"...figurative, cartoonish idiom may be the most powerful means of representing modern atrocity."
I enjoyed Fineman's insights into Botero's work in the slideshow, but this last sentence has to be a joke, right? I have read it over a number of times, and it makes absolutely no sense to me. I respect what Botero is trying to with his paintings, but nothing can more powerfully represent the atrocities of Abu Ghraib than the actual photos of the atrocities Abu Ghraib . Do you guys remember when they came out? It was a one of the finest examples of truth being stranger than fiction. No painting, poem, movie, song, etc. of what happened can be more powerful than showing what actually happened.
The real pictures are so disturbing that looking at them (or even recalling them years later) makes me sick to stomach. They're so repulsive that most people do not want to look at them. Maybe Botero's pudgy, cartoonish figures make the pictures easier to look at. You can study them and take time to comtemplate what happened. This might be beneficial, but there are some things that we run the risk of being too intellectual about.
I would challenge anyone to look at any of the real photos for more than 5 or 6 seconds without looking away. They are so repulsive that you instantly want to block them out. In this way, they do not lead you to meditate on the nature of evil the way one of Botero's paintings might, but aren't there some things that do not need to be meditated upon? Aren't some things so clearly evil and amoral that in snap we can form an opinion on the topic? This is the way the Abu Ghraib photos are to me.
Certainly, I am not one for typically making rash judgments, but in this case it applies. We are all English majors. We like to engage our brains and think philosophically, but sometimes, you have to trust your gut. To quote Woody Allen, "The brain is the most overrated of all organs...Everything really valuable has to enter you through a different opening, if you'll forgive the disgusting imagery."
An overload of stimulus continually at our fingertips has given us a tendency to over-intellectualize. How else could someone think "...figurative, cartoonish idiom may be the most powerful means of representing modern atrocity"?
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Friday, September 24, 2010
Blog Post #3
I was flipping through The Atlantic on Wednesday. There was an article with the sub-heading “The Case Against Jonathan Franzen.” I have never read any of Franzen’s books, but I saw him on the cover of Time recently. I didn’t read the article about him, but I did see his picture with the caption “Great American Novelist.” Based on those three words alone, none of which were written by Franzen, I decided to like this Jonathan Franzen character. Who could have a case against him? I decided to read the article.
After a few paragraphs I decided it was really pointless to read a review of a book that I have never read by an author I really knew nothing about. But I scanned ahead a few paragraphs and found something interesting. Something that relates to class. Something about…Don DeLillo.
But if Freedom (Franzen’s new book) is middlebrow, it is so in the sacrosanct Don DeLillo tradition, which our critical establishment considers central to literature today. The apparent logic is that the novel can lure Americans away from their media and entertainment buffet only by becoming more “social,” broader in scope, more up-to-date in focus. This may be the reason we get such boring characters. Instead of portraying an interesting individual or two, and trusting in realism to embed their story naturally in contemporary life, the Social Writer thinks of all the relevant issues he has to stuff in, then conceives a family “typical” enough to hold everything together. The more aspects of our society he can fit between the book’s covers, the more ambitious he is considered to be.
Every big fat new effort to “develop” the DeLillo model is thus hailed as important even before it is read, as happened with Franzen’s last novel, The Corrections (2001). No doubt the rave reviews for Freedom will evince the same reluctance to quote from the text that we saw then. Reviewers gave that book maximum points for sweep and sprawl while subtracting none for its slovenly prose, the short-windedness of each of its thousand “themes,” and the failure of the main story line to generate any momentum. (These flaws, too, were in the great DeLillo tradition.)
-From Smaller than Life by B.R. Myers, printed in The Atlantic Oct. 2010
(follow the link here for the full article http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2010/10/smaller-than-life/8212/)
I particularly like the part about critics giving a novel “points for…sprawl.” I think a fair number of the students in our class would subtract points for sprawl. In fact in almost any work of storytelling “sprawl” isn’t something that is desired. No one ever leaves a movie and says, “Wow, that plot really just meandered around. Terrific! Half the characters served no purpose. I only wish there had been a few more meaningless scenes placed between the important ones.”
In truth, though, it is not really fair to compare a novel to a movie. Movies are meant to be viewed in one sitting, and, therefore, cannot sprawl. There’s no time for it. Of course there are exceptions—particularly the movies of P.T. Anderson (Boogie Nights, Magnolia, There Will be Blood) and Robert Altman (Nashville, McCabe and Mrs. Miller, Shortcuts). But, by and large, audiences will not sit through sprawling movies. The stories must be concise and told quickly. Movies have become so interwoven with modern society that this very plot/action based storytelling has become the norm. I think Myers strikes this nail on the head when he writes, “the novel can lure Americans away from the entertainment buffet by becoming…broader in scope.”
Myers views this as a negative though, thinking that modern novelists should still be able to tell exciting stories with exciting characters. But, with all apologies to hardcore literature fans, movies will always be more exciting, at least to the general public. And for modern novelists to be able to make a living, they must appeal to the general public. Franzen and DeLillo have keyed in on this sprawling style because it something that is more effective in literature than movies or TV. It is a way for them to stand out from the “entertainment buffet.” Don’t we all want to stand out? Isn’t that something a writer must do to make a living? Like B.R. Myers writing a negative review of Franzen when all the others have been positive?
After a few paragraphs I decided it was really pointless to read a review of a book that I have never read by an author I really knew nothing about. But I scanned ahead a few paragraphs and found something interesting. Something that relates to class. Something about…Don DeLillo.
But if Freedom (Franzen’s new book) is middlebrow, it is so in the sacrosanct Don DeLillo tradition, which our critical establishment considers central to literature today. The apparent logic is that the novel can lure Americans away from their media and entertainment buffet only by becoming more “social,” broader in scope, more up-to-date in focus. This may be the reason we get such boring characters. Instead of portraying an interesting individual or two, and trusting in realism to embed their story naturally in contemporary life, the Social Writer thinks of all the relevant issues he has to stuff in, then conceives a family “typical” enough to hold everything together. The more aspects of our society he can fit between the book’s covers, the more ambitious he is considered to be.
Every big fat new effort to “develop” the DeLillo model is thus hailed as important even before it is read, as happened with Franzen’s last novel, The Corrections (2001). No doubt the rave reviews for Freedom will evince the same reluctance to quote from the text that we saw then. Reviewers gave that book maximum points for sweep and sprawl while subtracting none for its slovenly prose, the short-windedness of each of its thousand “themes,” and the failure of the main story line to generate any momentum. (These flaws, too, were in the great DeLillo tradition.)
-From Smaller than Life by B.R. Myers, printed in The Atlantic Oct. 2010
(follow the link here for the full article http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2010/10/smaller-than-life/8212/)
I particularly like the part about critics giving a novel “points for…sprawl.” I think a fair number of the students in our class would subtract points for sprawl. In fact in almost any work of storytelling “sprawl” isn’t something that is desired. No one ever leaves a movie and says, “Wow, that plot really just meandered around. Terrific! Half the characters served no purpose. I only wish there had been a few more meaningless scenes placed between the important ones.”
In truth, though, it is not really fair to compare a novel to a movie. Movies are meant to be viewed in one sitting, and, therefore, cannot sprawl. There’s no time for it. Of course there are exceptions—particularly the movies of P.T. Anderson (Boogie Nights, Magnolia, There Will be Blood) and Robert Altman (Nashville, McCabe and Mrs. Miller, Shortcuts). But, by and large, audiences will not sit through sprawling movies. The stories must be concise and told quickly. Movies have become so interwoven with modern society that this very plot/action based storytelling has become the norm. I think Myers strikes this nail on the head when he writes, “the novel can lure Americans away from the entertainment buffet by becoming…broader in scope.”
Myers views this as a negative though, thinking that modern novelists should still be able to tell exciting stories with exciting characters. But, with all apologies to hardcore literature fans, movies will always be more exciting, at least to the general public. And for modern novelists to be able to make a living, they must appeal to the general public. Franzen and DeLillo have keyed in on this sprawling style because it something that is more effective in literature than movies or TV. It is a way for them to stand out from the “entertainment buffet.” Don’t we all want to stand out? Isn’t that something a writer must do to make a living? Like B.R. Myers writing a negative review of Franzen when all the others have been positive?
Thursday, September 16, 2010
The Real Blog #2: "The Boondocks"
We talked in class today about whether some things are off limits and can't be joked about. I think there are some things that are not appropriate to joke about, but that has more to do with the concept of a joke and does not mean things cannot be viewed humorously. Humor is a great coping mechanism and there are some people who have weird, often humorous ways of seeing the world. Who are we to say these people cannot express their viewpoints. A joke I see as a construction or words aimed at provoking laughter. It may not be right to sit and try to think of ways to make a tragic event funny, but we also can't deny that even in tragedy the opportunity for humor exists. When Courtney mentioned in class today that September 11 was the first time more news was viewed on the internet than porn, it reminded me of something I hear the comedian Louis CK say. He lives in New York and after the towers fell he questioned how long is it appropriate to wait before he can masturbate again. That's funny. It's not a joke made at anyone's expense, though I'm sure it offended many people. But it's an honest question that the man had. So my opinion on the matter is that if the humor is coming from a place of truth, anything is acceptable.
And, yes, this all relates to the Boondocks. Hurricane Katrina is real event. People were forced to take in family members they did not want to have. To say that everyone was happy to help would be a lie. Many people, like Granddad, helped begrudgingly. It takes a lot of courage to admit this and I think the people that have the courage to be completely honest should be applauded not vilified. But a lot of these bad thoughts if just explicitly stated would be to off putting for most people to listen to. In this way humor is essential to dealing with the difficulties of real life. Now, I would like to strengthen the assertion that I begin this piece with: not only is humor acceptable way to cope with tragedy, it is essential. I think we saw this in "1 Dead in Attic" and in "The Boondocks."
And, yes, this all relates to the Boondocks. Hurricane Katrina is real event. People were forced to take in family members they did not want to have. To say that everyone was happy to help would be a lie. Many people, like Granddad, helped begrudgingly. It takes a lot of courage to admit this and I think the people that have the courage to be completely honest should be applauded not vilified. But a lot of these bad thoughts if just explicitly stated would be to off putting for most people to listen to. In this way humor is essential to dealing with the difficulties of real life. Now, I would like to strengthen the assertion that I begin this piece with: not only is humor acceptable way to cope with tragedy, it is essential. I think we saw this in "1 Dead in Attic" and in "The Boondocks."
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Blog Post #2 - "1 Dead in Attic"
The two passages I will be comparing are The Elephant Men (48) and Shooting the Rock (229). Chronologically, The Elephant Men was written first. It concerns Rose’s neighborhood in the weeks just after Katrina. The men have started to come back to the city to clean and salvage what still remains of their possessions. These “displaced dads” (48) return without their families due to concerns the city will not be safe for their children. Shooting the Rock was written about ten months after The Elephant Men. Children have now returned to the city. In the article, Rose describes an afternoon of shooting hoops with two boys in a rundown park. He is discouraged about how “kids are pretty much the last consideration in just about every public policy decision around here” (230).
The connection I see between these two articles is that of a father wanting to provide for his children. In The Elephant Men, all the fathers have returned without their families in order to make sure everything is safe and that their family will have some kind of home to return to. In Shooting the Rock, Rose tells the young boys, “You are just like my kids” (232). He feels responsible for providing these children, as well as his own, with some semblance of a normal childhood during a very difficult time. He is dismayed that the city chose to build the emergency housing on the playgrounds instead of around them which would have allowed them “to serve as de facto community centers (allowing) places to play other than debris-strewn streets and sidewalks filled with rotting garbage, roofing nails and rats.” (230).
Every father wants to be able to provide for his children. In the days and months after Katrina the fathers of New Orleans had to go to extreme lengths to do this, and Rose seems discouraged that the local and national government did not do more to help these elephant men and their families.
The connection I see between these two articles is that of a father wanting to provide for his children. In The Elephant Men, all the fathers have returned without their families in order to make sure everything is safe and that their family will have some kind of home to return to. In Shooting the Rock, Rose tells the young boys, “You are just like my kids” (232). He feels responsible for providing these children, as well as his own, with some semblance of a normal childhood during a very difficult time. He is dismayed that the city chose to build the emergency housing on the playgrounds instead of around them which would have allowed them “to serve as de facto community centers (allowing) places to play other than debris-strewn streets and sidewalks filled with rotting garbage, roofing nails and rats.” (230).
Every father wants to be able to provide for his children. In the days and months after Katrina the fathers of New Orleans had to go to extreme lengths to do this, and Rose seems discouraged that the local and national government did not do more to help these elephant men and their families.
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