Drinking Jameson Whilst Watching the Simpsons

A quick deconstructing of the image: reminiscent of the Mona Lisa, by Leonardo Da Vinci. The subject (the "woman") is yellow, four-fingered and sitting in a near-identical position as the Mona Lisa of Da Vinci fame. Every (implicitly) "human" character in the TV show, "The Simpsons" has these very same characteristics; that is, they are yellow and four-fingered. Thus, it can be surmised that this image is supposed to be a portrayal of Mona Lisa as drawn in a Simpsons-esque style.

The Simpsons has become a meme of modern culture, and for that reason I could have simply said "Simpsons-esque drawing of a Mona Lisa" and immediately been understood by most non-under-rock-living human beings in (at least) the US. Thus, if we treat the show as such, the Jamesonian interpretation can be more fruitfully (or at least, efficiently) discussed. The Simpsons is a program that must be taken as a cooperative of a capitalist system because of its place within it. As a 20+ year (and running) old program, it has been accumulating cash for its mother company, FOX, for years. FOX, a nationally syndicated television network need not be brow-beatenly extrapolated as a "player" (and a talented one, at that) of the capitalist game, so this assumption will be made. Naturally, it cannot simply be surmised that "The Simpsons" is a deductively capitalist program, however, as a cash cow for FOX, it is an inherently capitalist-driven program. Thus, the very root of the program as an entity is capitalist. Now, while I can certainly appreciate the idea that The Simpsons can be seen as anti capitalist - whether in a particular quote, character, episode, or even the series' semiotic valuation as a whole - the context in which this particular image is presented is not in terms of a particular situation presented in the show. It is simply a pastiche of the Mona Lisa in the Simpsons style. It can also be extrapolated that not only is this a pastiche of the Mona Lisa, but also of the Simpsons themselves (itself?). Thus, a third degree of deduction is plausible. This degree will be likely be touched on briefly, but the main assumption I intend to present - in terms of Jameson - is that this is a by-product of the show itself and not a double-pastiche of the show and the painting.

Long-winded? In the words of Randy Bachman, "you ain't seen nothin' yet."

Jameson suggests that post-modernism is an extension and manifestation of "late capitalism." This "late" term inspires a linear periodization of capitalism. It suggests that capitalism is in its final stage. Thus, with Jameson's logic in mind, there is pre-Marxist capitalism, followed by Marist-inspired modernism, and finally concluded by the current post-modernism. Jameson follows this by suggesting an inherent misconception by both the "cultural critic and moralist" of "conceptualizing" post-modernism as a movement that rejects the (perceived) modernist aim of exposing the "'terrorism' on the social level" and instead concentrates its aims on "the cancer on the personal." With these in mind, it can be rightfully deduced that The Simpsons, as a post-modernist program, is aiming to reject the seminal modern work of the Mona Lisa, and instead create a situation in which this work is re-categorized as just another product. It creates a product where there was once art; as a simple cartoonish human being, it loses its value as a piece of art. Through a roundabout process of imposing its own representation of human beings, the woman is reduced to just that: a woman. The background is just a background, and all other meanings are lost via context. Jameson would likely be in tears over such an image, but I'll leave the evaluation of the emotions of his superego to the Freud scholars.

The Quick FOX Jumps Over the Lazy Freud

The question of where Freud stands on Jack Bauer's masculinity depends upon Freud's theories regarding the development of a boy's id, ego, and superego in regards to their mothers throughout childhood. As evidenced by Jack's absolutely undying regard for his own judgment and a resulting superconfident neuroses, Freud's interpretation would suggest in Jack a super-ego that has been fostered through his parents' prohibition of anything harming the family; that is, Jack's main goal is to keep his family safe in the long-term. He understand the implications of his daughter's staying out very late, but allows this to be subverted in favor of more pressing issues; the possible assassination of a presidential candidate. His masculinity is a by-product in this regard. He fears the castration of his co-worker, but nonetheless allows himself to be co-dependent upon her, and the program even suggests an ongoing affair between the two. He projects no true outside questioning of himself. He is supremely confident in his actions, even when they function outside "the rules" of the institution for which he works. He derives "pleasure" from withholding information from this woman. Freud suggests, in his essay on infantile sexuality, a period of time from the ages 1-3 in which the infant is preoccupied with the anus and, notably, faeces, or the emission thereof. Thus, his perceived masculinity towards this woman can be interpreted as an expression of this childhood situation. Thus, Freud's interpretation would determine that Jack's outward masculinity is a combination of a childhood desire to withhold and the superego's ingrained senses of rationality, morality, and responsibility. These elements of combination are not necessarily mutually or productively exclusively, however they do not cross paths until this particular brand of life experience for Jack.

The Ghastly Habermas

Jurgen Habermas confounds in that he tiptoes across a line of indignant retaliation and idealistic sophistication. The ideal of the public sphere clashes abruptly with the premise upon which it stands; that humanity will find common ground. This premise is both satisfying and horrifyingly pretentious. Nonetheless, the basis is sound and precious.

Ghosts of Rwanda is a film that finds itself stuck between the duality of globalization. On one hand, you have the increased awareness of the goings-on of other countries; on the other lies the reality of the cynical perspective: because Rwanda had no essential economic value for any country, its salvation could not be realized.

The "bleeding heart" archetype thrives in this environment; there is no reasonable, politically correct defense for leaving this situation the way it was. However the media coverage of the situation (or lack thereof) revealed the reality of the dominantly capitalist perspective of globalization. As the Rwandans suffered, the United States, along with other so-called 1st world countries, stood by idly. Habermas would envision a day where humanity, and the preservation thereof would take precedence over the economic implications. However, the idealism of this premise sets a precedent that would be simply impossible to overcome. As long as people exist within a sphere of their own Darwinian situation; that is, they function as pawns in the capitalist system, they cannot reasonably surmise a situation where helping people in Africa would help them in the long run.

Habermas' idea is strong and difficult to disagree with, however the reality of a capitalist-influenced humanity destroys any semblance of compassion for a non-economically viable country. Thus, while Habermas would interpret the film as a reasonably objective persepctive of the situation, he would also regret to inform the obvious moral relativism inherently projected by the developed countries.

However sad it may be, as long as people are not immediately positively influenced by a conflict, they are not inclined to participate in a rightful, humanistic outcome.

Hall and Law

Stuart Hall harkens back to the Marxist tradition in terms of maintaing that ideology, in its essential form, is at the root of much of what we choose to consume (in terms of media) and what is fed to us. However, he ripples the loose thread of free will and thought by examining the different possibilities afforded us when we consume the ideological media. This limits the influencing (see: brainwashing...) potential of what we view because, especially in the age of information, we have a greater understanding of the goings-on in our world. The supposed and inherent manipulations are more often viewed as such, and coupled with an evermore questionable moral construction, we embody an era very much contrasted to the traditional Marx-era views. Thus, when we observe Law and Order as a facet of this new era, the message is a clear one, however the reception is interrupted by a (by Hall's standards) more savvy viewing contingency, in terms of our understanding of the world around us. Whether you call it the infiltration of cynicism or "higher knowledge", there is an obvious distinction between the Marx era of information and our current ability to pursue the less and oft-beaten pathways.

Hall's expectations vary in his three anticipatory readings of a particular text. It is a rational (albeit limited) perception of the modern condition of consumption. If one were to accept the dominant, hegemonic reading of Law and Order, Hall concedes that the reader would accept that police are never corrupt, always follow the letter of the law, and are always right. He would also expect the reader to accept breaking the law is inherently wrong and evil; a blemish upon society, regardless of circumstance. The criminal is always wrong.

Hall then proposes the most convoluted and habitually leveraging situation: the negotiated reading. A viewer of Law and Order may extrapolate the findings of a given episode as good, bad, and occasionally grey. This reading is presumptuously (if accurately) ambiguous: the reader may find the cops to be inaccurately "clean" or righteous; they do not tread on ground that is morally or lawfully ambiguous, thus they are not realistic. Or the reader may find the criminals to be unrealistically evil or too inherently vilified. In any case, the reader finds a ground in which the the cops and criminals are not entirely realistic.

The oppositional reading is the final proposition Hall makes for any given reader. The entire premise of the episode is rejected; the cops and criminals are fake and ridiculous. The episode has no bearing on reality whatsoever, and thus does not support their particular belief system insofar as the reader rejects the notion that dramatized police procedurals cannot accurately depict the criminal justice system both in terms of cop-criminal morality as well as a sense of reality. This reader rejects Law and Order by its very nature as a representation of the system because of either its medium, character depictions, or any other potential facet of illegitimacy it might present.

Barthes Over Baghdad

This question operates as a fantasy in which Barthes is resuscitated for just enough time to see this image for a few moments and provide an evaluation. We are the supposed vessels responsible for the expression of this evaluation, and as such I will operate under this pretense. This suggests, however, that certain knowledges are absent; the war in Iraq is unbeknownst to the cadaver, he is presumably unfamiliar with the language presented, and he is in the dark in regards to what country the gunman is from, and what country he is in.

Thus, how does Barthes view this image, literally? Well, to be contrarian to the likely answer presented, I feel that he views it as a soldier defending his homeland. The concrete sign indicates a flag - Barthes' knowledge obviously extends far enough to decode that much. The soldier is facing outwards whereas the flag is facing inwards, and yet he is still behind the plane of the sign. Thus, Barthes, without prior knowledge about the war in Iraq and the potentiality of the a soldier on this ground, sees the soldier peering at his potential enemies. Consider Barthes as a contemporary of World War II and you must understand that he is unfamiliar with the Middle East; as well as the suggestion that the Middle East would be the battleground of the future.

This question is poorly worded and does not offer a fulfilling information extrapolation.

Tony, Roland, and the Lady - Don't Stop Believing

If, as it has been supposed by dignitaries and intellectuals alike, "perception is reality", then the Sopranos represents a television show without pretense about its function as a cultural phenomenon. As we examine this image of Tony Soprano, there is little to suggest a break between "Tony" and the actor who portrays him. As the show evolved, the chasm between James Gandolfini and Tony Soprano tightened to the point of a slivery crack between chunks of sidewalk. This is the power of a program like "The Sopranos"; it created a universe in which not only do these characters exist as real, relatable people, ("can you believe Tony said that to Carmela last night?") their acting counterparts do not. For one hour every sunday evening The Sopranos became a real family and viewers redeemed their HBO subscription for a chance to be a part of this realistic dynamic without a boring moment. In one episode of the series, Tony's psychiatrist visits her psychiatrist (a colleague played by Peter Bogdanovich) after a disturbing dream in which Tony dies. Her doctor suggests that treating Tony is akin to a child-like obsession with roller coasters or scary movies: we experience the thrill of being afraid without the consequence. This is the basic principle behind media (though not necessarily fear-inducing, it is a shoddy replacement for some kind of emotion in reality), and this image, as well as the program itself, speaks to this relationship between audience and media. Thus, when observing this image in the Barthesian tradition we must not only take into account the capabilities of a medium, but also the by-product of the series achieved through the medium as well. That by-product is the aforementioned relationship fostered between audience and characters that nearly completely eliminates the barrier of a television screen between the viewership and Tony Soprano. When you spend nearly 100 hours with anything (living or otherwise), it is human nature to learn the tendencies, fears, and realities of that thing. Barthes accounts for this element of human perception of signs as "knowledge". I quote it because he defines different groups of knowledges that all pertain to each particular viewing experience and coincide to form a (essentially) final understanding of the image.

Barthes cites denotative, connotative, and linguistic signs as the format through which we perceive and derive meaning from a particular image. As such, the image in question contains varying degrees of connotation insofar as the viewer's knowledge extends. This proposition is endlessly self-sustaining; assuming the existence of preternatural knowledges, connotations may extend on varying planes into a thankless oblivion. I intend to limit this blog to the possibilities of my own mind in terms of the "American" context of it; that is, I do not intend to extend beyond the realm of an Americanistic perception of the image at hand. Otherwise, where does it end?

With those presumptions resting delicately upon the quicksand of dispute, this image is a balance of marketable rhetoric and the show's producer's intended message of the series as a whole. Tony Soprano embodies the American anxiety; that is, a pursuer of happiness, a facet of the American dream with the classic Gatsby skew. He achieves his wealth nearly exclusively via illegal means, though there is little to separate him from the modern American family man. He must deal with his kids' issues, his wife's neuroses, and his own subsequent demons. His work only accentuates the American template. With this idea in mind, we finally examine the image. The Statue of Liberty (connotatively) lurks in the background. His eyes swerve off-image, almost looking behind him. Birds flock off his left shoulder. Firstly, the statue: this is the most prominent cultural image found in the advertisement. It is exclusively American, a representation and declaration of our freedom. Now, the image suggests a certain distance from this pure Americanism as Tony is situated a good distance away; although geographically he is in New Jersey, metaphysically he is distanced from the statue which potentially suggests not only New Jersey's place as a step-son (so to speak) of "the city", but also Tony's distance from the idealistic realm of the American dream. The dream of conquering business, the romance of American entrepreneurship, and the consideration that the statue was most likely his ancestors' first sight when entering the country all factor equally in the connotative implications of this image. Tony embodies the paradox of the American rhetoric penetrating the very fabric of our existence as American people. This image contains layers and as such, this is the layer that embodies the essence of the entire series. For lack of a less cliche concluding statement, Lady Liberty is his green light.

His shifted eyes, on the other hand, represent a more pertinent relation to the final episodes of the series. He is constantly trying to be one step ahead. His gangster enemies, the FBI, even his own family all want a piece of him. Thus, when you are confronted with the idea that he is looking behind him, the viewer interprets anxiety, fear, and defiance. As the series came to a close, there was much confusion as to what Tony's future would be. The FBI's pursuit had come to a head; he was likely to be indicted sometime soon. He had made an enormous amount of enemies in New York who could potentially come after him. Thus not only do his shifting eyes represent the character's personal anxiety, but also a general anxiety of humanity: that someone is always after your job, your family, your spot at the top. The general perception at the top of the capitalistic pyramid is one of a fierce protection of your position. This gaze-back, as it were, represents the reverse side of the romantic "rags to riches" American tale.

The birds. As for the birds, well, enough is enough. I'll cut this short.

Blog 3 - Blair Witch Fraudject

This is what I love about free opinion and my ability to simply forgo expectations and completely disregard the notion that I must accept quotes as the end all and be-all.

These quotes are completely archaic. They have absolutely no bearing on the essence of filmmaking or the process by which a filmmaker creates meaning or, for that matter, we interpret a film's meaning. The quotes are deliciously relevant, tidy, and convenient; curiously similar to the succulent fruit tart at the end of a particularly benevolent 3 dollar steak dinner.

If we were to assume, for the sake of argument, that all film's purpose was to re-create reality, wouldn't the actual pursuit of other arts be absolutely abandoned? Wouldn't the entire idea of "art" itself be utterly dissipated and the reign of filmmaking become a forgone conclusion? Maybe I'm a cynic, but in theory, Benjamin is suggesting that the "aura" of the arts die because of film's ability to literally imitate reality. Instead of formulating a sweeping, browbeaten and roundabout retort, I feel like this idea only deserves a deep, bellowing, "What in God's name are you talking about?" It's like dignifying a child's notion that the world is made of cheese with a response.

In terms of "The Blair With Project", these quotes absolutely lose traction within the first, ehhhhm, 40 seconds. The, and I mean this literally, entire film is based on the ability of film to create (what I interpret it as, anyway) "aura". In essence, the film has no bearing upon the real and complete control over the context; thus aligning itself with every other medium of so-called "art aura" ever created. It essentially trumps the theory with such aplomb that Benjamin may as well have wrote about German Expressionism in terms of finger painting.

What would Benjamin make of a staged performance of "Macbeth"? Would he call it a mechanical re-distribution of commonly held notions of reality? Would his head explode at the prospect? Would he simply concede, finally?

We knew Blair Witch was fake when we watched it. Thus, we automatically place it within the context of, well, fake stuff. Like a painting of a rhino. So, I beg, where exactly does this lack of "aura" come from? I suppose I'm proposing more questions than I'm answering, but frankly I'm appalled by the very notion that Benjamin could actually be accurate in his thinking about where filmmaking fits within the artistic context. "For the first time...man has to operate with his whole living person." In what context does this make any reasonable sense? Perhaps in a nature documentary, or a highly (and dangerously) neo-realist film, but beyond that I see no situation where this would actually apply.

If I were to dignify the Blair Witch Project with a reasonable response, I would refrain from placing it within this ludicrous context. I apologize for my deviance, but this idea that Benjamin's quotes in the early stages of filmmaking applying to modern commentaries on our use of media comes off as lazy, irrelevant and utterly masturbatory intellectualism. I'm morally opposed to allowing myself the opportunity to go along with this notion, and therefore I choose to explain my position on the matter rather than buy into the silliness.

Give me an F, if you wish, but this is not something I find worth discussing. I know I'm not supposed to determine what's worth discussing, and maybe I have not examined the question thoroughly enough.

This is my response and this is how I truly feel about the questions asked. If it's "wrong", than that's your call, not mine.

So be it.

Blog 2 - Tokyo Story and The Maltese Falcon

Allowing ourselves, for just a fleeting moment, to think outside of our homogenized, sterilized and of course highly monetized American bubble, Tokyo Story is every bit as much a dense and penetrating discourse in the function of the human family as any film being produced at its time. Highly pretentious and grandiose claims (by your humble bloggist) aside, the boring little Japanese picture proves stiff competition for any film claiming to portray the ever-elusive "realism". I'm suggesting not an all-encompassing "realism", as there is little to support this argument and attempting to do so would prove not only futile, but also mind-numbingly boring and I wish to subject only my worst enemies to those kinds of musings.

Tokyo story uses the duality of a culture in the midst of massive turnover to illustrate points directly parallel to the story being told. An admittedly old and dying creed of stoic pride pitted versus the industrialized bustle of the modern age. Within this turmoil lays the story of an old Japanese couple visiting their children and grandchildren in what become a sort of swan song. They are confronted with a world with which they are haplessly unfamiliar. They are accustomed to sitting on grass mats, drinking tea, and meditating their little butts off until their inner peace is soothed to the point of a waking sleep. They wear traditional Japanese garb and speak of old times and the decaying remnants of their pasts. As this trudges along, we find the children (and especially grandchildren) completely out of tune with their aging elders. Their son is a busy doctor, desperately scratching out a living so he can live at least within the Tokyo city limits; a daughter so horribly glib and disrespectful that we cringe to even consider what kind of offspring such a creature would drop into the mix. The grandchildren are absolutely "naughty" (as their mother describes them) in the worst possible sense; completely disregarding the needs of others and absolutely, and completely selfish. It becomes abundantly clear that the children are less a product of their parents as they are of their society. Perhaps the grandchildren are too young and irresponsible to understand their shortcomings, but I can't help but believe that they are well on their way to becoming selfish, childish adults. Thus, the "realism", so to speak, is within the interaction of young and old as a tense, uncomfortable and utterly thankless exercise. The child who shows the most respect and love is not even that; she is a daughter-in-law whose husband has died. She lives in the past, and thus probably becomes most in tune with the culture and mindset of her parents-in-law. The film breaks certain rules of filmmaking that may not lead one to feel it is "real" in terms of a visual experience, but these do not take away from the central purpose as, once again, an in-depth examination of cultural turnover and the results of such relationships. The film also pays plenty of attention to the aftermath of a post-nuclear society and the various implications within the older couple's situation. They feel like holdovers, or remnants of some generation that the younger folks feel should have been swept away with the purge of "the bomb" lest they be subjected to further reminder of a sad and terrible past. In these senses, Tokyo Story accomplishes plenty in terms of those facets of reality. However, it is very boring and long.

Now, the use of the word "realism" and "classic Hollywood" in the same sentence feels like a vicious faux pas. That's not even an insult to those films as I tend to believe that in most cases, the goal of the filmmakers in early Hollywood was unrealistic cinema. These were films that were almost entirely meant for entertainment and entertainment alone; anything else was either a mistake (The Wizard of Oz) or the product of some rebellious (see:blacklisted) screenwriter (the Salt of the Earth or "enter Dalton Trumbo film here"). That being said, there was also the exhausting venture of film noir; namely, The Maltese Falcon. Noir, having its roots in German Expressionism, is a an unrepentantly visually unrealistic genre. However, like Tokyo Story, it does provide some footing in other "pockets" of realism. When you examine Hollywood films of the time period, you can easily decipher the root of the term "Hollywood Ending". They often end happily, upbeat and hopeful, regardless of genre. Noir became the direct antonym to this storytelling style, in regards to its treatment of the human condition. There is a tendency to believe in the goodness of human beings as a conquering force in many films of this era; noir takes the other root. The Maltese Falcon recognized that humans are also animals; that we are not necessarily in it for "the truth"; the truth does not buy cars, houses, and drugs. I'll spare the details for I'm running out of steam and the film is really complex; in the end, the girl was double-crossing, the bad guys are still bad and Bogey is really cool. In earnest, however, the film portrays a sad and disturbing truth about the power of money in our society and its function as "the stuff dreams are made of". It, like the fake falcon, is a hollow replacement for real happiness. In this sense, you have a realistic depiction of a love affair gone wrong, bad people who trick and do generally bad things, and a hero whose time and dedication have wrought nothing but a deeper hopelessness in humanity. Depressing as it may sound, it rings quite true.

Thus, to wrap this up, you have two kinds of "realism" in these two films. Each handles them with aplomb, though with starkly contrasting techniques.