final project

So, I’m thinking of doing a profile of Stephen Colbert. I think he’s one of the most interesting people in the media circuit today, because of his multiple personalities, the fact that he’s probably the best and most pure satirist since Mark Twain, and just how much fun he seems to have doing what he does. With him he carries a lot of commentary on both sides of the political spectrum. There are those that think he’s serious about being a Bill O’Reilly follower and their general density, and those that love him for his satire, and their general cynicism. By virtue of his popularity, and mockery of almost everything (including his popularity), he says something about us as a nation, he almost asks everybody why we find him entertaining.
I’m planning to use excerpts from his show, there’s an interview with him and Jon Stewart in an issue of Rolling Stone. Also I’ll have to include a brief bio on him, something I can probably find online. I know Stephen T. Colbert is making statements about qualities of our culture, obviously I am not completely aware of it yet, but I plan to find out, after all, I’m part of his Facebook group.

Oscar's 80th

Last night’s annual ceremony of self-indulgence and falsity was much smaller and not surprisingly, much less indulgent than usual. From host Jon Stewart’s relatively low-key presentation, to the tame acceptors, twice highlighted by Ethan Coen’s monotone, “Thank you,” it was a calm night.
Academy Award ceremonies of the past have showered viewers with glitter and glamour, letting millions revel in the glow of the tearful winners thanking all of the other famous people as well as all of us out here. In contrast, this year had most of the stars staring back at us blankly, wary of the uneasiness of an industry returned from chaos to congratulate itself.
Jon Stewart’s eight days of preparation delivered us some good one-liners that have been missing from his show as of late, but again his presentation didn’t meet the standards set by his predecessors or even himself of last year, in terms of production values anyway. The presenters were tranquil yet we were not left without a malicious chuckle from the bespectacled Jack Nicholson during his scripted presenters speech. Also, particular joy came from presenters Dame Judi Dench and Ms. Halle Berry played by Seth Rogen and Jonah Hill respectively, though a quarrel ensued over who would don Ms. Berry’s caricature and all its implications.
The awards also gave few surprises, as most of the awards were up in the air, with the exceptions of Javier Bardem, Daniel Day-Lewis, and Ratatouille, who were expected walkers of the red carpet. These three were as stoic and emotionless as the rest of the nominees, the only tangible elation exuding from winners Diablo Cody, Glen Hansard, Marketa Irglova, and Marion Cotillard. Ms. Irglova was also briefly denied an acceptance speech by those notoriously evil people in the music booth, until Jon Stewart invited her back onstage.
The multiple uncertainties in many categories, including Best Picture added for some excitement, and the Coen’s first Oscar of direction is good to see. But, their anticlimactic acceptance speeches showed a side of the ceremony that’s not necessarily bad, just not what we’re used to.
Let’s face it, we turn to the Academy Awards for four or five hours on a random Sunday once a year for the shock and awe that makes Hollywood so interesting from a distance. Cher wearing a sea urchin for example, or Jack Nicholson on drugs (although who’s to say he was any different this year?) But, some toning down in the self-congratulatory aspect might not be such a bad change.
When you take away the curtains and the stage and the dresses and the jewelry, you’re left with a bunch of people patting each other on the back for various, unpredictable, often infuriating reasons. A good first effort Oscar for Kevin Costner for Dances with Wolves, a sorry its been so long Oscar for Scorsese and for the Coens, and a many of us refuse to see Brokeback Mountain Oscar for Crash. Essentially, these awards mean very little, and cannot be trusted to correctly divine which product or person stands out from their peers. But they’re fun for their extravagance, and this year incorporated some much needed humility.

Orwellian Language

George Orwell has given us much insight into political structures. Like a tour guide, he has illustrated for us the origins and failings of old edifices like totalitarianism and fascism. And now we come to the language section, which is either a creepily accurate forecast, or a prescription for an already ailing structure.
Basically, George Orwell felt that the English language was becoming spineless, vague, pretentious, and lazy. He states that linguistic tendencies popularized by traditional political language, often intended to be vague and circumlocutory, has started to seep into academic, critical, and even everyday language and writing. He thought, half a century ago, that writers weren’t bothering to think and state their claim blatantly. He criticizes modern language and culture for being shallow and increasingly meaningless, but he also gives good advice for critics.
Orwell addresses issues of poor prose, uninteresting imagery, and generally mindless writing. He even provides a list of basic rules to follow on page one hundred seventy. If a writer adheres to the rules, his writing will become more illustrative, it will include less mindless, cliché phrases, and it will be more stimulating and thought provoking for the reader. In general, if the piece doesn’t sound like this one, then you are golden.

A Local Show

“I swear, if you existed, I’d divorce you,” is one of the many lines Ms. Martie Groat Philpot sneers at Richard Philpot in the Whole Art production of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? This play, of course, is full of marital sneers, and could act as the field guide to people in need of counseling, and it is executed rather well.
The stage is set in the middle of the room, with the audience surrounding the actors completely. The liquor cabinet is prominently displayed as it’s contents are the vehicle for many a vociferous accusation and tearful revelation. The actors constantly revisit the numerous bottles to revitalize their palette with venom, and refill their hearts with regret.
This is were the leads shine, granted this is a community showing, but the leads are seasoned actors, and even the secondary characters are Whole Art veterans. And the Philpots bring the characters of Martha and George to life nicely. Martha stands hunched, pacing like a cat, with her neck outstretched, so as to more forcefully expose George’s failings to her guests through a gravelly, nicotine-lined windpipe. George quivers behind his spectacles in the beginning, but standing upright and dangerous, like an active volcano later, reinforced by his impressive blood-alcohol content.
Their performances, adequate at the very worst, makes the awkward performances of the secondary characters much more noticeable. Carol Zombro often overplays her drunkenness, and attempts to make each line essential to the story. Even when she wasn’t interacting with the characters, the audience could hear her intoxicated sighing from the couch on which she was plopped like a rag doll.
Her husband, portrayed by Trevor M. Maher, also suffers from over-emphasis and over-acting in general. His lines are shouted through a perpetual grimace, to the point that the audience feels even more uncomfortable than they should. This effect is augmented during the few moments in which Mr. Maher attempts to smoke cigarettes, making one fantasize about a cigarette training camp for actors playing characters that smoke.
Blackened lungs aside, the production was not without other hiccups. There were dropped lines, awkward pauses, and the characters occasionally made the audience unsure when to laugh. However it was undeniably directed with passion. We are to focus on the torment and instability of married life, on the regrets and on the uncertainties that can drive people insane. Yet the unwavering focus on marriage detracts from the wider scope of the original, which noted factors of frustration outside of marital life.
In many ways, this adaptation of a classic is the epitome of independent showings. It had much of the brilliance of the original, while still managing to miss some of the point. That coupled with strong performances, and weak ones, an intimate set placement, and some elementary school acting mistakes make this production embody what we love and hate about local theatre. Leisurely, and not overly serious, while still letting the audience feel like they got their money’s worth.

In Treatment, half an hour daily

In Treatment is a new HBO series following the network’s proud tradition of low-energy drama in the psychotherapist’s office. The show delves into the psyche of various characters including that of the main character, Paul, played by Gabriel Byrne. All players are experiencing especially traumatic events in their lifetime including, but not limited to, the accidental bombing of an Iraqi school, relationship troubles, and dream shattering debilitation. All of Paul’s patients are looking for answers in him he can’t find himself, and it all should make for some very interesting drama, however it doesn’t fully succeed.
The show’s appeal rests with its characters, the ways in which they act out and vocalize their frustrations and issues in Paul’s office are is the wheels of the series. The actors do a good job; Gabriel Byrne has worked his non-judgmental, analyst’s stare to a science, and others like Melissa George and Josh Charles stand out as particularly troubled shrinkees. The tone is constant, and its directed paying particular attention to an overall theme of inner turmoil. One scene involves him seeing his old work associate, Dianne Weist, for a professional opinion, and there is such palpable tension based on some unknown past event, that I felt like it was Clint and Eli Wallach staring each other down. The show is well-written and appropriately deep and revealing, sort of ignoring the inarticulateness and awkwardness inherent in relating your innermost difficulties to a complete stranger. And, perhaps it is over-indulging in long-winded explanations of inner feelings, but that’s the focus. And that’s the problem.
The thing that has made movies, shows, and books about psychoanalysis so engaging is that they were like modern day detective stories. The viewer would be in there with the analyst, searching for the one event in which Tony Soprano witnessed his father beat somebody mercilessly to explain why he is how he is today. Freudian sleuthing has even been merged with real detective stories in popular culture. Books like The Alienist and Silence of the Lambs will psychologically profile the killer in order to reveal his identity. Psychology has added a whole new layer to the who-done-it genre, not just the who and how, but why? Besides that indulgence by certain media, the profession has gotten very little love from our culture, it is constantly mocked and blamed for instigating the blame-the-mother-first movement. And the players in the show seem to follow our disdain for psychotherapy in that they aren’t seeking betterment, but someone to make up their mind for them. They want to know whether or not they should get an abortion, or whether or not they’re still worth something, and that’s ultimately what he seeks in treatment. Its treacherous ground right now, but it could culminate in a larger critique, and a more engaging one. But for now, the show’s gimmicky formula serves to garner non-viewer intrigue; the show itself is serving to remind us of why we don’t like the idea of therapy in the first place.

Stephen Holden reviews The Witnesses

Stephen Holden, twenty-year veteran of The New York Times and Yale graduate, reviewed The Witnesses a French film examining human sexuality and relationships under pressure. Stephen Holden was in the music industry for years before he joined the Times, as a staff writer and talent scout for RCA records. He and others one a Grammy in 1986 for best album notes. He became a culture staff member of the Times in 1988 after finishing a stint at Rolling Stone as a music critic. He wrote strictly about music until the mid-1990s when he decided to take on theater in film and is now a first-string movie critic at the Times. A by the books critic, he sometimes sacrifices voice for clarity and authority. The reader knows when he likes something, and if he does its probably worth checking out. This particular film he enjoys, he states plainly, because of its lightheartedness without ignoring the heavier issues implicit in the films sexual themes. However he does explain to the reader that the viewer might require certain “psychological armor.” Its undeniable that Holden is a good fluid writer, though his film reviews might be a little voiceless, he makes his opinion known early on, proves it, and moves on.

Interpreting Wilde

In the form of a discussion one might overhear at a haughty London café Mr. Wilde endeavors to depict the critic as an informed middleman between artist and public, and attempts to define art itself. As a member of the aesthetic movement and thus a firm believer in the phrase ‘art for art’s sake’ he lifts art of any real obligations, except to be deemed artistic. And all the moral and physical requirements that he believes art need not follow, he places on critics. Gilbert, a man in this dialogue probably meant to embody Wilde himself, explains to his less enlightened friend Ernest that it is the critics’ responsibility to filter what he is taking in through his screen of experiences and knowledge, and judges the resulting emotions or realizations. If what he gains from the exhibition is profound or unoriginal or pleasing in anyway, it is his or her duty to have other people experience it as well. That means that art just has to be reality with a sprinkling of magic, as Wilde says. “The best thing one can say about modern creative art is that it is just a little less vulgar than reality.” And to be honest, I don’t have the authority to agree or disagree.

Pauline Kael

There have been critics in all media that have dominated their field. They’ve gained trust and admiration and they’ve led legions of readers to experience the art that they loved. But few were as influential as Pauline Kael, who was as deeply loved and vehemently reviled as anybody in the cinematic community. Loved for her championing of good movies that she felt needed more attention, hated for viciously panning movies that many loved like Sound of Music and American Beauty. Yet her fame wasn’t a result of her opinions alone, rather her entertaining and exuberant style of writing. In many ways, Kael was at the forefront of sensationalist reviewing.
No matter what the review, Kael wrote in extremes. If she didn’t like a movie she let people know, often taking it particularly hard on actors, even as far as to mock their physical features (making particular note of Tom Cruise’s height, and deeming Lily Tomlin a ‘wistful pony’). Yet when she loved a movie, she put her heart into it, she wanted other people to feel what she felt, the lightheartedness of Last Tango in Paris, the heartache and triumph of My Left Foot. Though when she didn’t really pan or rave about a movie, there was still a spark in her writing because she would criticize other things related to the movie. She didn’t mind Hiroshima, Mon Amour, the little she said about it in her article was not bad, instead she constructed the main thesis of her article on a critique of the “liberal intellectuals” that were raving about this movie only because, “[They] find wish fulfillment in the form of cheap and easy congratulation on their sensitivities and their liberalism.” She would outright thumb her nose at the very type of person she was working for at the New Yorker. And whether or not it was a result of the taught relationship with the editor that everybody has, it’s still a joy to read.
Not to say that her career didn’t have a downward slope. She said that the movies had lost touch with the mass audience that she had so long revered, and who’s culture she had reveled in for the extent of her career. She felt that films were no longer uplifting movies like Goodfellas and American Beauty made the mass audience feel bad about us as a culture and she felt that wasn’t what the people wanted. So, she got tired of writing pans, (and if you right pans like hers about movies that were generally liked including Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, you’d be exhauseted too) and on a whim decided to quit The New Yorker. Still called all sorts of names after her death, from brilliant to unaware of the art form she was supposed to be an authority on, it is maintained by some that her grammar and choice of words were to excite us and connect us to the movie, and when it comes down to it, that’s what criticism should be about.