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With the clay Population round in rows
Thursday, 17 November 2005 08:52 amThe final exam scripts being laid reverently (not) to rest, I have a life again! *emerges, blinking*. How has everyone been while I've been polishing the grindstone with my nose? I feel as though whole swathes of my social circle could have been taking up newt-fancying, or joining the Navy, or succumbing to alien abductions, for all I've known about it. The Army of Reconstruction have hardly even permeated the fog, although they've certainly been present: the new garage has grown a film of plaster on several of its walls while I wasn't looking, although it's still more or less open-air.
I hied me hence last night to see A History of Violence with jo(ty), who has a taste for serious nouveau-style cinema which makes me, the English academic, feel inadequate. (I prefer a brainless action flick). However, (a) the reviews of this have been excellent, and (b) Viggo Mortensen, so there was I, helping to distract jo from her teeth. (New braces, pain).
History of Violence is directed by David Cronenberg, although it's more towards the psychological tension than the slime-and-orifices end of his personal spectrum. (For which relief, much thanks. I still haven't really recovered from watching eXistenZ while eating Chinese food). It is, I say with sweeping finality, a bloody good film, further comments on which are sneakily hidden behind the cut, in case anyone hasn't seen it yet. ( Spoilers would really spoil this film. )
It's a beautifully coherent, dense little film, and its explorations of violence continue quietly, in the foreground and the background, on almost every level of the film. However, the otherwise good (if disturbing) experience was more than a little flawed by the cinema full of absolute idiots with whom we watched the film. Part of the problem, I think, is that Ster-Kinekor have released this in the main cinemas, not the Nouveau, and it's hopelessly out of place. The row in which we were sitting, particularly, was filled with a bunch of twenty-somethings (including an ex-student of mine who damned well ought to have known better) who, apart from being more or less mud between the ears, had clearly expected something light and actiony, more along the lines of Mr. and Mrs. Smith. (Which is, incidentally, in terms of theme an incredibly interesting comparison to Violence: the fluffy, entertaining take on A Killer In The Family instead of the disturbing, psychologically realistic one). It is saddening to note that the Cronenburg name clearly meant nothing to these people, who were obviously genuinely shocked by the film. Unfortunately, the shock took the form of nervous over-reaction: inappropriate giggling and loud comments, the classic immature response to discomfort. It was a fascinating illustration of the extent to which contemporary cinema (a) deals in cartoon violence, little blood and no gruesome bits, so that realism is horrifyingly unfamiliar; and (b) goes out of its way not to disturb or to elicit emotional engagement other than at the level of warm, soft-focus empathy or clear-cut moral disagreement. There were probably fewer violent deaths in Violence than there are in Mr and Mrs Smith, but they operate at a whole new level of meaning. This is what Pulp Fiction could have been if it had had a brain instead of style. (It occurs to me now, in fact, that Tarantino basically has the same problem as our cinema of idiots - his infantile belief that violence is funny is about an immature inability to cope with it).
The curse of academia is to be always at analysis. Not content with deconstructing audience responses, I also found myself doing a very annoyed reading of the 5 minutes or so of swimsuit competition to which we were subjected during the ads. (Feminist rage has caused me to blank on the actual excuse for the display - I think it may have been a camera brand). Beautiful Mauritius beaches, filled with wet, skinny 18-year-olds in skimpy beachwear who pout, toss their heads and give the come-on to the camera, over a pumping soundtrack that insists "I like the way you move." Yay, lots of beautiful, willing female bodies on display to the male gaze; I thought advertising had become a little more ironic about that kind of objectification, at least. Clearly not. I also found myself wondering how a female viewer is supposed to respond to the images, given that my analytic annoyance is probably non-standard. Are we meant to feel inadequate? excluded? is that vacuous body-fetishism supposed to be an ideal? Either way, the models are clearly not addressing me. Is it the assumption that only men buy cameras?
muttermutterpatriarchymutter. I'm going to wander off now and try out a new killer chocolate brownie recipe, for unleashing on an unsuspecting jo&stv, who are very busy with shop preparations and in need of blood sugar and cosseting. There will be no comments about maternal instinct, women's place being in the home, or suchlike, thankyew very much.
I hied me hence last night to see A History of Violence with jo(ty), who has a taste for serious nouveau-style cinema which makes me, the English academic, feel inadequate. (I prefer a brainless action flick). However, (a) the reviews of this have been excellent, and (b) Viggo Mortensen, so there was I, helping to distract jo from her teeth. (New braces, pain).
History of Violence is directed by David Cronenberg, although it's more towards the psychological tension than the slime-and-orifices end of his personal spectrum. (For which relief, much thanks. I still haven't really recovered from watching eXistenZ while eating Chinese food). It is, I say with sweeping finality, a bloody good film, further comments on which are sneakily hidden behind the cut, in case anyone hasn't seen it yet. ( Spoilers would really spoil this film. )
It's a beautifully coherent, dense little film, and its explorations of violence continue quietly, in the foreground and the background, on almost every level of the film. However, the otherwise good (if disturbing) experience was more than a little flawed by the cinema full of absolute idiots with whom we watched the film. Part of the problem, I think, is that Ster-Kinekor have released this in the main cinemas, not the Nouveau, and it's hopelessly out of place. The row in which we were sitting, particularly, was filled with a bunch of twenty-somethings (including an ex-student of mine who damned well ought to have known better) who, apart from being more or less mud between the ears, had clearly expected something light and actiony, more along the lines of Mr. and Mrs. Smith. (Which is, incidentally, in terms of theme an incredibly interesting comparison to Violence: the fluffy, entertaining take on A Killer In The Family instead of the disturbing, psychologically realistic one). It is saddening to note that the Cronenburg name clearly meant nothing to these people, who were obviously genuinely shocked by the film. Unfortunately, the shock took the form of nervous over-reaction: inappropriate giggling and loud comments, the classic immature response to discomfort. It was a fascinating illustration of the extent to which contemporary cinema (a) deals in cartoon violence, little blood and no gruesome bits, so that realism is horrifyingly unfamiliar; and (b) goes out of its way not to disturb or to elicit emotional engagement other than at the level of warm, soft-focus empathy or clear-cut moral disagreement. There were probably fewer violent deaths in Violence than there are in Mr and Mrs Smith, but they operate at a whole new level of meaning. This is what Pulp Fiction could have been if it had had a brain instead of style. (It occurs to me now, in fact, that Tarantino basically has the same problem as our cinema of idiots - his infantile belief that violence is funny is about an immature inability to cope with it).
The curse of academia is to be always at analysis. Not content with deconstructing audience responses, I also found myself doing a very annoyed reading of the 5 minutes or so of swimsuit competition to which we were subjected during the ads. (Feminist rage has caused me to blank on the actual excuse for the display - I think it may have been a camera brand). Beautiful Mauritius beaches, filled with wet, skinny 18-year-olds in skimpy beachwear who pout, toss their heads and give the come-on to the camera, over a pumping soundtrack that insists "I like the way you move." Yay, lots of beautiful, willing female bodies on display to the male gaze; I thought advertising had become a little more ironic about that kind of objectification, at least. Clearly not. I also found myself wondering how a female viewer is supposed to respond to the images, given that my analytic annoyance is probably non-standard. Are we meant to feel inadequate? excluded? is that vacuous body-fetishism supposed to be an ideal? Either way, the models are clearly not addressing me. Is it the assumption that only men buy cameras?
muttermutterpatriarchymutter. I'm going to wander off now and try out a new killer chocolate brownie recipe, for unleashing on an unsuspecting jo&stv, who are very busy with shop preparations and in need of blood sugar and cosseting. There will be no comments about maternal instinct, women's place being in the home, or suchlike, thankyew very much.
