Tuesday, December 2, 2014

November Reads

Musashi: The Way of the Samurai by Eiji Yoshikawa
Blackout by Connie Willis

and material from the following collections:
Future Lovecraft ed. Silvia Moreno-Garcia and Paula R. Stiles
Historical Lovecraft ed. Silvia Moreno-Garcia and Paula R. Stiles
Reach for Infinity ed. Jonathan Strahan
New Cthulhu: The Recent Weird ed. Paula Guran

I didn't read the entirety of these collections, but select material. I find myself fascinated by the form of the short story currently. I'll probably read the rest of these over the next month, plus a couple other collections I have acquired.

Connie Willis's novel was excellent, despite some plot machinations that frustrated me (how could time travelers be so ignorant about the non-linear capabilities of time travel?) and some background classism that irritated me. I quite liked the novel, and started reading All Clear almost immediately afterwards.

The Yoshikawa is the first paperback in a series of 5 that comprise an abridgment of his historical novel about the greatest swordsman in Japanese history. The first volume flew by for me. I was struck by how timeless were the structure and prose. The story seemed to straddle the line between folklore narrative and exciting war story. I loved it, to be honest.

Saturday, November 1, 2014

October Reads

The Paying Guests by Sarah Waters
The Books of Blood vol 1 by Clive Barker

A very light month due to illness and a deluge of watching films. Hopefully next month bodes better.

Wednesday, October 1, 2014

September Reads

A Safe Girl to Love by Casey Plett
The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver
An Untamed State by Roxane Gay
The Twelve Tribes of Hattie by Ayana Mathis
The Echoing Grove by Rosamund Lehmann
How to be both by Ali Smith
At Break of Day by Elizabeth Speller

Clever. That's one word to describe Ali Smith, and in the spirit of Smith, I should mention that "clever" comes from the Middle English for "quick to catch hold," and the sound probably comes from the Dutch word meaning "cleave," as in to split in half. Certainly then, "clever" is a word that aptly describes Smith's new book, How to be both, of two halves. As per usual, I love Smith's work. She understands the intricacies of language, knows how to twist, pull, and stretch words while maintaining a beautiful emotional connection between characters and form.

At Break of Day was okay. Nothing particularly noteworthy. The Poisonwood Bible was much better than I had been expecting. Lehmann's novel was a bit too introspective to be entirely successful at its premise, but at least Lehmann's control of language and metaphor is masterful. The Twelve Tribes of Hattie had a fun clever structure, but not all of its individual parts were successful. Casey Plett's collection of short stories was great! An Untamed State is a novel I'll never read again, if only because it was far too harrowing.

Sunday, August 31, 2014

August Reads

Clay's Ark by Octavia Butler
Life After Life by Kate Atkinson
A Brief History of Seven Killings by Marlon James
The Good Lord Bird by James McBride
Marcella by Mrs. Humphry Ward

This might seem like a light month of reading, but three of these books were over 500 pages.

Marlon James' gigantic novel was an advance reading copy, one acquired thanks to my new job at a bookstore. The novel is a panoramic view of Jamaica from the 1970s to the 1990s, following a giant cast of drug dealers, crooks, politicians, middle class people, journalists from America. The core plot concerns the attempted assassination of Bob Marley, though he is never named. The subsequent actions ripple outwards from this failed attempt, as the story (in the journalistic sense) expands with scope and focus. What makes the novel so engaging is that James writes it in first person stream of consciousness, with select characters getting their own chapters. Since this is set in Jamaica, most of the novel is written in Jamaican patois. So if you thought Irvine Welsh's Scottish phonetic narration was difficult, this is not the novel for you. I loved this book, despite the long effort it took. The stream of consciousness was mesmerizing and James has a gift for necessary exposition that never feels intrusive or awkward. This was one of the best novels I've read so far this year, and that is saying something incredible.

Atkinson's novel was terrific, yet slightly forgettable. I really liked the premise, and appreciated that the author made no attempt to answer it in some sort of third act revelation. Life After Life is an excellent example of an author really thinking through the implications of their premise. Not only does Atkinson follow through on the logical possibilities of her novel's tantalizing premise, but she also offers some philosophical possibilities. Every time the main character dies, she starts again at birth, with hazy hazy memories of the previous attempt. This allows her to manipulate moments in her life to avoid death. Like a pebble in a pond, these interventions create great changes for her life. Atkinson follows through on these changes with great emotional intelligence. The characters, in their various versions, all come across with excellent economic prose. It's a heartbreaking work that -- thanks to its premise -- covers the first half of the twentieth century from a social, political, and economic perspective, all while grounding the plot in well drawn characters. It's not perfect; there are far too many asides. Still, I quite like it.

Marcella is a Virago Modern Classic, and it is a long Late Victorian novel that features a classic marriage plot. Marcella is a beautiful urban socialist who must return to her family's estate, where she struggles against her upper class position and her desire to help the poor. She meets Raeburn, a fine upstanding young man who is about to run for a parliamentary seat. He is of the landed gentry, and sympathetic to the plight of poor, but mostly unmoved. They quickly get engaged. Marcella then meets Wharton, a young socialist also seeking a government position. He is much more politically astute, and helps Marcella further refine her beliefs. Her worldview is shaken when one of the poor people on Raeburn's land, while poaching, murders a watchman in self-defence. The murderer is sentenced to death, and despite Marcella's passionate entreaties to her future husband, is executed. The novel then picks up a year later, when the engagement has been broken, and Marcella is training to be a nurse. Now she must choose between the headstrong Wharton and the heartbroken Raeburn. Despite its length and old-fashioned narrative, I really enjoyed Marcella. The novel considers its politics thoughtfully, and doesn't traffic in easy answers to complex questions. The protagonist is written quite well, with her beliefs, her emotions, and all the inherent contradictions that follow being carefully rendered in the overwrought but muscular prose of a Victorian novelist. I liked that Marcella was frustrating, hadn't thought through everything, and generally went through a discernible and believable character arc. Modern novelists could learn a lot from how Mrs. Ward constructs and follows through on the development of her characters. Yes, it's old-fashioned and somewhat stuffy, and the lower class characters speak in rather classist patois, but Marcella excels in depicting the emotional journey of a proto-New Woman.

The Good Lord Bird is a work of historical fiction, written in the voice of a young slave who for complicated reasons, must present as a woman in woman's clothing in order to survive. Henry Shackleford (the obviousness of the name is not without merit) is a self-identified coward who pretends to be female in order to avoid death, gunfights, and violence while travelling with John Brown, the real life abolitionist. The novel is very funny, which is refreshing, considering that race in America is usually a dead serious topic. The author uses humour as opposed to didactic pedantry to convey his complex message about race and performance. He recalls Frantz Fanon's concept of masks in his use of costume and hiding. The Good Lord Bird is very readable, as well. McBride's narrator is funny without the feeling of elbows being poked in the reader's ribs all the time. The plot moves rather fast, heading towards John Brown's inevitable downfall at Harpers Ferry (an actual event). McBride's weaving of fact and fiction together is seamless, with fun cameos from Harriet Tubman and Frederick Douglass (both of whom John Brown counted as friends in real life). The only issue with The Good Lord Bird is perhaps the political subtext with Shackleford's cross-dressing. McBride emphasizes a few times that deep down, people are who they are, and performing as another gender is a temporary measure that simply hides the true person, that gender is immutable and essential. This is fairly problematic, politically speaking, but it's not enough to mar the entire experience. I liked it, but I'm not sure if it's worthy of the National Book Award. But who am I to decide such a thing.

Friday, August 1, 2014

July Reads

Every Day by David Levithan
Tell Me Again How a Crush Should Feel by Sara Farizan

A very light reading month because of the end of school. Nothing much to say about either of these books. They were easy reads and were mostly forgettable. I liked them both well enough, but I can't say I'll remember them in a month or so.

Tuesday, July 8, 2014

Transformers: Age of Extinction


It's a common criticism of Hollywood that films are nothing more than advertisements, either for subsequent films in the series, or, more predominantly, for licensed products. It's common knowledge that film studios such as Disney are not in the business of making films, but of making opportunities to sell products. The Transformers films are hyperbolic representations of the criticism of Hollywood's utter soulless capitalist excess. What are the Transformers films but feature length advertisements for toys, predicated on nostalgia for earlier versions of those toys, directed by a filmmaker known primarily for his excess of style and paucity of substance? Each film in the series functions on the same logic that I outlined in a previous essay, one of illusory escalation and increased returns on the initial investment. The Transformers films are the epitome of the reification of nostalgia and capitalism. However, I want to suggest that with the most recent iteration/repetition of the series, that no longer are the Transformers films advertisements for toys, but rather advertisements for late capitalism itself.


I will start with Fredric Jameson's helpful definition of reification from his influential 1979 essay, "Reification and Utopia in Mass Culture":
The theory of reification (here strongly overlaid with Max Weber's analysis of rationalization) describes the way in which under capitalism the older traditional forms of human activity are instrumentally reorganized and "taylorized" analytically fragmented and reconstructed according to various rational models of efficiency and essentially restructured along the lines of a differentiation between means and ends
What is most relevant to this discussion is the phrase, "instrumentally reorganized." Human activities, such as affects, are instrumentally reorganized, ruthlessly by the market into a system of equivalence. Affects such as nostalgia are instrumentalized and restructured for consumption. In the Frankfurt school of thought, this instrumentalization is the hallmark of the culture industry, in which culture, especially pop culture, is a tool of distraction, keeping the masses complacent and ignorant of the machinations of greater powers. Transformers, then, would be a classic example mobilized by grumpy old Marxists like Adorno to contend that mass culture is corrupt, the apotheosis of politically unproductive, and formally and aesthetically inert.

Of course, it is no stretch to say that the fourth reiteration of this film series is aesthetically deplorable; its garish teal and orange palette, over-reliance of low angle shots, and its ludicrous and grotesque reproduction of the male gaze. It is a film without characters, but rather types, ones without clear motivations, and emotions amplified so that even non-English speakers can parse the affect. But these criticisms wholly miss the point of films such as Transformers: Age of Extinction. This is not a film, not an aesthetic object to be interpreted, understood, studied or appreciated. Rather, this is a vehicle of ideology. This is a product that advertises its very nature as product. It is the reification of affects such as desire. This movie consumes the viewer's desire, affects, wants and needs, and hands it back. This is a film that does not care not ounce about the audience. This is a film without an audience.

Let me expand on this. This film has no audience in the sense that it circumvents the circuit of desire, affect, and art. In traditional aesthetic philosophy, art is understood as "as a 'finality without an end,' that is, as a goal-oriented activity which nonetheless has no practical purpose or end in the 'real world' of business or politics or concrete human praxis generally" (Jameson 131). Art, any art really, whether mass culture such as television or high culture such as "Rites of Spring" are meant for us to "suspend our real lives and our immediate practical preoccupations" (131). Jameson, Adorno, and countless other Marxist critics teach us that the commodification of art has short circuited this process of enjoyment (or, process of affective call and response, whether "negative" or "positive" feelings). Mass culture objects become instruments of commodity satisfaction, ones that fulfil the ever-present and contiguous desire to consume. This desire is mechanically produced in the system of late capitalism, an era of universal commodification. But what we are presented with in this late stage eternal moment of late capitalism is the circumvention of the desire to consume. I posit that Transformers: Age of Extinction has no audience in the figurative sense because there is no desire to consume, no desire to enjoy. Seeing the film is simply the mechanical repetition of the act of consumption. It is the empty repetition of the act, the automatic performance of consumption.

The film provides no affect, no real feeling. It doesn't even provide a sensation of irritation or frustration. There is no catharsis because there is no real feeling. There is no joy and there is no joylessness. The film is utterly and wholly empty, devoid of anything but the own logic of consumption. It is the Ourobouros of consumption.

Many critics of this film will make mention of the copious product placements, such as Hugo Boss, Bud Light, Chevrolet, and other multinational corporations. They point at these advertisements as proof of the film's lack of soul, or lack of artistic merit. However, the film doesn't do anything with the products, neither an ironic use nor a enticing use. Rather, the film mechanically features the products because this is what films of this scale do. In fact, the film, without affect, presents both an aside about the nature of sequels, and the image of post-Fordist industrial production itself. Yes, the means of production are built into the logic of the narrative. But first, let us discuss the "ironic" aside uttered by the aging owner of a decrepit film theater.

During the first act, genius inventor but poor capitalist Mark Wahlberg visits the closed theater in his small town. He and his assistant are there to purchase parts of the theater that might be repurposed/appropriated and vivified by its reintroduction into the market, whether in a new form, such as a robot with questionable use value, or rejuvenated by his recuperative skills. As they enter the theater, the owner remarks that the establishment closed due to the proliferation of sequels and remakes, all of which are stupid. His remark, we are supposed to gather, is an attempt to inject a knowing self-aware nudge of the elbow in the audience's collective ribs. But one might justifiably ask, what is the purpose of this self-awareness beyond the desire to circumvent criticism based on the film's reiteration of the blockbuster format?

We know from David Foster Wallace's influential essay that irony is the dominant form of discourse because of television. He argues that the form of television matched the medium of television in the sense that the gaze is literalized. The form of TV reverses the uncomfortable constant gaze of the audience so that the audience watches the audience. This leads to vibrating hum of irony that circulates, simultaneously invisible (it is ever-present) and self-consciously visible (it calls attention to itself). This is, of course, only one of many explanations for the sheer imperial dominance of irony as a mode of discourse, and that, in reality, there is probably a complex web of factors. Nevertheless, we have irony as our dominant mode, meaning that non-ironic objets d'art are perceived as "corny," "hokey," and "cheesy." We regard this objects with suspicion. An excess of "real" emotion makes viewers uncomfortable. Thus, we shield emotions with a patina of irony, a measure of self-protection, as contact with "real" emotions is unbearable. Cultural objects, produced within the dominant mode — of late capitalism of course — then automatically use irony in the creation of the object's overall tone or atmosphere. This is to say, then, that the use of irony in Transformers: Age of Extinction is mechanically reproduced, a rote deployment, because that is what other cultural objects do. Other films made x amount of money at the box office by doing y, and so this film must do that as well in order to maximize profits. Because after all, as I have been repeating, this film is not a movie but rather a commodity. The aging theater owner's snarky aside is meant to elicit a titter from the audience. The gesture allows the audience to assuage their guilt from engaging with such an empty text. We know we should know better, and yet we still partake in such cultural “trash.” The film mitigates this uncomfortable feeling by acknowledging on its surface that this film is nothing more than a stupid sequel and/or remake. This patina of irony that shields the audience from both “real” emotions and guilt from consumption is the production of the “quasi-material 'feeling-tone' which floats above the narrative but is only intermittently realized by it” (Jameson 133). This “feeling-tone” is imminently consummable and a hallmark of the era of late capitalism. Transformers: Age of Extinction reproduces – or possibly better, replicates the feeling tone of emotional distance and obligation. The inclusion of irony is obligatory; I contend that even attendance for this film is obligatory.

The film is produced not by an auteur (Michael Bay) but by an army of labourers, all working diligently to create this tableau of CGI, this 165 minutes of zeros and ones bleeding across the screen. Surely, the 21st century version of Marx's assembly line (the Fordist model, we've already mentioned) is the sea of terminals where "code monkeys" program commands for the computer to obey and produce. The objet d'art of film is already a multiply mediated affective experience: filmmaker, camera, projectionist, screen, audience. Now, the sheer dominance of CGI means more layers of mediation, resulting in alienation from the labourer (recalling the boy making the watches) and alienation for the audience. The modern CGI blockbuster is an example of what Jean Baudrillard "calls the simulacrum (that is, the reproduction of 'copies' which have no original) [which] characterizes the commodity production of consumer capitalism and marks our object world with an unreality and a free-floating absence of 'the referent'" (Jameson 135). This alienation from the Real sustains an ever-present desire for the Real. The image of the simulacrum “consumes the event, in the sense that it absorbs it and offers it back for consumption” (Baudrillard 21). It is the irrational desire for the Real, to see beyond the symbolic order. Due to the dangers inherent in violating the symbolic order, there is a “fundamental paradox of the 'passion for the Real': it culminates in its apparent opposite, in a theatrical spectacle like spectacular terrorist acts” (Žižek 9). Thus, films such as Transformers: Age of Extinction reproduce the mass destruction of other films – which are always more real than actual terrorist spectacles – but this film does so mechanically. To the point that the film allegorizes its own production by including images of the assembly line within its very own narrative. This film is so utterly layered in mediation that its inclusion of the assembly line is without affect, without comment, without an apparent ideological stance.

Stanley Tucci's character is a multimillionaire genius inventor who reverse engineers his own Transformers from the dead bodies of robots, killed either in action (in Transformer battles) or more likely, killed by a black ops outfit sanctioned by the CIA. The first half of the film has scenes set in Tucci's Chicago offices where his scientists work to engineer better more efficient Transformers, while the second half of the film depicts Tucci's China factories. In an almost metafictional move, the film recognizes its own globalized production, which allows the film to include product placements aimed at Chinese filmgoers. The factory in China (versus the laboratories in the US; not a coincidence, I should think) provides the film with the chance to literally depict the assembly line that produces the Transformers. The assembly line, the Fordist symbol of endless and efficient production, spits out Transformers to be wielded by the American military. Tucci's genius inventor has made a deal with the US and Chinese government to produce, via assembly line, what are essentially drones.

The better, more efficient Transformers are controlled remotely by "pilots" tucked safely away in a military area. The drone metaphor, neither subtle nor obvious, is presented without comment. It is simply the nature of warfare, the film contends, that machines of war will be physically and psychically distant from the operators. The act of killing and its subsequent and constitutive affects, like all affects in the late capitalism era, becomes utterly and totally mediated through screens, joysticks, and distance. This mediation is mirrored in the film's very presentation of drone warfare: without comment, without affect. It simply is, as if the film is presenting drone warfare as fait accompli. However, in the film's defence, the drones are taken over by Megatron, and there is a late third act attempt to comment, but this is only to provide necessary plot resolution; Tucci's inventor realizes that a contract with the American military can lead to external corruption. However, his business with China continues, which is literalized in a burgeoning romantic relationship with the inscrutable, martial arts expert, beautiful Chinese head of the Chinese company, a common and pernicious Orientalist trope, and not the film's only one.

The inclusion of Orientalist tropes in Transformers: Age of Extinction should come as no surprise. The Transformers themselves are depicted using flat stereotypes in order to aid the audience in differentiating between each heap of CGI. John Goodman voices a grizzled old veteran who shoots indiscriminately, has a beard(?) and chews on a cigar(????); with this, the film deploys a recognizable American stereotype. In addition, the film includes Drift, a relatively new Transformers character (introduced in IDW's series of series) who is modelled after a samurai, composes a haiku, and is voiced by Ken Watanabe. It is a classic case of the fetishizing, exoticizing Western gaze. It is also boring. Drift is given nothing to do other than provide wise-sounding phrases and pablum for almost no plot-driven reason. It is the empty expression of Orientalism simply because that's what these films do.

Kathleen Stewart writes in Ordinary Affects that:
The objects of mass desire enact the dream of sheer circulation itself -- travel, instant communication, movies, catalogues, the lure of new lifestyles patched together from commodities gathered into scenes of possible life.
The experience of being "in the mainstream" is a concrete sensory experience of literally being in tune with "something" that's happening.
But nothing too heavy or sustained.
It's being in tune without getting involved. A light contact zone that rests on a thin layer of shared public experiences. (51)
Transformers: Age of Extinction is the ultimate expression of the late capitalist era: a consummable, mass produced and easily duplicated, that signals its own ease of duplication within its mode of reproduction. It is a boring slog of a movie meant only to provide momentary respite from the unending demand of balancing work, family, and leisure. This movie perfectly encapsulates the necessary labour required to enjoy something. It is a piece of shit.

Works Cited

Jameson, Fredric. "Reification and Utopia in Mass Culture." Social Text 1 (1979): 130-148. Print.
Stewart, Kathleen. Ordinary Affects. Durham: Duke UP, 2007. Print.
Transformers: Age of Extinction. Dir. Michael Bay. Perf. Mark Wahlberg, Stanley Tucci. Paramount Pictures, 2014. Film.
Žižek, Slavoj. Welcome to the Desert of the Real. London: Verso, 2002. Print.

Thursday, July 3, 2014

June Reads

Americanah by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
Fingersmith by Sarah Waters
A Wizard of Earthsea by Ursula LeGuin
Beautiful Music for Ugly Children by Kirstin Cronn-Mills
Coldheart Canyon by Clive Barker
The Weight of Blood by Laura McHugh

I read Coldheart Canyon back in 2002 or 2003, and I remember being impressed by the misnomer of "Hollywood ghost story" on the cover. The traditional ghost story structure, which this novel tricks you with, features hauntings and the protagonists' disbelief until the second act. Well, just like other Barker novels, this text dispenses with the traditional structure amazingly fast and provides a long (700 pages!) series of connected setpieces. It's the little things that make this novel good; specifically Barker's innate understanding that scenes should be connected by a "because this happens" rather than "and then." The prose and dialogue is almost as good as I remember it. Though the characters are less well drawn than my recollection would have it. The novel traffics in Hollywood stereotypes, but that could be on purpose. As for the explicit sex? It's less extreme! than I remember. Quite tame, actually. Not sure why the Goodreads community is clutching their pearls. Coldheart Canyon represents the first part of my newish project to reread his novels. I think I might have read them too young to appreciate them. I'm satisfied that my first step was not disappointing. This bodes well for the project. I might add that Barker still qualifies under 2014's "No Straight White Dudes" policy as Barker has been openly gay for his entire publishing career.

Laura McHugh's debut novel, The Weight of Blood tickled quite a few of my fancies, such as the Southern Gothic, the rich lush descriptions of the deep rural South, the oppressive heat, the looming ominous canopy of trees, and the inevitable crime that occurs in such deep poverty. McHugh's novel is very similar to Daniel Woodrell's middle career works: Southern noir, sexy, sweaty, and violent as all hell. However, McHugh appears to have set her sights higher than Woodrell, and she attempts to weave theme and meaning into her text. It's not always successful: a painfully obvious symbol is mobilized to demonstrate the already stated theme. McHugh's prose is good, and her characters well drawn. As with most debut novels, I can only presume that the next novel will be an improvement.

Americanah so far holds the title of best novel I've read all year. And this has been, so far, a year of great novels.