The Pinocchio Theory – Page 69 – "If you fake the funk, your nose will grow."

Friday Night

Claire Denis’ Friday Night is the story of a one-night stand. It’s a film in which almost nothing happens: a woman meets a man, they spend the night together, she leaves. The actors and characters are middle-aged and non-glamorous; as the film takes place mostly at night, and mostly in close-ups, there’s very little to see. (There are no establishing shots; the camera roves about restlessly, but always within a very constricted space; cuts to new angles tend to emphasize visual configurations that would be striking if only they were able to emerge more clearly from the darkness). There’s also very little dialog, though there is a nearly omnipresent musical score, which varies from techno abstraction to a tone of what is not quite melancholy or longing or excitement, but somehow a sparer analogue of such feelings.
Denis thus stylizes and abstracts things to the extreme, while at the same time she dwells relentlessly, and exclusively, on the banal, the ordinary and the everyday. It’s this (seeming) contradiction that accounts for the power of her films. You have to watch Friday Night with a kind of rapt concentration, if you are to watch it at all; precisely because there is so little to see. Your attention is focused on tiny details, and on emotions and sensations that are barely above the threshold of awareness. And you realize that there is nothing here but these tiny details. Watching the film is almost a kind of spiritual discipline – albeit one that is focused on the body, and not the soul. Bare flesh, mere flesh, is really all there is. A hand grips another hand, or moves down a thigh. A face is enigmatically lost in thought; or is it fantasy? The more we register the intensity of its expression, the less idea we have of what it might mean. Denis pushes to the limit of sexual feeling and desire: not a Bataillean limit of excess (that would more be the case with her previous film, Trouble Every Day, which I wrote about here), but a limit of near anonymity. Friday Night is a passionate film, but not an emotional one – I don’t mean that its passion is cold, but rather that it is so nearly anonymous, so impersonal or pre-personal, so nocturnal. Not the dream of an ultimate orgasm, or a life-shattering experience, but of an event whose singularity is such that it cannot be incorporated into your personality, your identity, your ongoing sense of yourself.

Claire Denis’ Friday Night is the story of a one-night stand. It’s a film in which almost nothing happens: a woman meets a man, they spend the night together, she leaves. The actors and characters are middle-aged and non-glamorous; as the film takes place mostly at night, and mostly in close-ups, there’s very little to see. (There are no establishing shots; the camera roves about restlessly, but always within a very constricted space; cuts to new angles tend to emphasize visual configurations that would be striking if only they were able to emerge more clearly from the darkness). There’s also very little dialog, though there is a nearly omnipresent musical score, which varies from techno abstraction to a tone of what is not quite melancholy or longing or excitement, but somehow a sparer analogue of such feelings.
Denis thus stylizes and abstracts things to the extreme, while at the same time she dwells relentlessly, and exclusively, on the banal, the ordinary and the everyday. It’s this (seeming) contradiction that accounts for the power of her films. You have to watch Friday Night with a kind of rapt concentration, if you are to watch it at all; precisely because there is so little to see. Your attention is focused on tiny details, and on emotions and sensations that are barely above the threshold of awareness. And you realize that there is nothing here but these tiny details. Watching the film is almost a kind of spiritual discipline – albeit one that is focused on the body, and not the soul. Bare flesh, mere flesh, is really all there is. A hand grips another hand, or moves down a thigh. A face is enigmatically lost in thought; or is it fantasy? The more we register the intensity of its expression, the less idea we have of what the person is actually thinking. Denis pushes to the limit of sexual feeling and desire: not a Bataillean limit of excess (that would more be the case with her previous film, Trouble Every Day, which I wrote about here), but a limit of near anonymity. Friday Night is a passionate film, but not an emotional one – I don’t mean that its passion is cold, but rather that it is so nearly anonymous, so impersonal or pre-personal, so nocturnal. Not the dream of an ultimate orgasm, or a life-shattering experience, but of an event that is so singular, and so evanescent, that it has no significance: it cannot be incorporated into your personality, your identity, your ongoing sense of yourself.

Gilbert Simondon

Gilbert Simondon (1926-1987) is another obscure French philosopher championed by Gilles Deleuze. I’ve just finished reading his book L’individu et sa genese physico-biologique. (The Individual and its Physico-biological Individuation; It doesn’t seem to have been translated into English, aside from the Introduction which appeared in Zone 6: Incorporations). And once again, as with other forgotten thinkers recommended by Deleuze, Simondon has proved a revelation, both for his influence upon Deleuze, and for what his own thought suggests.

Louis Riel

Chester Brown’s graphic novel Louis Riel, which he has been working on and publishing in serial form since 1999, is finally done, and published as a single volume. I couldn’t be happier…

Chester Brown’s graphic novel Louis Riel, which he has been working on and publishing in serial form since 1999, is finally done, and published as a single volume. I couldn’t be happier…
Continue reading “Louis Riel”

Literary Darwinism?

In today’s Science section of The New York Times, there’s an article about so-called “Darwinian literary studies,” which purports to find confirmation of evolutionary psychology in works of literature. Female college students were given two passages from Sir Walter Scott, one describing one of Scott’s “dark heroes, rebellious and promiscuous,” and the other describing one of Scott’s “proper heroes, law-abiding and monogamous.” And lo and behold, it turned out that “the women preferred the proper heroes for long-term unions,” but said that the dark heroes “appealed to them most for short-term affairs.”
The psychologist who did this study says that it “demonstrates that the distinction between long-term and short-term mating strategies” postulated by evolutionary psychology “is instinctive.” The reasoning seems to be that only biological “instinct” could explain the response to a two-centuries-old text by women today.
Of course, this is nonsense. Nobody who knows anything about the history of popular culture, or for that matter who has ever gone to the movies or watched TV, will be the least bit surprised that the stereotypes that Scott drew upon, and contributed to, two hundred years ago are still stereotypes today. The cliches and commonplaces that the evolutionary psychologists draw upon when they make their theories are the same ones that Scott drew upon when he wrote his novels. The study proves nothing whatsoever, because it is completely tautological; it is just like Wittgenstein’s witticism about the man who bought several copies of the newspaper in order to assure himself that what it said was true.
Actually, I think that there is a use for Darwinism in literary studies. But it is not this drivel about literature confirming the hoariest cliches about innate instinct and male/female behavior. It is rather what Morse Peckham suggested years ago: that mutation due to “accident, or chance, or randomness” plays a crucial part in cultural innovation, just as it does in biological evolution. So it is “the brain’s capacity to produce random responses” that causes “the indetermination in human behavior of response to any given stimulus”; this indetermination, in turn, is why we have cultural variability and cultural change, and why no society succeeds in totally controlling the behavior of its members. Continual mutation, not a fixed, innate “human nature” is the lesson that literary study can profitably extract from biology.

In today’s Science section of The New York Times, there’s an article about so-called “Darwinian literary studies,” which purports to find confirmation of evolutionary psychology in works of literature. Female college students were given two passages from Sir Walter Scott, one describing one of Scott’s “dark heroes, rebellious and promiscuous,” and the other describing one of Scott’s “proper heroes, law-abiding and monogamous.” And lo and behold, it turned out that “the women preferred the proper heroes for long-term unions,” but said that the dark heroes “appealed to them most for short-term affairs.”
The psychologist who did this study says that it “demonstrates that the distinction between long-term and short-term mating strategies” postulated by evolutionary psychology “is instinctive.” The reasoning seems to be that only biological “instinct” could explain the response to a two-centuries-old text by women today.
Of course, this is nonsense. Nobody who knows anything about the history of popular culture, or for that matter who has ever gone to the movies or watched TV, will be the least bit surprised that the stereotypes that Scott drew upon, and contributed to, two hundred years ago are still stereotypes today. The cliches and commonplaces that the evolutionary psychologists draw upon when they make their theories are the same ones that Scott drew upon when he wrote his novels. The study proves nothing whatsoever, because it is completely tautological; it is just like Wittgenstein’s witticism about the man who bought several copies of the newspaper in order to assure himself that what it said was true.
Actually, I think that there is a use for Darwinism in literary studies. But it is not this drivel about literature confirming the hoariest cliches about innate instinct and male/female behavior. It is rather what Morse Peckham suggested years ago: that mutation due to “accident, or chance, or randomness” plays a crucial part in cultural innovation, just as it does in biological evolution. It is “the brain’s capacity to produce random responses,” Peckham says, that causes “the indetermination in human behavior of response to any given stimulus”; this indetermination, in turn, is why meanings can never be fixed once and for all (as the deconstructionists are always reminding us), why we have cultural variability and cultural change, and why no society succeeds in totally controlling the behavior of its members. Continual mutation, not a fixed, innate “human nature,” is the lesson that literary study can profitably extract from biology. And it is by drawing on these Darwinian lessons about mutation that Peckham anticipated most of what theorists like Derrida and Foucault said, only without the European metaphysical baggage.

Kish Kash

I didn’t immediately fall in love with Basement Jaxx‘ new album Kish Kash the way I did with their previous two albums (Remedy and Rooty). I mean,those were almost perfect pop recaords: taking house and electronic dance in such new directions that they seemed to be entirely original and new, and to fulfill some sort of Platonic ideal of what pop music was supposed to be. But Kish Kash has grown on me with repeated listenings, and now I’m convinced it is as great as anything else Basement Jaxx has done.
I think my delayed response has something to do with the new album’s gigantism: it stretches its songs to almost operatic proportions (not in length but in density — i.e. heavier and more densely orchestrated), so that they aren’t as clean and neatly defined and graceful as the songs on the previous albums were. And I usually find that sort of thing annoying, in pop. But what’s converted me this time is the fact that Basement Jaxx do in fact achieve their ambition: the emotions in these songs are larger than life, which means that they are both intense and also strangely frozen (the same sort of distancing effect one gets in good melodrama). The effect is totally gorgeous, and the album covers a lot of ground in terms of different genres, all of which get reflected, amplified, and put onstage, as it were. Basement Jaxx go beyond the house/dance framework of their previous records to a more extensive sort of funk. Indeed, the music recalls both the ambitions and the stylistics of Prince in the 1980s; and if it doesn’t have the dynamic personality of Prince, it does have the dexterity, virtuosity, and range. And as for the personality: the album, as usual, has great guest performers singing for them, most notably Meshell and Dizzee Rascal and Siouxie Sioux (!) (as well as Lisa Kekaula – I don’t know who she is, but she is fabulous).

The Salt Roads

Nalo Hopkinson‘s new novel, The Salt Roads, is, I think, the best book she has done. Rather than fantastic fiction set in future (Brown Girl in the Ring) or alternative (Midnight Robber) worlds, The Salt Roads is a work of historical fiction, albeit a “magical realist” rather than a naturalistic one. It weaves together the stories of three black women from different places and times, who each has her own inclinations and moods: Mer, a slave on a plantation in 18th century Haiti, who does not live to see liberation; Meritet, slave/prostitute in 4th-century Alexandria, who ends up becoming a kind of saint (claimed by the Christians though not really one of them); and Jeanne Duvall, for many years Charles Baudelaire’s mistress. All three women are inhabited, at one point or another by a spirit, the loa/goddess Ezili (I think – the word “loa” is never actually used in the text), whose free-floating voice and perspective provide a counterpoint to those of the three women. (There are also a few passages written in an omniscient third person).
The Salt Roads is a dense and passionate book, fluctuating between visionary hopes of revolution and a better world, and the grimly pragmatic necessity of negotiating possibilities of resignation at least, and perhaps even flashes of happiness, in oppressive and straightened circumstances. Hopkinson’s work is similar to a number of other recent books by other black women authors (the book jacket blurbs compare her to Toni Morrison and Edwige Danticat); but what’s unique to her is the particular voice that speaks in this book: or perhaps I should say voice(s), because of the way she/it is both one and many; the transversal communication of the three women through Ezili, in a way that doesn’t absorb them into one (they never become aware of one another), but also doesn’t permit them to remain in isolation from one another, is what gives this novel its emotional resonance, as it reminds its readers of what black women have historically had to face (and to a great extent, still do) in a way that is necessarily unfamiliar to white male readers such as myself; but also without giving a simplistic, inspirational message of fortitude and strength in the face of adversity, which is something many white (and a few black as well) readers like to get from black women’s texts.
I’m describing this novel from the outside, I fear, having read it in constant consciousness that it is not addressed to me; but the strength of The Salt Roads, I think, resides precisely in its outsideness, its indirectness, its non-address. This means, among other things, that it cannot be pigeonholed as an exercise in “identity politics” – even as it also (rightly) rejects the way that accusations of “identity politics” are often a cover, and a crass excuse, for ignoring and dismissing the injuries of class, race, and gender altogether.
Nothing’s really resolved in this book, precisely as nothing’s really resolved in the course of history (situations shift, and their problems may be forgotten but are not resolved/redeemed for good). All three women end by finding a sort of happiness, but not one that erases the scars of the past, or changes the conditions that produced all that suffering. What we’re left with, instead, is a series of flashes, or glimpses, of happiness and pain, of beauty and horror, of ecstatic (and not-so-ecstatic) sexuality, and of the small details of everyday life, in 19th century France, 18th century Haiti, 4th century Alexandria and Palestine. This book is a journey, not for the sake of some goal or final resting point, but for the sake of the journey itself.

A Few More Singles

I’ve been so busy lately that I haven’t been posting very much. So I thought I could at least mention some music that I’ve been enjoying recently. There are a number of albums I need to listen to more before I can write about them intelligibly, but I can at least list a few singles that have transported me recently…

I’ve been so busy that I haven’t been posting very much. So I thought I could at least mention some music that I’ve been enjoying recently. There are a number of new albums I need to listen to more before I can write about them intelligibly, but there are a few singles that have transported me lately…
-Kelis’ “Milkshake” is, I suppose, another guilty pleasure. Much more mainstream than “I Hate You So Much Right Now” (not to mention stoopid in its double entendres) but the insinuating dirty bass synthesizer hook (balancing the melodic fragment – it’s too minimal to be a full melody) gets to me. Production by The Neptunes, whose stuff I’ve gotten bored with lately, however here they, er, redeem themselves.
-Cee-Lo’s new single, “I’ll Be Around,” on the other hand, is yet another triumphant production by Mr. Timothy Mosley, aka Timbaland. This time with horns bouncing off the minimal off-beat. The lyrics are a bit tiresome (and old) in their bragging about the “dirty South,” but how can I not fall in love with a song that begins with Mr. Closet Freak intoning: “How could I possibly be inconspicuous/ When my flow is fuckin’ ridiculous”?
-I haven’t heard all of David Banner’s Mississippi: The Album, but “Cadillac on 22s” is gorgeously depressive, movingly desperate and passionate (“sometimes I wish I wasn’t born in the first place”), with guitar that really makes the connection from hip hop to down-home country blues; and the screwed and chopped version is also pretty amazing, slowed down, with a few touches of reverb and stuttering repetition, just enough to mess with the beautiful, lyrical flow of the song so that it sounds like things are even more fucked up than the original version suggested, since you no longer have the beauty to redeem the pain.

Starfish

Starfish, by Peter Watts, is a dark and brooding SF novel that takes place mostly in the deep ocean. Human beings are surgically modified so that they can breathe underwater, and survive the immense pressures of the extreme deep. They work and repair the machinery that harvests geothermal energy from volcanic rifts on the ocean floor, to serve the world’s ever-greater energy needs. But it turns out that only people with very particular psychopatholgies, perpetrators and/or victims of domestic violence and sexual abuse, are able to stand the claustrophobic, almost lightless deep-sea environment without going crazy. Actually, they don’t just endure it; they love it. Sexual pathology leads to psychobiological metamorphosis, under the influence of an unfamiliar and stressful environment. Add to this telepathic empathy, “smart gels” (computing devices made out of living, functioning human neurons), alternative biologies, (justified) political paranoia, and an apocalyptic vision of the big (Richter 9.5 or so) subduction earthquake that is due to occur one of these days on the Juan de Fuca rift, leading to massive destruction in the Pacific Northwest (where I live). Without ever departing from the (seeming) plausibility of hard SF, Watts delivers a striking vision of a posthuman future – or more precisely of several disconcerting, mutually intersecting posthuman futures at once. Starfish is deeply pessimistic, but also, in a strange way, fiercely affirmative (though the metamorphosed future it affirms is not one that most of us would find sustainable, let alone comfortable).

Teletubbies

I watch Teletubbies now and again with Adah (who is now 15 months old), but I have to admit I like it more than she does. I think it’s the most brilliant kids’ TV show that I have ever seen (or at least, that I have ever seen as an adult). Teletubbies is pure bliss.The show has a formal elegance rare for TV: a minimalism as rigorous as those of early Philip Glass or late Samuel Beckett.

I watch Teletubbies now and again with Adah (who is now 15 months old), but I have to admit I love it more than she does. I think it’s the most brilliant kids’ TV show that I have ever seen (or at least, that I have ever seen as an adult).
Teletubbies is pure bliss.The show has a formal elegance rare for TV: a minimalism as rigorous as those of early Philip Glass or late Samuel Beckett. The beginning and end of the show are always the same: the baby-sun rising, and then setting, with the Teletubbies saying hello and goodbye respectively. Once the sun has risen, the Teletubbies run away over the hills; and a voice emanating from one of those tubes that rise out of the ground asks: “Where have the Teletubbies gone?” This enigmatic question is never answered: it is always followed by a series of abstract scenes, with multiple Teletubbies against monochromatic backdrops. There are only four Teletubbies, but they can be “everywhere,” thanks to their multiple instantiations in these abstract scenes.
Other elements are repeated from show to show as well, like the mini-films of children around the world, broadcast through one or another of the Teletubbies’ tubbies; and my favorite, the twice-repeated (sometimes more) “Big Hug” that follows the offscreen narrator’s assurance that “Teletubbies love each other very much.”
I also love the puzzling non-narratives that sometimes happen in the latter part of the show: a piece of Tubby Toast is too big for Tinky Winky, Dipsy, or LaaLaa to eat, but Poe (the smallest) manages to eat it just fine. Or, the meadow is mysteriously turned into a big lake, then just as mysteriously back to a meadow again. Or, LaaLaa plays with her (?) ball inside because it has started to rain; but when the rain ends, she goes outside again. Even when these little stories seem like they are going to turn moralistic or didactic, they don’t, but stop short of having a point (I imagine this to be some Western child’s version of a Zen koan, but I don’t really know anything about Zen). Of course, other times there are no such pseudo-narratives at all; the Teletubbies just dance, or march around, or something.
The Teletubbies themselves intrigue me endlessly: it’s so hard to figure out whether their brightly-colored surfaces are skin/fur, or just costumes they are wearing (the seam on their backs suggests it is just a costume, but somehow it makes sense to me that this would be the form of their actual, pre-genital bodies). LaaLaa and Poe seem to be female, because they are smaller and their voices higher; Tinky Winky seems to be male (and gay, as Jerry Falwell claimed); Dipsy remains mysterious to me in this regard. But infantile or pre-genital gender is a strange sort of concept anyway; one thing that is good about the show is that this strangeness is retained intact (instead of being “normalized” by the absurd tyranny of boys-in-blue and girls-in-pink from the moment of birth).
I’m usually not a fan of minimalist art; but here the infantile content perfectly matches the form.

Timbaland and Magoo

Though Timbaland is one of the most respected and sucessful hiphop producers working today (the best, I’d argue) the albums he has released under his own name, in collaboration with Magoo, have never sold very well, or been much talked about. Partly because Magoo is poorly regarded as an MC (he’s not great, but in my opinion, he’s at least OK), and partly because – I’m not quite sure, actually. But Timbaland and Magoo’s latest CD, Under Construction Part II, is a superb album, even if nobody buys it. Admittedly it’s not all that interesting vocally and verbally – the lyrics (mostly sex, some drugs, some romantic loss, a reasonable amount of boasting, but very little self-congratulatory thuggery) are nothing we haven’t heard before. But the beats and arrangements are great. The album is fairly relaxed and laid back, but at the same time very sharp and rhythmically active. Timbaland’s arrangements are clean, fairly minimal, and always surprising: the synthesized percussion crackles, and some sort of odd timbre or melodic line is always being dropped just where you don’t expect it. Every song has its own profile and its own surprises. The album works very well as a shifting series of moods, as one or another facet of Timbalan’ds expressive artistry comes into focus.