…you’ll discover that what sounds like hardheaded realism actually rests on a foundation of fantasy, on the belief that invisible vigilantes will punish us it we are bad and the confidence fairy will reward us if we we’re good. And real-world policy—policy that will blight the lives of working families—is being built on that foundation.”
Naomi Wolf writes that innocent individuals are being punished for a crisis created by the derivative traders and absentee regulators. She also has recently pointed out that the G 20 was founded by Paul Martin of France and Larry Summers who allowed bank consolidation and refused to regulate derivatives. They were taking care of their own kind.
Christopher Hitchens has esophageal cancer and has cancelled his schedule for the rest of the summer to seek chemo treatment for his affliction.
The paradox for Republicans is this: They want to regain control of the government in November when they hate it with a passion and want only to make it dysfunctional and ineffective. The only thing it is good for is building up out military and our number one status in the world. The rest of the government they want to “drown in a bathtub.”
CNN has lost 7 anchors this year;
1.) Larry King…He is retiring from his show which has been falling in the ratings. There is a rumor that Ryan Seacrest will take King’s place. He is a juvenile delinquent who will probably have a naked lady Gaga as his first guest. Larry King had stiff competition once Rachel Maddow showed up on MSNBC,
2.) Campbell Brown…Another victim of poor ratings, as she was up against the popular Keith Olbermann on MSNBC. So far she hasn’t shown up any place else,
3.) Christiane Amanpour…She decided to move over to ABC where she was offered THIS WEEK, their thriving Sunday show. She’s a good journalist and I am glad to see she found a good spot to operate from.
4.) Lou Dodds…He has dreams of running for president or being Black Bart on the border.
5.) Gerri Willis…Their Finance adviser (Went to Fox Business Channel)
6.) Erica Hill…Daytime anchor (Went to the EARLY SHOW on CBS)
7.) Betty Nguyen…Saturday Morning Anchor (Now a CBS Correspondent)
Eliot Spitzer and Kathlene Parker are going to team together in the slot previously occupied by Campbell Brown. Spitzer, the disgraced ex-Governor of New York, is in the midst of a comeback, which is a good thing because he is a bright, talented man whose positive contributions can’t be ignored. Parker is a syndicated columnist who I rarely read, so I can’t say much about her. But I suspect Spitzer will be the heavyweight of the pairing.
ABC EVENING News showed a picture of an Alabama beach tonight from one year ago and the beach was crawling with people, in the water and out. Today, the 74th day of the BP oil spill, there was nary a soul on that beach.
In his Wednesday column Paul Krugman said we are in the early stages of the nation’s third Depression, which he termed a “Long Depression” rather than a Great Depression. The dynamic of what we are experiencing is slump, improvement, relapses. There will be an immense cost due to a failure of policy and because the G20 are obsessing about inflation and belt-tightening. PK said that the real threat is from deflation and inadequate spending. The recession brought on in 2008 and 2009 by the financial crisis caused by Wall Street caused in turn the catastrophic unemployment which has ravaged the working and middle classes, now in the grips of long term unemployment, while the rich continue to get richer due to their preeminence and predominance in the country’s financial structure which has been protected by the policies of a naïve and not-aggressive-enough Obama administration. The unemployment situation shows no sign of truly abating or being remedied. According to Les Leopold 30 million people are unemployed or stuck with part time work. The Old Time Religion is in force right now—hard money and balanced budget orthodoxy—and Obama and his cohorts don’t seem able to cope with it.
In his column today PK was equally pessimistic and super-critical. He said he and some other economists have watched in amazement and horror as a policy of fiscal austerity has come out on top, rather than an expansionary policy of spending and stimulus. It is the result of conventional wisdom that has no relation to facts; he equates it with a fairy tale, with a channeling of Herbert Hoover. So the western countries remain mired in a deep Recession. He calls the counties we have borrowed from “Bond Vigilantes,” and our fear is they will call in our debt. There is a puritanical foundation to this conventional wisdom and fear, a paranoid worry that the other guy, who is so different then we are, will take us over, and that applies to Islomofacism as well as Saudi Arabia and China, the main Bond Vigilantes. Conventional wisdom argues that austerity will create confidence and economic growth, which is why we must appease the Bond Vigilantes. Alan Greenspan calls these worries “the canary in the mines.” He ends his column with this advice: “ The next time you hear serious-sounding people explaining the need for fiscal austerity…you’ll discover that what sounds like hardheaded realism actually rests on a foundation of fantasy, on the belief that invisible vigilantes will punish us it we are bad and the confidence fairy will reward us if we we’re good. And real-world policy—policy that will blight the lives of working families—is being built on that foundation.”
Naomi Wolf writes that innocent individuals are being punished for a crisis created by the derivative traders and absentee regulators. She also has recently pointed out that the G 20 was founded by Paul Martin of France and Larry Summers who allowed bank consolidation and refused to regulate derivatives. They were taking care of their own kind.
Christopher Hitchens has esophageal cancer and has cancelled his schedule for the rest of the summer to seek chemo treatment for his affliction.
The paradox for Republicans is this: They want to regain control of the government in November when they hate it with a passion and want only to make it dysfunctional and ineffective. The only thing it is good for is building up out military and our number one status in the world. The rest of the government they want to “drown in a bathtub.”
CNN has lost 7 anchors this year;
1.) Larry King…He is retiring from his show which has been falling in the ratings. There is a rumor that Ryan Seacrest will take King’s place. He is a juvenile delinquent who will probably have a naked lady Gaga as his first guest. Larry King had stiff competition once Rachel Maddow showed up on MSNBC,
2.) Campbell Brown…Another victim of poor ratings, as she was up against the popular Keith Olbermann on MSNBC. So far she hasn’t shown up any place else,
3.) Christiane Amanpour…She decided to move over to ABC where she was offered THIS WEEK, their thriving Sunday show. She’s a good journalist and I am glad to see she found a good spot to operate from.
4.) Lou Dodds…He has dreams of running for president or being Black Bart on the border.
5.) Gerri Willis…Their Finance adviser (Went to Fox Business Channel)
6.) Erica Hill…Daytime anchor (Went to the EARLY SHOW on CBS)
7.) Betty Nguyen…Saturday Morning Anchor (Now a CBS Correspondent)
Eliot Spitzer and Kathlene Parker are going to team together in the slot previously occupied by Campbell Brown. Spitzer, the disgraced ex-Governor of New York, is in the midst of a comeback, which is a good thing because he is a bright, talented man whose positive contributions can’t be ignored. Parker is a syndicated columnist who I rarely read, so I can’t say much about her. But I suspect Spitzer will be the heavyweight of the pairing.
ABC EVENING News showed a picture of an Alabama beach tonight from one year ago and the beach was crawling with people, in the water and out. Today, the 74th day of the BP oil spill, there was nary a soul on that beach.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
2010_6_22 The Tattoo that Roared
As Kai and I were leaving the theater after seeing “The Girl in the Dragon Tattoo” an old man with a slight tremor tapped me on the shoulder and asked me if I had read the book. I told I had and I had started the second installment this morning. He had read all three already. “So what did you think of this film versus the book?” Without hesitation I said, “It is a bare bones travesty of the novel; the script left off a ton of stuff that made the book a more complete experience. “Yes,” he said, obviously confirmed in his own view.
They did boil the elements of the narrative down to their major highlights, while leaving out the connecting links, the slow mechanics of research and sleuthing, and minimizing the role of some characters, for the sake of brevity and compression. Now, this is standard practice in a movie based on a novel, but in this case some relevant material went begging, leaving the film a partial tracing of something much more complex. For example, Mikael Blomkvist two other female relationships, with Erika Berger, his co-editor and owner at MILLINIUM, the magazine both of them had started, and Ceilia Vanger, One of Henrik Vanger’s nieces, are barely mentioned. Lizbeth Salander, the girl with the tattoo, had a boss at Milton Security and her first Guardian; both were missing entirely. They were all cut out to focus in a lean and hungry way on the crime pattern which is, after all, the guts of the story.
I think I see why the book, the trilogy, has had such a phenomenal success. It pits two ‘Odd Couple’ sleuths against a wealthy and largely corrupt family and a shady financier who, with diligent research and imagination, the two amateur detectives bring down, the improbable victors on the side of truth, integrity and, in their fashion, liberal values. The Odd Couple is composed of Blomkvist, an investigative journalist, a conventional guy but a man dedicated to his profession, and the other a Goth female, always dressed in black, with black lipstick, rings in her nose, covered with tattoos, 25 years old, 4’ 11” & 90 lbs, very thin, flat-chested, and antisocial, with no social graces whatsoever, with a dark past of sexual abuse and god knows what else. She also happens to have a photographic memory; she is also a world class hacker and a brilliant researcher. Blomkvist is hired by 82 year old Henrik Vanger, the founder of the fortune and ex-CEO of the company, to investigate a cold case, the disappearance and probable murder of his favorite niece, Harriet Vanger, who vanished 36 years ago. The rest of the family is unhappy about this digging into family history and bitch about it from the get-go. Henrik knows the rest of the family is waiting for him to die; he knows how low-down and greedy they are—he doesn’t know the half of it.
Actually, Blomkvist and Salander are on parallel paths and don’t come together until page 320; once they come together the pace of the investigation picks up. Some old photographs provide then with the big break and they uncover the family demons; they discover not only sexual abuse, incest, and lingering Nazi sympathies involving dead and living brothers, but a gruesome history of serial killings of young women coming down to the present, approaching 25 t0 30 victims. In fact, the title of the movie in Swedish was “The Men Who Hated Women.” The CEO of the Vanger Business is Martin Vanger and he turns out to be the serial killer, picking up from where his father left off years ago. Their money and prestige protected them for decades. When Martin talks to Mikael about the murders he is furious with him for blowing his cover. He tells the journalist how he enjoyed torturing and snuffing out the lives of young women, most of them “prostitutes and immigrants, the kind of creatures no one would miss, and now you want to ruin my fun.”
The class element that emerges made me think of the case of Leopold and Loeb, the two bright rich boys in Chicago in the 1920s who killed a boy just for the fun of it and to see if they could get away with it. They were defended by Clarence Darrow in a famous trial. Martin, another rich prick with lust and murder as a pastime,
wanted to keep on butchering the “small people’ for amusement.
But it is Lizbeth Salander who is the star of the show. The actress is Noomi Rapace and she is perfect for the part; she has created a persona that rivals the Lizbeth in the novel. There is a rumor going around that David Fincher wants to do a version of the story, with maybe Daniel Craig as Blomkvist and Natalie Portman as Lizbeth. I don’t know, right now it hard to think someone else being Lizbeth, with that skinny little body and cold hard stare. Manohla Dargis her review in the New York Times called her a “devil doll.” Well, she figured out what Martin Vanger was under the gloss of a successful industrialist and because she did she was able saved Blomkvist from certain death. She was, when all was said and done, more guardian angel the devil doll.
As Kai and I were leaving the theater after seeing “The Girl in the Dragon Tattoo” an old man with a slight tremor tapped me on the shoulder and asked me if I had read the book. I told I had and I had started the second installment this morning. He had read all three already. “So what did you think of this film versus the book?” Without hesitation I said, “It is a bare bones travesty of the novel; the script left off a ton of stuff that made the book a more complete experience. “Yes,” he said, obviously confirmed in his own view.
They did boil the elements of the narrative down to their major highlights, while leaving out the connecting links, the slow mechanics of research and sleuthing, and minimizing the role of some characters, for the sake of brevity and compression. Now, this is standard practice in a movie based on a novel, but in this case some relevant material went begging, leaving the film a partial tracing of something much more complex. For example, Mikael Blomkvist two other female relationships, with Erika Berger, his co-editor and owner at MILLINIUM, the magazine both of them had started, and Ceilia Vanger, One of Henrik Vanger’s nieces, are barely mentioned. Lizbeth Salander, the girl with the tattoo, had a boss at Milton Security and her first Guardian; both were missing entirely. They were all cut out to focus in a lean and hungry way on the crime pattern which is, after all, the guts of the story.
I think I see why the book, the trilogy, has had such a phenomenal success. It pits two ‘Odd Couple’ sleuths against a wealthy and largely corrupt family and a shady financier who, with diligent research and imagination, the two amateur detectives bring down, the improbable victors on the side of truth, integrity and, in their fashion, liberal values. The Odd Couple is composed of Blomkvist, an investigative journalist, a conventional guy but a man dedicated to his profession, and the other a Goth female, always dressed in black, with black lipstick, rings in her nose, covered with tattoos, 25 years old, 4’ 11” & 90 lbs, very thin, flat-chested, and antisocial, with no social graces whatsoever, with a dark past of sexual abuse and god knows what else. She also happens to have a photographic memory; she is also a world class hacker and a brilliant researcher. Blomkvist is hired by 82 year old Henrik Vanger, the founder of the fortune and ex-CEO of the company, to investigate a cold case, the disappearance and probable murder of his favorite niece, Harriet Vanger, who vanished 36 years ago. The rest of the family is unhappy about this digging into family history and bitch about it from the get-go. Henrik knows the rest of the family is waiting for him to die; he knows how low-down and greedy they are—he doesn’t know the half of it.
Actually, Blomkvist and Salander are on parallel paths and don’t come together until page 320; once they come together the pace of the investigation picks up. Some old photographs provide then with the big break and they uncover the family demons; they discover not only sexual abuse, incest, and lingering Nazi sympathies involving dead and living brothers, but a gruesome history of serial killings of young women coming down to the present, approaching 25 t0 30 victims. In fact, the title of the movie in Swedish was “The Men Who Hated Women.” The CEO of the Vanger Business is Martin Vanger and he turns out to be the serial killer, picking up from where his father left off years ago. Their money and prestige protected them for decades. When Martin talks to Mikael about the murders he is furious with him for blowing his cover. He tells the journalist how he enjoyed torturing and snuffing out the lives of young women, most of them “prostitutes and immigrants, the kind of creatures no one would miss, and now you want to ruin my fun.”
The class element that emerges made me think of the case of Leopold and Loeb, the two bright rich boys in Chicago in the 1920s who killed a boy just for the fun of it and to see if they could get away with it. They were defended by Clarence Darrow in a famous trial. Martin, another rich prick with lust and murder as a pastime,
wanted to keep on butchering the “small people’ for amusement.
But it is Lizbeth Salander who is the star of the show. The actress is Noomi Rapace and she is perfect for the part; she has created a persona that rivals the Lizbeth in the novel. There is a rumor going around that David Fincher wants to do a version of the story, with maybe Daniel Craig as Blomkvist and Natalie Portman as Lizbeth. I don’t know, right now it hard to think someone else being Lizbeth, with that skinny little body and cold hard stare. Manohla Dargis her review in the New York Times called her a “devil doll.” Well, she figured out what Martin Vanger was under the gloss of a successful industrialist and because she did she was able saved Blomkvist from certain death. She was, when all was said and done, more guardian angel the devil doll.
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