Thursday, June 29th, 2006
Peter Licht – Lieder vom Ende des Kapitalismus (1)
I am not sure how this album will go over for somebody who does not understand the lyrics, as to me much of the appeal of Licht’s music rests in the relationship between the clash of childish naivete and intellectualism in his words and the innocent music he chooses to sing them to. I am also not sure how the lyrics would work on their own, I suspect they’d be shallow novelty poetry, but the combination is just delicious. If you know German, or intend to learn it, give this a spin.
I came across this book on one of the shelving carts in the main UC Berkeley library while searching for a completely different one that had gone missing (and sadly hasn’t been located since). Its author, briefness and subject matter immediately commanded my attention, and after having read it, I’m happy I stumbled upon it. This brief treatment of Hegel’s work is a small miracle, capturing his theory of history, dialectics and the master/slave dichotomy rising from his theory of Selbstbewusstsein, and in turn giving rise later to Marx’ alienated labor. A wonderful introduction, and a solid argument for libraries where books are accessible rather than being ordered from closed stacks through a catalogue.
The puzzle, it seems to me, is not how to find out about the multiple ways the current setup of commerce and power is defective, producing forces that can not help but be evil. Rather, it’s how to turn this realization into smething that has practical consequences, and not being forced into quiet resignation, because the mechanisms are too far removed from our daily life for them to be able to lie within our sphere of influence. The great thing, then, about movies like this one, is that in all it’s complexity and intricateness – and I didn’t find it remotely as hard to follow the plot as all the reviewers were whining, by the way. Sure, you miss some details, but the main pieces are in plain view – it creates the feeling that everything is connected, providing the unlikely hope that stems from the fact that even what we lowly watchers of movies do in our lives will make a difference, shifting the distribution of power.
Watching movies about the holocaust, even – or especially – ones that are as well made as this one, is exhausting and disturbing, and I’m not entirely sure why I keep doing it again and again. Partly it’s the general feeling that an evil forgotten is one likely to be repeated, but there also is the irrational, yet very compelling obligation to understand the monstrosity which seems to stem from my being a member of the culture that committed this singular crime. These matters aside, this particular documentary, drawn from material collected for Spielberg’s Visual History Foundation, is masterfully composed and edited, and should be seen by many, including you.
Everyone’s favorite drama of swear and cuss is entering its third season, and judging from the opening episode, it’s going to be great. I have a hard time nailing down just exactly how they do it, but every moment of Deadwood’s reenacted history seems to be a goddam fucking delight. Partly, I think, this is due to the subtlety of plot and dialogue, that often lets you understand something said or done only much later, without making a fuss about such a resolution, as minor scripts might. And to a large part it’s the miraculous cast, Ian McShane’s Al Swearengen above all that lift this onto a plane all its own. Too bad the cokesnorting cocksuckers over at HBO cancelled the concluding fourth season and replaced it with a compromise. It’s a fucking disgrace. But for the time being, let’s enjoy season three, shall we?
Trondheim’s marvellous style, applied to a quirky story of alien mishaps, told in hardly decodable symbol language and asynchronously. The result is a delightfully trippy little comic book. An interesting side note concerns the preface, which seems to have been written specifically for the american edition (which I assume is otherwise identical to the french edition, unless there are different kinds of unintelligible geometric symbols in the two cultures) and mentions a camping trip of Trondheim’s into the Catskills. Merely translation of ideas rather than words, or an attempt to conceal the European original of the work for sales’ sake? 
A powerful meditation on innocence lost and the mixed blessings of civilization and progress, this is essential Malick. Of course that also means a healthy dose of pathos and a certain slowness of plot, but when so beautifully shot and arranged, who would want to bicker. I have not seen the story of Pocahontas told any other way before, and I don’t think I shall.
I enjoy watching movies with advertised surprise endings, not attempting to guess the twist beforehand so that it can have maximum impact. Here, I vaguely suspected the ending about halfway through, enough to take away the bottomless feeling I distinctly remember from having in The Sixth Sense, which is too bad. That doesn’t say anything bad about the movie, and I just mention it to justify my not talking at all about the plot of Oldboy. I cherish surprises, and so should you. Besides, if you want to be spoiled, there are plenty of places online for that.
The romantic mood and intimate, at times claustrophobic, cinematography, of this compelling masterpiece pull you in closely, and make you experience the melancholy mood and longing of the main characters first hand, for an almost dizzyingly intense experience. The end left me scratching my head a bit, with especially the disconnected footage of De Gaulle suggesting that I maybe missed a whole level of allegory to the plot, but then again, maybe not. It matters little either way.
Sometimes one opens a book, or reads a first line, and immediately it’s clear that the thoughts and concepts that went into the work were sorely missing from the world, yet nobody had realized it before. Such is the case with this gem of philosophical reasoning. An essay on the essence of bullshit, and an attempt to explain its apparently increasing dominance of today’s communication, this work should be the basis for a much more thorough study of the phenomenon. The exhilarating delight and sheer fun of reading a serious deliberation on the issue must not distract from the fact that this is not satire, nor is it humorous, except insofar as it is a surprising and complex study of a phenomenon commonly thought to be not worthy of such study. To be sure, this combination of surprise and incongruency of means and perceived complexity of the subject are what makes the first reading such a pleasure, and look superficially like a satire of moral philosophy. But to stop at that level would be to mistake the work for its subject, and to miss the chance to develop the tools to attack the toxic prevalence of bullshit in all the public spheres of communication.