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by Mike Deane

5 Feb 2009

I feel like I make this proclamation every three months or so, but I’ll say it again: This new Cam’ron song shows promise. Though I say this quarterly, Cam’ron rarely follows up.  The pattern I’ve noticed is that a single is released, it’s weird but promising, it gets no radio play, then Cam fades away and releases another single with the same results.

I’ve found Cam’ron really confusing since his post-Purple Haze drop-off five years ago.  There was his weakish follow-up, Killa Season, and the accompanying movie that he starred in, wrote, directed, and produced (and it’s glaringly obvious on all accounts); there were the beefs with Jay-Z, and 50 Cent; there were a bunch of weird singles, a promising double mixtape, and a general absence from any sort of hip hop media (and one bizarre video as explanation) and his embarrassing appearance on 60 minutes following his shooting.

With this as a brief overview, it’s safe to say that in the past five years Cam’ron has become one of the strangest and more mysterious characters in hip hop.

Still, I’m always caught off guard by Cam’ron’s newest songs; perhaps it’ll be one head-scratching line, or a view-point that makes no sense. Whenever a new Cam’ron song comes out I can rest assured that it’ll be half-way entertaining and even if it’s not very good, Cam’ron always steps it up with at least one WTF moment.

The latest release, “I Hate My Job”, does away with much of the braggadocio, confusion, and messiness, giving a well-made, thought out, relevant and catchy Cam’ron song – something that hasn’t been seen in quite a while.  This is his only release since a spate of ‘almost good’ songs in the autumn of 2008 – which included the exercise in practiced stupidity that was “Bottom of her Pussy Hole”.  This song begins with Cam’ron’s atypical hip hop role playing: a woman working a dead-end job.

by David Pullar

5 Feb 2009

Everyone has a novel in them, they say.  That particular idiom doesn’t make any judgement on whether it’s a good novel people contain.  If you have ever dabbled in fiction writing, you’ll know how much harder it is than you could have ever expected.  Great writers make it seem so natural and effortless.  How could we anticipate the hard slog, lack of inspiration and ease with which we slip into cliché and banality?  Think about how a good idea suddenly seems thin and flimsy the moment you try and write a chapter on it.

It’s not surprising that many people’s early (and later) efforts at writing are terrible in one way or another.  “How Not To Write A Novel”, a new book by Howard Mittelmark and Sandra Newman, is something of a prescription for bad writers, setting out “200 Classic Mistakes and How to Avoid Them”.  From the Guardian’s review, it sounds clever and insightful:

It will have a ludicrous plot, of course, or none. It will have characters who are unbelievable or extremely tiresome, or both. It will be studded with clichés and riddled with the author’s prejudices. Newman and Mittelmark make up typical examples of dreadful prose, often so accurately that even the vainest are likely to recognise their own howlers and lapses of taste.

Naturally, this is going to be hard medicine for most of us to take.  Such a brutal assessment is pretty confidence-destroying at the outset.  Should this book have really been titled How To Not Write A Novel?  Is there any point writing at all?

If you have any pride in your writing, you might get a little defensive.  Aren’t your efforts at least as good as the appalling dog turds that adorn bookstore shelves everywhere?  Think of all the risibly bad books that make it past the publishers for a variety of reasons—celebrity authorship, easy categorisation, general trendiness.  Let’s face it, though.  You and I are not celebrities and no self-respecting publisher is going to take a chance on a self-indulgent, badly-constructed debut novel.  You need to write something good.

There is a point, however, when it all becomes a matter of personal taste.  What Newman and Mittelmark consider inessential digression may be another reader’s climactic scene.  We’ve witnessed this before, in countless works on what novels are supposed to be like.

James Wood, acerbic critic par excellence, recently published “How Fiction Works”.  It’s full of Wood’s own unique prose style and fuelled with his intense literary passion.  It’s also heavily biased towards Wood’s own preferences and tastes—in particular a love of description and characterisation over plot and story.  As Louis Bayard in Salon points out, characterisation and description alone do not great novels make.  Even the most sublime writer needs a plot or story to give the words purpose and shape.  In the end, we’re free to regard or disregard Wood’s (or any other critic’s) opinion at will.

There’s undoubtedly a lot to be learnt by reading about novel construction and learning some basic dos and don’ts.  But in the end, you’ve just got to chance it that someone else is going to like what you do.

by Thomas Britt

5 Feb 2009

Burma VJ was one of the standout documentaries at the 2009 Sundance Film Festival. Recipient of the World Cinema Documentary Editing Award, Anders Ostergaard’s film deftly mixes footage shot by the Democratic Voice of Burma (DVB) with recreated vignettes to tell the story of the 2007 Buddhist monk-led rebellion in Burma. The film makes an interesting screening companion to excellent Grand Jury Prize winner We Live in Public, because both films illustrate the democratization and expanding potential of video and Internet technologies. In the case of Burma VJ, we see how these technologies formed a counter-strike against a repressive government regime intent on suppressing the truth.

by Bill Gibron

4 Feb 2009

She only appears in the last 15 minutes of the film. Her presence is, at first, rather disorienting, since we’ve seen so few adults during the course of the carnage. As she tries to comfort a distraught and very upset Alice, her almost blasé response to the concept of a killer on the loose makes her instantly suspect. Still, we’re willing to go with this well-meaning matriarch, at least, up to a point. And then Betsy Palmer, TV star from decades past, opens up her predatory pearly whites and starts telling the story of a boy…a boy named Jason, and soon we see the light. As the mother of the drowned lad, Mrs. Voorhees means business, and in her line of work (carving up teenagers), business is booming.

As Friday the 13th prepares to celebrate its 30th anniversary (a new unrated DVD has just been released), and with renewed interest in the franchise sparking via a brand new up to date remake, it’s important to look back on the villain who really started it all. No, not that fame whoring lummox named Jason. He took over the splatter mantle when Mommy bought the farm near the end of the original film. No, the real badass of the entire F13 series is the unhinged lady who started it all. As Camp Crystal Lake’s cook back in the ‘50s, Mrs. Voorhees knew her handicapped son needed constant minding. When counselors decided to have sex instead, his death helped her maternal instincts go ballistic.

The entire premise of the first Friday the 13th film is the notion of hedonistic teens paying for their self-indulgent ways. When Steve Christy vows to reopen the failing family business (the camp has had more than its fair share of bad luck in the years proceeding Mrs. Voorhees first spree), he hires a bunch of pot smoking, bed hopping, beer swilling young people to help handle the proposed influx of kids. They are to spend two weeks getting the place in shape before they see the first paying customer. Ironically enough, new cook Annie is picked up hitchhiking, and in a very dramatic and suspenseful scene, has her throat cut while running through the woods.

Thus begins the body count, what all entries in the Friday the 13th franchise are noted for. During the course of this first installment, we get arrows through the throat, axes to the face, knives to the gut, and in perhaps the movie’s most memorable kill, a full blown machete to the head decapitation. It is Mrs. Voorhees who suffers said final humiliation, loosing her noggin after a knockdown drag out lakeside rumble with Alice. The two square-off in typical talking baddie/last girl fashion but what makes the entire scuffle work is the sight of Palmer, well into her 50s by this time, smacking the bejesus out of her costar…and smiling that old school Tinsel Town grin all the while.

Starting around the same time as TV came into its own, Patricia Betsy Hrunek made a name for herself in such popular broadcast fare as the Philco Television Playhouse and Studio One. She also had small but important roles in films like Mr. Roberts and The Last Angry Man. As the ‘60s turned into the ‘70s, she found work on game shows like I’ve Got a Secret. However, her most famous turn may have been as a reporter/personality for then fledgling morning show Today. Along with commercials, talk show appearances, and occasional returns to the stage, Palmer eked out a decent if indefinite career. She was a face you recognized, but you weren’t quite sure about the where and when.

Rumor has it that, desperate for a new car (and the cash to buy same), Ms. Palmer took the role in Friday the 13th, even though she considered the script a “piece of shit”. Receiving $1000 a day for a total of 10 days work, she collected her check and tried to forget her foray into fright. But her performance was so memorable, and the impact of the slasher standard so immediate, that it wasn’t long before Mrs. Voorhees became a true blue arterial spray icon. Thanks to the hulking mutant with a mashed up face and a bullish bad attitude, the woman who gave birth to a thousand slice and dice nightmares instantly begat an entire motherly mythos.

And with good reason. Palmer is electric in the original Friday the 13th, an old ham really bringing home the bacon with her unsane showboating as the marauding madam. With eyes suggestively sparkling with glints of gratuitous hate, and choppers that would make a Great White envious, she doesn’t just chew up the scenery - she takes huge, heaping helpings of backdrop and grinds them up like little children’s hearts. Her Mrs. Voorhees is unstoppable, unconquerable, and unfathomable. Sure, seeing your son die would drive any mother over the edge. But to grab a hatchet and start swinging requires a madness that not even Charlie Manson could manage in a lifetime of incoherent inner monologues.

But Mrs. Voorhees has it all figured out. Her son died at the hands of randy adolescents who couldn’t keep their Eisenhower era hands off each other, so she is going to make sure that generations of the same suffer a similar fatalistic fate. But does this really make her the ultimate horror movie badass? Does her unrepentant desire to kill off anyone associated with Camp Crystal Lake really make her the definitive illustration of wrath unraveled and visceral? The answer, oddly enough, is Hell mofo-ing YES!!! While other killers get to hide behind masks (hockey, Halloween, or otherwise), or go about their gory commerce in Darth Vader like gasps, Palmer puts on a primer for going full blown psycho and never ever stops. She’s committed while needing to be. She’s scary without losing total touch with her aims. And until Alice removes her cranium from her collar, she’s damn successfully at the fine art of splatter.

Like any legitimate legend, Mrs. Voorhees doesn’t overstay her welcome. She battles mightily, takes her machete medicine, and dies like any badass should - directly in the line of sight of her oversized ogre of an undead child. As pure evil, as the Wicked Witch of the West meshed with a spinster aunt whose long since lost her marbles, as the unquestioned inspiration for every slasher film fiend to come afterwards, Betsy Palmer’s work in the original Friday the 13th is greatness personified. While she may not like the terror tag (though she’s recently relented and started attending conventions) and thinks the entire experience was a ‘waste of time and talent’, there’s no denying the impact of her performance. Almost three decades later we’re still talking about PAMELA Voorhees, the devoted parent who took her unquestionable grief a few slaughter-filled steps too far. It’s because of Betsy Palmer that we still cringe…and care.

by Rob Horning

4 Feb 2009

Yves Smith pauses from financial blogging to explain why she is skeptical of Twitter, which she likens to Orwell’s Newspeak. First of all, if you haven’t read the appendix to 1984, you should. The principle of Newspeak is to control how people think by emptying out the language they use for thinking. Orwell imagines some of the technical means for this would be to restrict vocabulary and simplify grammar to the point where complex thought cannot be conveyed and unorthodox thought is impossible for want of the words. (It’s reminiscent of the alleged house style at Bloomberg, where the word “but” is banned.) Smith quotes this passage (among others): “And it was to be foreseen that with the passage of time the distinguishing characteristics of Newspeak would become more and more pronounced—its words growing fewer and fewer, their meanings more and more rigid, and the chance of putting them to improper uses always diminishing.” Twitter, which emulates some of the salient features of Newspeak, is of course perfect for advertising—if you have to stop to think about what’s being said, the persuasion has probably failed. But the most insidious aspect of it is how it encourages us to speak in slogans and catchphrases, to eschew logical exposition of our thoughts for a quick, allusive declaration.

Smith suggests Twitter is a technological means by which we voluntarily adopt Newspeak out of impatience with more complicated modes of discourse. Using herself as an example, she writes,

I notice how the Internet has affected how I read. I have become impatient with longer stories (unless I am on an airplane). I spend most of my time on the Internet, and the vast majority of what I read fits within the browser window. I find that has conditioned my expectations. When confronted with a longer piece (say Sunday New York Times magazine feature or New Yorker length) I find after the first page wondering if it really had to be this long, and often not finishing the piece. Five years ago, I never would have responded this way.
You can’t say anything complicated or nuanced in 140 characters. I am sure readers will provide some cute counterexamples, but try explaining Plato’s cave in those confines. Can’t be done. You might allude to it, but you could not present it to someone who didn’t know about it already. And Twitter encourages people to accept a medium that severely constrains communication, and calls a defect a virtue.

I have noticed a similar transformation in myself. It takes me much more effort to concentrate on longer pieces, and I have to print them out to have any chance. In front of a computer, my mind is always considering the alternatives, almost after each sentence I read. Smith points out how this impatience spreads to interpersonal relations:

It’s one thing to take calls, check texts tweets, or the news when out and about by yourself. But it has become the norm to take them when meeting with others. That reduces the quality of the interaction and sends a message that the person you are with is merely an option, other options are ever present and must be assessed, maybe exercised…. Twitter feeds that addiction, that false sense of urgency. Most things can wait. Indeed, a lot of things are better off waiting. But we are encouraged to be plugged in, overstimulated all the time, at the expense of higher quality human relations.

Higher quality human relations take work, patience, effort to build trust and reciprocity, but they also seem to be the bedrock of human happiness. It’s no wonder that the institutions of consumerism undermine those relations and offer fruitless shortcuts to intimacy that ultimately leave us dependent on technology and products that accelerate our ability to consume in search of personal meaning but never resolve our inner emptiness.

Twitter is supposed to facilitate our relationships by providing “ambient awareness” of the lives of others, but it seems more a way of persuading us to provide a constant stream of information about ourselves to those sureveilling us. In a sense, it ceases to be communication in any conventional sense; instead it reduces communication to the bleeps of a homing beacon. Twitter is a way to become one’s own voluntary RFID tag.

//Mixed media

Robert DeLong Upgraded for 'In the Cards' (Rough Trade Photos + Tour Dates)

// Notes from the Road

"Robert DeLong ups his musical game with his new album In the Cards and his live show gets a boost too.

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