Joe, by Larry Brown

Joe (Algonquin, 1991) by Larry Brown is so clearly influenced by the work of William Faulkner that sometimes you must remind yourself who it is you’re reading.  This does not mean that Brown’s work is not his own, only that the strong influence of his predecessor is evident.  The novel tells parallel stories: one about a poor, itinerant family that drifts from one place to another.  The father (Wade) is lazy and shiftless.  His wife is so victimized by him and their situation that she hardly speaks.  An adolescent daughter is so disgusted with the father and their lives that she leaves (she becomes the subject of Brown’s later novel Fay), and her younger sisetr has stopped talking.  The only person in the family interested in breaking out of this life is a fifteen year old boy named Gary.  He wants to find work, make a living for his family, and improve their circumstances.  The family is reminiscent of the Snopes family in Faulkner’s story “Barn Burning,” with a taste of the Bundrens in As I Lay Dying thrown in for good effect.  The opening scene that describes this family walking along a deserted country road in tone and language specifically suggests the opening chapter of Light in August.  The contending forces in this family are the father’s selfish destructive urges and the boy’s impulse to do better.

The title character of the novel is the focus of the second story.  Joe is a middle-aged man who supervises a gang of workhands who are poisoning trees in a forest to prepare for the planting of pine trees.  That work, destroying a forest that has been there since anyone ever moved to the area, is an underlying motif—it describes Joe’s own life, and the more general life of the town, which is somewhere near Oxford, Mississippi.  Joe’s wife has divorced him, apparently because of his drinking and his violent temper.  They still love each other.  Joe loves his family, including his pregnant daughter, but he rarely if ever visits, even after his grandchild is born.  He drinks a lot, all the time, driving around with a bottle of liquor and a case of beer and ice in his truck.  He makes money off his job and from gambling.  He apparently does well as a gambler because he always seems to have enough money and frequently gives it to his wife and daughter.  Joe befriends Gary, hires him on his crew, and they become friends.  Joe is basically a decent soul.  He can’t control his weaknesses.  He loves his wife and wants to be with her.  He even tells other women that he’s too old to have sex anymore, and this seems to be an excuse he gives out of loyalty to his ex-wife.  (Like everything else in his character, he’s inconsistent about using the excuse).

When Joe becomes drunk and sets his dog on a Doberman pinscher that has threatened him, a confrontation with police and a wreck ensue, and events seem to moving towards sending Joe back to prison.

Larry Brown spends much time in this novel describing the activities of his characters: there’s probably more attention to beer drinking and truck driving in Joe than in any novel I’ve read.  But to what end?  Yes, there’s the naturalistic impulse here to pay attention to the details of an individual’s everyday life, but there must be some ultimate justification for all the detail.  Brown sometimes seems to be interested merely in describing, and if beer drinking has its own inherent interest, then he’s game.  At the same time, his prose is controlled, elegant, vivid, with rare false notes.

Brown effectively portrays Joe’s character, with psychological and humanistic insight.  Unlike Wade, who only abuses and exploits his family, Joe wants to be a good family member, a good father, a good person.  If he’s screwed up his own life he doesn’t want to see Gary screw up his.  Joe is Larry Brown’s answer to Updike, Cheever, Bellow and others—Joe faces the same issues as the protagonists of their novels.

The explosive and surprising final scene brings closure to the action of the novel, and is definitely not the product of Faulknerian influence.  It seems more the influence of films like Easy Rider and Joe and Billy Jack and the Clint Eastwood Dirty Harry films.  The final scene brings Joe to an effective conclusion, but it seems an artificial one to me—a way out of Joe’s problems but not the best way out.

Ray, by Barry Hannah

It seems somehow not on point to say that the central character of Barry Hannah’s short novel Ray (1980) is akin to Rabbit Angstrom, Walker Percy’s Will Barrett or Binx Bolling, Augie March, Yossarian in Heller’s Catch 22, Lewis and Ed in Deliverance,  any number of Cheever protagonists, or of Tim O’Brien’s.  And it would seem not the point as well to remark that novels in which the main character suffers Vietnam flashbacks are hackneyed clichés.  Because in Hannah’s work style is the point.  The style of narration, the interlocking and nonchronological chapters, the alternations in tone and mood, most of all the wild and intense prose.  This does not mean there’s no substance, only that style carries the novel, propels the substance, and is what makes Ray so memorable.

Ray is a medical doctor who flew F-4 Phantoms in Vietnam.  He’s also a would-be poet.  He’s married to a beautiful woman with beautiful children.  Socially and financially he has what many would call a great life.  Yet it’s clear that he has difficulty accepting who and where he is in life.  He’s had addiction problems and apparently lost and then got back his medical license.  Friends often come to him for drugs, and he’s more than willing to prescribe them.  He’s constantly thinking about sex, if he’s not actually in the process of having it. He has sex throughout this novel.

It seems too prosaic to say that Ray experiences a crisis in this novel, or that his situation as a whole is one of crisis—of coming to terms with his urges, his guilt and sense of failure, his love for his wife, his love for other women, his lack of scruples, the tension between wildness and convention.

Ray as a Southern man of the late 20^th century certainly possesses some of the worst traits of his kind: racism, misogyny, and classism.  He makes no qualms about them—he seems aware, to a limited extent, of his attitudes towards women, but he shows little hesitation to use racist terms, even though he credits a black man for saving his life in Vietnam.  There’s no way, I think, of defusing these traits—they’re unarguably present, part of Ray’s complicated character, part of who he is.  He is certainly not a typical Southerner, in any sense of the word that I can come up with, and besides I don’t believe in “typical” Southerners anyway, but Ray’s certainly a remarkable Southerner.  The racism, and other aspects of his character, are significant negative traits.  I wouldn’t teach this novel to undergraduates because of Ray’s racism.  Moreover, I do not find some sort of counterbalancing correlative in the novel to Ray’s attitudes.  Are we to like him because every black man he refers to is, by his term, a “nigger”? Is Hannah making an issue of Ray’s racism, or is he just showing it as part of his character?  What makes Ray typical of an individual in contemporary America is his narcissism, his concern with his own situation to the exclusion of everyone else.  Women he objectifies—even his wife and his sometimes lover Sister—especially them.  I can’t say that the characters in Airships or in Geronimo Rex are much different, so to an extent racism and sexism are part not only of Ray’s innate character but maybe of Hannah’s as well.  Of course, such a conclusion merits more thought than I’ve given here.  It’s also possible than Hannah wants to make a point of observing no social conventions at all, no “rules” of political correctness.  Ray’s use of racist terms, his sexism, his imagining what it would be like to throw a nine-year old from the cockpit of a plane at 20,000 feet are all part of this rebellion against the very concept of social or racial or political barriers.  Maybe we are not supposed to like Ray--this self-obsessed doctor-pilot-poet who takes advantage of anyone within reach, who struggles against and then sinks willingly into the narcotizing somnolence of upper-class late 20^th century Southern affluence.

Ray is the narrator.  He sometimes starts a paragraph by referring to himself in the third person and then switches to first person. He switches in time back and forth between different periods of his life, mainly his Vietnam years and the present day, as well as to the Civil War, where an imagined or real ancestor, or Ray himself, reports on battle experiences.  The past haunts Ray—his past marriage and former relationships, his wartime experiences, people he has known.  But not all the narrative is about him.  A long digression early in the novel concerns the desire of his friend Charlie DeSoto to murder an elderly neighbor.  Another digression excerpts a real or imagined passage from the diary of Hernando DeSoto, which Charlie is reading.  There may be a link of some sort between the diary and the concerns of the novel but I haven’t identified them yet.  Stream of consciousness, internal dialogue—these might be appropriate ways to describe the narrative method here.  There’s a kind of awkward clunkiness sometimes to the pace and focus of the narrative, as if Ray (or Hannah) narrates whatever comes to mind.  Is this control, or lack of control?  The Charlie DeSoto digression is hilarious, but it interrupted the flow of the novel, as did the DeSoto diary entry.

Ray does talk about himself, but he talks as well about his friends and neighbors, especially his friend Charlie DeSoto and the “Hooches,” poor whites who live behind him on the verge of the swamp.  The main Hooch who interests him is Sister, a troubled if not deranged 18-year-old who writes poetry and has musical aspirations.  Ray ministers to other members of the Hooch family with drugs—morphine and valium—to Sister he provides not only drugs but sex.  They’re lovers on an intermittent basis throughout the novel, but he also loves his beautiful upper-class wife Westy.  They satisfy different needs—Westy is respectability, affluence, prestige, the attainment of a certain level of achievement in the upper-middle class life he lives.  Sister is an outlet to wildness, the rapidly receding days of his youth, of his desire not to give in to the lifestyle Westy represents, the lifestyle that, in spite of all his self-recriminations, he is clearly a part of.

Charlie DeSoto is really just another version of Ray.  Describing Charlie, Ray is describing himself.  The Desoto digression early in the novel is narrated as if Ray himself is the author.  We know what Charlie says and does and thinks.  Is this because Charlie has described himself to Ray, or is it because Ray has imagined himself into Charlie, a sort of alter ego?

 

Memorable quotes:

“ . . . I went seriously into Fine Arts after that, where you could play with yourself and get applauded for it.”

“Toward the end of the ceremony, Mrs. Hooch raises a dreadful animal wail of fearful, unknown, soprano lamentation.  But the wooden Indian in the station wagon never batted an eye.”

“Rising sins from my past are coming up and haunting my insides, and there’s this miserable dew on my buckle loafers.”

“Yes, I have seen the rain coming down on a sunny day.  I have seen the moon hot and the sun cold.  I have seen almost everything dependable go against its nature.  I have seen needless death and I have seen needless life.”

“Now I guess I should give you swaying trees and the rare geometry of cows.”

The Millenium Trilogy, by Steig Larsson

Lisbeth Salander is certainly a striking figure in The Millennium Trilogy novels by Steig Larsson.  A computer hacking whiz, brilliant mathematician, 4’ 11”, rebel, ferocious fighter, pugnacious, short-tempered, labeled by psychologists as schizophrenic, covered with tattoos, she’s a unique figure.  She gives these novels a fascinating center, though I’d argue that her sometimes colleague and one-time lover Mikael Blomkvist is nearly as interesting. 

Transfixing though she may be, when all her different dimensions are considered, she’s not very believable either. Whatever fix she finds herself in, she inevitably finds a way out, or someone finds a way out for her.  She holds these novels together, though, along with Blomkvist.  I found the first two Millennium novels to be entertaining.  But they’re full of flaws and inconsistencies not to mention basic lapses in writing.  But they’re interesting.  The third novel, a continuation of the second, keeps the narrative going but is so full of talk and planning that it seems more exposition than story.  At least it answers some of the questions left unanswered by the first two books.

In The Girl Who Played with Fire (2006), the second of the Millenium novels, Salander and Blomkvist are not speaking to one another, for reasons explained in the final scene of the first novel, Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (2005).   Even though she refuses to contact or be contacted by Blomkvist, they end up working on the same case.  Larrson is fairly adept at interweaving and counterbalancing different plot strands, though after a while his method becomes predictable and a bit tiresome.  In both novels the characters and the interwoven plots give the stories their interest.  The crimes—the mysteries—that Blomkvist and Salander set out to unravel seem at first highly interesting but in the end involve conspiracies of one sort or another.  It becomes easy to identify characters who are going to die (especially in the second novel).  And finally the mysteries are not unraveled so much by logic as by painstaking research.  This has its own interest, of course, but there’s an unwieldy discursiveness to how the mysteries unfold, so that it seems more that we’re being given a third-hand account of how they are solved rather than being permitted to witness or engage in the process directly.  We can’t follow and judge the logic the characters apply to what they discover--we just have to take Larsson’s word that their conclusions are sound.  This is especially so in the third novel, The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest (2010).

Larsson’s novels express a basic suspicion of government and of industry, especially of the interrelationships of the two.  And even more fundamental is a conviction that human nature, with the encouragement of power and money, is corruptible.  These are post-Cold War novels—they explore what happens to an intricate government, military, corporate, surveillance bureaucracy built towards the goal of opposing another such bureaucracy on the other side—what happens to those bureaucracies when the political underpinnings that justify their existence is removed?  Another underlying theme is oppression of women, in every form, but especially violent oppression.  Zalachenko, important in the last two installments of the trilogy, embodies this theme, but he embodies others as well.

I admire any novelist who can maintain interwoven plots for hundreds of pages.  Larsson does just that, but even in the second novel, and certainly by the third, one becomes aware of the underlying formula he’s following, and of the inevitable ways in which events will unfold.

John Carter of Mars

John Carter of Mars (2012; dir. John Staunton) raised for me questions of why and how.  Why and how was such a movie made?  I can’t properly characterize the badness of this film.  Everything is bad: dialogue, music, acting, editing, the story.  It is bad within the category of classically bad films.  It’s so bad that there’s no pleasure in talking about its badness.  It’s full of laughable lines, but there’s no irony or self-reflexiveness in their badness.  They’re just atrocious.  Everyone on Mars dresses like Romans.  Instead of dogs, they have big lovable newts for pets.  No chance this film will become a cult classic, like The Room.  I’ve read a few pages of the Edgar Rice Burroughs novel on which the film is based.  I finish most books I start, but not this one.  But the source novel is not the problem.  A poorly adapted and written screenplay is the problem.  The writing’s on the level of Flubber and Herbie the Lovebug.

Was John Carter targeted at a teenage audience, or an audience of comic book or sci-fi readers, or an adult audience?    Whatever the target, the filmmakers misjudged. 

Interestingly, the main character is a Civil War Confederate veteran who, while prospecting for gold out West, is suddenly transported to Mars.  His Confederate origins make him a sort of man without a country or home, and he has flashbacks about finding his wife and daughter killed in the ruins of their burned house.  On Mars, he finds a new home, and a new wife. If Martians have the same number of chromosomes as Earthlings, I guess he’ll have a new daughter.

John Carter is a Disney formula film.  The father of a Martian princess plans to marry his daughter to the leader of an enemy nation for the sake of forging a peace treaty.  A young man meets her, they seem to argue a lot, he rescues her, reveals and foils the plot that her would-be husband is planning, and saves the day.  The young man and the princess fall in love and marry.  Her reaction to his proposal of marriage reminded me of a Hallmark Hall of Fame greeting card.  He gives her the wedding wing of his dead first wife.

The digitally created Martians are among the film’s virtues—they resemble a cross between the inhabitants of Avatar and Jar Jar Binks, without his shuffling and jiving.  But they have personalities—human personalities.  With the exception of their appearance, there is little that is unfamiliar about them.  Without much of a film to carry them, what do they have to do?

I can understand why the Disney Studio chair lost his job over this film, whose ending sets up a sequel that I’m not betting on.

You Can Count on Me

Few movies are as nuanced and insightful about family as You Can Count on Me (2000; dir. Kenneth Lonergan).  Many films either ignore family or view it as a source of melodrama, pain, and oppression.  It may be these things, but it is also more.  There are some moments of melodrama in this film, some anguish and pain, but mostly it is understated and subtle, and effective as a result.  The central characters are a brother and sister whose parents were killed in an accident when they were young.  Fifteen years later, the brother and sister are adults.  The brother, Terry Prescott (Mark Ruffalo), lives a drifting and unsettled adult life.  He moves from one job to another, one state to another, and apparently from one relationship to another.  His sister Samantha (Laura Linney) is settled and conservative.  She has a son by a marriage that failed.  She works in a bank whose new manager (Matthew Broderick) causes disruption when he comes on the scene.  He insists that everyone in the bank office adhere to a strict schedule, even in the face of family emergencies, and that workers not have unprofessional color schemes on their computers. Samantha has difficulties with him.  She also has an affair with him, despite his six-month pregnant wife, despite the long-term suitor who has proposed and is waiting for her answer.  As uncentered as her brother’s life is, Samantha’s is more so.  She’s inflexible (like her boss, but in a different way), she’s overprotective of her son (though not excessively so), and she tends to find problems and misbehavior in others as a way of ignoring her own issues.  She tends to make rash decisions, as her affair with her boss and her failed marriage show.  She’s full of self-contradictions and paradoxes.

This summary may make You Can Count on Me seem the epitome of melodrama, yet the film doesn’t seem this way.  Despite the careful approach to its subject, certain recognizable patterns do emerge.  We’re not surprised that Samantha ends up having sex with her boss, despite their antagonism for each other.  Opposites do attract, and they’re not really that different after all.  And it’s not surprising that Terry’s return to town after seven years of silence and absence will bring conflict and difficulty to his sister.  It’s not surprising that he develops a close relationship with Samantha’s son Rudy.  Yet director Lonergan works through these Hollywood patterns in a way that seems to reinvent them.

Terry and Samantha’s characters are self-reflexive.  Even as they are making mistakes, they’re also judging themselves.  Terry is rebellious in various perverse ways, and he has a creative way of not doing what Samantha wants him to do.  While he’s looking after her son, he’s been told that the boy must go to bed by 10:00.  Instead, he takes Rudy to a local bar to play pool with him.  (They team up and win $100).  He picks the boy up from school and, instead of taking him to the babysitter Samantha has scheduled arranged for, takes him to a construction site and teaches him to use a hammer.  And in one of the most important scenes he takes the boy to meet his father, whom he has never met.  Terry is fatalistic and convinced that his life is meaningless and without value.  He makes choices that tend to confirm these attitudes.  Yet his motives are not entirely perverse.  He senses the boy’s need for companionship and believes he needs to be confronted with the realities of the world he will one day live in (just as he as a young boy was confronted with those realities in his parents’ deaths).

While Samantha has built a life for herself around order and routine and settlement in one place, Terry has followed exactly the opposite path.  Each of them longs for what the other has: freedom, lack of responsibility, stability, home, place.  While they find it difficult to live with each other, they also need each other as well.  Each has taken a different course adjusting to life without their parents.  The film moves by stealth in demonstrating the entanglement of their lives.

One of the characters most affected by the deaths of Terry and Samantha’s parents is Rudy, whose plaintive, expressionless face belies loneliness and confusion.  While his mother has tried to protect him from the world he will grow up into, Terry plunges him right in, and becomes a sort of surrogate father figure as well.  Rory Culkin is wonderful in his role.  The subtle acting in this film, especially that of Laura Linney, is a major virtue.

The film appears to take place in New England, in a small town named Worcester in the Appalachian foothills.  This is the town where Samantha and Terry grew up.  The past is always present, always impinging on Samantha and Terry’s lives.  For Samantha it’s a protective home.  For Terry it’s oppressive.  He tells Rudy:  “It's narrow. It's dull. It's a dull, narrow town full of dull, narrow people who don't know anything except what things are like right around here. They have no perspective whatsoever, no scope. They might as well be living in the 19th century 'cause they have no idea what's going on, and if you try and tell 'em that they wanna fucking kill you.”

The Methodist minister whom Samantha goes to with her problems seems absolutely clueless.  In the midst of her affair with her boss, she suddenly decides to go see the minister.  We are sure she’s going to ask him for advice about her affair, but instead she seeks advice about how to deal with her brother—a typical example of how she deflects her own issues on to others.  She returns for a second meeting and this time does talk about the affair.  She tells the minister that she needs help, not psychological mumbo jumbo.  But mumbo-jumbo, mumbling in general, is all he can offer.  The slow-witted, lifeless look on his face suggests absolute emptiness, though he tries hard to help, and when he does have a conversation with Terry, they seem to connect.

There are elements of comedy and tragedy in You Can Count on Me, all of them presented in a quiet, unassuming manner. 

The Artist

The Artist (2011; dir. Michel Hazanavicius) exemplifies both the virtues and limitations of silent film.  Its plot is highly reminiscent of the three versions of A Star is Born, except that this one offers a happy ending.  Except in a few scenes, there is no sound in the film, which is made in black and white and which features many of the techniques we associate with silent movies.  The two lead actors, Jean Dujardin, who plays George Valentin, and Bérénice Bejo, who plays the aspiring actress Peppy Miller, show how effective silent film actors could be in conveying emotions and speech through gestures, facial expressions, and posture.  Their names are emblems of the film eras they represent in The Artist: Valentin’s name is reminiscent of Rudolf Valentino, and of an entire era of heroic swashbuckling, while Peppy is more suggestive of the sound film—her name lacks class, perhaps, but it expresses the “pep” and vigor that increasingly characterized sound films of the 1930s.  The plot is formulaically standard: an established and highly popular actor befriends a young woman by inviting her to join the cast of one of his films as a dancer.  As the silent film era comes to an end, his success as a Hollywood icon fades, while hers rises.  After his studio fires him, Valentin tries to make a silent film on his own.  It’s a commercial failure.  He loses all his money and begins to drink.  Several years later, Peppy tries to rescue Valentin and his career.  Each character seems to have been secretly (and silently) in love with the other since their first meeting.

The Actor is great entertainment. As much as it tries to commemorate the silent film era, it uses a number of methods we’d identify with contemporary films.  For instance, the film represents the dawning of the sound era by having Valentin in his dressing room begin to hear sounds.  He responds to it as an alien phenomenon, and he’s never able to adjust.  Even when he tries to speak, he can’t, and we never hear his voice.  For that matter, we don’t hear Peppy’s voice either, though she’s making her career as a sound film actor.

As much as I enjoyed this film, it didn’t make me long for a return to the silent era.  I’d have preferred to hear the voices of the actors, along with the singing and dancing of their sound era films.  The history of film is the history of the technological advances that make film as an artistic form possible.  Although silent films continue to be made as a sort of sub-category, and although we can associate the acting styles of such people as Jackie Gleason, Woody Allen, and others with silent acting techniques, film as an artistic form depends on sound.  Just as occasional black and white films can represent occasional welcome diversions from the mainstream, so can silent films.  But for the most part, color and sound are fundamental elements.  I don’t long for silent films.

Columbine, by Dave Mullen

Evil is a product of human behavior, much of it genetically determined, of environmental factors, of the values that a culture identifies itself with.  Though we may speak of evil as an absolute, its meaning is relative and pliable.  Too often, labeling an event as the product of evil can prevent understanding true causes.  If evil is a force external to the human world, and therefore beyond our understanding, then there is no explanation for such events as Nazi Germany, the attacks on the World Trade Center, the massacre of summer campers in Sweden, and the killings at Columbine high school in 1999.  Most of us would agree these horrors can be described as “evil,” but those responsible for them are likely to have regarded them as entirely rational.  If evil is beyond our control, then attempting to understand these events in the fullest way is pointless. I believe explanations are always possible, that causes leading to the tragic effects can be identified.

In Columbine (Twelve, 2009), Dave Cullen sorts out the events and individuals of the notorious shootings in 1999.  One of his purposes is to correct various myths that surround the shootings, many of which persist to the present day.  These include the notion that the killers targeted athletes or minorities and that they were part of a larger conspiracy.  One myth in particular holds that one of the students, asked by Eric Harris whether she believed in God, answered that she did and was then shot in the head.  Cullen shows that this never happened, and that it was another student, a survivor, who professed her faith to one of the gunmen.  Cullen covers the killings from as many angles as one can imagine: the killers, their parents, the victims, their parents, school administrators, local law enforcement, the FBI.

But his main purpose is to determine cause.  He does not suggest that evil caused the killings.  Instead after much examination of personalities and events, after interviews with FBI profilers and psychologists, he concludes that Eric Harris was a psychopath who methodically planned the killings well ahead of time, who wanted to see the extinction of the entire human race, and who enlisted the support of the passive and willing Dylan Klebold, a disaffected and unhappy friend. 

Though I’d be unhappy if Cullen had ascribed the cause of Columbine to evil, suggesting that it was the work of a psychopath (with all that the word entails) is only slightly more enlightening.  This effectively written and researched book offers a full account of the Columbine events, but it left me unsatisfied on the issue of cause.  Psychopath in our modern times is just another word for evil.

Tiny Furniture

Self-absorption is the subject of Tiny Furniture (2010).  A young woman named Aura returns from college to live again with her mother and sister and to decide what to do with her life.  The dilemma is that she does not know what she wants to do, yet she feels pressured to decide.  She needs to move forward, yet she returns to the same family issues she left when she went away to college.  Probably she will become a filmmaker, and in fact Tiny Furniture seems to be the film she has made about her situation. In fact, it seems to be the film the director Lena Dunham has made about her own situation or at least one from her recent past, given the success she has had with this film and with the TV series Girls, which she produces, directs, writes and acts in. Lena plays herself, while her mother, a successful artist who makes photographs of tiny furniture constructions, and her sister appear essentially as themselves too, though all of them have changed names.  She used her mother’s apartment as a setting.

Tiny Furniture is made as if it is a documentary, following the main character around in handy-cam fashion as she deals with her mother and sister, meets old friends, looks with increasing desperation for someone to have sex with (she finally manages to have sex in an abandoned sewage pipe with someone she has met at a party).  The film is random and scattered, but what else could it be, as the chronicle of someone representative of what my youngest son refers to as millennials—creatures and products of the turn of the century, of the economic crash, of the altered circumstances of a post-Bush, post 9-11, recession era America?

The mother is an artist who photographs models sitting next to tiny furniture—hence the title.  Her apartment is all white, with stark white and flat cabinets lining the walls.  Despite her apparent success, she seems more torn and desperate than her prodigal daughter.  It was interesting to sit through this film.  I never want to see it again.  Perhaps this is the point.

Invisible Cities, by Italo Calvino

I found Italo Calvino’s Invisible Cities (1972) strangely moving.  Everything about it is elliptical, elusive.  It is framed as a series of stories told by the traveler Marco Polo to the Kubla Khan.  Khan is vaguely aware that while his empire has grown to enormous size he can already detect the first hints of its collapse.  Polo’s tales, all of them about various cities he has visited, are intended to give Khan a sense of perspective.  Each of the cities is different, marked by various fantastical qualities, but they also have elements in common.  One point of these tales is that travel makes one aware of how large and diverse the world is and therefore reduces one’s sense of importance, in both time and space.  Another point is transience.  Many of the cities are tearing themselves down even as they rebuild.  And the stories illustrate that one's individual perspective on the world is nothing more than that—an individual perspective among many others. 

This book should have irritated me.  Occasionally it did.  I think of books such as Einstein’s Dream, over which many have raved, which to me seemed a kind of lazy trick.  But Calvino’s fictional urban vignettes are so deftly rendered, in a sometimes hypnotic, rhythmic manner (the book as a whole has distinctive rhythms) that they form entrancing and unsolvable puzzles that draw the reader in. 

The only actual city named here is Venice, the traveler’s home city.  All of the places he describes may in fact be some version of Venice, gradually sinking beneath the waves.  But what’s most at work here is Calvino’s incredibly fertile creativity.  

The Memory of Skin, by Russell Banks

The Memory of Skin (Ecco, 2011) glows with the beautiful and well-wrought prose of Russell Banks.  He evokes setting in an effective, forceful manner, so that you envision the surroundings of his characters.  And he’s especially good with characters, especially the two main characters of this novel, one a young man recently released from prison where he had been sentenced for trying to seduce a young girl, the other an enormous professor of social science whose history is a monstrous concatenation of contradictions that might or might not be fabricated.  He reminded me of Ignatius J. Reilly in Confederacy of Dunces, though he is not so amusing as Ignatius. 

Banks delineates these characters so that we understand and, to an extent, sympathize with them.  But he does not fully explain them.  The Professor in particular enters and exits the novel followed by a number of significant questions and mysteries.  He may be a self-created liar, or he may be a deep cover CIA operative who is the focus of a federal manhunt.

In the Kid, the unsuccessful seducer of an under-age teenage girl, Banks offers an amazingly intricate and full portrait of abject isolation—social, mental, familial, physical.  The Kid was formerly a porno addict and chronic masturbator with no social life or personal connections beyond his mother, with whom he lived.  When he was arrested for his crime, his mother disowned him.  Released from prison, he wears an ankle bracelet and cannot legally live anywhere within 1000 feet of children, so he lives with other former sex-addicts and vagrants underneath a bridge, where they are all subject to occasional raids by the local police.  His arrest and imprisonment has cured him of his interests in pornography and masturbation, but he still feels an attraction to young girls.  The only social connections he makes are with a few of the men under the bridge.  Most of them cannot hold the few jobs they manage to find.  The Professor takes a professional interest in these people, and in the Kid himself.  Does his interest stem from his recognition that the young man might be fairly intelligent, from sympathy for his plight, from a homoerotic attraction, or from his own possible past as a pederast—Banks implies without confirming these possibilities.

The Kid at one point seeks to heighten his separation from the world by retreating to the isolation of a nearby swamp.  He also is capable of some terrific lies, some of which he admits to, and all of which are obvious to the reader. 

The Kid is the sort of character we should find repellent and contemptible, for whom we might feel isolation and social castigation are not adequate enough a punishment given his crime—the one he never commits.  Yet Banks forces us to see him as a three-dimensional human soul.

Tiger: A True Story of Vengeance and Survival, by John Valliant

This detailed and always intriguing book shows the interconnecting lines of history, politics, international relations, wildlife, and human personality.  Of the non-fiction books I’ve read recently, many of them were intelligent but superficial accounts of their topic.  I think in particular of the recent The Destiny of the Republic and of the seemingly encyclopedic Columbine.  Tiger is intelligent and deep.  We learn much about tigers and their natural behavior, about the inhabitants of Siberian Russia.  It details the attack of a male tiger on residents of Luchegorsk, in far eastern Russia, near the Chinese border, and of the efforts to hunt it down.  In the beginning I was mainly interested in tigers, but soon found compelling the discussions of Yuri Trush, the man assigned by the Soviet Union to head up the Inspection Tiger unit that protects tigers, tries to prevent poaching, and deals with various aspects of human and wildlife relations. 

For me the attractions of this book beyond the tiger himself lay in its coverage of a part of the world that I and most other western readers would normally dismiss as an uninteresting backwater of the old Soviet Union—Siberia, shades of Solzhenitsyn, Dostoevsky, Stalin.  It is much like a frontier, even as elements of the contemporary world gradually make their way in.  The region also hovers on the cusp of the Russian and Chinese borders, and the differing attitudes of the Chinese and the Russians towards preservations of tigers and other wildlife is an indication of the tensions between these two large nations.  Chinese expansionism, Perestroika, Stalin’s purges all have had an impact on the region and the welfare of the Siberian tiger.  Tiger: A True Story of Vengeance and Survival, by John Valliant (Vintage, 2010) provides a glimpse into a subject that was largely unknown to me before, and leaves me feeling more ignorant, more parochial, less worldly than before as well.  

Wuthering Heights, by Emily Bronte

Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights is about two generations of would-be lovers who never manage to connect. Chapters 23 and 24 of the second part contain some of the most insipid banter imaginable between two young people--a 17-year-old girl who speaks with the maturity of a 9-year old, and a somewhat younger terminally afflicted boy. The first section of the novel is, to me, stronger than the first, which tells the doomed story of Catharine and Heathcliff, while the second tells about the doomed relationship of their offspring. Heathcliff himself, who plays a major role throughout the novel, is by the second such a dark, malevolent villain that he hardly seems real.

Class and gender conflict are issues here. Romantic love is an issue too. Are we to see Heathcliff in some sense as a monument to love, driven to near insanity if not beyond by his grief over the loss of Catherine? And is Catherine’s insanity the result of disease, grief over her inability to be with Heathcliff, or over her unhappy marriage to Edgar Linton. The characteristics of these individuals are not adequately justified in the novel, and romantic love, if it is shown to be anything, is destructive and death dealing.

Sadly, there is not much of relevance to modern readers in this novel published in 1847. Women are weak and fragile vessels whose passions can ruin them—they’re incapable of ruling their lives. Men are, well, simpletons and dullards. The narrative is melodramatic, with irrational transitions and actions. The tragic force at work here is class, and neither Catherine nor Heathcliff possess sufficient will to overcome it.

Perhaps I should give Wuthering Heights another chance, at some other time in my reading life.

The Beauty and the Sorrow: An Intimate History of the First World War, by Peter Englund

Oral narratives, especially from people who are not professional writers, can offer powerful insight into the age that produced them.  Often you wade through pages of insignificant discussion of personal and mundane issues, and then happen on a phrase, a sentence, an image that plunges you into the mind and times of the writer.  Last night I read a paragraph from a letter written by a seventeen-year-old girl about her encounter in 1834 with the frontiersman Davy Crockett.  More than any biographical study, certainly more than Crockett’s self-inventing narratives, this one paragraph gave me a personal and physical sense of Crockett as a human being.

So I came to The Beauty and the Sorrow: An Intimate History of the First World War (Knopf, 2011), by Peter Englund, with anticipation.  This book promised to be an account of the First World War told through the experiences of 20 random participants and spectators—soldiers, medical workers, businessmen, displaced mothers, and so on.  Their stories would, I hoped, plunge me as a reader into the war in a direct and vicarious way.  Not so. Instead of presenting their oral or written accounts, Englund treats them as characters in a narrative that he constructs.  He does the narrating, sometimes quoting and sometimes paraphrasing diaries, newspaper accounts, published and unpublished journals, letters and other documents to construct the thoughts and activities of his characters on a particular day of the war.  He moves from one individual to another, following the war’s progress chronologically, comparing and contrasting and interweaving until a comprehensive overview, of sorts, emerges.  Individual accounts here can be powerful.  Others seem banal.  The power of the individual voice, whether through oral or written narrative, is replaced by Englund’s authorial voice, which surely, inevitably, must take some license as he constructs the lives and thoughts of these people as they experience the war.  This patchwork approaches comes at the cost of narrative effect—we’re constantly moving from one person’s perspective to another, and there are so many participants, flung far and wide across the globe, in so many contexts and roles, that coherence never emerges.  Perhaps that was Englund’s intention.  Even as I enjoyed this book, I was disappointed.

The Elephant in the Living Room

Ostensibly, The Elephant in the Living Room (2010, dir. Michael Webber) is about Americans who keep dangerous animals—bears, lions, tigers, poisonous snakes, etc.—in their private homes as pets.  The film contrasts the personalities and views of those who insist on their right to own such animals and those who regard the practice as a danger to both the animals and public safety.  Weird personalities and disturbing scenes abound.  The film eventually focuses in on Tim Harrison, an animal rescue expert, and Terry Brumfield, a retired, disabled truck driver who found that owning lions cured his depression.  I have to say that I was more interested in the general phenomenon of exotic pet ownership than in these individual examples.  Though there is much pathos in the tale of the retired truck driver and his lions, it is finally difficult to feel that the particulars of his situation justified the miserable conditions in which his lions lived.  In a painful and difficult scene, his prized male lion is accidentally killed when an electrical short circuit electrifies his cage.  A heart-rending soundtrack and numerous close-up images of the truck driver’s grief-stricken face muck up the sentimentality.

Admittedly, in the story of Tim and Terry the film encapsulates some of the issues in the ownership of exotic pets.  It does touch on the growing problem of wild snakes in the Florida Everglades, but it does not do much with the possibility of African lions and monkeys escaping and establishing populations in the United States.  Maybe the odds are against that happening.

In general this documentary substitutes the pathos of an individual anecdote for a genuine exploration of the topic.

Trailer

The Grey

The Grey (2011, dir. Joe Carnahan) aspires to be a good film. It ponders weighty questions: mortality, death's inevitability, individuals in a naturalistic world, the void. The scenario: workers at an isolated Alaskan pipeline facility are being transferred stateside to see their families. The jetliner carrying them home crashes in the middle of the Arctic. We don't know exactly where, but we are told early on that there is no chance of their being found. This seems unlikely. Airplanes are tracked on radar, they have transponders, when they go down people know about and come looking for survivors. The idea that a large airplane would just vanish in the Alaskan wilderness and attract no one's attention is the premise the film urges us to accept.

The survivors band together and make plans. Their leader is Ottway, played by (you guessed it) Liam Neeson. He is actually often effective in these kinds of roles. Sometimes he shows a certain amount of depth and insight. Sometimes he doesn't. In this case he does, to a certain extent. Ottway believes survival might be possible if he doesn't give up. These are all rough and ready men, with problematic personalities and histories, who for whatever reason have chosen to isolate themselves in the wilderness of the Alaskan oilfields. The movie seeks to humanize them by inserting glimpses of their home lives, of the daughters they think about, the lovers they're going to see. In the case of Ottway, we keep seeing glimpses of a young woman lying next to him in bed.  They’re speaking tender words that we can’t hear. We learn through various comments and through a suicide note that Ottway has lost this woman and that he can never get her back, so he's surrendered to an empty, pointless life bereft of hope. We even see him in an early scene putting a shotgun in his mouth, on the verge of committing suicide. The is interrupted when he has to shoot a wolf that suddenly comes into view, attacking one of his colleagues. Only at the end of the film do we learn about the kind of loss Ottway has suffered and although it makes his plight all the more bitter and full of despair, it also imbues the final scenes with sentimentality. It's the memory of this loss that he is running away from and that he can never get back.

Unfortunately, the plot of The Grey is all too familiar. Men are trapped in a difficult situation. They try to extricate themselves. One by one they’re picked off.  We've seen plenty of other films where characters are picked off by dinosaurs or Nazis or aliens or crazed monstrosities in the night. In this film, they’re picked off by wolves. The Grey therefore takes a predictable course.

The final scene reminded me of the conclusion of Runaway Train (1985), with Jon Voigt, standing atop the speeding locomotive, facing obliteration.

Ray Bradbury

Ray Bradbury‘s writings captured my interest as a child and fueled my passion for reading.  He was at his best as a short story writer.  His Martian Chronicles (1950) and Fahrenheit 451 (1953) were remarkable books.  Martian Chronicles was as I remember a wistful, lyrical memory of lost settlements on the Red Planet.  As an adolescent reader I returned to these stories repeatedly, seeking to regain the kind of experience I had when I first read them.  This was one of Bradbury’s best works, and in my reading experience he never equaled it.  I read book after book by Bradbury, hoping to find again that experience of The Martian Chronicles, but it was never there.  I’m afraid to reread the book now, fearful that my immature adolescent reading created in my mind a work that would no longer exist if I read the stories again 

Fahrenheit 451 shows how totalitarian regimes stifle free expression, control individual lives, and censor literature and readers.  Written with the recent memory of the McCarthy hearings, and of the Nazi regime, which was notorious for censorship and book banning among much worse evils, Fahrenheit 451 celebrated the passion of readers, the community of those who read and its essential relationship to individual lives.  It was prescient in its suggestion that technology would become all dominant, often oppressive, in our lives.  Truffaut’s 1968 film adaptation of the novel was good, I thought.  Other Bradbury story collections I read included The Illustrated Man (1951) and Golden Apples of the Sun (1953), and novels such as Dandelion Wine (1957) and Something Wicked This Way Comes (1962)

Although I still occasionally read and enjoy Bradbury, much of his work strikes me as aimed towards a younger audience.  There’s a derivative, sophomoric quality to his political and philosophical musings.  His work can be uneven—he wrote a great deal and apparently didn’t hesitate to publish work that wasn’t his best.  The influence of Thomas Wolfe is sometimes apparent—the mawkish, excessively lyrical and ebullient Wolfe.  Walt Whitman is also an influence.

Still, Bradbury was a science fiction writer who brought occasional moments of fine prose to his work, which aspired to be, and sometimes was, the best of its genre.

Destiny of the Republic: A Tale of Madness, Medicine and the Murder of a President, by Candance Millard

In what I take to be an imagined scene in the first chapter of Destiny of the Republic: A Tale of Madness, Medicine and the Murder of a President (Doubleday, 2011), Charles Guiteau, the future assassin of President James Garfield, stands on the deck of the S. S. Stonington, contemplating his future.  The Stonington collides with another ship, which quickly sinks, in flames and smoke.  Guiteau manages to survive.  He takes his survival as a sign that he has a divinely inspired purpose.  The facts of this scene are beyond dispute.  The ship did sink, Guiteau was aboard and did survive, and his diaries tell us its effect on him.  What bothers me is the fictional frame of the scene.  How do we know, factually, what Guiteau was thinking at the moment of impact?  We know only what Guiteau’s diaries, and other sources, tell us.   Everything else is speculation.

Author Candace Millard’s narrative is smoothly written and highly readable.  She tends to divide her characters into binary categories: the good and the bad—Guiteau, Senator Roscoe Conkling, Vice President Chester B. Arthur, for instance—are the bad, while Garfield and his secretary Brown are the good.  When Arthur, faced with the possibility of becoming President after Garfield is shot, is somehow redeemed, the exact nature of his conversion remains unclear.  Millard suggests that the enormity of the challenge before him had something to do with the change, but she never really questions the change itself.

The failure to recognize shades of moral coloration in these figures is a failing in this book, which dwells more on personalities and superficial events than on causes and meanings and implications.  

Remarks for Lamar Dodd School of Art Graduation Ceremony, May 9, 2012

I am pleased to be here on behalf of the Franklin College of Arts and Sciences to extend congratulations to all of you students, parents, friends, as well as to the faculty and staff of the Lamar Dodd School of Art, on this most important day. Students, you have earned a degree from one of the finest schools of art in the nation. You should be proud. Many of you will go out in the world to become practicing artists, or to teach and create art at a university, or to do research into the history and meaning of art, or to help prepare future teachers. Many of you will go out into the world and take up vocations that have little to do with what you have studied for the past four years—that is OK. You’ve had a great preparation to be an active and contributing citizen, whether as an artist or businessperson or teacher or parent or journalist or whatever. Use the creativity and appreciation for art and beauty that this UGA education has helped nurture in you to make the world a better place.

The public perception of the artist, a perception that some artists encourage, is that the artist stands apart from society, devoting him- or herself wholly to the production of art.

This is a false perception. You can’t allow it to persist. The main thing you must do in the world—a world fraught with serious problems and perils—is engage. Commit yourself to improving the world around you, and do it using the skills and values acquired through your experience with the Lamar Dodd School. Art doesn’t exist in isolation from society. The artist does not stand apart. The artist is part of a larger matrix of humanness, more important than any one individual, more important than art itself. Be a citizen of the nation and the world. Prove the values of the arts by using them to help others, to assuage the sick, to enhance the quality of individual lives, to elevate the thinking of people and of nations, to bring passion and insight to the business world, to give pause to those who think purely in terms of numbers, to enable those who suffer and despair to see above and beyond the constraints that hold them down. Make the arts your avenue towards doing things that matter in this world and this time that need your help.

Once again I congratulate you on this propitious day.

Remarks for Hugh Hodgson School of Music Graduation Ceremony, May 10, 2012

I am pleased to be here on behalf of the Franklin College of Arts and Sciences to extend congratulations to all of you students, parents, friends, as well as to the faculty and staff of the Hugh Hodgson School of Music, on this most important day. Students, you have earned a degree from one of the finest schools of music in the nation. You should be proud. Many of you will go out in the world to become practicing musicians, to compose or conduct or to sing, to teach at a school or university, or to research the history and forms of music, or to train future teachers. Many of you will go out into the world and take up vocations that have little to do with what you have studied for the past four years—that is OK. You’ve had a great preparation to be an active and contributing citizen, whether as a musician or businessperson or teacher or parent or journalist or whatever.

Whatever avenue you follow, the main thing you must do in this world—a world fraught with serious problems and perils—is engage. Use the creativity and appreciation for art and music that you have acquired through your experience with the Hugh Hodgson School to make the world a better place.

Performers and teachers and lovers of music play a crucial role in our society. The oldest musical instrument ever discovered—a 35,000 year old flute made from the wing bone of a vulture—suggests that music has been an innate and essential aspect of human experience since its recorded beginnings. None of us can imagine our lives without music. Yet musicians and lovers and teachers of music are part of a larger matrix of humanness that is more important than any one individual, more important than music itself. Be a citizen of the nation and the world. Prove the values of the arts and of music by using them to help others, to assuage the sick, to enhance the quality of individual lives, to elevate the thinking of people and of nations, to bring passion and insight to the business world, to give pause to those who think purely in terms of numbers, to enable those who suffer and despair to see above and beyond the constraints that hold them down. Make your passion for music your avenue towards doing things that matter in this world and this time that need your help.

Once again I congratulate you on this propitious day.

Remarks for 18th Andrea Carson Coley lecture, April 6, 2012

On behalf of the Franklin College and the University I welcome you to the 18^th Andrea Carson Coley lecture. This is always an important event on the spring semester calendar for Women’s Studies. In memory and honor of Andrea Coley, a young woman who came out as a lesbian and suffered hostility and non-acceptance that led to her suicide, the Coley lecture seeks to foster understanding and acceptance of people who are different. It speaks for the spirit and practice of fairness, tolerance, appreciation and equity for all people. This year in particular seems particularly relevant. The current political campaign, as surly and uncivil as I can ever recall a campaign having been, has focused unfortunately on a very narrow and singular definition of what it means to be an American, of what it means to be human. Those who don’t fit that definition are regarded by some as suspect, second-rate, undeserving of full status as human beings. Not only do we witness attacks on gays, lesbians, transgendered, and others who are different. We are also witnessing attacks on women in general, on the fundamental concept of difference and self-empowerment. We recently heard a young woman lambasted on a national radio program for the mere fact of her testimony before Congress. And we have seen in Florida how a teenage boy with dark skin, who behaved and dressed in what one observer interpreted as a suspicious manner, ended up dead on the lawn of a small-town neighborhood. These are extremist attacks, extremist acts, extremist views, you might say, but the current political climate demonstrates all too well how fast extremes can become the middle ground. In this environment, where the gains of the last fifty years are cast into doubt and sometimes even scorn, the importance of programs that highlight, study, teach, and promote issues of gender, race, and difference becomes all the more clear.

I am so pleased to see everyone at this important event today. Thank you to the staff, students, and faculty of Women’s Studies for all that you do. Since the Institute was established 35 years ago, more than 10,000 students have completed Women’s Studies courses. These students – and thousands of others who experience a first-class liberal arts and sciences education – are equipped to enter the public discourse with tolerance and generosity: the wisdom, justice, and moderation that are the pillars of the UGA Arch. Thank you to Kathy and Andrew Coley for endowing this event in honor of their daughter. I cannot imagine a more powerful legacy for Andrea, than fostering those crucial values for our students, faculty, and community. And thank you in advance to my friend and colleague, Tricia Lootens, for the talk she is giving today. As a teacher, scholar, and citizen, she has had a tremendous and beneficial impact on her department, this institute, and the University. I look forward to her remarks. Thank you.

Vesuvius: A Biography, by Alwyn Scarth

This history of Mount Vesuvius and its impact onthe lives of the people who lived nearby and the Italian peninsula itself is the slave of its own subject. Meticulous in a prosaic way, the book chronicles every eruption, every flow of lava and burst of steam and ash, that is recorded in written history, oral accounts, legend, and in the geological record. There is an underlying premise here—that long-lived natural phenomenon such as active volcanoes have a deep and lasting effect on human culture and history. A good thesis. My objection to this book is that it rarely raises its head above the ground level. We learn a great deal about the volcano, how it formed, what happened in various eruptions, how many people were affected, who wrote about it, its impact on settlements and farming communities, and so on. Mount Vesuvius is probably the best documented geological activity in human history. The interest of the account varies directly in relation to the detail available on particular eruptions—such as the famous eruption in AD 72 that destroyed Pompeii and Herculaneum, and chronicles by such writers as Pliny the Elder (who died in the eruption), Pliny the Younger, and many others—and to historical figures that emerge in the course of the story. The 18^th century British diplomat Sir William Hamilton (1730-1803), whose writings about Vesuvius became one of the most detailed accounts of volcanoes ever produced, is an example—he was my favorite character. And there are moments, when eruptions threaten villages and force thousands of people to flee in panic, that the story comes alive. But for the most part charts, scrupulous lists and deadly prose hold sway.  Princeton University Press, 2009.

The Tree of Life

Terrence Malick has defined his own kind of filmmaking. His use of visual imagery, voiceovers, philosophical and religious contemplation, his contrasting of the natural world with the technological, of agrarian and industrial dimensions, his study of the meaning of consciousness and human identity--not in the meaning of culture or ideology but of pure self--these set him out as distinctive. It’s interesting to see how his films have progressed, from the early Badlands (1973) to the most recent, The Tree of Life (2011). One could almost view the last three films—The Thin Red Line (1998), The New World (2005), and The Tree of Life--as a coherent piece, with their emphasis on the individual in nature, their contrasting of the inward contemplative nature of the individual against the destructive forces of the outer, modern world. As an example, all three films use trees as unifying iconic symbols.

The contending forces that most interest Malick are laid out for us in the opening scene of The Tree of Life. The quotation from the Book of Job (“"Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth? . . .  When the morning stars sang together and all the sons of God shouted for joy?") focuses us in particular on the calamity that is the starting point—the death at the age of 19 of one of the O’Brien children, for reasons probably war-related, delivered through a telegram. Mrs. O’Brien questions why God would allow her son to die. The quotation from Job suggests that there are reasons for events on the earth, that there is a greater scheme of things into which the small details of individual human lives fit.

Mrs. O’Brien’s voiceover comments about grace and nature in the opening scene set down for us the struggle between mother and father in the film, Mrs. O’Brien representing grace, and Mr. O’Brien, nature. “The nuns taught us there are two ways through life. The way of nature, and the way of grace,” she tells us. “You have to choose which one you will follow.” (We cannot schematize Tree that easily. I’m deliberately oversimplifying.) The O’Briens’ oldest son Jack, the focus of much of the film, is the product of these contending parental forces.

The Tree of Life is recognizably a Terrence Malick film, but it is different from his four previous efforts. Set in a small Texas town during the 1950s, it focuses on one family that is in many ways a standard 1950s small town family. The father returns from the second world war to marry his wife, and they have three sons. Jack, who by expression and behavior seems constantly disaffected once the birth of a younger brother shatters the harmony of his world, bears the brunt of his father’s willful attention, and even from an early age he is caught up in a battle of wills, as are in one way or the other his brothers and mother, with their strong-minded father.

The telegram’s arrival in the opening scene becomes the center of a fluid movement between past and present, between the early days of the family’s life, and the efforts of the mother and father to come to grips with their son’s death. But the past isn’t merely the human past of a single family. It’s the history of the world, of the entire universe, of life’s development. How does Malick show this dimension? Literally. With images of the big bang and the birth of the sun and the earth, some of them digitally created, others digitally altered images of Hubble photographs, he shows the movement of the universe towards that one moment in time when the telegram arrives and the parents learn of their son’s death.

The point of this must be to contrast with the birth and development of the universe the mother’s questioning of God about why he allowed her son’s death. It suggests that in the grand scheme of things the death is a miniscule detail, yet at the same time it shows that in the life of the parents, of the family, of the surviving brothers, it is calamitous tragedy. It is also shows that in Malick’s view his death is part of a divine grand scheme.

An inevitable comparison to Malick’s film is Lars Von Trier’s Melancholia (2011). Both films link the lives of human beings with a encompassing vision of the universe. Both question the meaning of human experience cast against the sweep of cosmic history. In von Trier’s film, the character Justine expresses his view that “Life is only on earth. And not for long,” as the planet heads for its inevitable collision with the earth. There is no existence beyond this final moment in this film. Malick’s view is the opposite. Though he doesn’t consider the issue of life elsewhere in the universe, his film suggests, at least implies (unless we are dealing with scenes of pure metaphor), a life after death where his characters are reunited with one another and where reconciliation, redemption of some sort, is possible. Malick’s view is a Christian one, while von Trier expresses a decidedly naturalistic one.

It’s pointless to ask which film is “better.” I can’t rank them on the basis of my agreement or disagreement with them. I found Melancholia a powerful and sobering experience the first time I saw it. With my second viewing I continued to admire it but was less moved and was bothered by the film’s stylistic dogmatism—von Trier not only expressed his message but also insisted that we understood it. Both films are beautifully made. I wondered why Melancholia was set on an elegant seaside estate somewhere in the United States, and why its first half was devoted to a serio-comic disaster of a wedding while its second half focused on the preparation of the main characters for the end of the world. The two halves of the film, titled “Justine” and “Claire,” suggested two conflicting treatments of character, yet Justine dominated the film.

While I tend to agree with Melancholia’s view philosophically, The Tree of Life impressed me more. Stylistically, Malick’s film is not dogmatic. It presents a particular view of life, one that is undoubtedly religious in nature, but never presses that view. It simply displays, and with the long sequences showing the birth and development of the universe, and the final scenes where family members reunite on a heavenly beach, we are left to our own explanations. It’s possible to come away from The Tree of Life with a naturalistic view, and it’s possible to come away religiously inspired. Maybe both feelings are possible. In Melancholia Kirsten Dunst as Justine stands out. Deeply mired in depression, then passively accepting of the annihilation she knows is coming, the authenticity of her performance is compelling. Yet it’s a monochromatic performance—she doesn’t have to do much more than act convincingly depressed. In The Tree of Life Brad Pitt and Jessica Chastain give performances more complex and nuanced. The children in this film are truly outstanding.

While the swank seaside estate where the wedding collapses and the world ends in Melancholia may give von Trier a vehicle for suggesting disdain for a human existence that measures itself on material possessions, one is tempted to wonder whether the estate also gave him a setting for the beautiful images that proliferate through the film, images that in themselves are distinct and stunning but that may also be gratuitous—they’re part of the intentional artifice of the film. One could make the same argument about the small Texas town where Malick centers The Tree of Life, yet there is a logic to the setting anchored in the film’s treatment of a family in the 1950s of Texas. One never has to wonder why Malick’s film is set where it is, while in Triers’ film there’s always the question.

Key images in The Tree of Life are trees, doors, portals, dividing lines (land and sky, under water and over water, inside and outside).

Finally, given my interest in films about the American South, I must consider whether this one fits the category. Because the South is associated with nostalgic notions of childhood (To Kill a Mockingbird), family (The Sound and the Fury), and an idyllic past (Trip to Bountiful), I would argue that Tree of Life fits tangentially. It is not about the traditional “Southern” issues that many other “Southern” films address, but it does use mythic associations of the South with family and childhood and small towns to provide a context for its larger philosophical ruminations.

The Leftovers, by Tom Perrotta

The unsettling premise of this novel is that one day millions of people suddenly, inexplicably disappear. There is no logic as to who they are or why they vanish—some good people remain on earth, some bad people disappear. Is this the fabled Rapture? The novel doesn’t spend much time wondering. Nor does it give much satisfaction on the moment of disappearance—all the accounts are second-hand--apparently people simply vanished, dematerialized, without fanfare. Instead the novel focuses on the survivors, those left behind, how they cope with the loss of loved ones, with the uncertainty left in the world and in personal lives.

The Leftovers (Tom Perrotta, St. Martin’s Press, 2011) is like Ordinary People in ways. It melodramatically surveys various individuals affected by the event and centers on the family of Greg, which is torn apart even though no member of the family disappeared. The mother Laurie joins a cult whose members never speak and who wear white clothing. The son Tom drops out of college and disappears for long periods of time. He joins a cult called the Healing Hug, which he discovers is really just a cover beneath which the organizer sleeps with young girls. Greg is elected mayor. Daughter Jill shaves off her hair and suffers teen angst. It’s all just a blasé sort of soap opera.

So really this novel is about loss. There’s no theological rambling. This is not a religious novel.

What exactly is it? Its real interest ought to lie in what happened to the departed. Where did they go? Are they ingredients in some alien cookbook? Are they in heaven or hell? The novel offers little satisfaction on these questions or anything else.

A Peculiar Tribe of People: Murder and Madness in the Heart of Georgia, by Richard Hutto

In the mode of Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, but on a lesser scale, Richard Jay Hutto’s A Peculiar Tribe of People: Murder and Madness in the Heart of Georgia (Lyons Press, 2011) delves into the events and people of a murder in Macon , GA, in 1961. Not always effectively written or organized, sometimes burdened by too much detail, the narrative is nonetheless entertaining and interesting. It’s woven from interviews with many of the people who knew the principals in the story, as well as by newspaper accounts and legal documents. Hutto provides much information about the main characters and generations of their family histories. He is as interested in many of the people he interviews as he is in the story itself. Part of the interest of this book lies in the quality of the gossip (much of it documented) it contains—there’s a growing sense of amazement in Hutto’s narrative about the information he presents, as he is often incredulous that people behave as they do.

A Peculiar Tribe of People reminds me of Faulkner’s story about the rise of the Snopes clan in northern Mississippi. That tale, like this one, is a tale of class rivalry and jealousy, of old blood and money vs. new, in which the people resisting the outliers who want to enter into their social class reveal their own prejudices and foibles. Racism plays a role in this story, but mostly it is class conflict, and family.

Many people named in this book have familiar names. The Reynolds family is mentioned, as are, briefly, people from the literary and musical worlds of Macon, including Little Richard, who according to Hutto began his career singing under the name of Princess Lavonne in a lounge known as the Tic Toc Room.

Arthur Miller’s All My Sons, Joe Paterno and Occupy Wall Street

Phi Beta Kappa Address, December 7, 2011

I recently had the opportunity to attend the UGA Department of Theatre and Film Studies’ production of the Arthur Miller play All My Sons. The production was excellent, and after seeing it I made a point of rereading the play. It seems particularly timely. All My Sons was the first major success for Miller, one of the great American playwrights of the 20th century. Produced in 1947 at the Coronet Theatre in NYC, it focuses on a middle-class American family shortly after the end of the Second World War. Three years after the fact, family members still struggle to accept the death of their son and brother Larry, who was lost at sea, his body never recovered. The play unfolds almost as an overwrought melodrama. Early on, you become aware that something is wrong. The mother Kate believes Larry is still alive and that one day he’ll return. Any mention of her son upsets her. The father Joe Keller is a loud and boisterous man who seems to love his wife and his family. He presents himself as a consummate family man, a successful factory owner, and a paragon of civic virtue. Gradually this illusion of a family grappling with tragedy evaporates. The dead son’s widow Ann returns from New York for the first time since Larry’s death. The surviving brother Chris, we learn, has been writing her and now he wants to propose. Joe is upset, supposedly because this marriage would force his wife to accept Larry’s death. But other facts come out: Ann’s father, Joe’s former partner, is in jail, imprisoned for manufacturing and selling faulty cylinder heads for use in military warplanes. 21 deaths were the result. Then we learn that Joe himself was imprisoned, blamed by his partner for the same crime. Later exonerated, Joe says it was all a mistake, but then we learn that he could have prevented the sale of the faulty parts and that he basically set his partner up to take the blame. Finally a letter that Larry sent to Ann on the day of his death reveals that he couldn’t live with newspaper stories about his father’s involvement with the faulty parts, and that he plans to kill himself by crashing his plane into the China Sea. What this means is that Joe caused his son’s death, on top of the deaths of the other airmen. He betrayed one son, lied to the other, betrayed his business partner, and has to get up every morning and stare at himself in the mirror. He did so, he explains to Chris, to save his business.

All My Sons is about how a man builds his vision of the American dream on a fantasy—that he has lived a good life, he’s been honest, he loved his sons and his wife, that he’s much beloved, that the unfortunate things that have happened to him were the result of people who took advantage of him, people he unwisely trusted. This was the image he presented to his son Chris. What he didn’t want Chris to know was that it was more important to him to protect his livelihood, his business, than it was to withdraw the faulty parts and save American lives. The play is about failure of responsibility, about evasion of the truth, about breaking the basic bonds and values of human connection that keep us all going, that prevent us from diving our own planes deep into the China Sea.

And so we come to the sad and awful story of Joe Paterno and Jerry Sandusky at Penn State University. You all have heard the details of this tragedy. I won’t repeat them. Let me say that though I am not a football fan (other than of the Georgia Bulldogs), I have always regarded Joe Paterno as a man who set a standard for character, excellence in academics, and service to his University. He was a model for other coaches and for players to emulate. His career is marked with many good deeds and accomplishments, with an excellent record in football, but now more than anything else, it is marked with this scandal. Shakespeare, in his play Julius Caesar, wrote that “the evil that men do lives after them; the good is oft interred with their bones.”

We don’t know all the facts of the Penn State scandal, and more of them will undoubtedly come out. What is clear is that in one way or the other Mr. Paterno and other university and athletic officials failed to act in a responsible and moral way. They failed to report one crime, at the least, and failed to prevent other similar crimes from happening. These men might not even have wanted to admit the truth, they might even have hidden it from themselves. Where was the failure? What and who failed? We’ve heard many answers: Coach Paterno did not report the crime soon enough, or Assistant Coach McQueary did not report it soon enough; neither of them followed up; they all allowed Sandusky access to University facilities even while rumors of his activities were flying. Friends were protecting friends. University officials –the president and vice presidents--were complicit because, wanting to protect the university’s reputation, they suppressed what they’d been told. College football was blamed for becoming such a money-making industry that it made decisions on the basis of profit margins, rather than what was good for the players or the school’s academic mission or the welfare of young boys. Our whole society was blamed.

We can find blame for this mess in a whole lot of places. But I’m less interested in sweeping generalizations about higher education or college football or modern American culture than I am in understanding how presumably decent people could fail in such a fundamental way. Here were men who heard rumors, received reports, even directly witnessed events that they ignored because they couldn’t believe them, or they wanted to protect friends, or they wanted to protect their own jobs, or they wanted to protect the football program, or they wanted to protect their university, or they simply didn’t want to put their reputations on the line. They didn’t take responsibility.

Arthur Miller’s play is about men who fail to do what is right, about a man whose desire to protect his name and his business causes the death of his own son and of other American young men fighting in the Second World War. Joe Keller loses his son because he allows profit motives to corrode and destroy basic human values. When his surviving son calls him a murderer, the accusation is not unjust. “You can be better,” Chris chastises his mother at play’s end when she asks him what more than sorry can she and Joe be for how events have turned out. “Once and for all you can know there’s a universe of people outside and you’re responsible to it, and unless you know that, you threw away your son because that’s why he died.”

Numerous works in literature pose this question of responsibility. Think first of the parable of the Good Samaritan in the Book of Luke in the Bible. In the novels of Charles Dickens, social and moral injustice is a major target. In Herman Melville’s story ”Bartleby the Scrivener” an entire office staff sits by, first joking about and then ignoring a man whose repeated statement “I would prefer not to” signifies his decision to die. In Franz Kafka’s story “The Hunger Artist” a man’s decision to starve himself becomes a sideshow attraction in a circus. Spectators don’t care that he is dying—they are just entertained by his advancing emaciation. Think also of the 2008 film Doubt, based on the play by John Patrick Shanley, in which the principal of a church school struggles with her growing suspicion that the priest of her church is molesting a young student. Finally, consider this statement by Atticus Finch in Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird. Atticus tells his son: “The one thing that doesn't abide by majority rule is a person's conscience.”

The Penn State scandal is doubly shocking for those of us who work in higher education because it forces us to pause and wonder whether, in a similar situation, we also would fail to act, whether we would fail do to what was right, or whether we would just ignore it and hope that the machine rolled merrily on.

In a larger sense, the scandal should prompt all of us to ask similar questions: am I failing to be responsible to my fellow man and woman? Are there injustices in our neighborhood or our community or our nation or our world that we should not allow to go unchecked? Should we act on behalf of the fellow human beings with whom we share this globe?

One might not have to agree with their methods, or everything they believe, to acknowledge that both the Tea Party and the Occupy Wall Street movements are based in part on the desire of citizens to call attention to what they believe is wrong. These are both, in my opinion, flawed movements, but at least their members are not willing to sit still and do nothing. The members of Occupy Wall Street are expressing their belief that the American banking and investments industry is, like Joe Keller, putting the desire to make money above the welfare of millions of other Americans, above the welfare of this nation. Lives are destroyed, people suffer. One can think of many other injustices and problems in the world that demand our attention: poverty, economic disparities, the national debt, the global economy, climate change, environmental decay, pollution, disease, intolerance, violence, racism, sexism, resource depletion, over population, the list goes on and on, and it seems a darker and more difficult list than it has ever seemed in my lifetime. Unfortunately, this is the list that confronts you in the life ahead.

Our hope of survival in this troubled world may depend on your willingness to take responsibility.

As Phi Beta Kappa graduates of the University of Georgia, I know that many of you have already taken steps to be responsible by volunteering in service programs and charitable organizations and other activities that serve the campus and community. That service can’t end when you leave here. Having done good work here at the University, ready to go out into the world to take on jobs or further study or even a stint of leisure time, none of you is free of the necessity of doing more. Your achievements here suggest that you will lead good and comfortable lives. But those same achievements make clear that you have much to give. My hope for the future lies in the abilities and new ideas and intelligence and enthusiasm and commitment of people like you. Our world needs you. You have an obligation to give, and to exercise courage in the face of injustice. I hope you will. Thank you.

The Last Airbender

I had read the reviews of this film (2010; dir. M. Night Shyamalan)--uniformly negative. I came to it with the lowest expectations. It offered a quasi-mythic comic book tale of magic and fantasy. It offered cartoon-like special effects. I knew I would not have to think much while I watched and dozed. And I wasn't sure how much of it I would watch. I was just curious—another chapter in M. Night Shyamalan's sad decline—what would it be?

So it is perhaps a symptom of senescence when I confess to how much I enjoyed this half-witted film and its febrile mysticism and hyper-dramatic, faux epic, Kung-Fu saga of how a boy frozen in ice for a century emerges back into the world and with the help of young friends defeats the kingdom of fire that is trying to destroy the kingdom of water and ice benders. The thawed-out boy is the Avatar who kept the world in Balance, and with his disappearance the world fell into chaos. This is a world in which special individuals within each nation can bend or control the four basic elements of air, fire, earth, and water. The Avatar can bend all four elements.

I do not know enough about Asian cinema to say with certainty that it had an influence on this film, especially the balletic movements and fighting that make up much of the action. The Last Airbender seems built on a faintly Tibetan form of Buddhism, and the Avatar himself, who is reincarnated from one generation to the next, may have something in common with the Dalai Lama.

At any rate, though I was not of the target audience, I was entertained.

Letters to a Young Contrarian, by Christopher Hitchens

In Letters to a Young Contrarian (MJF Books, 2001) Christopher Hitches explains his position as one of the great skeptics of our generation. By this point in his career he was retreating from some of the leftist positions of the first half of his career. Although he has often been described as having become a conservative, especially after the World Trade Center attacks in September of 2001, what is more accurate is that he backed off from the absolutism of Old New Left and Marxist thinking. He remained committed to human rights, to most of the positions he had previously held, but no longer saw himself as a leftist—rather, as a skeptic, a naysayer, a contrarian. Of course, with the events of 2001 (which had not occurred when he wrote this book), he found himself in support of the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, though he disagreed with the administration conducting them.

In these letters to a fictional “young contrarian,” Hitchens defines a position of intellectual, philosophical, and political independence from any absolutist position, any position that does not stand up to logical thinking. This includes, of course, religion, whose rejection Hitchens explains in several of the letters. Along the way, he takes shots at the Dalai Lama, Princess Diana, Bill Clinton, and others for whom he did not care. At the same time, he expresses admiration for Eugene Debs, Emile Zola, and others.

Hitchens sometimes g"ets caught up in the rhetorical glibness of being Hitchens. But for most of the pages in this book he exemplifies, and insists on, a position of intellectual rigor and moral courage. This paragraph in the last of the letters sets down his basic advice to his correspondent:

“Beware the irrational, however seductive. Shun the “transcendent” and all who invite you to subordinate or annihilate yourself. Distrust compassion; prefer dignity for yourself and for others. Don’t be afraid to be thought arrogant or selfish. Picture all experts as if they were mammals. Never be a spectator of unfairness or stupidity. Seek out argument and disputation for their own sake; the grave will supply plenty of time for silence. Suspect your own motives, and all excuses. Do not live for others any more than you would expect others to live for you.’

Hesher

Hesher (2011; dir. Spencer Susser) is an indie film in which damaged people join together to assuage pain. On the surface, the film is hard and relentlessly grim, even while it is funny. It focuses on a young boy, T. J., trying to deal with the loss of his mother in an automobile accident. His father is so passive and depressed that he can’t help the boy. Their grandmother, with whom they live and who is caring for them, can’t do much to help other than cook their meals. She chooses to let the wildness of her family go on around her, although in fact she hears and absorbs everything that happens. The boy is obsessed with recovering the family car in which his mother died. It’s at a junk dealer’s office and is scheduled for destruction.

The son of the junkyard owner harasses the boy, and after he defaces the car and flees, he runs into Hesher. Played by Joseph Gordon-Levitt in one of his best roles ever, Hesher is a foul-mouthed, hostile, heavily tattooed young man with a long mane of hair. He tells wild tales of sexual bravado to everyone he meets, including Natalie Portman, who plays a secondary role in the film as a grocery store clerk..

Hesher begins living at the boy’s house—he isn’t invited, he just shows up. Gradually we learn that he is in his own way as wounded as the others, and that he takes solace from this connection with a grieving family. They come to take solace from him.

The film really doesn’t have the courage of its convictions. That is, an underlying sentimentality gradually emerges. Hesher himself really doesn’t ever change. We just learn more about him and understand that beneath his brash and unpleasant exterior is a genuine human being.

Hesher gives an unusual speech at a funeral, and his last gesture of comic defiance is a profanity inscribed on the roof of the boy’s house, but by then we have succumbed to the unconventional charms of his character. The boy and his father begin recovering from their grief, and Hesher goes his way.

De Rerum Natura, by Lucretius

In De Rerum Natura the first century BC Roman poet Lucretius presents his view of the universe as governed by natural laws. He rules out the influence of gods and of supernatural forces, though he doesn’t argue over their existence. He strongly takes issue with religion, which he sees as destructive. Lucretius argues that all matter of any sort is composed of atoms, extremely small particles. Atoms vary significantly in type, though there is a limited number of types. Various combinations of types of atoms account for the variety of things in the world. Lucretius believes in the immortality of only three things: of atoms, the void (the empty spaces between atoms and between substances made of atoms), and of the universe itself, beyond and outside of which nothing exists. Atoms themselves are infinite in number, just as the universe and the void are infinite in extent. Although his belief in atoms anticipates modern atomic theories, his ideas about how atoms work do not.

Lucretius argues that there is no reason to fear death. First, all things are born and must die. This pattern is the natural way of things. The mind and the body are separate from one another but inextricably linked. They are born together, mature together, grow old and die together. The mind, the spirit, does not outlive the body or exist in any form after the body perishes. Why fear death, then, Lucretius asks, when there is no afterlife in which one can be punished or rewarded for how he has lived his physical life, and when there is no mind or spirit remaining to contemplate the life that has ended? (He does not succeed in convincing me not to fear death). This view of the universe, of atoms, of religion and life after death is Epicurean.

Lucretius believes that the world can be known through reason, not through supernatural or religious explanations. Although many of his explanations for how the world works are wrong—for instance, he believes the moon, sun, and stars are embedded in a firmament surrounding the earth, and that their motions are accounted for by contending winds, and that earthquakes and volcanoes are the result of subterranean disturbances caused by winds—the important revelation of his poem is that through reason we can understand the natural laws that do govern the universe. He does anticipate many modern theories—the science of genetics, for instance.

This translation of De Rerum Natura is more than 7000 lines long and is divided into six parts or “Books.” The least interesting was Book IV, “The Senses,” while the others were compelling to varying extents. The first two books, “Matter and Void” and “The Dance of Atoms,” are a good introduction to Lucretius’ thought and the poem as a whole.

The translator, A. E. Stalling, is an American poet who writes often about classical subjects. She graduated from the University of Georgia with a classics degree and lives in Athens, Greece. Her translation is intentionally modern. It is well done, clear (with some exceptions), and makes uses of such modern terms as “pathogens,” a word that implies more knowledge of disease than the ancient world possessed. This is a flaw in an otherwise effective translation.