Saturday, August 30, 2003
On Tragedy
At a meta-level, tragedy is optimistic because it enriches its audience by helping it understand a philosophical principle essential to man's well-being. The events leading up to a tragic death tend to call to attention one's own tragic makings, growing the audience's self-awareness and giving it hope that such pitfalls as beset by the fictional character may be avoided in his own life. With the final act of death upping the ante, the lesson is seared into the soul of the audience, increasing the odds that that lesson will actually change his life.
A tragedy may appear outwardly cynical or dismal - consider the deaths of Romeo & Juliet, Oedipus, or Lester Burnham (American Beauty) - but underlying each instance of death is a sense of perfect closure - of death being the best possible exit of the character from the stage, a high-stakes demonstration of a philosophical principle at work in a concrete, believable scenario.
In Romeo and Juliet, death is self-inflicted out of despair at the loss of love. That Romeo and Juliet consider their mutual love so essential to their valuation of existence is the message: that a life without love is not a life worth living. And what's not to find uplifting in such an exaltation of what is arguably man's greatest principle or emotion?
Oedipus suffers under the hands of the Gods who punish him for his hubris. Justice levels even the greatest of kings, causing him to sleep with his mother and tear out his own eyes. That we are all held to the same standards of morality and decency, no matter how rich or beautiful or powerful, makes us feel equal, and therefore more connected, to one another.
Lester Burnham commits the sin of not treating his own life with the same respect with which God granted it. But he eventually wakes up and realizes that he's been squandering it, prostituting it to the greed of others. He's sleep-walked through his marriage (an institution of love, that sacred human and spiritual principle exalted in Romeo and Juliet) and the miracle of creation of his own daughter. He realizes that he's not ready to meet his maker, that he hasn't expressed adequate gratitude for "every little stupid moment of my life" and then proceeds to prepare for death, which he naturally meets with at movie's end, immortalizing that perfect moment in which he basks in his own realization of living in the 'ongoing wow' of existence.
So sad endings are often always happy on some higher level than their surface action might otherwise suggest. I think the big difference is that death is simply just an artistically superior ending in the case of high-stakes philosophical principles, while a party or two people getting together may serve to close smaller or more subtle ideas more appropriately.
Above this level, of course, is that the concept of tragedy is itself optimistic: that the human lot can be improved through artistic endeavor. That we allow ourselves to affect and be affected by the joys and despair of our fellow man by creating and experiencing art. And that, ultimately, we are a beautiful species, capable of as much good and excellence as we are of the cheap, amoral and stupid behavior that tragedy places under the magnifying glass.
posted 1:42 AM | 0 comments
Thursday, August 28, 2003
Thurber on Ross
When you first met him you couldn't believe he was the editor of The New Yorker and afterwards you couldn't believe that anyone else could have been. The main thing he was interested in was clarity ... he was a purist and perfectionist and it had a tremendous effect on all of us: it kept us from being sloppy. When I first met him he asked me if I knew English. I thought he meant French or a foreign language. But he repeated, "Do you know English?" When I said I did he replied, "Goddamn it, nobody knows English." As Andy White mentioned in his obituary, Ross approached the English sentence as though it was an enemy, something that was going to throw him. He used to fuss for an hour over a comma. He'd call me in for lengthy discussions about the Thurber colon. And as for poetic license, he'd say, "Damn any license to get things wrong."
- James Thurber on New Yorker founding editor Harold Ross, as interviewed by George Plimpton and Max Steele in the Fall 1955 issue of The Paris Review
Impeach Remnick! Bring Ross back from the dead!
posted 2:47 AM | 0 comments
Sunday, August 24, 2003
Songs For Driving at Night
Actually I'm just posting one song; the others are mere sketches at this point and will only appear here pending further development. Enjoy and let me know what you think.
Long, Dark Highway (mp3 format)
posted 11:50 PM | 0 comments
Sunday, August 17, 2003
Exchange at Indie Record Store
Salesperson (on noticing T-shirt): Austin, Texas, huh?
Me: Austin is not Texas.
SP: Really.
Me: Well, I guess it is, but it's kinda like the West Berlin of Texas
SP: (Laughs)
Me: Or some say the San Francisco of the South
SP: (Still laughing)
Me: But without the earthquakes.
SP: (Still laughing)
Me: Or the outrageously high rents.
SP: That Brian Eno album is awesome.
Me: I know. I bought the LP in high school.
SP: Cool.
Me: Yeah.
SP: (handing bag to me) West Berlin of Texas. Gotta remember that one.
posted 10:48 PM | 0 comments
Ouch
Here's what not to do the night before conducting an interview with a cinematographer: drop a bulletproof Grace 101 mic preamp on your large toe, causing it to turn purple and throb acutely, preventing you from sleeping until you go the emergency room at 4:30 AM to have the nail pierced with a hot needle to relieve the pressure.
Don't do that.
posted 10:10 PM | 0 comments
Sunday, August 10, 2003
nyc
I was in New York a few weeks ago visiting friends and in the little time I had to myself, took to the streets with my camera in order to bring this photo essay to you.
For those of you willing to entertain even more narcissistic behavior, an alternate version containing my own, personal narrative as the audio track is in the works.
posted 10:32 PM | 0 comments
