torsdag den 22. december 2011

Niall Ferguson : Cynicism VII

So, these last few weeks I've described Cynics in fiction, and how different works of fiction has used the theme of Cynicism to different effects. Yet of course, that the theme of Cynicism is useful in describing fiction is not it's only – not even it's primary – quality. First and foremost, Cynicism is one of the most powerful forces in the minds of people today. People has resorted to being Cynics because they have been enlightened enough to realize certain truths in our society, yet at present, it is not in their best interest to live after these truths. Of course, for the people in charge of our flawed society, believing in the underlining ideologies of our society is even more satisfying, and as they are placed in central position, they are even more able to discern the untruthfulness of it all. What I'm going to try this week, is to focus on a potential meaningmaker in our society, and how his meanings and actions are steeped in Cynicism.

Niall Ferguson is a historian, who's new book is called Civilization: The West and the Rest. In it, he tries to show why the west came to dominate the rest of the world over the last five hundred years, and why the rest might be catching up now. It is a provocative subject, of course, and in a long review in London Review of Books, the reviewer Pankaj Mishra took Ferguson to task for his book, including positioning Ferguson as an heir to a disreputable line of previous writers, whom we'll today call racists and white supremacists, and also pointing to political implications in the work. The review made Ferguson write a response, in which he called the review libelous. A heated, but highly interesting, discussion followed.

I should begin by saying, that I haven't read the book in question by Niall Ferguson, so I can't decide if the criticism made of it are in fact true. However, in my studies I used to focus quite a bit on the intellectual history in places like China or Latin America, so allegations like the ones Pankaj Mishra makes, that Niall Ferguson underplays the value of these intellectuals from the 'Rest' of the world, probably makes me a bit biased to Mishra's side of the argument. However, what I find interesting in the argument is the way Ferguson defends himself.

His main attack is that Mishra's review: 'not only mendaciously misrepresents my work but also strongly implies that I am a racist', and as he later states: 'At the very least, Mishra owes me a public apology for his highly offensive and defamatory allegation of racism.' And in the next response: 'he made a vile allegation of racism against me' Throughout his responses , he refers to this as 'libel' and 'libellous'. The implications seem quite clear: Apologize, or I'll sue. As he says in his last response, while on the surface spelling out good ideas from the West: 'Another was the rule of law, under which, among other things, the freedom of the press does not extend to serious defamation, at best reckless, at worst deliberate and malicious. It is deplorable that the London Review of Books gives space to a man who seemingly cares about neither of these things.' But of course, Mishra never once writes that Ferguson is a racist. It can always be hard to discern what is 'implied' by anyone, but to me, it never seemed to say that Ferguson was a racist. Parts of the writings could be called racist, which doesn't necessarily say that the writer is one.

In one of the most remarkable parts of his defense, Ferguson says that: 'Of my new book he says that I sound ‘like the Europeans … who “wanted gold and slaves”' Yet the entire quote from Mishra in fact says: 'He sounds like the Europeans described by V.S. Naipaul – the grandson of indentured labourers – in A Bend in the River, who ‘wanted gold and slaves, like everybody else’, but also ‘wanted statues put up to themselves as people who had done good things for the slaves’.' (By the way, as Ferguson is amongst other things attacked for diminishing the works of non-western intellectuals, it would perhaps had been lucky if he here and several other places remembered when he was quoting people like VS Naipul...) It is almost insane, that Ferguson would miss this, for most of his defenses hinge on that he has at earlier times written about and defended non-western themes, or as Mishra states: he claims that he has done good things for them. So for instance, Ferguson finds this quote: '‘By 1913 … the world … was characterised by a yawning gap between the West and the Rest, which manifested itself in assumptions of white racial superiority and numerous … impediments to non-white advancement. This was the ultimate global imbalance.’ This is hardly a ringing endorsement of white supremacy.” But this quote doesn't matter, if the earlier one had been quoted correctly, it again only shows that Ferguson wants to seem as if he 'does good things'. That Ferguson would be drawn to this quote from Naipul, but quote it wrong, seems almost Freudian, in the way it points to the core of his problem: He wants two things at once, to write how much better the West was, yet seem as if he remembers how good the Rest also was. He has a split consciousness. He is Schizophrenic, in the Deleuzian non-diagnostical way. And he is, of course, highly Cynical.

Mishra's response hits on this theme, without using the word 'Cynicism'. Instead, he phrases it mindnumbingly badly: 'Ferguson is no racist, in part because he lacks the steady convictions of racialist ideologues like Stoddard. Rather, his writings, heralding an American imperium in 2003, Chimerica in 2006, and the ‘Chinese Century’ in 2011, manifest a wider pathology among intellectuals once identified by Orwell: ‘the instinct to bow down before the conqueror of the moment, to accept the existing trend as irreversible’.' Hardly politely stated, to say the least, but I very much agree with part of it. A post-modern intellectual does not have to work out a world-view that is fully encompassing and without holes and mistakes, what could be called a 'steady conviction'. As science, even human science, has become more and more specialized and fragmented (like the rest of society) it has become more accepted that a scientist focuses completely on his work at hand, without worrying too much about the implications. That Ferguson reaches certain conclusions in a work on one subject, and other conclusions in a work on another subject, and that these conclusions seem to contradict each other, could be easily explained as that his focus was more on the subject at hand, than on whether or not the conclusions would help any larger ideological project of his. Also, the implication that the modern intellectual simply 'bow[s] down before the conqueror' is not only unfair, it is also unhelpful. The intellectual system is normally not subject to the political, they are intertwined. A helpful intellectual to a politician would in the long run be one with his integrity intact, one who, while having a useful ideological slant, still was dissenting on enough – minor – points, such as to seem independent.

So, as such, I'm not really against the fact that Ferguson is Cynical, or inconsistent, or that he has a different ideology than I do. Yet, where he becomes a master-Cynic is when he refuses to acknowledge his own Cynicism. To be a 'racist' you have to be anything at all to begin with, now and forever. You have to have a whole, not a split, consciousness. Racism is a question of character. Yet a Cynic does not have character. He is as he does, and he believes in what he does at the moment. What is also quite remarkable is that Ferguson makes this claim to be a non-Cynic as he is on the other hand being more than usually Cynical. He is a historian, and his mistakes and unfortunate formulations could quite probably be explained away by him having worked as a historian only, without regard for other aspects of society. Yet here, he threatens to draw in the Judicial system as well, to mitigate in what should be a question for the historical system to judge. Thus, he claims to work in two systems at once, yet he does so to preserve a sense of an unbroken and all-encompassing character. He is completely embracing his own Cynicism, even as he tries to protect himself from the allegations. It would be remarkable, if it wasn't so obvious, trite, and common. Ferguson is a Cynic, concerned only with himself. He abandons the system he works in to rope in another, as soon as it seems opportune for him.

As I've tried to show these last few weeks, almost everyone is more or less of a Cynic these days, it's not necessarily a bad thing to be. Yet the ones we should be wary of, the ones we should 'Watch', as the title of Mishra's review states it, are the ones who won't admit to their own Cynicism, even when they are at their most Cynical. They have, in the end, lost their final link to truth, perhaps not as it is, but as it should be.

[Again, the original review, and the ensuing discussion can be found here: http://www.lrb.co.uk/v33/n21/pankaj-mishra/watch-this-man]

I'll take a break for the holidays at this point. In the new year, I'll write two epilogues on 'benevolent cynicism', so to speak. Hope to see you then.

torsdag den 15. december 2011

Inglourious Basterds (2009) : Cynicism VI



This film isn't about the birth of a cynic. It is about the downfall of one. Which is actually a bit paradoxical. The setting of the film is World War Two, which could very plausibly be seen as the birth through victory of the modern / post-modern world. So if the cynic is the common person in the modern world, then a film about World War Two should logically show how the cynical side persevered over the old-fashioned fanatically ideological one. Yet Tarantino turns this one around. The most modern character in the film is by far Hans Landa, while the Allied 'Basterds' seem much more driven by ideology than him.



I've written earlier about the western, and how it is the essential genre to depict the birth of modernity. Tarantino uses motives from Western canon right from the first words of the film, as the name of chapter 1 is 'Once Upon a Time... in Nazi-occupied France' This is of course a play on the famous Sergio Leone film (or films, he made both ...the West, and … America) and the homage becomes even more clear as the first scene takes place, when the soundtrack contains a parody (or homage, or whatever) of the famous Morricone-music from The Good, The Bad and the Ugly. Except it includes fragments of Für Elise, to illustrate that Germany plays a part in this setting. That whole first segment is very similar to one of the first scenes in Once Upon a Time in the West, where a family on a secluded farm is massacred by gunmen as part of a conspiracy concerning the coming railroad. Yes, OUaTitW is a revisionist western, where the 'evil' forces are actually connected to the onset of modernity. And this film copies that. The German forces are evil modernity, and their enemies? Well, they are constantly connected to Indian imagery (I'm going to keep on using the politically incorrect word 'Indian', as the imagery the Allies draw upon is the cultural idea of Indians, rather than actual Native Americans). Aldo is called The Apache, the Basterds scalpel their enemies, and when Shosanna prepares for the great night, she puts warpaint on her face like the Indians do in the movies.



And it's like that throughout the film. The Germans are the modern ones, the Allied forces are pre-modern. Landa is, as I've mentioned, a modern Cynic. He doesn't care for truth, while speaking to the farmer he says: ”I love rumours. Facts can be so misleading, while rumours true or false are often revealing.” Later on he tells a long story about why he hates Jews, even though he knows it is an irrational hatred, by comparing it to the farmers irrational hatred of rats. Yet as he says: ”However interesting as a thought may be, it makes not one bit of difference to how you feel!” He is Cynical, he is self aware about his prejudices, yet he doesn't care. Aldo Raine on the other hand, is an ideologue. In his first speech to his men, he says: ”Nazi ain't got no humanity. There the foot-soldiers of a Jew-hating mass murdering maniac, and they need to be destroyed. That's why any and every sum-bitch we find wearing a Nazi-uniform, they gonna die!” Throughout the movie, the Germans are able and willing to play with other roles and personalities than their own, to indulge in that incredibly modern condition of split personality or schizophrenia. We see the German soldiers spending their free time by playing a game where they pretend to be someone else, and has to guess who it is. In some ways, personality can be put on your forehead, and taken away again. The Allied, on the other hand, can't play roles (except Indians or animals). They are rubbish at pretending to be German or Italian, and they don't like the German game. They believe that once a Nazi, always a Nazi, and they hate the thought that the role can be taken off with the uniform and hidden away, even though they mainly fight enlisted men. While the Germans put identity cards on their heads and take them off again, the Allies carve identity into foreheads with big knives.



Most of the film consists of mind games between the Allied and the Germans. And every time both sides play fairly, the Germans win. Landa wins in the opening scene, the German SS-officer 'wins' in the scene at the tavern, and Hans Landa seemingly wins over everyone at the end. Every time there is a contest of intelligence, the Germans win, the only exception is the scene between Zoller and Shosanna in the projectors booth, which ends in a draw (and by the way, it's a funny view on man and woman. Shosanna tricks Zoller by pretending they are going to have sex, and then Zoller tricks her back by angling for pity. For men is libido and women is feelings.) The allied win by lying and being amoral. They trick poor Wilhelm into thinking that they will let him go, and they break every convention of war at the ending of the film. But throughout the film, they are losing. And when Aldo Raine has to utter his fake Italian 'Bonjornoh', it is almost pathetic (but the game is already over at that point. The point where Landa takes control is illustrated in a marvelously cinematic way, as Tarantino employs one of his beloved circular camera movements to circle Landa, von Hammersmark and the Basterds, and when Landa employs his fake laugh and shows that he has seen through the ruse, he takes a step back while manically laughing, yanking the camera out of it's course as he yanks the agenda out of his opponents hands).



The implications of the film goes further, and is in my opinion quite political. The Allied concoct themselves as pre-modern Indians, yet today, when the film was made, they seem more like terrorists. In Aldo's speech, he exclaims: ”The German will fear us!” He could easily have said that they would be terrified. The Basterds torture there prisoners and they use suicide bombers. And the Germans don't know how to retaliate. In the end, the war is won through lies and terrorism. This seems quite controversial, to show the Allies as the schemers, and show Jews as terrorists, but Tarantino employs a few safety hatches, so to speak. First of all, he makes sure to show that Landa and Zoller is not just banal soldiers and administrators, though they claim to be. Both of them make violent motions towards women, and Landa even chokes von Hammersmark with his own hands, showing that they are in fact 'bad'. And Tarantino is not trying to say that Allied and Jews are equal to terrorists. He is trying to show how powerful fanaticism and extremism is. How powerful the extreme forces of the US would be, if they were as fanatical and willing to play 'dirty' as the opponents of 'Democracy' has traditionally been, from fascists to insurgents in Vietnam or Iraq. If we in the west would compromise (more...) on our principles, and could employ true fanaticism, we could easily win every war. But we should not. And we can't. We are cynics, and so, we have to slog through.

This film probably ain't a timeless masterpiece. For one, the digital coloring is horrible, it's focus on orange and teal will hopefully seem dated in a few years (and not just does this coloring make the pictures look samey after a while, it makes everyone’s eyes look deep blue. When you are making a film about the fight against antisemitism, employing a filter that makes everyone’s eyes look more Aryan really sends weird signals). But the 'value' of the film doesn't really matter to me. It really seems to comment quite profoundly on the problems of the Cynics in our society, especially with regards to warfare, in a pretty daring way. Plus, it's entertaining as hell.

Next week: We step away from culture and into the real world, but stay in the realm of Basterds, with Cynical Historian Niall Fergusson.

[Part I: Introduction and Mad Men]
[Part II: The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance & Police, Adjective]
[Part III: Brothers Karamazov and Melancholia]

[Part IV: Apocalypse Now]
[Part V: Inception]

torsdag den 8. december 2011

Inception (2010) : Cynicism V


This post is going to interpret this movie as the story of how Cobb became a Cynic. The hypothetical reader, who has also read the other posts in this series (and I'm on statcounter, so I know that that is nobody. The rest of this paragraph is going to be on theory and this blog, so if you just want to read about Inception, you can skip it), will know that this narrative of someone 'becoming' a Cynic is basicly what I've said every movie I've looked at is about. There are two aspects of Sloterdijks theory, which lends itself to this: Cynics are supposed to be the dominant and most common personality in the world today, and Cynicism has entered the world to halt the development of enlightenment. So the story of a Cynic is really the story of a normal person, who has stopped developing. It is not the best story for a film. So I've found examples, where people struggle with cynicism, and in the end embrace it. Not really how it works in the real world, but more narratively satisfying. Only in the repetetive media of tv could a Cynic really be described as he really is, another reason why Don Draper is the most masterful example.



But anyways, Inception. I'm not the first to propose, that the film really isn't about Dreams, but about media instead. The inceptors create dreams, they don't just have them, and therefore it seems more precise to compare it to filmmaking. As Salon succintly put it: '“Inception.” Is not. About dreams. Not real ones, anyway. The dreams in which much of the movie takes place are artificial constructs, rational, rectilinear simulacra designed to achieve specific ends.' Several other people has realized this, and most articles I've read, including the one at Salon, then positions that the film is about filmmaking. Which is almost true, but it misses the part about 'designed to achieve specific ends'. Inception is about affecting peoples mind to implant ideas. It is about a specific form of filmmaking: It's about propaganda. It's about ideology. And it's about marketing. Surprisingly, I've seen several negative reviews of the film walking right up to pointing this theme out, but then backing down. The review at Frieze ended with the lines: 'There is none of the weirdness, creepiness, intimacy, fun, eroticism, bewilderment or plain neurosis that really fuel dreams. Ironically, the film’s visual style looks just like one which might be used to sell fast cars or luxury hotels to the sort of big business types the film depicts. Inception is science fiction, business class.' And in a discussion at Owlsmag, the participants say, amongst other things: 'Dreams should be weird and woozy and hot and fickle. Inception plays like a two-and-a-half-hour American Express ad' and 'I was intrigued – or rather confused – by the film’s starting notion that it’s hard to plant ideas in people’s heads. Isn’t that how publicity works?' I find it weird that smart reviewers could comment so clearly that the film seemed more like marketing than like dreams, and then not look at whether or not the film might actually be more interesting as a comment on this subject.

If a Cynic is a person who willingly submits to, and tries to exploit, false consciousness, then the dream-creators of Inception are truly Cynics. They create false realities in order to change Fisher. But they seem hardly to understand what is going on. Now, Inception isn't a masterpiece, and Nolan is even less of an auteur. But in some way, the feeling that Nolan isn't in complete control of his movie, and the hardly profound yet none the less riveting nature of the film, fits the subject perfectly. That is, if the subject is ideology rather than dreams and the subconscious. The best scene in the film comes when Fisher finally finds his way into the secret vault, and finds his dying father. We know that the tableaux has been created by the inceptors, and that it is all just a lie. It is the most clear example of Fisher being manipulated. Yet the film seems to momentarily forget this. The score by Hans Zimmer is just as dramatic as it always is, and the editing of the film is used to milk the melodrama for all it's worth. It is presented just like it was the sentimental climax that would always occur in a blockbuster at this point, that it is in fact supposed to be a lie is completely forgotten at the moment. I really can't tell if it's intended as a subversive critique of big-studio moviemaking, or if the movie-producing machine just wasn't able to create a language subtle enough to convey the irony of this scene. And that is kinda why this scene is among the finest created in the last few years.



As I said, I'm not sure Nolan really knows what he is doing all the time. One of the chief ironies of the film is, that so much of the time is dedicated to people simply spelling out the rules of the film, and yet there is never a person in the film who seems to fully understand the techniques they are using. The technique was invented 'by the military' to train soldiers, none of the characters was involved in this. They do not seem to grasp completely what is going on, and we never reach a position from which we can objectively point out what is going on. Therefore, the plot of the film can obviously be interpreted in a multitude of ways (btw, this does not necessarily has anything to do with the quality of the film. Some people seem to think, that the posibility to interpret a film in different ways means that it is good, but vagueness does not equal greatness. If interpretations has anything to do with artistic value, then it must of course be based on the quality instead of the quantity of interpretations). The most discussed aspect of the film is of course the ending, and any interpretation of the film has to deal with this ending. I'm going to present a reading, which main quality is, that it most perfectly fits my theme of Cynicism.

The ending with the spinning totem is a masterful slight of hand. As we leave the theater, everyone asks each other: 'Does it fall?' Yet through out the film, that hasn't really been the question. The actual question in the film has been more like 'Does it work?' This is Mal's problem, and she ends up thinking, that her totem has lost the power to define dream and reality. I say she is right. The whole of the film has been Cobb's dream, and the totem has never really worked. It has only indicated reality because Cobb wanted it to. So what is the film about? Well, if it is a false reality Cobb has created for himself, then he sure has created a lot of sad things to haunt him. The Cobolt people are hunting him, and he can't see his children. In this reading, the men who tries to kill him are aspects of his subconscious, trying to pull him out of the unreality he has caught himself in. So the whole vaguely defined plot of the film, with Fisher and Saito, which we never really get the conclusion to before the film completely turns to Cobb and his children, is simply a deception he creates for himself. He is Incepting himself. The important thing in the final scene, then, isn't how long the totem spins. It is that Cobb doesn't care to check it before he runs out to his children. Real or not, he is going to stay with his children. If seen this way, it becomes the story of a man willingly giving up on the search for the real world. It is about a man willingly accepting his own false consciousness. It is about the birth of Cynic.

Next week: More on modern warfare and terrorism, with Inglourious Basterds

[Part I: Introduction and Mad Men]
[Part II: The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance & Police, Adjective]
[Part III: Brothers Karamazov and Melancholia]

[Part IV: Apocalypse Now]
[Part VI: Inglourious Basterds]

torsdag den 1. december 2011

Apocalypse Now (1979): Cynicism IV


When Sloterdijk speaks of Military Cynicism in chapter 8 of Critique of Cynical Reason, a chapter called The Cardinal Cynicism, he speaks of it in a way that seemed a bit strange to me. He speaks of three characters on the battlefield, the hero, the hesitater and the coward, and he traces these three figures from the feudal age, through the Napoleonic Wars and World War I, and up to the nuclear age. But I would have expected a chapter on warfare today, and especially in a book that seems to be very much on ideology, to have talked about insurgents, guerillas, terrorists. To me, that seems the main theme of post WWII military history: Empires loosing wars to nationalistic insurgents. Everyone has lost, Britain in Ireland and India, France in Algeria and Indochina, Soviet in Afghanistan, the US in Vietnam of course, and the wars this last decade. Big armies struggling against insurgent tactics. That Sloterdijk doesn't talk about this probably has a lot to do with his historical position: In 83 Soviet wasn't loosing in Afghanistan (and neither was the US, of course), nuclear warfare seemed a much more important subject to write about, and that the succes of insurgents/guerillas/terrorist had anything to do with their ideological strength could seem weird when the most recent groups were people like the RAF and the Red Brigades in Italy, people who seemed to have even less reason to fight than for instance the armies in Vietnam or Algeria, and who chose 'insurgent' tactics for strategic reasons. Yet now, thirty years later, I'd say that the fight against insurgents seems the most important military theme, and I think that Apocalypse Now has a lot of opinions on this subject.



Heart of Darkness, and Apocalypse Now by implication, is not about a man succumbing to evil. That is the explanation that the generals give Willard in his briefing in the beginning of the movie, and obviously, it is untrue ideology. 'There's a conflict in every human mind, between rational and irrational, between good and evil. And good does not always triumph' This is obviously rubbish, the problem the common soldiers has is the complete absence of these concepts, and solid ground to differentiate between the two sides. When the soldiers massacres a boatfull of people by mistake, Willard gets up and executes the final wounded person, and it prompts him to think: 'It was the way we had over here of living with ourselves. We'd cut them in half with a machinegun and give them a bandaid. It was a lie, and the more I saw of them, the more I hated lies' An easy and politicized reading of the film would be, that the war was wrong and the soldiers struggled with that, but it is far from that simple.

The points of ideology and reasoning is spelled out in the scenes on the French plantation, that was restored to the film in the Redux version. The Vietnamese fight for their nation, the French people fight for their homes, the Americans fight for 'the biggest nothing in history' Keep in mind, it's not like the other sides fight for something real, they are caught up in their lies just as well as the Americans. But their lies are founded in something, so they can delude themselves. As the old man is followed out, he repeats to himself: 'I know we can stay, I know we can stay...' When Hubert deMarais explains their situation, he says at least two untruths: He claims that they created the plantation out of nothing, but they bought plants in Brazil, meaning that they created the plantation out of their own money. The Vietnamese could conceivably have done the same thing if they had had the same resources. And he claims that the plantation holds the family together, but we immediately learns that he has recently lost his wife and child, and Roxanne Sarrault has lost her husband. That they stay there tears the family apart, obviously, but they can deny that to themselves. The solid facts of the plantation and the family makes these people able to lie to themselves about why they do what they do.



The weird part of the story is then, that the thing that Kurtz and Willard struggles with is not that truth and goodness has gone, it's that they have had to stop believing in their own lies. The things Kurtz are being punished for turned out to be the right things to do. He executed four South Vietnamese officers, and it turned out that they were the traitors. Both Kurtz and Willard manages to suddenly see through the veneer of American ideology, but they react in two very different ways. Kurtz obsesses about lies and truth. He taunts Willard by reading obviosly propagandistic newsclippings to him - 'things felt much better, and smelled much better over there' - and the photographer even gives Willard a course on Dialectic Logic: 'No Maybes, no supposes, no fractions [...] There is only love and hate, you either love somebody, or you hate them!' We get to Kurtz' problem when he asks Willard: 'Are you an assasin?' 'I'm a soldier' 'You're neither. You're an errand boy, sent by glocery clerks to collect the bill' The right answer is, of course, that Willard is all three of these things, but Kurtz is only able to see one side at a time. He has become obsessed with right and wrong, truth and false, love and hate, and he has become unable to function in grey areas.

But Willard chooses another path. According to the documentary Hearts of Darkness, the script originally had a scene where Willard was asked why he did what he did, and he answered that it made him happy. But the finalized film has a much better solution. Wilard has completely realized the falseness of the lies that brought him there, and he has realized the senselessness of his mission. What happens when a human being has finally awakened from Ideology? In this case, he chooses to return to the ideological world, even though he has made it through. He murders Kurtz even though he knows it makes no sense. It is brilliantly juxtaposed with the ritual slaughter of a bull, cause that's what it is. It's a ritual. American military Ideology has returned not just to the pre-enlightened religious phase, it has returned to pre-religious mythic phase. As Willard returns from the temple, he is a God, a painted apparation that the natives bows before, but he is also the new man, the true post-ideologue, who has killed and taken the place of the first failed attempt at post-ideology. He has completed his mission though it made no sense. He has taken his place in the military system, though he in no way believes it is right or good, and has as such become the exemplary soldier in the modern army. To say it as short as possible: He exits the temple as a newborn Cynic.

Birth of a Cynic


Next week: Propaganda, marketing and Inception

[Part I: Introduction and Mad Men]
[Part II: The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance & Police, Adjective]
[Part III: Brothers Karamazov and Melancholia]
[Part V: Inception]
[Part VI: Inglourious Basterds]

onsdag den 23. november 2011

Brothers Karamazov (1880) & Melancholia (2011) : Cynicism III

Now, about Kant. The only work of Kant I own is a small book, bought used for 3.50$, that contains Foundations of the Metaphysics of Morals & What Is Enlightenment, and admittedly, I haven't even finished reading this one. Now, of course the juxtaposition of these two works were made by an editor and not by Kant, but it is still a bit weird to put these two books together. In What is Enlightenment (from 1784) he begins by stating 'Enlightenment is man's release from his self-incurred tutelage. Tutelage is man's inability to make use of his understanding without direction from another.' But already the next year (1785) he is writing a book trying to make a foundation for telling people what to do... I have no doubt, that Kant himself has probably written about this contradiction somewhere, but it is still one of those contradictions that runs through a lot of socalled Enlightenment Philosophy. They want people to think for themselves, and then they promptly tell people how to think. There is something weird about a philospher condemning people for thinking 'I need not think, if I can only pay - others will readily undertake the irksome work for me.' (all quotes are from page 85 of Foundations of the Metaphysics of Morals, McMillan, 1959. An older translation can be read here) The philosopher, who truly wants people to think for themselves, wouldn'd he be quiet? Wouldn't he withhold his knowledge from others, to force them to figure it out for themselves?

This week, I want to talk about whether or not cynicists believe people can and want to think for themselves. And then I'll discuss children, and whether or not our society believes they should be allowed to think for themselves. To do that, I'm going to talk about Dostoevsky's great final novel Brothers Karamazov from 1880, and Lars von Triers latest movie Melancholia.

Dostoevsky's Brothers Karamazov (1880)

Brothers Karamazov is completely central to Sloterdijk's argument in Critique of Cynical Reason. In chapter 7 called Cabinet of Cynics, Sloterdijk takes a look at 5 cynics from throughout the ages. These five are Diogenes, the original Kynic, Lucian the Mocker, who is used as an early example of a cynic on the side of the powerful, Mephistopheles from Goethe's Faust, The Grand Inquisitor from Brothers Karamazov, and finally the Anyone as used by Heidegger. Sloterdijk uses The Grand Inquisitor as an example of a powerful figure, who has begun withholding the truth from the people, because he believes that the people can't handle it. The figure is from a short story told by the middle brother Ivan, and it can be read here, where Jesus returns to Spain in the 16th century, right in the middle of the Spanish Inquisition. The Grand Inquisitor has him arrested and confronts him in his cell. He says that Jesus failed the people, as he was too perfect a human being so that the people could never follow his example, and he claims that the people abhor that Jesus wanted them to belive in him freely. The Inquisition has returned the amount of force back into religion, that the people deep inside really want. Sloterdijk says that the inquisitor speaks like a conservative politician after the French Revolution, when he says things like this 'They will tear down the temples and drench the earth with blood. But they will realize, the foolish children, that although they are rebels, they are impotent rebels who cannot bear their own rebellion' (p 185 in Sloterdijks book)

Sloterdijk mentions that he just uses these characters as figures, as symbols, and that he doesn't care that he might have taken them out of a context. But still, I find it interesting how Dostoevsky treats this theme towards the end of the book. Now I'm not going to spoil the end of the actual plot of the book, but there is a young character who is called Illusha and who is already dying when he is introduced, and the final chapter takes place at his funeral (but be careful reading it if you haven't read the book. It talks a bit about the resolution of the plot in the beginning). Alyosha, the youngest brother and the main character of the book, goes to the funeral along with a lot of young boys, who in the book is simply called the Boys. A lot of the book has been religious discussions between the three Brothers, like the chapter on the Grand Inquisitor, but in this final chapter we see how the discussion about religion is important to young people in their darkest hour. The boy who talks the most is called Kolya, and he has before claimed that he doesn't believe. Throughout the book he seems like a future Ivan, the learned and modern and almost nihilistic atheist. And yet, at the grave of his good friend, and spurred on by a preceding speech made by Alyosha, he suddenly cries out:

"Karamazov," cried Kolya, "can it be true what's taught us in religion, that we shall all rise again from the dead and shall live and see each other again, all, Ilusha too?"

"Certainly we shall all rise again, certainly we shall see each other and shall tell each other with joy and gladness all that has happened!" Alyosha answered, half laughing, half enthusiastic.

"Ah, how splendid it will be!" broke from Kolya.


To me, this almost legitimizes the Grand Inquisitor to some extent. This young boy has througout the book tried and taken pride in thinking for himself, and yet, when confronted by the true horror of life, he wants to be comforted by an older and presumably wiser man. Even though there really isn't anything convincing in Alyoshas answer, his authority, and Kolyas wish to believe in it, makes it true for him.

Lars von Trier's Melancholia (2011)


In the writings I have read about this film, no one has really mentioned how Dostoevskian parts of this film actually are. We have the scandalous wedding in the first half, a kind of scene that happens again and again in Dostoevsky's stories, like the first meeting of the family in Karamazov, Sonya's father's funeral in Crime and Punishment, the birthday party in Notes from Underground, the wedding in A Nasty Anecdote, etc. Also, the first part of the film could be seen as trying to achieve the kind of Dostoevskian Polyphony as described by Bakhtin. So many characters seems to show aspects of the question of: Freedom to do what you want vs the obligations you have to the rest of the world. Justine is going to marry Michael, and she gets depressed by having to do all the things at the wedding that everyone else expects of her, including her husband. Both of her parents has stopped thinking about what others think of them, as they are both getting closer to death. And Jack, Justines boss, is so wealthy and powerful, that he has stopped doing what anyone expects of him, and can't comprehend that anyone might want to do anything other than what he expects of them. The point of the film then, becomes that the planet Melancholia (and just death in general in the case of Justine and Claires parents) frees everyone from the expectations of society, as society is about to end, freeing the people who were depressed by expectations, and depressing those who actually did well in society.



But admittedly, the second - and much more problematic, in my opinion - half stops being so Dostoevskian. The amount of characters is reduced to three, and instead of being ways of commenting on a theme, von Trier focuses instead on an actual psychologically true depiction of Justines depression, which I find clashes with how unreal she acts in the first part. And also, the second part seems much more focused on all the obligatory things that must happen in an apocalyptic movie. If the film had jumped from the scene where Justine is sitting alone on a table, left by her father who chose not to be there for her, just as she chose not to be there for Michael, and to the scene where the planet actually hits the earth, it would have been a masterpiece in my opinion. But Dostoevsky and Brothers Karamazov come roaring back at the end. As both Claire and Justine realize that they are going to die, Claire breaks down and asks Justine that they do something 'nice' with their final moments, like sitting on the terrace and drinking a glass of wine. Justine calls this plan a 'piece of shit'. They are going to die awfully, and they should be honest about it. Then she goes outside and sees Claires frightened son. Immediately, Justine begins lying to the young boy about what is going to happen. They are going to survive, because she can make a Magic Cave. This is once again benevolent cynicism. Justine knows it's a lie, and she refused to perpetuate this kind of lying when an adult like Claire asked her to, but confronted with a young child, Justine begins lying again.

So would the world be a better place without cynicism? Would anyone tell the truth about the horrors of the world confronted with a young innocent child? The Grand Inquisitor, Alyosha Karamazov, Justine, they are not completely alike, but their differences are more like graduations on a scale. Alyosha and Justine treat children like children, to allow them to be young and innocent in a horrific world. The Grand Inquisitor treats everyone like children, and should according to Sloterdijk allow the rest of the world to grow up. But really, it's kinda the same impulse, isn't it?

Next week: Military Cynicism and Apocalypse Now: Redux


[Part I: Introduction and Mad Men]
[Part II: The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance & Police, Adjective]
[Part IV: Apocalypse Now]
[Part V: Inception]
[Part VI: Inglourious Basterds]

onsdag den 16. november 2011

The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance (62) & Police, Adjective (09) : Cynicism II

Systems of Half-truths
Sloterdijk's Critique of Cynical Reason is a sprawling book. It's split up in two parts: Sightings: Five Preliminary Reflections, a long introductory section, and Cynicism in World Process. As with many philosophical works, you could probably read the introductory section and leave it at that... Part two discusses aspects of Cynicism in great detail, split up into Physiognomic, Phenomenological, Logical and Historical sections, but a lot of it is more examples of Cynicism and Cynicists than it is theoretical discussion. On the other hand, it does include thurough ruminations on the Kynical potentials of farts, genitals, Machiavelli, Judaism, Weimar Germany etc.

What I'm trying to get at this week is something I haven't noticed Sloterdijk discussing explicitly (but then again, I'm a blogger, not an expert on Sloterdijk), but which he seems to get at in the parts on the Phenomenological and Logical Cynicisms. These parts are concerned with how cynicism is used in governing institutions and with the knowledge and half-truths these systems use to uphold themselves, respectively. And these two parts go through subchapters on the military, the government, sexuality, medicine, the church and knowledge-gathering institutions in the same order (I'll get into a few of these subchapters in later weeks). My point is, that it would be wrong to take a simplified look at our society today, and simply say, that it is upheld by an ideology, and in the chasm between that ideology and the real truth it where cynicism is born. No, there isn't a simple cynicism in our society (as a matter of fact, what would probably be seen as reaction to the foundational ideology of our day is called Exchange Cynicism by Sloterdijk, and he only sees it as important enough to count among the 'secondary cynicisms'). There are a multitude. If anything, cynicism is rather born out of the chasm between the need to hatch oneself to a subsystem of society and it's selflegitimizing half-knowledge, and our understanding that this sub-system of knowledge is just one amongst others, with no objective way of deciding which truth-system is actually true in different situations. It's not a way of reconciling lie with truth, but rather half-truth with half-truth.

To discuss these themes, I'll go through two films. The first one is The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance from 1962 by John Ford, and it chronicles the establishing of American Cynicism. The other one is Police, Adjective from 2009 by Corneliu Porumboiu, which is concerned with Cynicism in post-communist Eastern Europe.

Pre-Ideology: The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance (62)

When I thought about doing some posts on Cynicism, this film imediately came to mind. Mostly because of that famous final statement: This is the west, sir. When the legend becomes fact, print the legend. As such, it seemed like a perfect example of how the ideology of the American nation is based on Cynicism. Some might think, that the film shows how a young honestly idealistic lawyer has to succumb to lying to establish his carreer, but it's not that simple. I'll try and show how Ransom Studdard is actually throughout the film an avatar of half-lies and ideology, and the film more shows the world accepting the lie, rather than creating it. Rather than being a film about the creation of ideology, it is, in fact, a film about the creation of Cynicism.



Studdard goes to the West because of ideology: He tells us that he had taken Horace Greelys advice 'Go west young man, go west. And seek fame, fortune, adventure' We hear this in voiceover at the beginning of his flashback, and it is imediately juxtaposed with the actuality of the west, as his stagecoach is held up by masked gunmen. We learn that Studdard is a student of law, one of those systems of halftruths I've just written about. As Liberty Valance rips out the pages of his lawbook and says: 'I'll teach you law. Western law' we get a summation of what the persons represent. Studdard is truth as it should be. Liberty Valance is truth as it is. That Studdard isn't representing truth is perhaps most clear in his dicussion with Hallie about the Cactus Rose she has just been given by Doniphon. 'Isn't that the prettiest thing you ever did see?' 'Yes, it's very pretty... Hallie, did you ever see a real rose?' 'No. But maybe someday, if they ever dam the river, we'll have lots of water. And all kinds of flowers' The irony comes from Studdard dismissing the rose in front of him as 'unreal', and calling a dream-rose located somewhere else, or somewhere in the future, the actual real rose. Studdard seems to think that his world, the world of the big city, a civilized world of law and democracy, is truth, and that the Western world he is in is just a temporary deviation from the world as it should be. When Studdard begins teaching a small class, his lessons seems to be mainly concerned with getting the students to repeat exactly what he believes in. Nora answers: 'A Republic is a state in which the people are the boss. That means us.' There is also a pretty on-the-nose comment on American history when Pompey, who is black, can't remember the part of the Declaration of Independence that goes 'All Men are created equally' prompting Studdard to reply: 'A lot of people forget about that part'. On the nose, but probably quite progressive for 62. And it shows that even 'self-evident' truths could be bended in the history of America.

What the film never forgets is, that in a democracy, truth and right is contested and ever changing. To begin with, Studdard admits that the marshall of Shinbone probably can't do anything about the hold-up, since it is a territorial offence. But his lawbooks says that in fact the marshall can arrest Valance when he returns to town. That the marshall in reality can't arrest him, since Valance would shoot him down, is not something Studdard realizes. He takes the Law as right, more than the world. The plot of the film revolves around the decision of whether the territory Shinbone is located in should become a state or not. The big ranch-owners want to remain a territory while the little people want to attain statehood, with the order that would come from that. We instinctively root for the downtrodden majority, but the film reminds us, that not just the ranchers but also the Native Americans want the area to remain open and ungoverned. Who is actually right in this question? And yet, it's not just democratic votes that determines this question. The clearest example of this is of course the shooting of Liberty Valance, and how the resulting legend influences the carreer of Studdard, but before that, in the scene in the town-hall, Studdard acts very undemocratically, when he reads out the names of himself and Liberty Valance quite normally, and then enthusiastically reads out the name of Peabody.

Throughout the film, Studdard is an ideologue. The film is not the story of the creation of an ideology to ground the creation of the nation. It is the story of the creation of a conscious exploitation of this ideology. It is about the establishment of Cynicism in America.

Post-Ideology: Police, Adjective (09)
The way American Westerns seem to be the primary group of films to grapple with the creation of American Ideology, in the same way the new wave of Romanian Cinema seems to me the primary group grappling with the dis-mantling of Communist Ideology. While none of the directors are as brilliant and singular (at least as of yet) as a Sokurov or a Tarr, precisely the singularity and personality of these two great auteurs means their works work on a more abstract and diffuse level. Romanian cinema, on the other hand, seems quite concerned with Romania.



While I just assumed everyone would have a basic idea of the plot to John Ford's western (it's pretty much in the title), it's probably in it's place to present a small recap of this kind of obscure film (spoilers of course). Cristi is a policeman working in a small Romanian city. He has just returned from his honeymoon abroad, where he has seen how the law is different in other countries, and it makes him question the rules he is meant to uphold. He has been assigned to a case concerning a young man who apparantly deals marihuana, but Cristi suspects that his witness is accusing the young man for personal reasons, and he fears that the punishment of the young boy would be disproportionate to the crime. The film mostly just follows Cristi. Not just as he stands around watching the young man and his friends, but also in his home, where he eats a dinner by himself one night, and another night discusses a song with his wife. In the end, Cristi is called into the office of his boss, where he expresses his concerns that an unjust law of society shouldn't trump his own feeling of a 'moral law', and is forced by his boss to read the definition of several words in a dictionary, none of which provides any proof for the importance of 'moral law'. After that, the arrest takes place off-screen, and the film ends. It is a very slow film, but also very riveting.

The reason I thought of this film as a companion to Liberty Valance, is the way both films are concerned with books and rules and law. In the scene where Cristi and his wife discusses the song, Cristi claims that the lyrics doesn't make sense, while his wife sees them as making sense on a symbolic or imagery level. She can't really choose. Here we get the discussion of whether language should be stringent and bound by common rules of meaningmaking, or if a subjective and sorta artistic (I'm not sure I would describe the very kitschy lovesong as 'art'...) can reach a more profound truth, sorta the same discussion I noted in Solaris. Yet the differences between this film and the Western mirror the differences between democracy and authoritarianism. While the key scenes in Liberty Valance is the ones where we see how the characters use and bend the voting system to their advantage, the key scene in Police Adjective is the one where Cristi is being forced to read out the definition of words. As I said, in democracy, truth is contested, while in an authoritarian system, it's decided from on top. Even when Studdard references laws that are bigger than his surroundings - as he does when they discuss whether or not the hold-up was a territorial offence - he does so in a searching and inquisitive manner. In Police, Adjective, Cristi's boss Captain Anghelache uses the authority of the book to support his authority as a boss.

The cynical moment in the film is where the film gets it's title. As Cristi reads about Police, he gets to the two uses of Police as an adjective: The Police Novel (as it's apparantly known in Romania) and: About police states or regimes which are supported by the police and which exercise control through repressive methods' This, however, immediately prompts Anghelache to reply: 'Ridiculous! All states depend on the police' Through this reply, he suddenly admits that the book could be wrong, yet this admission doesn't make him change his stance on the arrest. This is authoritarian Cynicism, where the tyrant know full well that the rulers has stopped serving the law, and instead uses the law to serve the rulers themselves.

So to sum up: Cynicism is not just usable to explain how big ideologies like Liberalism or Communism can continue to function. It also helps to overlook more structural issues. In a democracy, truth is contested and subservient to the views of the majority, while in an authoritarian system, truth is subservient to the views of those in power. The Cynicist realizes this, yet he continues to believe in his place in the system.

Next week: Pedagogy as a possible example of benevolent cynicism. With Dostoyevsky's Brothers Karamasov and Lars von Trier's Melancholia.

[Part I: Introduction and Mad Men]
[Part III: Brothers Karamazov and Melancholia]
[Part IV: Apocalypse Now]
[Part V: Inception]
[Part VI: Inglourious Basterds]

onsdag den 9. november 2011

Cynicism I : Sloterdijk and Don Draper


An experiment. Over the next couple of weeks, I'll try and publish a number of posts connected by a single theme. Hopefully, there will be a new one up every wednesday until mid-December. This will mean that I'll hopefully get something written, but it will also allow me to discuss different aspects of the theme in question. Each post will be on a different cultural object, which will be used to try and discuss a different part of the theme. A lot of it will be translations, or based on translations, or ideas I've thrown out and discussed in different places at times, and there will probably be a lot of repetions. I don't really have time for writing something completely new every week. Hopefully, some people will want to read it, if so I'll probably try this again with a new theme next spring. The theme this time is, as the title of this piece says, Peter Sloterdijk's notion of Cynicism. If you have comments or suggestions for other artworks or cultural objects that could be relevant for this theme, feel free to comment or send me suggestions. I have already planned and collected notes for this theme, and as I said, I don't really have time to write about something completely new to me, but I'd love to find other examples.

I mean to speak of cynicism the way it is described in Peter Sloterdijk's book Critique of Cynical Reason from 1983. He positions Cynicism as the dominant mode of thought in postmodern society. It is 'enlightened false consciousness'. It is the fourth untruth, after lies, errors and ideology. It means lying even though you know you are lying, because the lie serves a purpose, mainly to maintain your position in society, whether it is a dominant or a subservent one. The term can be used to explain why the process of history seems to have stalled. In leftwing circles, class-struggle was seen as an objectively true aspect of society, and as soon as the majority of people understood this, they would enter the struggle and bring about the communist revolution. The trouble then begins when time goes on, and the vast majority of people fail to become communists. Two answers seem possible: 1) The communist analysis of society was wrong. 2) People have remained too dumb to realize the reality of our society. Now of course, when choosing that other answer, people can make up all kinds of different sub-explanations, about hegemonic ideology or how powerful society has turned out to be, or about governmentality or whatnot, but the fact remains, that the theory says the the theorist has realized something which the majority of the people has failed to do. For me at least, as the decades go on, I sense a growing contempt for the people in the writings I've read. But Sloterdijk is very helpful in this regard. One of his chapters is titled: Enlightened Prevention of Enlightenment. People aren't dumb, they simply choose to believe in what is best for them, not what is right. Of course, this sort of Intellectual Vanguardism is not just found in Communism, but can be seen throughout Enlightenment theory from Kant onward. More on that in the coming weeks.

Sloterdijk writes about Cynicism in many different shapes and figures. He then finds another cynicism, an older, original kind of cynicism, which he calls Kynicism. It's is the philosophy of the old Greek Diogenes. Is is cheekiness, it is philosophizing with your body, it is making fun of everything, it is laughter, sticking out your toungue, it is farting or masturbating in public. I'm not going to write too much about this anti-cynicism over the weeks, but the term reminds me quite a lot of Bakhtin's notion of the carnivalesque (a similarity noted by Sloterdijk), and a writer such as Pynchon seems sublimely Kynical.

Anyways, that was a very short and simple introduction. I don't mean to give a complete and exhaustive presentation of the many aspects and implications of Sloterdijks book. I'm just going to use the notion as a lense to look at some cultural works. To start with, I want to take a short look at the character, whom I think is the emblematic character of the post-millenial age, and who is also obviously a master-cynic: Don Draper from Mad Men. I don't mean to say that he is the best character ever created. I'm not even sure he is the best character on tv at the moment. But I believe that he almost perfectly encapsulates the time he was created in, rather than the time he actually lives in. To say that he is a cynic seems painfuly obvious. That he is living on a lie is the whole point of the first few seasons. And of course, his job is to sell lies and halftruths. Sloterdijk's book is much concerned with a very long historical perspective, so he does not devote all that many pages to the present, but I for one can't find a more cynical profession than the ad-man. It's most clear in the first season, as later seasons seem concerned about finding cracks in the cynical armor of our heroes. We see the cynicism in the first episode, in the making of an ad-campaign for Lucky Strikes, where a 'truth', the psychological 'truth' of our death-drive, is thrown in the garbagecan as the buyers are uncomfortable with it. Instead, we get another kind of truth: 'It's toasted', a half-truth that is true enought, but doesn't mention that every other cigarette is of course toasted as well. And we see it again in the marvelous final pitch of the season, the famous one with the 'Caroussel' from Kodak. 'Nostalgia litterally means: The pain from an old wound. It's a twinge in your heart far more powerful than memory alone' says Draper. Nostalgia is not based on actual memory, not on actual history. As Draper makes his pitch, amazingly affecting pictures from his own family life are shown on the screen. There are many layers in this speech, but an important thing to keep in mind is, that it is based on a completely made up image of the Draper family. We know it is just a pitch to sell a product, we know that Draper is a philanderer and not a very good familyman, we know that he in no way feels nostalgic about his - real - past, there was even in episode three a scene in which we saw Don Draper film a party at his house, where the film seemed to cover up a lot of really uncomfortable incidents. We know, that in every way, the speech is a lie. And yet it works. Not just on us, but on the client, on Harry Crane, who has to get up and leave the room with tears in his eyes - as he has just drunkenly cheated on his wife, he is the one who most easily feels the nostalgic pain - and even on Don Draper himself, who seems to be so caught up in his own idea of a perfect family life, that he fantasizes on the train about coming home early and taking on a weekend trip with them, an offer he turned down earlier that day. It is a lie, but it works on everyone, even the liar. It is true cynicism in effect.


That was a short and boring introduction. With that out of the way, hopefully the next posts will be better. Next wednesday: Laws of Logic, Logics of Lies, and stuff on the ideologies of the 20th century, with John Ford's The Man who Shot Liberty Valance and Corneliu Porumboiu's Police, Adjective.


[Part II: The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance & Police, Adjective]
[Part III: Brothers Karamazov and Melancholia]
[Part IV: Apocalypse Now]
[Part V: Inception]
[Part VI: Inglourious Basterds]

torsdag den 20. oktober 2011

Tarkovsky - Solaris (72)


This is a translation of an old piece I wrote on Solaris. It's just a sketch for a reading of the film, it is in no way extensive. It might be idiosyncratic, it might be obvious. I have a feeling Tarkovsky himself wouldn't have liked the focus I'm choosing. But I think it makes sense. And I've spend a lot of time with Eastern European culture recently, and I think about the same themes and problems with a lot of it. So I'm going to talk a bit about Eastern European culture at the end. But first: Solaris. Spoilers of course. I'm not going to write a synopsis, that can be found at wikipedia.


I really like this trailer. Makes the film seem like an actionmovie, which is quite the acomplishment...

There are three scenes in Solaris, where the characters sit down and watch a film-in-the-film. One of them is Kelvin watching recordings made by his old friend Gibarian. I'm not going to talk about that one, but focus on the two other ones. The first important - for my argument - instance of filmwatching takes place from ca 10:19-23:40. The pilot Burton has come out to Kelvin's cabin, to show an old recording of an investigation. The young Burton is asked about what he saw on Solaris. The interesting detail for my argument is the way the scene is filmed. It seems to be some sort of futuristic automatic camera. Every time another person speaks, the camera cuts to a new angle and a small 'ping' is heard. The camera always tries to catch the person in the middle of the frame, and in mid-distance. This is an official recording, of an official investigation. I will take this as an attempt of an 'objective' observer. The camera also mirrors the content of the scene, where Burton's claims that he saw it all 'with my own eyes' are brushed aside as the objective camera on the plane doesn't support what he's saying.

The second scene occurs from 19:19-21:45 of my two disc version. Kelvin sits down and watches old films with the new version of his wife Hari. It is old homerecordings of Kelvin and his family. The camera zooms in and out and moves about. The people in the picture stare awkwardly at the camera, and you can easily feel the connection between 'observer' and 'observed'. I will take this camera as an example of a subjective observer. In the last part of the movie, we see the old, dead Hari in frame, and we realize that the new Hari has been constructed out of Kelvin's memories of these old films.



In a key scene from 27:12-29:50 we find Burton and Kelvin discussing the mission to Solaris. In this scene, we learn how Kelvin views science pre-Solaris. His view is that science should be done without involving feelings. It should be done by objective observers, the ideal would be automatic observers such as the cameras in the clip from the investigation. The discussion makes Burton leave in anger, while he yells that Kelvin is an 'accountant, not a scientist'. In my reading, the rest of the film describes how Kelvin the accountant has to reevaluate his views on science because of his confrontation with Solaris. Hari and the other constructs therefore symbolizes the subjectivity of the scientists, which in the end inevitably affects there work. At the end of the film, Solaris agrees to stop making constructs aboard the space station for some reason, but does this mean objectivity is possible? If that is the case, then Kelvin turns his back to it, and ends the film on an island on the planet, in a construct of his childhood home. But what are the implications of this turning the back on objectivity? One the one hand, it could be said to weigh subjective art higher than objective science, and every one of the deeply personal and uniquely Tarkovskyan shots of the film supports this view, as does the long takes dwelling over the art of Brueghel and others. But what about the context of Soviet 1972? Isn't Marxism built upon an attempt at an 'objectively scientific' model of history? If so, you could say that this is a fundamentally anti-Marxist film. Not because it's against Marxist ideology, but because it attacks the attempts at making objective foundations to build an ideology on. If Solaris talks against objective science in general, doesn't it then contain a multitude of social and political implications? Isn't it then a deeply political film?



But there are many problems with this explanation of the film. For instance, most people will probably see Hari as much more than just a symbol of subjectivity, she is too rich a character to be reduced to that. Furthermore, Tarkovsky himself would probably be very much against this reading of his film. He was against symbols, and he was against focusing too much on social and political questions. But let's look at Hari for instance, why can't she be reduced to a symbol of subjectivity? In my mind, it's because the film is so focused on how Kelvin percieves Hari. She is a symbol, but she is also Kelvins wife, and the film is much more focused on this personal relation. This is typical for a film by Tarkovsky, they are usually concerned with the personal consequences of situations. In Ivans Childhood, the horror of war is depicted through how it affects a single child. In The Mirror, the war is only shown through the memories of a single man. And in The Sacrifice, the end of the world depends on a very personal relation... Tarkovsky focuses on humans beings, not on society as a whole. But that doesn't mean he cannot be seen as being political. It says more about how primitive political discussions often become. Apparantly, Italian Marxists criticized Ivans Childhood as being too bourgois in focusing on the tragedy of one. But what value has politics if it isn't concerned with bettering life for singular human beings? For me, a huge part of the point of left-wing politics is in pointing out how liberalism so often devolves into freedom for a few individuals, at the cost of less freedom and more pain for the vast majority of people. Yet very many left-wing people seem to forget this at times. Tarkovsky is political at times, but he never treats politics as abstractly as so many politicians does. No matter how abstract he can be - and he can undoubtedly be very abstract - it's always rooted in people.


And I have similar problems with how people view a lot of Soviet/Easterneuropean artists. From the films of Tarkovsky and Tarr, to the theoretical writings of Mandelstam or Bakhtin. People are understandably wary of putting too much of a political framework over their works, but a lot of their stuff has wideranging political implications. A huge part of the problem is, that the context they were created in / are occupied with, was so primitive and simplistic. The only proper (or allowed) political response to Stalin and the Soviet Dictatorship was praise back then, and is condemnation today, so the space for artistic expressions is quite narrow. If you say that a piece of art from this context is political, people would think that it means that they are concerned with their political context. Yet Bakhtin's writings has a huge antiauthoritirians potential, which cannot be reduced to him being against Stalinism.
So while I completely understand why people wouldn't want to let this stuff be 'infected' by their contemporary context, perhaps we're so far removed from that context today, that we can take the discussion of political and social implications of Soviet/post-Soviet art on another level? The thing is, exactly because this art is working on a more fundamental level than just critiquing its day, it's still relevant today. Solaris for instance: Is it possible to observe the world from an objective position? Or will every observer also see the ghosts of his/her past? Is the objective position even preferable? Doesn't the subjective camera that Tarkovsky uses give is a fundamentally deeper understanding of what goes on, than the objective camera used in the interrogation scene. It's fundamentally philosophical questions, and that Tarkovsky focuses on how these questions has consequences for a single human being does not mean, that these questions aren't important in a larger context.

tirsdag den 27. september 2011

Gotye - Somebody That I Used to Know



I first discovered this video on a music board. Underneath the video, the person who had posted it had written something along the lines of: 'Weird, this is not normally the kind of music I listen to.' When I heard this song my first thought was: 'This sounds like a mix of Sting and Phil Collins' After listening to this song over and over afterwards, I began to think about how weird these responses actually were. It sometimes seems to me, that obssesive music-listeners such as myself and so many other bloggers, reviewers, critics and music-board-discussioners might actually be the ones who understand music the least. When you hear this number, obviously your not supposed to think about how it fits in with all the other stuff in your record collection, or which other bands it reminds you off. You're supposed to think of people that you used to know...



Music can communicate in a weird way. In this song, almost nothing of the communication to the listener depends on the lyrics. From the title and the opening lines: 'Now and then I think of when we were together' there is not a single line that is anything special, with several of them actually being quite cringeworthy, the lowpoint for me being 'But that was love and it's an ache I still remember' But something happens in the delivery. The way Gotye whispers the explanatory verses highlights their insignificance, and makes his emotional outpouring in the chorus that much more effective. He seems to understand pretty clearly what happened, it was all inevitable and probably for the best. 'BUT YOU DIDN'T HAVE TO CUT ME OFF!' And what a marvel that chorus is. The drawn out 'cu-u-ut me off' and 'sto-o-op so low' (they are another example of an emotional outburst being shown through the melody jumping up, what I recently described as a 'scream', though that term isn't really accurate) that contrasts the next lines, where as many syllables as possible are crammed together to provide evidence for the wrongdoings of the ex. It's not poetry, but it is a pretty convincing picture of the mix of emotions and attempts of finding that one bulletproof explanation that would clearly put the guilt on the other part, that so often goes on after a breakup. So who cares about poetry? And then Kimbra enters the picture and obliterates the image of the wronged guy with the lines 'Now and then I think of all the times you screwed me over'

And then there is the musical context. This is what makes the song so universal, I think. As I heard this song more and more, it reminded me of more and more people I used to know. Breakups, potential relationships that never were, friends with whom I grew apart, dead relatives. Actually, the lyrics are quite specific, and describe a circumstance I've never been in, the line 'Have your friends collect your records and then change your number' especially describing something I can't really relate to. But while the lyrics paint a picture of a single breakup, the arrangement makes the song seem much more universal. That unrelenting guitarloop that provides the foundation for the song, the allmost childlike hook-line on the xylophone, the marching drums that enters the song during Kimbra's guest-verse. All of it creates a picture of inevitability, of life marching forward and onward, leaving situations forever changed, the past impossible to recreate, and making once extremely important people into, yup, somebody that you used to know. This is one of those weird creations, not just a song, definitely not poetry set to music. It's more like a carefully sculpted soundscape in which a small play takes place. The play creates a believable personal story, and the soundscape makes that story seem universal. Both parts are equally important.

Though this song is probably pretty obscure in most parts of the world, it was a huge hit in Australia, Belgium and the Netherlands. As with many popular songs, it might therefore be treated to different versions, liveversions, remixes, demos and acoustic versions. While some of these imaginary versions might be very, very good, to some extent they would be evidence of a misunderstood attitude towards pop. At times, people talk about 'stripping' a song to it's 'core', removing all the ornamentary arrangements from it to check if the melody and lyrics can stand on their own. Yet, in this song they really can't. Play this song on an acoustic guitar, and you're left with an average description of a breakup. But this isn't supposed to be looked at this way. This is not a core and stuff on the surface. This is a lot of different but equal parts, that relates to each other, sometimes supporting each other, sometimes opposing each other (i.e., they are in dialogue). It is a glorious, contradictory mess, that utterly fails to coalesce into a single statement. Which is part of the reason it's so great.

Here is an article on the creation of the song. Not surprisingly, it took a lot of effort to get it just right.

onsdag den 21. september 2011

Dialogism vs Dialectism

At times, I need to write down the theoretical boring stuff, that somewhat are at the foundation of most of what I write. Write them down again, that is. Phrasing and rephrasing will hopefully help me get to the core of these things. Plus, as far as I can see, hardly anyone ever reads these theoretical posts anyway, so the risk of someone being bored by the repetition is hardly that large. I tried to explain something with my introduction to this blog, now I'm kinda trying to explain it again. And it probably won't be the last time either...

This time, it's because I read an interesting piece on Modern Classical Music some time ago. Actually, I found it because Simon Reynolds wrote about it. If you need a primer on what I think is perhaps the most essential discussion facing the art-world at the moment, go read it. It's on the question of heterogenity and 'too much freedom'. To put it simply and less eloquent than Reynolds and Davidson: The artists of today has too many choices, too much inspiration, so their art ends up eclectic but somehow inessential. It's all new and exciting, but it doesn't really do anything. This is all fair game, and I agree, that a lot of modern art, litterature, music and film seem to be new for new-ness sake, without anything essential to say. Where I think they are unfair, though, is what Davidson indicates when he ends his piece by saying: What they badly need is a machine to rage against and a set of bracing creative constraints. I think this is unfair, because it's a conclusion that doesn't follow from his earlier points. Davidson doesn't write a lot about what is missing, but the one time he does, he states on two works, that: Both works abound in sonic beauty, yet they lack, say, Messiaen’s violent awe at a landscape’s revelations. But this isn't describing something Messiaen was against, this is something he was in awe of, it would be more precise to describe it as something he was for.

And I find this emblematic when a lot of - older - people write about what I kinda think is my generation (warning, I'm going to set up a strawman here...). They say we aren't against anything, without really backing it up. It's unfair, because it paints us as lazy. How, with the state of affairs of today, can we be so passive? Neoliberalism, two wars, economical breakdown, tea party, so many things to be against, and we are not fighting against any of it. Well, back in their days, they were truly political and trying to change the world. But as I said, it's not that we lack things to be against, what we lack is true, strong alternatives. We lack something to be for. And obviously, I'm for a lot of things. I'm for love, truth, treating other people decently, warm cups of tea, Romanian Cinema, writing about stuff on the internet. Yet most of what I'm for is either rather vague or rather personal... Hardly any of it can function as the basis for what many in the elder generation is looking for: Collective Action. I think young people of today is for and against as many things as their predecessors, but since each has their own little thing going, it hardly looks like a lot.

Mikhail Bakhtin, the guy I spoke about in the introduction, also used the word Dialogism to explain himself. In his great essay Discourse in the Novel, he explained the way novels work. They are heterogeneus, mixing together all different kinds of words, speech, language. But a novel does not mix things to make the linguistic strands do battle with each other, but just to have them relate to each other. This way, the novel in itself works against authoritarianism, which is always trying to make language as homogenous as possible. Therefore dialogism is naturally opposed to any kind of authoritarian power, it will perhaps always be a force of freedom of possibility. Yet what Bakhtin never stated explixitly - and probably couldn't have done if he wanted to, he was writing this in Soviet Russia, after all - is that Dialogism is also seemingly opposed to Dialectism. Dialectism was described by Hegel as being the force behind history. A thesis meets it's antithesis and they melt together into a synthesis of the two. Karl Marx then wrote a political version of that, where the proletariat and the bourgoisie was supposed to struggle, and then a communist society would be born out of that (this is obviously massively simplified). But in that way, dialogism undercuts the mindset and philosphy behind marxism and class-struggle.

At times, it feels like that's what these - older - commentators abhor in the new generation. To be perfectly frank, it often seems as if they are angry/dissapointed that we are ambivalent about marxism. Yet we do still believe in socialism, I do at least, it's just that I feel that if it becomes the only allowed alternative to the establishment, well then that is almost just as suffocating. I don't believe in dialectism anymore, and I don't really believe in any big ideas. And I don't believe in importance. What I believe in is small but great ideas. And feelings. Some people think that dialogism amounts to little more than postmodernist relativism, just taking all kinds of stuff and mixing them together. And while that is definitely a danger, it doesn't have to be that way.



Last year, my two favorite albums was Slow Six - Tomorrow Becomes You and Yellow Swans - Going Places. The first of these could have been included in Davidsons piece: They are from New York, they are classically trained, and they play a somewhat new hybrid of a lot of things. Going Places was a very abstract noise record, that was first on Popmatters list of 'Best Experimental Records 2010'. Yet, if you go to these two records looking for importance, forward thinking and avant-garde newness, well then you'll probably leave dissapointed. Slow Six are basically Do Make Say Think with violins instead of guitars, and while that - and the influence from Steve Reich - make them somewhat original, the album would hardly be anything special if that was all they had. No, what I love about this album is that it seems to describe love and longing quite profoundly, in a somewhat original way. The pieces switch between being polyrythmic and in weird meters, and more 'normal' parts. They sort of switch between playing against each other and with each other, for me illustrating a struggle for people to find and fall in sync with each other. And Yellow Swans is all about leaving the known world behind, and finding your footing again somewhere else, illustrated by songtitles such as Opt Out and New Life.



What these albums do, is to Opt Out in the search for originality and avantgarde importance. They are not grounded in any kind of idea of the 'future', they are not grounded in any struggle against anything. They are grounded in feelings, and the elements on the album have been chosen to best support these feelings. This is art without creative constraints or rage against anything. This is mixing and matching bits and pieces, all in service of something grounded in feelings. That might be a basis for dialogic art to grow out of, though these records are probably too homogenous to be there yet. All in all, though, this is something I'm very much for.

Bakhtin's essay on 'Discourse in the Novel' can be found in the collection 'The Dialogic Imagination: Four Essays by M.M. Bakhtin', 1981, Texas University Press. Edited by Michael Holquist and translated by Caryl Emerson and Michael Holquist. It can be bought here, here or here.