The Vice of the Aged?

I admit that I am somewhat of a nostalgia junkie, although, unlike some that long for the past, I pine not for a simpler time, but for a more passionate one. A caveat is required for my claim, however. I am not saying that the present day finds nothing to be passionate about, quite the opposite is true for many people around the world. Governments are being overthrown, economies challenged, social order turned on its head, all achieved by people ignited with passion. All the power to them, but I feel removed, at a distance. Ironic seeing as social media places the worlds strife and conflict right on my iPad, but still, there is no connection to the current state of affairs and the fire in my heart.

Recently seeing Woody Allen's most recent film Midnight in Paris stirred up so many wonderful memories and emotions in me. In it, Owen Wilson plays a man so consumed with 1920s Paris, so taken with that era of nostalgia, of Hemingway and Fitzgerald, Dali and Modigliani, that he travels back in time every night at midnight, and lives out his fantasies of interacting with his "golden age" heroes. For me, the city is right, but my "Golden age" is about four decades later.

Flash back to Paris 1959, where my passion truly lies. The nouvelle vague seeds of French cinema have been planted by previous eras, specifically Italian neorealism (de Sica and early Fellini), and Hollywood films (Hitchcock and film noir in particular) and bloomed into rare and unnameable roses of cinema. French cinema pre-nouvelle vague is nothing to take for granted, producing incredibly talented filmmakers and some of the most honoured movies of any generation. But for my money, the films produced between 1959 and 1968 represent the most fertile period of filmmaking in history.

What I wouldn't give to have been at the premiere of Jean Luc Godard's 1960 film Breathless. This is the film that arguably started it all, with it's experimental editing, on-the-fly shooting style, and melange of genres. Breathless was a slap in the face to all the stilted, studio-shot, creatively bankrupt films that came before it, in any genre. When viewed alongside Resnais' Hiroshima mon Amour and Truffaut's Les Quatre Cent Coups one can see steps being taken in a new, bold direction embodying politics, love, rebellion, and sex in a whole new way.

But it is not merely the abundance of great films, directors, and actors that make me longingly gaze into the past. It is what these films meant to and the passion they ignited in the people of France at the time that make this a golden age for me, and here's where my nostalgia kicks in at full force. People cared about cinema, they argued ceaselessly over the filmmaker's message. They were passionate and engaged. They thought that movies could change the world, shape the war, or make a girl fall in love with you. And they could. Nowadays, you get blockbusters and indie films, a few great, some good, most not. But even the great ones never feel dangerous, like they could incite riots or change peoples' long held beliefs. I long for a time when people young and old protested the forced resignation of Henri Langlois, the co-founder of the Cinémathèque Française theatre, causing an international uproar so deafening that the Cannes Film Festival was put on hold that year. Needless to say, Langlois stayed put. Had I been alive in 1968, I would have chained myself to the gates of the Cinémathèque alongside countless other protesting cinephiles with pleasure.

Some say nostalgia is a dangerous pastime relegated to those who haven't the constitution to deal with the present. I cannot embrace this logic, insofar as the past is inextricably linked to the present, or, as the old adage goes, those who forget history are doomed to repeat it. Of course (and this point is made beautifully in Midnight in Paris) someone's past is another's present. I often wonder if people living in '68 Paris knew how influential their era truly was. I would imagine not, which begs the question of how will 2011 be remembered and immortalized a generation or two down the line?

Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a flux capacitor to repair.

Digital Breadcrumbs

2011 has been quite the year for technology. As the dominance of the smartphone continues, information has travelled faster from user to user than ever before, creating a world where the only limits are put into place by how far people are willing to dip their toes into this vast ocean of information. We are instantly connected to our own social networks comprised of friends, family, and acquaintances, allowing them to see what we are doing, who we are with, and where we are at any time of the day. Text messages, Facebook updates, Foursquare check-ins, and Google map queries are all leaving their mark on our daily lives, whether we like it or not. The worrisome part of this is that the entire process is invisible, little ones and zeroes embedded in the ether long after we delete our texts, updates, photos, and emails.

In the back of my mind I was aware of this digital permanence, hence my shying away from social networking sites (not that I have anything to hide, per se). But my eyes were opened Ludivico-style when I came across an article in none other than Vanity Fair about Kruse Wellwood and Cameron Moffatt, the two teens convicted of beating, raping, and murdering Kimberly Proctor in Langford last March. The various text messages and World of Warcraft chat logs are reproduced ver batim, as if they were just written. In fact, the Tech Crimes Unit amassed the equivalent to 1.4 billion sheets of paper on the two teens. That's not a typo. Billion. Everything from Google and Wikipedia searches (for items like camp fuel, Lithotomy position, and inside body parts) to google map queries (for wooded areas best to dump the body) and YouTube videos (Florence and the Machine's Blinding). The case against the two was so airtight that they both pleaded guilty of first degree murder. There is a news story making the rounds about a Hillary Adams, 21, who at 14 was beaten with a belt by her father for downloading music illegally from the Internet. The catch? (because there's always one of those). Her father is a prominent judge. She posted the video to Reddit, where it obviously gained hits, resulting in Facebook groups calling for her father to step down. And then there is the case of a Harvard Law student who sent an email to a trusted friend about the link of intelligence to genetics, and therefore race. The email was saved, and the friendship eventually dissolved. What's an ex-friend to do? Why, send the aforementioned email to the Harvard's Black Student Association. The email sender is now permanently and digitally branded as racist for as long as the Internet sticks around.

It seems that as the usage of social media and technology increases, so decreases people's common sense. Information is shared freely and publicly. Incriminating secrets are relayed via text messages. Data is stored for decades without people even knowing it. Has anyone even read the 6000 word privacy agreement from Facebook? Inherent trust is being placed into huge companies who make money off of selling the very information we are serving to them on a silver platter. It may seem of no consequence to post some pictures, email something off color to a friend, or update your status to something that may offend someone, but you must realize that everything is permanent and retrievable. Removing it is like uncooking an egg or removing food coloring from a glass of water.

This post is not meant as a dire warning against the use of technology from the point of view of an old man shaking his fist at the younger generation. I embrace technology more than the average person, in fact. But a certain amount of digital responsibility must be implemented before you press send, because you may as well be chiseling it into stone.

Words to Live By #8

There's no such thing as perfect writing, just like there's no such thing as perfect despair.

--Haruki Murakami

Icons of Cool #3

Tom Waits is an American original no matter how you slice him. His music is bold and eclectic, with influences as far reaching as Jack Kerouac, Charles Bukowski, Bob Dylan, and Howlin' Wolf. Waits himself crafts songs of boozy intelligence with no discernible direct influence; no one else can sing Tom Waits' songs but Waits himself (as Scarlett Johansson deftly proved on her ill-advised Tom Waits cover album). Whether his gruff voice is crooning over a soaring trumpet (Somewhere) or whispering over a jangly samba (Jockey Full of Bourbon), Waits is 100% always no one else but himself. It is a testament of Waits' uncalculated coolness that he is the only artist who could fuel an all night bender with aplomb (a lot of his songs are about drinking...) and just as easily lay the soundtrack down for the morning after: full of regret, unfulfilled wishes, and some broad you met at a bar, took home, and you passed out before she took off her coat.

Tom Waits' new album Bad As Me is out now, and good gravy, its terrific. 

It's a Man's World

So what is it exactly that makes a man a man? The definition has seen widely varying criteria throughout the ages, filtered through the media and presented to the population via radio, television, and advertising. Movies in particular have offered us what the ideal man should be, how he should act, what sort of clothes he should wear. And especially how he treats a lady. Several films come to mind when I think of how the ideal man is portrayed. Keep in mind that these are simply one blogger's humble opinions

Firstly, there is North by Northwest, Hitchcock's 1959 grand adventure starring the imitable Cary Grant. Plot mechanics aside (which would take a half dozen paragraphs to elucidate anyways) Grant's Roger Thornhill is the distillation of what a man should be: beyond handsome, quick witted, cool under pressure, ready to jump into a situation no matter how dangerous, and incredibly suave with women. Imagine taking Don Draper (Thornhill is even part of the Mad Men himself, working as an ad executive on Madison Ave), injecting him with a dose of reckless courage, stripping the psychological complexities, and throwing him into one dangerous situation after another replete with beautiful women, international intrigue, and a shake or two of murder. In fact, that's what makes Thornhill such an effective pillar of masculinity: he has zero backstory. He is 100% surface, and that surface is shaped so expertly that viewers cannot help but succumb to that old adage "women want to sleep with him, men want to be him. " You can of course apply this to the obvious film character, the one who really comes to mind when you think of masculinity: James Bond. The very name itself practically bleeds testosterone. But the crucial difference that makes Roger Thornhill more of a distillation of masculinity than James Bond is one of viewer relatability. You see, James Bond is a spy with access to a wondrous array of gadgets, cars, and a seemingly endless bank account. The average viewer can fantasize, but not relate. The genius behind North by Northwest lies in Hitchcock's classic wrong man scenario: Thornhill is thrust into the world of intrigue quite against his will, forcing him to react to the situation in ways we may be able to identify with.

For a more contemporary example of masculinity in cinema, we needn't look further than two releases from this year, both coincidentally starring Ryan Gosling. The first film is Drive, where Gosling plays a taciturn auto mechanic/stuntman/getaway-driver-for-hire who gets involved with a woman, some gangsters, and a big bag of money. Gosling's character, known only as the Driver, is cool, knowledgable, efficient, and prone to incredible outbursts of violence. He is a doer, not a talker. When the woman he loves is in trouble, the Driver springs into action without a hint of selfishness, single-mindedly acting as her protector at any cost. There is never remorse for any of his actions, no matter how extreme, and the viewer accepts this since the Driver is acting solely out of concern for his girlfriend (and to further boost viewer empathy, her child). The Driver is sharklike in his quest, continually moving forward to reach his goal, and leaving bodies in his wake. So can such a violent character really embody masculinity? In a word, yes, since his actions are for a sympathetic cause.

Another film finding Gosling portraying "the ultimate man" is Crazy Stupid Love. Not a great movie by any stretch, but in it Gosling plays a womanizing lothario who happens to be incredibly charming and well-heeled. Throughout the film, we are given zero backstory about him (much like the Driver), adding to his mystique. The movie doubles back to then deconstruct this mystique while Gosling teaches Steve Carell's character what makes a woman want a man. Being mysterious and never talking about yourself makes a man mysterious, therefore more intriguing to a woman. Gosling's character knows how to dress, walk, talk, and can make a mean Old Fashioned (there is a point in the film where he gets Carrel to chant I'm better than the Gap! repeatedly) He is confident but not arrogant, knowledgable but not a know-it-all. He seduces countless women into bed, though; he has impeccable taste but is a serial bachelor. As the film progresses, cracks begin to show in his steely facade. Gosling begins to embrace monogamy and values quality time with a woman rather than a one night stand. He realizes the emptiness of a life without true love and decides he is the marrying type after all. By embodying both the suave sophisticated worldly type as well as the down-to-earth, one-woman-man, Gosling makes his character, in my opinion, the perfect man for the 21st century woman.

Taking three examples of characters from movies over fifty years apart is by no means a scientific analysis of what masculinity is defined by the lens of society, I admit. I just thought it was interesting seeing as I watched all three of the aforementioned films quite recently and found myself thinking I'd really like to be this guy, or at the very least possess certain aspects of each of them. Coincidentally, my wife thought that these characters were all in their own way embodiments of desirable masculine qualities. There are lots of women who wouldn't be attracted at all to any of these types, which is obviously understandable, different strokes for different folks, as they say. But to me, and what I strive to be in a man, these three examples stand at the forefront of what masculinity is and can be, warts and all.

Words to Live By #7

I'm not a paranoid derranged millionaire. Goddamit, I'm a billionaire.

-- Howard Hughes

My Struggle Against Silence

As far back as I can remember, I have always wanted to be a gangster. Wait, no. That's Henry Hill. Me? I've always wanted to be a writer. I remember writing a short story in fourth grade, a little hazy to me now but I think it had to do with a village of talking rabbits, that really impressed my teacher. The comment on the story was that I was a natural storyteller and that I should keep at it. Long after the story I wrote dissipated in my memories, that comment has stuck with me like a rare earth magnet sticks to a fridge. I continued to write throughout school, always performing decently in English classes, but never really taking it too seriously, as in something I could shape into a career at some point. Even in my youth, I never considered writing as a viable option that could pay the bills. (I still don't today, but I am one step closer).

Have you ever had a thought that niggles in the back of your mind like a termite slowly chewing away at a load-bearing rafter in your house? I sure have. I've always scoffed at the idea of writing a book. It's a waste of time, a Herculean task that I could never accomplish. And if I did, so what? Who on earth would publish it? It'll probably be terrible anyways. Still the idea persisted, gnawing away at me, but I continued to stifle it. About a year ago, I decided to banish these negative thoughts. I have no idea why, but I felt the urge to actually do what I've always wanted to do, to make happen what I've never really thought possible. There was no inspiring speech, no words of wisdom, that changed my mind. More like a switch that got turned on in my brain.

So where do I go from here? No man is an island says John Donne. There's no way I could possibly do this by myself. Combing the Internet finding writers' blogs has become an addiction, and reading about other aspiring authors miseries has actually done wonders for me! At least I know I'm not completely alone. And next week, I am attending the first of a series of six writing workshops where I hope to meet like-minded, similarly inspired but also suffering would-be writers. Maybe we can sit around and trade war stories about writers block and discarded fourth drafts we knew were going nowhere the moment we put pen to paper. Validity through peers has never been something I have actively sought out, but now I cling to it like a mountain climber clings to a lifesaving outcrop of rock. I am excited about the prospect of sharing my fiction with other people, about hearing their thoughts and ideas, but at the same time, I'm slightly terrified.

Until quite recently, every time I sat down at my computer to write, I'd delete it afterwards. No matter how I felt about what I'd written, my reflex was to send it to the virtual trash bin. Not all of it was bad, but I never wanted another pair of eyes to grace anything I had written. Hell, it's a struggle just to write about my struggles about writing, i.e. this entire post. It's telling that my first instinct was not to publish this at all. But I suppose it's good to air one's frustrations on occasion; to exorcize the demons, so to speak.

I plan on doing further entries about the process of writing and the pains and (hopefully) rewards that come with doing something you have a true passion for, no matter how crazy it seems. By doing so, I hope to finally become somebody I've always wanted to be.