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Wednesday, Jan 24, 2007

If you think that headline’s a little over the top, peep these articles and then tell me that the RIAA and its major label backers aren’t looking to the courtrooms for some quick money as their sales revenues are drying up.  As has been pointed out many times (but still not often enough), they need to spend more on tech innovation and less on litigation if they wanna stick around.


- Music industry threatens ISPs over piracy


- Universal, MySpace set for landmark battle


- Squeezing Money From the Music


- Music downloads in downward trend


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Wednesday, Jan 24, 2007


Usually when the chamber of commerce for some region wants to promote its business friendliness, they put in a multi-spread insert with glossy photos of smiling natives and supplicant political leaders next to scenic vistas and colorful graphs and charts and that sort of thing. And usually some paragraphs of indigestible business speak are inserted to convey the impression that the region knows how the game is played and can speak the lingua franca.


But for this ad, from this week’s Economist, the country of Macedonia has taken a decidedly more straightforward approach. This looks the kind of ad you’d ordinarily see selling used cars or office space, not a nation. Not just a business haven; it’s business heaven! My favorite part is the pencil checking off the outline of the nation on the map, as if a CEO is sitting there studying the European map like a fiendishly diabolical Diplomacy player, deciding finally, “Macedonia? Abundant cheap labor and Wi-Fi? Check!” There’s almost something appealing about this ad’s bluntness, the useful checklist for would-be outsourcers.  There’s no shame, no lip service at all for the victims of globalization. Since the ad was slipped in the middle of a long special section about how justified exorbitant CEO pay really is, perhaps all parties involved assumed no one who didn’t share these values—no one who wouldn’t be appalled at the way just how little the average worker makes is proudly trumpeted as as a benefit—would notice it.


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Tuesday, Jan 23, 2007


Horror films, by their very nature, function as escape in the most primal of forms. They offer a chance for an audience to sit back, relax, and allow their instinctual sense of distress to overwhelm and startle them. As the dread grows thicker and more palpable, the body begins to shed its inhibitions and warrants. By the end of the saga, with the climax pushing the blood and adrenaline through the body at an alarming rate, the entire internal circuitry is alive! Then the lights go on and there is relief. There is catharsis, release, and a dispersion of pent-up emotions and feelings. It is a kind of therapy. It is a daredevil thrill ride. It is a throwback to the very essence of our humanity.


More times than not, the fright flick is a simple statement, a competition between killer and victim, between monster and mankind, for control of who lives and who dies. Occasionally, important social topics can be tossed into the ghouls and goblins. The Exorcist is more about the growing disconnect between single parents and terrifying teen angst than channeling a challenge by Satan. Hellraiser showcases the ultimate betrayal within a marriage—a wife seeking comfort in the bloody, zombified corpse of her husband’s brother. Even something as recent as 28 Days Later wants to warn us about the poisons within—the out-of-control military, animal experimentation, human rage—more than shocking us with the living dead dynamic.


Then there are horror films that work on our psychology, playing with the possibilities and concepts we’re comfortable with, only to twist and subvert them. Directors as diverse as David Lynch, Dario Argento, and David Cronenberg have all fashioned fear out of the circumvention of normal human understanding, from the disgusting dissertation on parenthood known as Eraserhead to the doctors-as-doppelgangers delirium of Dead Ringers. Yet when it comes to being the king of cranial corruption, Georges Franju has no equal. In 1959—while American movies were focusing on monsters and atomic mutations—Franju was inventing the modern mindf*ck fright film. Eyes Without a Face (Les Yeux sans Visage in the native tongue) is one of the landmarks of horror for everything it does, and for all the things it avoids. With the grisly story of a surgeon obsessed with restoring his daughter’s disfigured face, one would expect a gruesome, blood-soaked saga of body snatching, evisceration, and sin. But Eyes Without a Face is a far more complicated and cogent film than that. It wants to discuss issues inherent in both science and the parent/child relationship, as well as focus on forging forceful fear factors.


On the most fundamental basis, Eyes Without a Face is Frankenstein without the monster. Or maybe, it’s more of an incidental look at the creation of a modern Prometheus in parenthood. It’s definitely a tale of science perverted and ego outsized. In the cold, clinical, but still highly compassionate personage of Dr. Génessier, Franju sets up the first of several strict juxtapositions, a directorial device utilized to create both tension and torture. Here is a man well known for his charitable work, and a clinic that has a remarkable success rate with its curative powers. But there is indeed much more to this measured man of science. There is the secret chateau, the foreboding home that hides his most hideous secrets. As he heals the sick, he lies to the police. As he prescribes sedatives and salves, he’s cutting up college girls in his hidden lair. On the outside, he has the smart, serene look of a man of learning. On the inside, he is a raging torrent of disappointment and deranged desire. Between the doctor and Louise, the serene servant who also commits the most heinous of crimes, we have two villains who possess none of the necessary nemesis elements of fright films past. Both Louise and Dr. Génessier give off the aura of human empathy and settled sanity. But when thrust into the painful passion of helping the mangled Christiane regain her face, this couple becomes a study in startling contrasts. Using friendship, familiarity, and force, they befriend and then butcher young women, performing sick acts of surgery for the sake of a single goal.


The centerpiece of Eyes Without a Face is the mid-movie operation sequence, a riveting and revolting slice of slaughter that must have sent the crowds scurrying in the early ‘60s. The step-by-step, slice-by-slice removal of a young woman’s face is violent and vicious enough to make Ed Gein and his cinematic counterpart, Leatherface, extremely happy. Though it’s realized in Franju’s black and white cinematography, it still has the ability to sicken and unsettle—especially when Génessier grabs that long metal prod and starts systematically loosening the flesh from the female’s basic bone structure. By the time we close in to see the skin mask removed in an agonizingly languid take, Franju has accomplished his goal.


A basic reading of the plot would suggest some manner of mean-spirited melodrama, a soggy story of a devoted dad trying everything humanly—and inhumanely—possible to help his child. But Franju wants you to understand just what such devotion means. Though we witness the drugging, the mortifying mutilation of dogs (only suggested, not actually shown), and the laser-sharp focus on his medical objectives, we don’t really understand just how hideous Dr. Génessier’s calling really is until we watch him tear off a human face. When we learn that this is one of several attempts to address his daughter’s disfigurement, the undercurrent of alarm is enhanced. This is a man who will stop at nothing and who will do anything to restore his child. We need to see just how outlandish and extreme his methods will become. Thanks to one of the most ghastly scenes in modern movie macabre, we get the disturbing idea.


Who Dr. Génessier is and what he stands for are all part of Franju’s overriding conceit for Eyes Without a Face. As the title more or less suggests, this is a film concerned with identity and the lack thereof. The entire narrative uses the theme of identification, of who people are and what they are made of, to craft a dissertation on the importance of such a point of personal and professional reference. Looking at all the aspects of the film—the doctor who appears to be a charitable godsend, but actually spends his nights in serial killer-like mayhem; the police who make a living out of deciphering the identity of washed-up corpses, only to try and connect them to specific crimes; the housekeeper who plays both benefactor and assassin—we see that Franju enjoys the double layer of meaning within his characters and circumstances.


Everyone in the film serves double, or even triple purposes. Louise is nurse, confidante and co-conspirator. The ex-fiancé Jacques is business partner (he works with Dr. Génessier), lost lover, and aid to the police. Perhaps in Christiane and her father we have the clearest examples of cross-interpersonal purposes. Dr. Génessier feels guilt as a father, healer, surgeon, specialist, and driver (he caused the accident that disfigured his child), and uses a persona of strict gravity to hide his inner contempt. Christiane is a monster, a maiden, and a victim. She is a vital human being and a shamed shadow of her former self. She’s a reminder of the good times of the past and a constant source of criminally inspired culpability to those she lives with. It is this battle between bickering and battling human personalities and personas that gives Eyes Without a Face a great deal of its uneasy psychological weight. We never know whom we’re going to meet when a particular character arrives onscreen. And this is one of the reasons why the film is so effective in its casual creepiness.


Visuals are also very important to Eyes Without a Face. Indeed, it can be argued that this film is more of a throwback to older, silent film ideas in which imagery told the tale more effectively than words. Franju wants to create specific icons, images that will stand out and resonate beyond their moment in the film. He knows they will taint issues and individuals later on. Once we’ve witnessed the hideous handiwork of the doctor, we begin to worry for all other female characters who show up in the film. When Christiane has a sole, soft-focus moment where her real, fractured face is revealed, her deteriorating mental state suddenly comes into crystal clarity. All of her oddities, the late night phone calls and spectral-like glides around the house, start to make sense. As a masked mirage for most of the film, Christiane’s camouflaged face, a delicate and pristine creation of porcelain doll plainness, leaves an incredible impression. As we see the blank beauty and manufactured polish, we start to wonder if this entire enterprise is not some mad delusion. When she is temporarily “cured” and given a new, flesh façade, Christiane is hauntingly similar to the mask she’s been wearing. She is less than human, a nearly flawless flower that her father is desperate to preserve.


The performance by Edith Scob, a combination of grace and ghoul, is one of the most amazing elements of Eyes Without a Face. Spending most of her screen time behind an expressionless plate, she must convey all her emotion through her eyes and her body movements. Lithe, limber, and very laconic, Christiane troubles her home like a pretty poltergeist; a sad, simple shape longing to be normal again. It’s these pictographic elements that make Eyes Without a Face so memorable, moving the movie beyond the basic scare tactics of horror films.


From the surgical set piece to the clever use of a montage of photographs to illustrate Christiane’s disintegrating post-operative face, Franju was ahead of his time with Eyes Without a Face, both as a storyteller and as a visionary. In 1959, most horror films were dealing with outrageous elements and even more illogical circumstances to sell their scares. No one, save for Hitchcock, was looking at horror from a serious, adult format. But Franju obviously understands how much power there is in treating his subject with deep and abiding respect. From a narrative standpoint, his film is a study in simple construction and plotting. We see a crime at the start of the story, and then it is connected to Génessier (although not how you think). Then we move through the entire murder/mutilation angle before the third act action draws its denouement.


Directorially, Franju never cheats the audience. Everything is out in the open in Eyes Without a Face, never thrust to the background or hinted at in suggestion. Surely the film has its secrets (the experiments with the dogs are only hinted at), and obviously not all the horror is played out immediately. But what Franju is attempting is to drag the fright film out of the realm of the supernatural and the bizarre and frame it within the everyday world of contemporary France. There is never a desire to blame all the badness on spirits or demons. Franju knows that man is the ultimate evil in the world, and it is via the hand of the human that all the wickedness and destruction occurs. It is easy to blame acts of debasement and immorality on unseen entities bloated with the power to pervert. It is another thing all together to see and champion said tendency toward sin in one’s fellow man. This is what Eyes Without a Face is illustrating. We may be able to act without impunity, or a “face,” but our souls (which our eyes are the windows into) will always know our betrayal.


It is this matter-of-fact, straightforward approach in combination with horribly misguided motivations that makes Eyes Without a Face one of the classics of contemporary horror. It is a building block, a stepping-stone between the Universal idiom of beasts and baddies and the modern notions of terror around every real-world corner. It lays the foundation for numerous innovations within the genre as it utilizes old dark house Gothic parameters to meet its needs. Though some may consider it tame by the Raimi / Romero/ Argento standards of blood and guts, its mixture of the beautiful with the baneful, the gorgeous with the grotesque, is more unsettling than any overblown gorefest.


Though Georges Franju was working within a well-known format in his native France (Pierre Boileau and Thomas Narcejac, the famous writing duo behind Diabolique and Vertigo, crafted the crime story here) he was also attempting to expand the movie macabre, moving it out of the unreal regions of life and existence and into the concrete jungle of the actual world we live in. From its moody, magnificent look to an ending that suggests both destruction and rebirth, Eyes Without a Face is a monumental achievement in the arena of psychological horror. It shocks as it soothes, simultaneously confronting and comforting us. It is that rarity from the early part of cinema’s history, and yet it resonates more readily with a present-day audience than perhaps it did with individuals in its time. After all, back in the late ‘50s, we were mostly unaware of the evil going on right under our noses. Today, we practically wallow in it. Eyes Without a Face is a fascinating, frightening experience.


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Tuesday, Jan 23, 2007

I’m glad to see someone else take an interest in the subject of self-checkout lines. The Economist blogger comes to some of the same conclusions I did when I posted about this a few months ago after an ill-fated trip to Home Depot, only she is far more sanguine about their usefulness:


Much more important, however, ringing up my own purchases obviates what is, for me, the worst feature of buying groceries:  waiting for the checkout girl.  (It is almost always a girl.)  I can be driven to near-insane heights of irritation by someone slowly counting out the money in her drawer while I wait to pay, or chatting merrily to the customers or other employees.  On the other hand, I am perfectly comfortable waiting patiently for my own stupidity to subside.  Self-checkout lines may seem to be an imposition by profit-hungry companies, but in reality, they provide an extremely valuable service to those of us who are terminally impatient:  they give us the illusion of control.


As my frequent complaints about Duane Reade attest, I completely understand this kind of impatience and can see how doing the checkout labor myself—even though the cost of that labor is already priced into what I’m buying—could seem an acceptable fee for mitigating it, particularly when there are no gossip magazines on hand to page through. I don’t agree that checkout lines lower prices, though. Competition lowers prices; otherwise money saved on checkout-clerk labor likely goes straight to the store’s bottom line. Plus, many customers see the opportunity to bag for themselves as a benefit—an extension of autonomy, as the blogger herself does—thus there is no pressure for stores to drop prices as a consequence of such schemes. Better to see this experience of control as itself a product that stores will sell (for the price of the consumer’s labor) for as long as they can get away with it. Eventually “autonomy” will feel like inconvenience and impertinence again, and the product will become worthless, and people will seek to buy autonomy in some other arena where there’s an institutionally created logjam to circumvent.


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Tuesday, Jan 23, 2007

Via BoingBoing comes this fairly elaborate attempt by Keith Martin to make all six Star Wars films make sense as a complete, seamless epic. Martin’s ingenious thesis is that R2D2 abd Chewbacca are the pivotal figures in the original three films; we just couldn’t see it because they were hiding behind their respective frontmen, C3PO and Han Solo. His explanation is far more interesting than the first three films deserve.


This effort demonstrates how an audience can go to great lengths to salvage the integrity of a product that its makers have compromised, whether out of complacency or laziness, or in Lucas’s case, to millk more money out of it. Certain consumers will view inconsistency or inadequacy as an oppotunity, for filling in the blanks, for reimagining, or even for comprehensive criticism. This audience ends up rationalizing weak efforts, because the makers of it see an audience engaged with the product and contributing to its bottom line. Of course, audiences won’t put this kind of effort into any lousy cultural product; they won’t give unknown quantites the benefit of the doubt. But it seems as though that once an audience does grant this leeway, once its hope is invested in certain artists, there is almost no level of failure that will cause it to be rescinded. After all, I went to see Return of the Clones or whatever even after I saw the utterly abysmal Phantom Menace. People kept buying Liz Phair albums even though it was clear her songwriting muse was spent after her first album. I kept listening to Neil Young records even after hearing Landing on Water and Old Ways. I’ve even argued that Landing on Water is not actually bad; I’ve rationalized its terrible sound and reactionary lyrics as a kind of sophisticated, conceptual statement.


How do we become invested in certain artists’ failure? Force of habit? Perhaps the cult of personality is at work, or the fundamental attribution error (which gives credit to people for things beyond their control). Also, network effects kick in with popular artists that makes attention to their crap worthwhile because you can guarantee you will have fellow sufferers to share your feelings with—this is how Dylanophiles made it through the 1980s, perhaps. We may enjoy these failures because they through the successful works into relief while humanizing their creators, deepening what we understand of their character and making it easier for us to vicariously enter into their works.


I wonder if there is a certain level of exposure that can be counted on to kindle this kind of residual hope—perhaps that ratio is part of the way small differences in talent are leveraged into huge increases in earning power for celebrities, along the lines Sherwin Rosen argued in “The Economics of Superstars.” Our hope and faith are transformed into their outsize incomes.


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