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Wednesday, Nov 15, 2006


They say time heals all wounds. They also argue that vengeance simmers like a stone in the soul. Combining to two should result in an exercise in forced forgiveness, a chance to let the calendar calm the pain and the distance of decades to erode away the desire for payback. But sometimes, the opposite happens, especially when the reason for the ache is ambiguous, and the manner in which it was administered unnecessary. There are those occasions where an individual’s own guilt is so strong, their life path so strewn with evil and amoral choices, that no amount of time could solve their rage. Instead, the need for retribution burns like a furnace, charring everything around it in a swath of sadness and madness.


This is what happens to two interconnected souls – unimportant businessman Dae-su Oh and wealthy playboy Woo-jin Lee. One has a misguided vendetta against the other. Said victim has a clear grudge against the man who he believes imprisoned him unnecessarily for 15 years. As complicated a game of cat and mouse as the cinema has ever seen, Chan-wook Park’s OldBoy stands as a monument to the Nu-Asia genre of film, and South Korea’s domination of the category in general. As part of his brilliant Vengeance Trilogy (including Sympathy for Mr. Vengeance and Lady Vengeance) Park’s middle act marries Western ideas of violence as vindicator with Eastern elements of honor, status and cruelty. It is safe to say that both protagonist and antagonist here are equally guilty of transgressions against the other. What isn’t so clear is what payback will gain them, if anything.


This was part of Park’s design all along. In a stunning new three disc tin box collector’s set from Tartan Video, the process behind this provocative motion picture is laid bare, with the director divulging as many behind the scenes processes as possible to amplify the theme of his movie. In essence, OldBoy is part thriller, part primer on the horrors of hate. Park professes to purposefully making his characters blank and unemotional, channeling all their inner emotion into their meticulous plans for reprisal. In Dae-su Oh’s case (brilliantly essayed by actor Min-sik Choi) the years of isolation, brainwashing, hypnotism and torture have left him literally empty inside, except for a festering need to find out who kidnapped him after that late night of drinking, as well as why he’s been stashed away from the rest of the world for a decade and a half.


In the case of Woo-jin Lee, the stakes are slightly more obscure. A dandy on the outside, but unmentionably dark on the inside, actor Ji-tae Yu turns the enigmatic catalyst for all of Dae-su Oh’s problems into a formidable foe, a man building his entire life’s desire onto one easily collapsible plan of payback. In the film’s narrative Woo-jin’s house of corrupt cards can fall at any moment. Dae-su can give up his quest. The mobsters he’s working with can decide to double cross him. The use of unscientific notions like hypnosis could collide with happenstance, and truth could be unveiled without the commiserate comeuppance the man is looking for. From his palatial penthouse (purposefully designed by Park to reflect an individual making existence more complicated than it has to be), to the overly intricate plan that’s supposed to satisfy his hurt, Woo-jin is the worst kind of bad guy – focused, yet formless. With him, anything can happen…and almost always does. 


That is indeed the point of OldBoy. Park’s participation in a series of commentary tracks for this new release highlight how he carefully crafted his plot to leave questions in the audience’s mind about who’s the hero and who’s the heavy. Clearly, when considered side by side, Dae-su has the most understandable need for revenge. He’s been imprisoned, and as a result, lost to the world (including his family) for more than one complete generation. Though his life is loaded with misdeeds, he can’t fathom the crime he committed to require such an unexpected and uncompromising sentence. Still, Park wants to make sure that Dae-su is not considered completely innocent. As a matter of fact, the moments of animalistic violence used as steps toward the final denouement are meant to highlight the character’s clear proclivity toward such anti-social behavior.


It is these amazing moments, like the stunning hallway/hammer fight completed in one magnificent take (with a little technical tweaking here and there) that takes up most of the second DVD’s documentary run time. Park is a proficient director, completely capable of improvising on the spot and screwing with the cinematic paradigm to foster a furtherance of his occasionally lofty goals. All throughout the box set, we see moments where experiments are attempted, diversions are crafted, and input from the cast and crew are taken, each moving the film into differing dynamic directions. Similarly, Park professes to having a homage-heavy style, and its interesting to hear about how certain sequences – like the high school foot chase through time - were inspired by other directors (Brian DePalma) and their efforts (Dressed to Kill).


Even more intriguing, Park used varying subliminal visual cues throughout OldBoy, hoping to affect the perception of what is happening while dropping hints along the way of the connections between the characters. For example, Woo-jin Lee is represented by the color purple (which in many Asian cultures symbolized death), while Dae-su is surrounded by browns and greens (with their obvious overtures toward decay and rot). In some of the supplemental material, we see how the art direction was purposefully fashioned to exploit this ideal as well as set up secret warnings that only the most observant viewer would possible pick up. Other times, Park uses particular filmmaking styles – a documentary approach for the opening, an obvious artsy method during the incarceration and isolation material. In fact, it is safe to say that OldBoy represents a masterful competition between acuity vs. actuality. What we see on the screen can sometimes be much more important than what is actually happening between the characters. 


But because of the mannerisms he employs overall, like staging a car crash with the vehicles poised at Los Angeles and New York, respectively, part of OldBoy‘s brilliance is the way in which it gets to that final confrontation. Even more amazing, Park purposefully pulls back during the all important showdown, using unusual aesthetic choices to challenge the viewer’s preconceived notions of what should occur. Fights flourish behind low, ambient music. Confrontations are lax, left unknown by choices in camera angle and framing. This is all part of the plan, a choice made by Park to prepare the audience for anything and everything. One of the more magical elements of OldBoy is that, even if you can predict everything that’s going to happen, Park is already several steps ahead, ready to thwart your most considered expectations with his mesmerizing tricks.


Oddly, the two individuals most responsible for the issues between the men - Woo-jin’s sister Lee Soo-ah and Dae-su’s gal pal, Mi-do – are more or less left on the outskirts of the story, their identity far more important than the part they play in each character’s current situation. Park argues that this was not a determined slight, one that should warrant criticism from women’s groups arguing about the downplaying of the female facets of the film. Instead, it’s all part of a bigger symbol being shuttled back and forth – the notion that anger and the need for revenge can blind people to the truth laying right before their eyes. Both actresses here are excellent, giving brave performances that require them to simulate some often scandalous situations. But neither comes across as completely compelling, either. OldBoy makes it clear that, in the realm of defending honor and seeking justice, men make all the decisions – for bad and for good.


That so much meaning can be buried inside what many might view as a Tarantino-esque excuse to overload the screen with brutality and blood argues for the artistic prowess of South Korean cinema, something that Tartan’s new box set sells very well. The third DVD in the set provides a production diary that gives us a day-by-day breakdown of OldBoy‘s filming, and it’s an eye-opener. Gone are the Hollywood mandates for superstar treatment and specialized crewmembers. Missing are the moments when personal and professional desires clash. In their place, we see plenty of hard work, long nights and intense collaborations.  Though presented without clear context or explanatory voiceover narration, this footage argues for an unseen maxim in the Asian movie business. Many fans feel that most films are fashioned out of luck, talent, and a sprinkling of magic. The truth is that experiences as exemplary as OldBoy are not the result of some wizard’s spell. They result from a coming together of creative minds all willing to work hard to forge something special.


In OldBoy‘s case, the finished product remains one of the new millennium’s best movies. And when you consider that Park produced companion pieces of equal power as both cinema and stylistic statements, his importance as a creative force cannot be undermined. One of the best things about the DVD format is that it allows for a window into a world – filmmaking – that many of us outside the business would never have an opportunity to experience. With this new three disc release (which includes an English translation of the Japanese Manga “comic” used as the foundation for the storyline), we witness the process that made this film so magnificent. While the final scene of the film may be open to interpretation, Park’s intensions are very clear. OldBoy is indeed a movie about the passage of time. But instead of healing all wounds, or lifting the stone from one’s soul, all that’s created is a path toward personal and metaphysical destruction. It’s as inevitable as the rising and setting of the sun.



Tartan Video‘s Three Disc Ultimate Collector’s Edition version of OldBoy was released on 14 November, 2006. For information on this title from Amazon.com, just click here



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Wednesday, Nov 15, 2006

I woke up this morning as usual to NPR (National Public Radio, or Nice Polite Republicans, as the liberal blogosphere has been calling it), but I heard a piece of news that seemed to come from an alternate reality. It was a BBC report about how the Pakistani parliament was reforming the law that required women to produce four sworn male witnesses before they could proceed with a rape accusation. The reforms, however, did not guarantee that the accuser, the raped woman, would not still be charged with the crime of adultery herself. In my coddled and sheltered little nook of the world, the idea that rape is still regarded in many places as a kind of property crime by men against other men was a little bit shocking. (It certainly puts Borat’s admonitions to the “village rapist” in a different perspective.)


This reminded me of a recent Slate article by economist (and frequently smug contrarian) Steven Landsburg crowing about a study that correlates Internet access and its corresponding distribution of pornography to teens leads to a decrease of the incidence of rape. Landsburg seems pleased because this shows up psychologists and their silly, well-intentioned studies:


Psychologists have found that male subjects, immediately after watching pornography, are more likely to express misogynistic attitudes. But as professor Kendall points out, we need to be clear on what those experiments are testing: They are testing the effects of watching pornography in a controlled laboratory setting under the eyes of a researcher. The experience of viewing porn on the Internet, in the privacy of one’s own room, typically culminates in a slightly messier but far more satisfying experience—an experience that could plausibly tamp down some of the same aggressions that the pornus interruptus of the laboratory tends to stir up. In other words, if you want to understand the effects of on-screen sex and violence outside the laboratory, psych experiments don’t tell you very much. Sooner or later, you’ve got to look at the data.


As Amanda Marcotte points out, Landsburg and the researcher he cites blithely assume that rape is a crime commited out of sexual frustration, from an inability to find a lawful receptacle for lusty impulses, just as public urination is a crime caused by the unlucky perpetrator’s inability to find a suitable bathroom. They don’t recognize the view that rape is first and foremost a hate crime and has little to do with sexual desire—instead it expresses contempt for the victim and a desire to see them suffer and be put in their place. A reason why patriarchal societies are hesitant to criminalize it, then, is because it’s an enforcement tool (think of prisons) for assuring subordination. It reminds victims that not even their bodies belong to them. As Marcotte asks, ” if rape is motivated by sexual frustration, why do rapists so often brutalize their victims more than is ‘necessary’ to subdue them? And if it’s about getting off, why do rapists do things like throw their victims out to walk home in a humiliating state of undress, if they aren’t enjoying the suffering?”


But if Landsburg’s assumptions are correct, and porn can be substituted for rape, that might actually be worse, because then the implication would be all men who look at porn (i.e. pretty much all men) are basically would-be rapists, and that looking at sexualized women is tantamount to raping them (as antiporn feminists have claimed all along). Marcotte asks


So is porn a way to release sexual tension so men don’t rape? Or are the defenders of porn-as-a-crime-preventative saying that porn is a substitute for rape itself, the urge to violently hurt and humiliate women? If porn is basically rape-by-proxy, then are they implying that all men who look at porn want to hurt women?


Is that assumption so much of a stretch in a society dependent on female subordination? In such a society, all men are supposed to want to hurt women, to its structure apparent to all. Pornography then would have to be considered a product to accomodate men whose culture encourages them to think of rape as their natural hierarchical right but can’t bring themselves to actually enact the droit du seigneur. They are supposed to be raping, to demonstrate their rightful place in patriarchal society, and reinforce the rules of that society, but instead take the cowardly way out and merely “rape” women by consuming them in pictures or videos. These pictures and videos then stand in for all the consequently uncommitted rapes as the evidence patriarchy requires to show that it still adheres. Thus the creepy subtext of Landsburg’s article: “These women are lucky there’s Internet porn around, or else more of us would have to resort to harsher measures to show them their place.” Let’s just hope Marcotte’s right (that rape may be diminishing because patriarchy is waning and feminism has reeducated society), and that this study merely amounts to evidence of how some people strongly wish this link between rape and pornography existed, so that pornography could continue to be a proxy for the fear women are supposed to feel, but are hopefully feeling less and less (outside of places like Pakistan, that is). If the massive mountain of Internet porn is a pile of possible rapes (throw into this the frequent assumption that women are coerced, literally or economically or psychologically into appearing in pornography), then it can be lorded over women as so many cautionary tales—a gendered take on that moment in Do the Right Thing: No matter how nice the men in your life seem to be, here’s what they think about you.


Not that pornography isn’t ever a tool of oppression and exploitation, but as I’ve written before, I think pornography serrves primarily as a model for commmercializing natural experience—the leading edge in making all experience subject to mediation, packaging, impusle buying, etc.—all the hallmarks of quotidian life in consumer society. An interesting question is to what degree pornography’s position in consumer society suggests that such a society must also be patriarchal/sexist.


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Tuesday, Nov 14, 2006

Cemetery Man [Anchor Bay - $19.98]


Cemetery Man is a most unusual horror film. Actually it’s not really a horror film at all. Certainly, it has nods to the normal macabre ideals—zombies and murders and the foul stench of death. Still, this is not really a chiller. Instead, it’s a thriller, in the most soul-uplifting definition of the word. It is a movie so bafflingly beautiful that it argues for its acceptance as art. Anyone coming to this movie hoping to continue their fascination with flesh-eating corpses will have to get their Romero/Fulci fill elsewhere. In the hands of the amazing Michele Soavi, this is moviemaking as poetry, cinema as stunning visual feast. It remains one of the most important fantasy films ever made, one that shows the true power inherent in thoughts and imagery.


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Tuesday, Nov 14, 2006


Another PopMatters review by Cynthia Fuchs


Dreams are the lies we tell ourselves when we’re asleep. They are the pictures we paint when words can’t give life to our longing. Dreams deceive and dreams demand. They are the symptoms of obsession and the co-conspirators of passion. It is so easy for us to get lost in them, to cast off the real worries of the everyday world and bask in the warming, soothing glow of our ultimate goals that we often find ourselves drowning in a flood of fantasy that’s near impossible to permeate. Call them pipe or fevered, the meanderings of a mind misplaced or the silent whispers of the secure soul, but they never fail to enrage and inspire. What we see inside them makes us drunk, the hope we harbor in them making us helpless.


Some would say that nothing great can be accomplished without dreams. It’s a rationale stemming from the creation and consideration of ideas bigger and brighter than those of the normal mind. Skyscrapers aren’t the stuff of pragmatics. An oil on canvas masterpiece cannot derive from a brain based in logic. Somewhere locked inside all of us is a secret stash of aptitude, an untapped pool of skill and talent that only dreams have access to. If they can find a way to funnel this fuel into your workaday world, the epic and the mystical are just an active attitude away. Yet sometimes, the conduit can grow greedy, sucking up everything you have until you are dry and drained. Other times, the channel can crack, leaving you without any access whatsoever. It takes a rare individual to properly manage their vision vitals, applying them when appropriate, controlling the stream to keep it clear and consistent.


Such a person is filmmaker Werner Herzog. Staunchly individualistic, answering to no one but himself, and immersed in an aesthetic that combines characters with their cinematic environments to illustrate what exists in both, there is probably no other director as closely tied to his own heroic hallucinations as he. The result has been some of the finest films ever made. There has also been great folly, and more than a few fumbles along the way. Nowhere was this decisive dichotomy clearer than on the set of his film Fitzcarraldo. Herzog has a singular vision for his story, a visual that no film since has ever dared match. What that idea was became the basis for Les Blank and Maureen Gosling’s brilliant documentary Burden of Dreams. Fortunately, the man who forged that thought makes an equally compelling example of visualization inviolate as well.


In 1976, Herzog headed to the Amazon to film his simple story of a turn of the century man of means so in love with opera that he had visions of opening a music hall in the middle of the jungle, just so Enrico Caruso could christen it with a concert. A two-time Oscar winner and the notorious lead singer of a legendary rock and roll band were hired as stars, and after months of searching, the perfect location was found. All that stood in the way was Herzog’s most ambitious idea ever. Instead of using special effects or miniatures, the director intended to use native labor to move an actual ship up and over a mountain. Five years, another lead actor, and several near-disastrous circumstances later, the movie finally made it into theaters. Like all epic achievements, how Herzog finally got his vision on the screen is the stuff of myth and legend. Documentary filmmakers Les Blank and Maureen Gosling were there to catch most of it. The result is an amazing documentary about the ache of aesthetic and the Burden of Dreams.


Anyone who knows Herzog and/or his movies recognizes that he is a man driven by vision. He has staunchly believed that every facet of a movie, from its actors to its filming, creates its own unique and individual experience. It is up to him, as the overseer of this process, to guide the divergent elements into a coherent whole. He believes that civilization will die without adequate images, and that it is up to filmmakers to craft a new visual grammar. He claims to never dream at night, but does enjoy losing himself in happy hallucination during long walks, or while traveling—potential movies and ideas playing out like plays inside his head. And he is also a man of his word. He once promised a group of actors that he would throw himself into a cactus if they all survived a particularly harrowing production. He still has the broken-off spines in his knee ligaments to confirm his commitment.


Certainly, there have been other rumors—stories of actors threatened with guns, the outrageous endangerment of cast and crew, and a dogmatic focus that occasionally borders on insanity. But it’s hard to discount the results. As a filmmaker, Herzog has helmed several outstanding examples of his mania—movies with titles like Aguirre: The Wrath of God, Where the Green Ants Dream, and Cobra Verde. He has also crafted several sensational documentaries, using the same internal fire to fuel Lessons of Darkness, Little Dieter Needs to Fly, and Grizzly Man. Somewhere amidst all his narratives and investigations, experiments and interpretations lies Fitzcarraldo. Based partly on the director’s desire to return to the Amazon (a favorite locale, not just for moviemaking) and several stories he heard about an actual rubber baron who was fixated on bringing art to the region, this 1982 film has a production history as colorful and disconcerting as the movie that emerged after nearly five nightmare years.


Luckily, Les Blank and his editor/assistant Maureen Gosling were there to commingle in the madness. Originally, the documentarian was hired to film Herzog making good on a bet with fellow filmmaker Errol Morris. Telling the fledgling director that if he ever got his proposed first project off the ground, he would eat his own shoe, Herzog arrived at a screening of Morris’s magnificent Gates of Heaven to consume more than just a little crow. It was during this shoot that Blank learned of the trip to the Amazon and the plans for Fitzcarraldo. Listening to the stories being circulated about what Herzog hoped to accomplish, he knew he had to sign on. The result was a true trip into the heart of darkness, a real life story worthy of Melville or Conrad. Focusing primarily on the movie’s showpiece sequence - the pulling of an actual 320-ton steamship over the top of a mountain—the soon-to-be-known-as Burden of Dreams became the motherlode of all making-of documentaries. In the short span of 95 minutes, Blank and Gosling highlighted everything that could possibly go wrong with a location shoot. They simultaneously created a fact film classic.


Burden of Dreams is more than just a cinematic study of Murphy’s Law and how it applies to moviemaking, however. It’s not just the story of an incredibly driven director and his desire to render fantasy out of the pragmatic. It definitely does deal with the clash of cultures that exists between the international creative community, the loose cannon local Central/South American governments, and the indigenous people of the Amazon basin. As a study in both its subject matter and its setting, it is exciting and evocative. But at its core, this divine documentary is an explanation and an examination. It lifts the lid off of one man’s burning aesthetic designs to see if they are, or ever were, practical in the context of motion picture production. And it proves that, even when all around you doubt and despair, one person’s pure intentions can still stay the course. Fitzcarraldo may seem a lesser legacy in the Herzog canon, but Burden of Dreams proves it was always a mythical project in its creator’s mind.


But there are also a lot of misnomers about this documentary, concepts that must be debunked and debased before really understanding what Blank and Gosling have fashioned. First of all, Burden of Dreams is not a movie about obsession. Obsession suggests an unhealthy preoccupation, a never-ending need that is near impossible to obtain and almost as difficult to quell. Though he appears determined and ambitious, Herzog is not some uncontrolled amateur, hoping to defy the odds to service his craft. Indeed, throughout Burden of Dreams we see a man struggling to keep his internal aspiration alive and kicking. Several times, as odds and elements conspire against him, as individual idiosyncrasies threaten to topple his already frail and fragile film, Herzog perseveres. His spirit may be bent, but it has not broken. Even with actors dropping out (original cast members Jason Robards and Mick Jagger left after more than a third of the filming) and rebels burning down his film camp, Fitzcarraldo is a film he must finish. It’s not a matter of obsession; it’s a matter of personal pride.


Burden of Dreams is also not a movie about passion. There is a suggestion of joy and sorrow in such a word, a notion that somehow, this amazing ardor is actually hiding a far more tempered feeling. If anything, Blank’s film focuses on that razor-thin line between obsession, passion and madness, a volatile vortex where all three exist in perfect, peculiar harmony. Herzog is very much a man of fervor when working on his films. We see him stomping through sets, leaping through obstacles, and grabbing extras, making sure they are in the proper place when the cameras roll. But he is not a fiery individual filled with untapped instability. Perhaps it’s because of his Teutonic nature, or his steadfast focus, but Herzog’s proposed passion is all internalized and indirect. Instead of arguing his point, he merely gets up and performs it. When situations seem the most grave or alarming, he simply steps up and argues for a “little less precaution”(such a zombified zeal causes the local structural engineer helping with the ship move to quit). Because he must balance all facets of the film—as any director typically does—Herzog has faith in his ability to control. It is not manic, but measured.


One thing’s for sure: Burden of Dreams is definitely not a movie about courage and fearlessness. People have often gotten the wrong impression about Herzog’s productions. They hear the boasting and the bragging, the lack of personal consideration and dismissal of tenable threats and think there is some kind of death-defying wish to how this director makes movies. In modern terms, some might call it the cult of X-cinema. But once again, this documentary dispenses with such nonsensical sentiments. Herzog states often that his movies are not crafted on the backs of daredevils or those with a reckless disregard for human safety. Instead, he points to nature as the prime culprit, an entity unforgiving and unwilling to compromise or consider. No one tempts fate or dares destiny in Burden of Dreams. Instead, there is a kind of tentative truce with the exotic elements around the production, a peace forged out of respect, not ridiculous risk taking. The only reason these people and their predicament seem so audacious to us is that we know we’d not have had the courage to stand up to the rudiments and fight. Ironically enough, the cast and crew of Fitzcarraldo recognize this as well. Theirs is an action born out of reverence, not carelessness.


And finally, no matter how it may seem on the outside, no matter what you may have heard or what is hinted at in the review, this is not a movie about ego. Sure, sense of self is at play all throughout Burden of Dreams, a steadfast notion of one’s importance and place within the motion picture pecking order (you can’t have the crazed Klaus Kinski on the set and not experience some manner of unrealistic arrogance). But many confuse Herzog’s desire to conquer nature with a hubris as high as a rainforest canopy. In truth, this documentary downplays the importance of the individual and reemphasizes the need for a mutual admiration society on set. Certainly, it’s easy to see why Herzog is pinpointed as a narcissist and egotist. He is the leader of his lunatic asylum, a man trying to pull a ship over a mountain without the aid of optical effects or show business trickery. If he succeeds, he is a genuine genius. If he fails, it’s just another marker in his book of failed folklore.


Blank and Gosling downplay the prima donna for the primitive, making the jungle the most conceited concept in the film. It’s the rapids that are laughing at Herzog as he tries to film his climatic shots. It’s the weather that is crafting the miserable mud that sucks everything in with a cement-like grip. Nature is scoffing at Fitzcarraldo, daring it to take on its tyrannical, titanic facets. It’s the planet that’s puffing its chest. Herzog and company just want to play within its precarious parameters.


So, then what is Burden of Dreams really about? Is it just the story of how a movie was made, or is there really more to the tale than the highly dramatic saga of movie-man vs. nature. At its core, Blank and Gosling have made a film about creativity at the crossroads, a movie that examines the nature of art and those who are driven to discover it. While the Amazon is given a powerful presence here—like Herzog, Blank loves landscapes and uses every opportunity possible to highlight them—this is not a travelogue, not some goofy glorified press kit about a group of neophytes tackling the impenetrable elements of the jungle. Instead, Burden of Dreams describes how a single individual, focused and assured, can wander into the most inhospitable of terrains and craft a vision—a combination of his own ability transformed and tamed by the elements themselves. In addition, the documentary illustrates how such a desire can undermine even the most malleable man. Herzog sighs that he may not make movies upon Fitzcarraldo‘s completion. It is not a sentiment born out of sadness however. It is the result of the joyless juncture that nature and dreams have tossed him into.


As for the accusations leveled against him, Herzog may not be obsessed, but he clearly knows what he wants. We witness take after take of the most humdrum sequences, the filmmaker unsettled by what he sees in the lens. His passive eagerness may be confused with Germanic frigidity, but it could also be the personality of a man who merely intensely intellectualizes everything. In Herzog’s mind, failure is the only fear. The rest of the potential problems can be overcome with professionalism and preparedness. Ego has a place, an ultimate slot at the right hand of dreams. It takes a special kind of madness to make art out of actuality—to literally move mountains to sanctify your sense of scope. When Fitzcarraldo finally arrived in theaters, the steamship steadily climbing up the Earth became a symbol for Herzog’s efforts to manage his muse. Thanks to Burden of Dreams, we realize that there was much more to said coping and control than rage, risk, and regret. There was a dream, in all its fanciful, fatalistic glory. Someone had to carry the yoke. This amazing documentary suggests that there was no better beast for such a burden than the man who forged it in the first place.


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Tuesday, Nov 14, 2006

Tyler Cowen links to a study that asserts that, counter to the American Beauty/John Cheever view, living in the suburbs can enhance your social life and yield more and deeper friendships. According to a news story about it,


The study, released by the University of California at Irvine, found that for every 10 per cent decrease in population density, the chances of people talking to their neighbours weekly increases by 10 per cent, and the likelihood they belong to hobby-based clubs jumps by 15 percent. “We found that interaction goes down as population density goes up. So, turning it around, it says that interaction is higher where densities are lower,” says Jan Brueckner, an economics professor at UC Irvine who led the study. “What that means is suburban living promotes more interaction than living in the central city.”


I’m not sure that last bit of logical jujitsu is all that useful, but my empirical observations of living in New York City, where the density is fairly high, bears out the idea that interaction decreases with density—other people are simply too numerous to be acknolwedged, and too likely to be strange (from some totally unknown origin, with some utterly unexpected agenda). One naturally raises one’s guard against the people who press against you, and for better or worse, one derives methods to assess people by their looks and use those judgments to insulate oneself. Where density is lower, the population is more homogenous and the interactions occur in more mangable numbers and at more managable intervals so that one is willing to make oneself present for them.


I suppose it makes sense the hobby-group joining behavior would be higher in the suburbs as well, because special effort must be taken to join things in order to particpate in social life— otherwise you can remain isolated in one’s private household, sealed off from neighbors by yards and cars and all the rest of the infrastructure of the atomized nuclear family. Whereas in a dense city, a walk down a street is enough to evoke that feeling of social connection. (To paraphrase Nigel Tufnel, “Too much fucking connection”.) The very obviousness of how our choices impact one another—the pressures other people’s decisions put on you—in a city may make us balk at social activity, dream of withdrawal, dream of passing a day without other people dictacting so much of how we might feel, or worrying about how what we do inevitably afflicts others. The pressure to conform, be different, be in fashion, be considerate, be aware of what you are doing, etc.—all these are palpably acute in the city, and we are routinely confronted with our choices yielding disappointing outcomes due to the presence of so many others making similar decisions. (You can tell I’ve been reading about game theory, I guess.)  In the suburbs, where the communities are planned to mask that (and thus encourage us in a naive faith in the sovreignty of individual choice) we believe we can choose the terms on which we interact and are affected by others, and this likely plays out in voluntary associations that are organized around hobbies. (Not sure though how this meshes with Putnam’s findings in Bowling Alone—it seems unlikely that he could have been so far off.)


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