Poetic Conversation 1

In the midst of the fatigue-induced implosion of brain function known to college students everywhere as finals week preparation, I thought it was appropriate to take a break here from our typical mode of analyzing art and culture and let the art speak for itself for once. Hopefully, this will be the first entry in an ongoing series I've been musing on for a while. I find call-and-response in poetry (whether deliberate or unintentional) to be fascinating, and when I read a poem I often find myself making thematic or stylistic connections between that piece and other poetic works. Here are a series of poems in which I've found such connections, some direct and others more implicit.

1.

Robinson Jeffers, To the Stone-Cutters
Stone-cutters fighting time with marble, you fore-defeated
Challengers of oblivion
Eat cynical earnings, knowing rock splits, records fall down,
The square-limbed Roman letters
Scale in the thaws, wear in the rain.
The poet as well
Builds his monument mockingly:
For man will be blotted out, the blithe earth dies, the brave sun
Die blind, his heart blackening:
Yet stones have stood for a thousand years, and pained thoughts found
The honey peace in old poems.

William Butler Yeats, Lapis Lazuli
I have heard that hysterical women say
They are sick of the palette and fiddle-bow.
Of poets that are always gay,
For everybody knows or else should know
That if nothing drastic is done
Aeroplane and Zeppelin will come out.
Pitch like King Billy bomb-balls in
Until the town lie beaten flat.

All perform their tragic play,
There struts Hamlet, there is Lear,
That's Ophelia, that Cordelia;
Yet they, should the last scene be there,
The great stage curtain about to drop,
If worthy their prominent part in the play,
Do not break up their lines to weep.
They know that Hamlet and Lear are gay;
Gaiety transfiguring all that dread.
All men have aimed at, found and lost;
Black out; Heaven blazing into the head:
Tragedy wrought to its uttermost.
Though Hamlet rambles and Lear rages,
And all the drop-scenes drop at once
Upon a hundred thousand stages,
It cannot grow by an inch or an ounce.

On their own feet they came, or On shipboard,
Camel-back; horse-back, ass-back, mule-back,
Old civilisations put to the sword.
Then they and their wisdom went to rack:
No handiwork of Callimachus,
Who handled marble as if it were bronze,
Made draperies that seemed to rise
When sea-wind swept the corner, stands;
His long lamp-chimney shaped like the stem
Of a slender palm, stood but a day;
All things fall and are built again,
And those that build them again are gay.

Two Chinamen, behind them a third,
Are carved in Lapis Lazuli,
Over them flies a long-legged bird,
A symbol of longevity;
The third, doubtless a serving-man,
Carries a musical instrument.

Every discoloration of the stone,
Every accidental crack or dent,
Seems a water-course or an avalanche,
Or lofty slope where it still snows
Though doubtless plum or cherry-branch
Sweetens the little half-way house
Those Chinamen climb towards, and I
Delight to imagine them seated there;
There, on the mountain and the sky,
On all the tragic scene they stare.
One asks for mournful melodies;
Accomplished fingers begin to play.
Their eyes mid many wrinkles, their eyes,
Their ancient, glittering eyes, are gay.

Robert Hayden, Monet's Waterlilies
Today as the news from Selma and Saigon
poisons the air like fallout,
I come again to see
the serene, great picture that I love.

Here space and time exist in light
the eye like the eye of faith believes.
The seen, the known
dissolve in iridescence, become
illusive flesh of light
that was not, was, forever is.
O light beheld as through refracting tears.

Here is the aura of that world
each of us has lost.
Here is the shadow of its joy.

*

2.

Edna St. Vincent Millay, Sonnet V (from Renascene and Other Poems)
If I should learn, in some quite casual way,
That you were gone, not to return again—
Read from the back-page of a paper, say,
Held by a neighbor in a subway train,
How at the corner of this avenue
And such a street (so are the papers filled)
A hurrying man—who happened to be you—
At noon to-day had happened to be killed,
I should not cry aloud—I could not cry
Aloud, or wring my hands in such a place—
I should but watch the station lights rush by
With a more careful interest on my face,
Or raise my eyes and read with greater care
Where to store furs and how to treat the hair.

Matthew Arnold, Dover Beach
The sea is calm to-night.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand;
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.

Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the Agaean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.

The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.

Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.

*

3.

Marianne Moore, Poetry (original version)
I, too, dislike it: there are things that are important beyond all this fiddle.
Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one discovers in
it after all, a place for the genuine.
Hands that can grasp, eyes
that can dilate, hair that can rise
if it must, these things are important not because a

high-sounding interpretation can be put upon them but because they are
useful. When they become so derivative as to become unintelligible,
the same thing may be said for all of us, that we
do not admire what
we cannot understand: the bat
holding on upside down or in quest of something to

eat, elephants pushing, a wild horse taking a roll, a tireless wolf under
a tree, the immovable critic twitching his skin like a horse that feels
a flea, the base-
ball fan, the statistician--
nor is it valid
to discriminate against "business documents and

school-books"; all these phenomena are important. One must make
a distinction
however: when dragged into prominence by half poets, the result is
not poetry,

nor till the poets among us can be
"literalists of
the imagination"--above
insolence and triviality and can present

for inspection, "imaginary gardens with real toads in them," shall we have
it. In the meantime, if you demand on the one hand,
the raw material of poetry in
all its rawness and
that which is on the other hand
genuine, you are interested in poetry.

Archibald MacLeish, Ars Poetica
A poem should be palpable and mute
As a globed fruit

Dumb
As old medallions to the thumb

Silent as the sleeve-worn stone
Of casement ledges where the moss has grown -

A poem should be wordless
As the flight of birds

A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs

Leaving, as the moon releases
Twig by twig the night-entangled trees,

Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves,
Memory by memory the mind -

A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs

A poem should be equal to:
Not true

For all the history of grief
An empty doorway and a maple leaf

For love
The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea -

A poem should not mean
But be

e.e. cummings, Paris;this April sunset completely utters
Paris;this April sunset completely utters
utters serenely silently a cathedral

before whose upward lean magnificent face
the streets turn young with rain,

spiral acres of bloated rose
coiled within cobalt miles of sky
yield to and heed
the mauve
of twilight(who slenderly descends,
daintily carrying in her eyes the dangerous first stars)
people move love hurry in a gently

arriving gloom and
see!(the new moon
fills abruptly with sudden silver
these torn pockets of lame and begging colour)while
there and here the lithe indolent prostitute
Night,argues

with certain houses

Shakespeare in 80s Clothing: Modernization, Individual Perspective, and the Inescapable Impact of Setting

Seemingly unsatisfied with presenting Shakespeare in its original form anymore, the theatre world has developed two unique methods of Shakespeare modernization: the hybrid (hereafter referred to as "Shakespeare in 80’s clothing") and the retelling (“West Side Story,” “Kiss Me Kate”). While works from the latter movement are certainly staples of the theatre in their own right, the former pseudo-modernizations of Shakespeare have become a widespread trend for those wishing to present Shakespeare's plays in their original form. More often than not, current theatrical productions of Shakespeare’s most popular works attempt to incorporate some element of modern culture in their presentation, while retaining the original dialect of the text. Perhaps the most recognizable example of this trend comes from the world of film with Baz Luhrmann’s Romeo+Juliet, which transports the original text of the play into the setting of modern day suburbia. The theatrical trend, if not outright inspired by the film’s artistic choice, often tends to mirror its formula to varying degrees. Supporters of this hybrid form of modernization often cite its ability to bring a story’s complexities into a relatable context and apply its universal themes to the world around us.

The Human Race Theatre Company’s recent production of “Romeo and Juliet,” however, highlighted to me the flaws in this system of modernization. Per the trend, the text of the play was kept in traditional Shakespearean dialect, while many of the character, costume, and setting elements were modernized. The major problem with this, though, was that these elements were not fully brought into our modern world, but existed in some sort of jet-lagged cultural continuum that borrowed elements from multiple cultures between, and including, the two primary time periods. Certain characters (Paris, Lord Montague, Lady Capulet) seemed grounded in a primarily Shakespearean context; others were undeniably modern in tone of speech and action (Mercutio, Juliet). Complicating the concept even further were the entirely anachronistic elements, such as the choice to make Juliet’s nurse a Cockney maid character better suited for a Frances Hodgson Burnett novel. The costumes were just as uneven, influenced by everything from turn-of-the century Dubliners and the aristocracy of the Renaissance to Indian saris and modern-day punk culture (sometimes utilizing a number of these elements within one character’s costume).

It seems to me that on paper, a bizarre sort of argument could be made in favor of such a hodgepodge arrangement of aesthetic elements: by encompassing such a wide variety of cultural influences, the play’s themes become applicable to all of the following cultures, producing a universalizing effect. However good this approach might sound in theory, though, the tangible result only leaves the audience member feeling disjointed, as the Race's production showed. Even though much of the acting in this production was high quality, and the show itself was enjoyable, the utter lack of a concrete, underlying artistic choice undermined the entire purpose of modernizing the story. The themes were not applicable to the modern world, because they could not even be applied to a concrete world within the show. The kaleidoscope aesthetic prevented the story from being grounded in a relatable reality.

Certainly, this production is an extreme example of the “Shakespeare in 80’s clothing” disconnect, but it highlights the problems presented by hybrid modernization. Relatability is not found because a story takes place in a time and place similar to our own; it is found when the characters and their world are developed strongly enough that their world becomes tangible enough for the audience to understand life in that world. It’s a variant on the everyman idea (thank you, Dr. Flanagan)—if you want to write the relatable everyman character, you don’t write him generic enough that anyone can relate, you write him specific enough that he becomes real and therefore relatable.

This is not to say that I’m advocating against the modernization of classic stories, but rather the arbitrary modernization that has become so prevalent in the theatre as of late. The “Shakespeare in 80’s clothing” modernization often attempts to find new meaning through a merely aesthetic change. In order to find new insight through stylistic changes such as these, there has to be an underlying purpose for making such changes. A good example of this can be found in another recent production of “Romeo and Juliet” I saw, which on the surface fell into the hybrid modernization category, but managed to avoid the trap of the arbitrary modernization. This production kept the original dialect of the text but set itself in modern day suburbia, casting the younger characters as high school students. The difference, though, was that the changes didn’t stop at the aesthetic element—as a result, the Capulet/Montague interaction was laced with gang undertones (a lot less “West Side Story” than it sounds here, or at least approached in a different way), and the ending swapped out Juliet’s traditional “happy dagger” scene and the subsequent mending of the families’ relationship for the final image of Juliet pressing a gun to the side of her head before the stage went black and the sound of a single gunshot was heard. Here, the modernization was not a copout attempt to find “modern significance” in an old story, but the only viable means by which to emphasize a different facet of the story: the horror of violence and hatred and its effect on characters that we all too often forget are children. In this case, the aesthetic concepts served the story, not the other way around.

Eventually, this argument leads back to the enigmatic question of why we as a culture are constantly compelled to reexamine classic stories in new ways. We see this phenomenon throughout popular culture, manifesting prominently in the worlds of theatre, film, literature, and even music; works as disparate as "Wicked" and Ulysses stem from the same basic premise of thrusting familiar narratives into an entirely new perspective. Our question could be rebuffed by turning to the old argument that there are no new stories, only new tellers, but the truth of the matter lies beyond such rhetoric. With the reexamination of a familiar story, we are presented with the tantalizing prospect of seeing a situation from an eye outside our own limited perspective of the known version.

Yet the way the “Shakespeare in 80s clothing” movement goes about this is flawed in more ways than just the aforementioned straying from the needs of the story as focus. We often overlook the impact of setting in storytelling, but the time period and physical space of a story can often have more influence over its unfolding than any other single element of craft. Where and when we take an action ultimately determines the course of that action, whether we realize it or not, so separating setting from action in storytelling produces a resulting story that cannot exist in reality. While we love to contemplate the “universal” themes of “Romeo and Juliet,” the truth is that the events of the story, occurring exactly as they are written in the original text, cannot exist outside of the figurative realm of Verona by way of Shakespearean England; if they attempted to do such, they would be unmistakably altered by the setting they did end up in. The example above of the production ending with Juliet’s fatal gunshot works not only because the setting change is used to serve the purpose of that particular retelling, but because the story allows itself to be influenced to its natural outcome in the altered setting. If the ultimate goal of the retelling of the classic story is the above idea of seeing outside the limited perspective, all we accomplish by forcing a story into our own world without considering the full effect of such a change is an untrue version on our own perspective reflected back to us. But by fully understanding the effect of seeing a story through a new perspective and carrying out the necessary implications in the story itself, the premise allows art to accomplish what reality cannot—a concrete possibility that perspectives outside our own actually exist in the real world.

Mystery in the Frame: The Photography of Andre Kertesz

Sometimes you feel compelled to talk about things that you know very little about. Usually, this stems from some sort of intense passion that is roused; regardless of whether or not you’re fully informed, nothing is going to stop you from sharing your opinion. Often (and for obvious reasons), this is a bad thing. But hopefully in this post, where I will indeed be talking about something I don’t feel fully equipped to talk about, it won’t be of any harm, because all I wish to do is share my enthusiasm for a particular artist: André Kertész.

I’m certainly no expert when it comes to photography, either creating it or evaluating it. I have very little education in the field, having only ever taken one photography class in my time spent in college. But I’m most certainly an enthusiast of the art. Often, when I visit bookstores it’s not the literature that draws my attention, but rather the books on photography. There’s something fascinating to me about the freezing of one moment in time (unless, of course, you’re using time-lapse photography). If the Russian formalists were right, and the purpose of art is to make known things somehow new and extraordinary, then photography is perhaps the most perfect art at doing just that: by isolating one moment from the "real" world and making it the sole content of the work, it demands that moment be reevaluated. Because we know photography records things that actually exist (though it’s by no means a record of "truth." Photography is usually just as much a fictional fabrication as any other art), it feels to viewers as though all the importance of the world has been squeezed into the frame of this one solitary shot, and suddenly, everything erupts into life. When we see a door in a film or a story, so often we find out what is behind it. But in photography, that door is just a door and it will always remain closed. And thus, by being exactly what it is, a door, it ceases to be a door, and instead is becomes the infinite possibilities of what may exist beyond it.

And this feeling is why I love André Kertész’s work. Everytime I look at one of his photographs, some mystery presents itself to me, and in that mystery lies everything that is beautiful about the world. We spend all of our lives searching for meaning, and in the end, it’s the search that means everything to begin with. Kertész’s photography, for me, more than any other photographer’s work, reveals this fact, that the mystery is the meaning, the meaning the mystery, and invites you to search the infinity caught within the frame.

Perhaps on a somewhat less metaphysical level, his photographs are quite simply breathtaking. I’m a self-admitted aesthete, and Kertész’s photography never ceases to catch me off-guard with the way it demonstrates that Kertész understands the world is an aesthetic experience, and he is able to translate that experience in such a pure way. So, feast your eyes on some of his photography.

This is a very small sampling of this man's incredible work. I'd urge you to seek more out. Who is the person behind the textured glass? Who is the solitary man with the umbrella? Why does the woman in the top hat seem so disconnected from the figure in the foreground? And who is this figure? All questions without answer, and therein lies the beauty of Kertész's world, of our world.

Acknowledging the Controller: Art, Video Games, Violence, and Self-Reflexivity

Not so long ago, at another blog, I made an admittedly brief attempt to explain why video games are undoubtedly art, or rather, why video games undoubtedly have the potential to become art. Allow me the time to develop this argument at greater length.

The problem with defining something as art is that "art" itself, as a term, really has no accepted definition. Many definitions have been applied to it, but none have gone uncontested. And so, the battle to be legitimized as an "art" is an uphill battle for all new and fledgling mediums. Since art has never been acceptably defined (perhaps a topic for another blogging), those who see new mediums as distasteful need not discuss the mediums in relation to any sort of facts, because there are no facts, because the terminology always breaks down into a semantic argument, and it becomes a rhetorical strategy: "Well, that’s what you call art, but that doesn’t make it so." Instead, they can rely on the all too easy tactic of pointing to what is considered one of the greatest works of art ever conceived (whether it be Hamlet, or Ulysses, or Guernica, or Citizen Kane) and they can say, "THIS is art." And they can then point to a work in the new medium, one that demonstrates no imagination, is unnecessarily violent, etc. and they can say "And if Hamlet, et al. are art, then this new medium surely is not." To them the proof is self-evident, and they get away with such weak argumentation, because, well, no one would dare say that Manhunt trumps Hamlet. And so the discussion is too often considered closed.

Roger Ebert, a commentator and writer I enjoy and have immense respect for, unfortunately, has written statements that exemplify this attitude. On the topic, he once wrote: "no one in or out of the field [of video games] has ever been able to cite a game worthy of comparison with the great dramatists, poets, filmmakers, novelists and composers." What a terribly unfair argument. When film was in its infancy, were any of its works worthy of comparison to the great dramatists, poets, novelists, and composers? Of course not. Mediums take time to grow and develop. To expect the Xbox Ulysses at this point in the medium’s history is ridiculous. However, to turn this argument around, I would tell Ebert that I’ve played video games of greater beauty, depth, and ambition than, say…(the overbearing) Crash, a movie Ebert raved and gave a four star review. But, that doesn’t satisfy me (because I don’t particularly like Crash, but let’s not turn this into an anti-Crash tirade). Instead, let me turn to another Ebert quote: "…books,games and all forms of created experience are about themselves; the real question is, do we as their consumers become more or less complex, thoughtful, insightful, witty, empathetic, intelligent, philosophical (and so on) by experiencing them?" I would agree that this is the important question, and it’s beautifully and simply worded. And, to Ebert, I would say, "Yes, I have played games that have made me become more complex, thoughtful, and philosophical."

And so, I will no longer bother myself with comparisons or semantic arguments about what is or isn’t art (I’ll probably slip up on that, but I shall try to resist). Instead, I’d like to focus on the games themselves.

It is my personal opinion that one of the premiere video game artists working today (perhaps one of the premiere artists in the—admittedly short—history of the medium) is Hideo Kojima, the man behind the Metal Gear series.

There are many, many layers to the Metal Gear series, and there are countless topics I could approach, whether they are aesthetic or ideological (or, of course, the way these two things constantly interact). Perhaps these will become the topics of future posts. But for now, I’d like to focus on Kojima’s tendency to break the fourth wall in his games, not only because of his expertise in implementing this particular technique, but also because it is, I believe, indicative of one of the most fascinating and unique features of the medium: its interactivity.

In Metal Gear Solid, Kojima chips away at the fourth wall early in the game by choosing to have Snake’s radio team explain instructions to him; they make several references to the "action button." By integrating the instructions into the game as opposed to delivering them in some sort of tutorial or aside, Kojima hints at a penchant for self-reflexivity that will become full-blown later in the game (and in his future works). The moment where the boundary between game and player completely breaks away comes during the "boss fight" (a little video game jargon for you) with Psycho Mantis. This is really a tour de force of game design, and I think, will be looked at for some time for its formal inventiveness. Psycho Mantis is a psychic soldier, and Kojima does not waste the opportunity that such a conceit affords.

At certain points during the fight, the screen blacks out and only the word "Hideo" appears in green font in the corner of the screen. This is meant to replicate the "Video" setting on televisions, but, of course, is adjusted ever so slightly to include a play on the word "video" and Hideo’s name (He’s always been rather witty). But the most remarkable feature of the fight is that Mantis is almost impossible to hit with any weapon. Why? Well, he can read Snake’s mind and predict his movements. So how does the gamer overcome this obstacle? They are required to remove the controller from controller port 1 and plug it into port 2. Kojima requires active manipulation of the hardware to advance in the game. It’s startling, and immensely clever. Such "meta" moments become more pervasive and profound in the two sequels. Here, though the fight is, as I said, incredibly inventive formally, it seems a fairly self-contained feature. In the two sequels, Kojima’s self-reflexivity is much more pivotal to his themes, and to the overall harmony of the experience.

Metal Gear Solid 2: Sons of Liberty has become a title both revered and reviled in the gaming community. It was recognized for the quality of its craftsmanship, but often criticized for its convoluted plot and the inclusion of the androgynous Raiden as the game’s primary protagonist, as opposed to the popular (and very masculine) Snake. Make no mistake: this game is a masterpiece of the medium. It’s true that the game is awkward at times, but its ambition and scope are mind-boggling, and most complaints and weaknesses are overshadowed by the successes.

Sons of Liberty has often been referred to as the first "post-modern" video game (though this term is almost as difficult to define as "art"), and it is labeled as such largely because, whereas the original Metal Gear Solid contained touches of self-reflexivity, Sons of Liberty becomes one massive exercise in the technique. The game is, quite literally, designed as a rehash of the first Metal Gear Solid. The similarities between the two games are so striking that gamers might initially be uncomfortable, thinking that they’ve been cheated out of their money. But it all serves a purpose.

Gamers find out that Raiden actually experienced the Shadow Moses incident ("Shadow Moses" is the code name given to the events of the first Metal Gear Solid) through virtual reality training. And, hopefully, gamers make a connection: they, too, experienced Shadow Moses as a virtual reality simulation (because this is precisely what video games are). As it turns out, a seemingly omnipotent force (known simply as the Patriots) pre-meditated and designed the events that unfold in Metal Gear Solid 2 (the events are termed the "S3 Plan,") and the S3 Plan was designed to purposely reconstruct Shadow Moses.

So, if we are Raiden (given that we experience Shadow Moses in the same way the character does, and of course, because we literally control him), and the game is the S3 Plan (seeing as how the game CD is the actual program designed to force the gamer through certain events, just as S3 forces Raiden through certain events), then, in turn this means that our Playstation 2 is Arsenal Gear (a massive fortress featured in the story that houses an Artificial Intelligence that monitors and enacts the S3 Plan) because the Playstation houses the game CD. And, finally, Kojima is the Patriots, because he designed the game (and thus designed the S3 plan).

And, as with the Psycho Mantis battle, Kojima makes full use of the opportunities such a bizarre conceit allows. At one point in the game, the characters upload a virus into the AI that controls the S3 plan. Shortly after this development, the game begins malfunctioning. One of the members of Raiden’s radio team (who turns out to be part of the AI) begins speaking gibberish, or referencing previous games in the Metal Gear saga. The gamer’s radar malfunctions and becomes a video feed of a woman sitting in a chair on a porch. And, at random points, the "Mission Failed" screen pops up (essentially a "game over" screen), except the text on the screen is altered: "Fission Mailed." It reaches a point of disorienting surrealism and is perhaps the only time I have felt overwhelmed by a video game and truly realized the potential of the medium.

Kojima has designed a game that knows it is a game, a simulation that knows it is a simulation. The relationships between the elements of the plot in the game are perfectly mirrored in the "real" world. Regardless of what one thinks of the fluidity and grace of Kojima’s writing, this parallel is a stroke of unqualified genius: this is a flawless implementation of artistic self-referentiality. As James Clinton Howell points out in this brilliant analysis:http://www.deltaheadtranslation.com/MGS2/DOTM_TOC.htm (which goes into much greater depth than I have room to here) the game truly asks its gamers to consider how they are primed to accept and expect certain information, given their familiarity with the events of the game (having had a near-identical experience in MGS). As Howell demonstrates, it simultaneously establishes, fulfills, and thwarts expectation and, further, blurs the line between fiction and reality by utterly obliterating the fourth wall (Kojima is no longer chipping away at it, he has launched a full-frontal assault). Sons of Liberty is a purposely disorienting experience that expertly interrogates its audience: what is perception? Does perception determine reality, or reality determine perception?


In Metal Gear Solid 3: Snake Eater, Kojima pulled back on the flights of meta fancy. But, of course, he did not completely eliminate them. In fact, in a battle with a boss named "The Sorrow" Kojima implements a self-reflexive touch that might be the purest distillation of one of his overarching concerns throughout the series (and is, I think, the likely reason that he continues to use self-reflexive strategies). That concern is the violence that is implicit in a war-game. And this violence is nearly inseparable from the medium itself (there is no denying that the video game is a medium of genres, and typically violent genres). Kojima has always been concerned with implicating the gamer in the violence enacted on the screen. Video games take the inherent voyeurism of cinema a step further. Now we do not just watch (which, in reality, watching is not a passive action in the least, but is perhaps less active than our interactions with video games), but rather we initiate the violence; we become its cause; we become the epicenter of the brutality. And Kojima is aware of this, and concerned with this (Metal Gear, like all violent art, is a paradox of sorts). And his answer is to clearly and explicitly break the fourth wall down so that we are forced recognize that we hold the controller in our hands, that a cord connects us to the game, that we and the game are one and the same. He does not permit the comfortable remove that the fourth wall so often provides. We cannot divorce ourselves from the violence.

In Snake Eater, Kojima brilliantly demonstrates this concern by actually implementing a system of "punishment." Throughout the course of the game, the number of individuals you kill is tallied. When Snake confronts The Sorrow, all the souls of the dead rise to haunt him. The number of ghosts featured during this boss fight is proportional to the number of enemies you have killed. The more you’ve killed, the more ghosts you encounter, and therefore the more arduous the experience (the game even goes so far as to note the way in which you dispatched certain enemies, and these methods are reflected in the ghosts appearances). It’s a simple but extremely profound, even disturbing and sobering, experience.

Kojima also recontextualizes the pulling of the "trigger button" late in the game, when we are forced to kill a character we may not want to. At first, it seems as though the shot might be fired within a cinematic, however, as Snake prepares to take the shot, the letterbox black bars (which signal all the cinematics) slide off the top and the bottom of the screen, and we realize Kojima is going to make us pull the trigger. It’s something we’ve been doing the whole game, but here he completely redefines the experience. And we’re forced to reconcile our earlier, thoughtless gun-slinging.

What’s especially notable about these "meta" touches that I’ve discussed is that they would all be impossible to adequately recreate in any other medium. Kojima is sometimes criticized for being too cinematic and for more directing movies than games (he does rely heavily on his cinematics to develop many of his ideas and themes), but Kojima is most certainly one of the game designers most aware of what it is, exactly, that makes a game a game, and these self-reflexive devices demonstrate that.

(A note: I have approached this post from what seems to be an "auteurist" perspective. I do believe that there are enough similarities between the Metal Gear games to posit that they are the result of one primary artist [which does not mean solitary], but I do not wish to gloss over the fact that games are, indeed, a highly collaborative art. I suspect the auteurist debate will seep over into video games, and will always be hotly debated, as it still is with film. Oh, look at that…so much for not comparing video games to anything.)

The National- Black and White Sessions

If you’re unaware of my profuse love for The National, you won’t be for long. The Brooklyn-based Cincinnatians’ fourth album, Boxer, ranked second on my end-of-year list for 2007 but in retrospect could just as easily have topped my list for any year in recent memory. The album is a subtle snapshot of the lost, late-night twentysomething at the crossroads of youth and responsibility—the story of “another uninnocent, elegant fall into the unmagnificent lives of adults,” as vocalist Matt Berninger states beautifully in “Mistaken for Strangers.”

The live studio performance is an interesting bastard child when it comes to music we identify with strongly, unable to rely on either the energy of a crowd or the forethought of an album recording. At worst, it can destroy a moment captured on recording with its unremarkableness; at best, it can reveal the transcendent quality of a song, allowing for new angles to approach the material from and new layers to discover. This week, I came across two radio sessions with The National that exemplify the second option. The first, the White Session, was recorded near the time of Boxer’s release on France’s Inter radio, and makes a stunning companion piece to the album. Some of the differences are small but impacting, like the change in the chorus lyrics of “Brainy,” substituting “Come on, let me call you love” to “Come on, in the car, you, love” and tipping the song’s delicate balance between romance and restraining order in favor of the latter. Similarly, the “Squalor Victoria” one-liner fadeout becomes a tagline and guitar coda, altering the lingering impression left on the listener. In other instances, the change is simply approaching the song with a new energy, as in the case of the completely revitalized “Apartment Story,” easily one of the session’s highlights.

As a relative latecomer to the National bandwagon, my perspective on the Black Session, recorded in November 2003, is different, having only heard two of the non-Alligator tracks (“Murder Me Rachael” and “Slipping Husband”) in their original recorded forms. These recordings stand on their own, the songs rawer and more passionate than much of the band’s more recent material. The set’s epicenter, “Cherry Tree,” marks a rare moment for Berninger as he sheds his yuppie everyman persona in favor of something more grandiose and sinister.

Only one song appears on both sessions, “About Today.” Originally released on the Cherry Tree EP, it ironically seems more Boxer-ized in its Black Session form, with its insistent drums and confessional anti-crescendo. The White Session version is something entirely different for the band, employing an almost wall-of-sound string section that carries the song higher and higher, comparable only to the ending of the studio version of “Fake Empire” in its ethereality. The two recordings are beautiful in their own right, but when brought together, they’re something extraordinary.

The National- Black Session (zip)
The National- White Session (zip)

Buy the albums, and check their website for tour dates and more info.

“Another Way of Looking At Things:” “Wicked,” Theatrical Reinvention, and the Responsibility of the Actor

First of all, a quick hello to all present and future readers (yes, I have faith you’re actually out there) from the other half of No Pen, No Ink, No Inclination, the resident music and theatre junkie. Second, bear with the length here. I promise all my entries won’t be quite so long-winded! Now, on to today’s discussion…

As someone who’s been involved in theatre the vast majority of her life, I would estimate I’ve seen at least several hundred shows over the course of the past decade. Of course, the nature of the theatre business dictates that the average theatregoer will most likely see certain shows from the theatrical “canon” multiple times, a fact that rings especially true in regard to musical theatre. The relative familiarity of the material means that the standards by which great performances are defined in critiquing established works become different, in some ways, from what we use to define “greatness” in new film and theatrical works. A good majority of the performances I’ve seen which have stuck with me the most vividly over the years are the ones that fall into the category of the reimagining: the ability of an actor to take a well-known character and subvert expectations in such a way that he or she reveals something new about the character, and, as a result, reveals a different perspective on the show as a whole. I would cite my personal measure of the mark of a great actor as the ability of an actor to portray their role in such a way that their reconstruction, however subtle, becomes the new “standard” for at least one audience member.

This past week, I attended the national tour of “Wicked” at the Aronoff Center, which marks the third time I’ve seen the production. Even though it’s only been four years since the Broadway production premiered, most of the main characters in the show have already begun to develop stock portrayals, due both to the familiar source material and the emergence of the musical as a cultural phenomenon. (I assume that, even if you’ve never seen a musical in your life, you probably have at least a passing recollection of the premise of the novel or play as an extensive reworking of the story of the witches of Oz.) This is perhaps most true in the case of Galinda/Glinda. The most basic arc for Glinda to follow reads as such: she begins the show as a shallow, self-centered character, she begins to change as a result of her interactions with Elphaba (the woman who will eventually become the Wicked Witch of the West), is forced to wizen due to the events of the show, and in the end, is able to ascend to the leadership role she is thrust into because of what she learned from her friendship with Elphaba. Often, the actresses in this role do not stray too far from this interpretation, playing the role for laughs throughout much of the first act, and going for the stock heartwarming change of Glinda “learning the meaning of friendship” in the latter part of the show.

Katie Clarke’s portrayal of Glinda in the current national tour casts a completely new perspective on the familiar role, however, while keeping. I had the pleasure of seeing Clarke in the Broadway production of “The Light in the Piazza,” in which she embodied the mentally handicapped Clara masterfully. Clarke carries a great deal of Clara’s childlike air and awkward mannerisms with her into this role, particularly in the first act, which takes place a handful of years before any of the well-known Ozian events begin to occur. In her hands, the audience experiences a revelation somewhere during the course of Galinda’s early interactions with Elphaba and Madame Morrible, the headmistress of the school where the two young women meet. The audience realizes that the journey of Clarke’s Glinda is not one of emotional change and growth, at least not in the sense of a developed character inspired to become someone different through the events of the story, but a journey of actual growth. Clarke’s Galinda does not behave the way she does because shallowness is ingrained into her personality; instead, her often-shallow behavior seems to be the result of her emotional and psychological immaturity in comparison to her peers. We begin to entertain the possibility of Galinda being younger (whether in actual years or only in internal development) than Elphaba and the other students of Shiz University, a completely different interpretation of the character than we are used to seeing. This changes the motivation behind many of Glinda’s early actions. For instance, we normally view the scene where the character changes the spelling of her name “out of solidarity to Doctor Dillamond” as an act of jealousy, a conscious attempt to regain favor with Fiyero by imitating the activism which he finds attractive in Elphaba. With Clarke’s Glinda, though, we view this in much the same way we see a child acting out in order to gain attention—not even Fiyero’s attention, necessarily, but a cry for attention and favor in reaction to Elphaba’s summons to the Emerald City. In this sense, the musical becomes as much, if not more, of a literal coming-of-age tale for Glinda as it is a vehicle to explore the social repercussions of the clash between personal convictions and public image through Elphaba’s storyline.

Clarke’s character choice echoes in the way she approaches the role’s humorous moments. Too often, the humor for Galinda’s character slants toward the stereotypical “dumb blonde” portrayal, taking the role into borderline caricature territory. What differentiates Clarke’s performance of “Popular” (hers is one of the best renditions I’ve encountered via stage or recording), to highlight one notable example, is the way she approaches the song’s humor in relation to her character’s youthfulness. While she retains the central punch lines, she brings an almost sympathetic touch to the song as well. The moments of improvised dance become more like the whims of a child than the over-the-top jokes many actresses resort to; her interactions with Elphaba are less unwanted guest and more kid sister. As in all of the bits of humor that fall back on Galinda, the audience sees that her frivolous actions here are the best ways the character knows to react at this point in her maturation.

This innocence colors the rest of the show and forces us to reexamine our perceived truths about the character. The turning point of Act One closer “Defying Gravity,” which is perhaps the turning point of the entire show, comes when Glinda rejects Elphaba’s offer to join forces, and the friends make the decision to follow the separate paths that will lead them to the personas they will become known for. We as audience members assume that this pivotal choice Glinda makes enacts a number of repercussions in the fates of both women. The key operative here, though, is the word choice. With Clarke’s portrayal, Glinda’s refusal to go with Elphaba is not a choice at all, or rather, is the only possible choice for an outcome in the situation. Viewing Glinda as considerably younger, in a mental and emotional sense, than Elphaba, we see that she has no choice but to stay in the Emerald City, because she is incapable of understanding the full impact of Elphaba’s choice or the implications that choosing to join her would present. Of course, we see a number of moments during the second act where Clarke’s Glinda does grow up, beginning with her rendition of “I Couldn’t Be Happier,” and at the end of the story, she ascends to her place as the iconic woman we have come to equate with the character of Glinda the Good, but the Act 1 and early Act 2 Glinda is by far the most fascinating character in this production of the show.

Certainly, Clarke recreates Glinda in such a way that the entire impact of the musical is reconstructed. However, I want to return for a moment to my opening assertions about defining theatrical greatness. In some ways, I have to question myself about labeling the ability to successfully recreate the well-known role as “the mark” of a great actor. Now, I don’t mean to insinuate that a solid, supported character reinvention is not a work of greatness, but perhaps it’s best to look at the question from a different perspective: if reinvention is the mark of the great actor, then is a “standard” but extraordinary performance automatically unable to be deemed great? It only makes logical sense that, often, the performances we remember the most vividly are those that take the greatest risks—drastic differences stand out more at first glance than subtle ones. One of the greatest performances I’ve seen falls into this category, where an actress took an instantly-recognizable role—Miss Hannigan in “Annie”—and subverted every stereotype the character is known for, transforming her from the harried comic caricature we typically see into a younger-but-world-weary, desperate, and desperately real woman on the brink of emotional collapse. While on paper, this seems like it might never work, my recollection of this performance ensures that I’ll never view the role of Miss Hannigan in quite the same way. Yet other performances I rank equally among my all-time favorites are far less adventurous. One that comes to mind is an instance where an actress didn’t necessarily change the conventions of her role in any specific way, but simply embodied the role to such a degree that actor and character became one entity; in another instance, where an actor’s rendition of a particular song won such an ovation that he actually stopped the show for several minutes, the only qualifiers that come to mind are vague terms like “charisma” and “magic.” Under the reinvention theory, are these last two examples somehow less spectacular than the first two because those actors stayed within the conventions of their roles?

I suppose one possible answer to this question is found in the language I use to describe the above examples—“real,” actor and character as “one entity.” Perhaps we have to first redefine what qualifies as theatrical reinvention before we decide what constitutes it and what doesn’t. The stock portrayal of a theatre character includes a set list of traits and motivations that we associate with that person, and—this is important—assumes that the actor follows that conservative list and does not break through beyond it. In this sense, the reinvention of a stock character doesn’t necessarily require that the actor alters these traits and motivations in a marked way, but instead, the very act of breakthrough which thrusts the role beyond the realm of “list” and into the realm of “person” is sufficient enough to constitute reinvention. It is through this embodiment—the actor and character becoming one entity—that character reinventions such as Clarke’s are possible. The similarities between Clarke’s Clara and her Glinda suggest that certain qualities of her characters are less conscious decisions than traces of her own identity coming to life within the character. As much as we might be tempted to spin this character-acting blurring as either a deficiency on the actor’s part (the actor “playing themselves”) or our own part (a theatrical version of the biographical fallacy?), it may be that this blurring is precisely the mark of a great actor. After all, the actor’s job is to bring the unreal, the fictional, into the world of the real, and the blurring of the actor and character into one entity is the ultimate marriage of the real and unreal. As a result, the responsibility of the actor is not to overhaul every character they portray in hopes of uncovering a new truth about the character, but to achieve such a unity with the character that they allow their own unique truths to present themselves to the audience.

Ecstasy and Art

What, exactly, could possess someone to start a blog like this? What compels me to share my thoughts about film and art in this small corner of the massive cyberspace universe? Well, I suppose the best and simplest answer (perhaps, too, the expected answer) is "passion." These writings are the product of genuine passion and admiration for what so many great artists have accomplished (What was it Susan Sontag said in "Against Interpretation?" "But it should be noted that interpretation is not simply the compliment that mediocrity pays to genius. It is, indeed, the modern way of understanding." Let us hope my own interpretations aren’t those of the formulaic nature Ms. Sontag disliked, but do, indeed, consider these posts the compliment mediocrity pays to genius). So, I figured it would be a nice introduction to share with you two of those moments in cinema that have truly left a mark on me, those moments that have ingrained themselves into my very being. These types of moments have been the subject of discussion on various other blogs worth reading. Some time ago over at scanners (http://blogs.suntimes.com/scanners/) Jim Emerson expressed his admiration for several accounts of cinephilia by David Bordwell and Roger Ebert and discussed these accounts in relation to Werner Herzog’s concept of "ecstatic truth." But I think in my case it would be more accurate to classify these moments simply as moments of "cinematic ecstasy." So, what films—more precisely, what moments—are responsible for demonstrating the power of this medium to me? The final shots of Fellini’s Amarcord certainly constitute a scene of cinematic ecstasy. Amarcord, as seems to be the case with all the films I hold in the highest regard, is really a memory. It is Fellini’s memory of his hometown, Rimini, and thus, there is no single protagonist, but rather, a collective protagonist: all of the individuals of the town. We come to know many of them through the film’s running time; we live one whole year with them. The film ends with the wedding of Gradisca, who, at the movie’s start, is Rimini’s most eligible and desirable bachelorette. Thus, the wedding makes real the fact that she is not attainable, something the youth of the film had disregarded in their fantasies about her. She will no longer be the subject of their lust and desire. There is a loss of innocence and youth in her marriage (this reversal, lust as a form of innocence, is not uncommon in Fellini's world). The ending is particularly memorable because of the way Fellini chooses to capture it. He shoots the wedding as it dies down and the crowd dissipates using extreme long shots. These long shots reinforce the "communal" aspect of the film; no one individual is made the subject of the shot. Instead, we are asked to focus on the group, and the specific changes this group undergoes. In this case, that "change" is the shrinking of the group. As Fellini’s camera lingers at a distance, different characters drift off the frame, lost to time and memory. Slowly, the movie is drained of the life and lives that have filled it, and they become ghosts in our mind. And it’s clear, at the time he made Amarcord, Fellini was haunted by Rimini. Another scene of cinematic ecstasy occurs in Wong Kar-wai’s In the Mood for Love. Really, any moment of this film produces an ecstatic feeling from me. This is a movie that emanates passion and melancholy, and these feelings seep into you as you watch it. The most striking scene, though, is when our protagonists (who are neighbors, each married) meet at a restaurant. The opening shot of the scene is actually of the empty space between them, just above the table. The only perceptible movement in the shot is the slight twirl of a fragile puff of cigarette smoke. Everything in Wong’s universe is this delicate. Throughout the course of the protagonists’ conversation, they reveal that they know their respective spouses are having an affair with one another. It is a crushing blow. At one point, instead of cutting back and forth between the pair (played by the incomparable Maggie Cheung and Tony Leung), Wong chooses to quickly shift the camera’s view back and forth as they speak. This reveals a genuine connection between the two, albeit an incredibly anxious, nervous, and desperate connection. Finally, when the truth is spoken and no longer exists as only a thought, Wong uses a shot that actually starts behind Tony Leung’s head and quickly and violently pans to bring him into frame. It’s as though speaking the truth has crushed him from behind. Never has a camera movement felt more right to me. The sequence ends with a shot of the two walking down an empty alleyway in Wong’s ubiquitous slow-motion. They are together, side by side, but not touching. It’s also worth noting that this entire sequence is set to Nat King Cole’s voice, crooning in Spanish. A more perfect soundtrack has never been conceived or implemented. This scene in In the Mood for Love represents a pure, formal triumph in my eyes. Filmmaking has never felt so assured and intuitive to me. There are many more that I could list. And I’m discovering them everyday. To me, these moments are what "art" is about, because these moments are really what "life" is about.