I simply don't see the allure of this movie. Not only does the American Film institute recognize it as one of the 100 most significant American films ever made (although they dropped it to #65 from #17 in the 2007 revision to the list) and did Bogart win an Academy Award for his performance, but my dear sweet Grandmother absolutely loved it. For my part, I found it clumsy and tedious.
Most of what I didn't care for came from directorial/editing choices that I felt inhibited the storytelling. Something interesting would happen, and then the film would cut to some scenic footage, and then back to the characters, where something else interesting would happen. This narrative structure prevented the different scenes from connecting to each other, and the viewer never really felt a build in the conflict between Hepburn and Bogart, let alone their burgeoning attraction. When they finally are confirmed in love, it feels as though maybe we missed something. They go right from at each other's throats to "would you like some tea, dearest?" with out that intermediate recognition.
It also prevented what could have been a real tour de force from Hepburn. Such a rich character in the hands of such a powerful actress could have become mesmerizing. Instead, everytime she seemed to be gathering up steam, the film would cut to some hippopotamuses or such, and she would have to start from scratch again the next time we saw her. If I were the AFI, I would have left this film off the list altogether.
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
1st Thessalonians
I have a lot of expectation for this book, as it is widely regarded as the first composed of Paul's epistles, and plan to approach it with an eye out for ideas that seem not yet fully-formed. Perhaps it will yield some insight into Paul's thought process, as well as his theology.
1:1 Working from that assumption, it is worth noting that Paul's salutation does not differ significantly from that of Colossians, written perhaps 30 years later. His messages of grace of peace thus appear as constants, and one could look to them as a framework for his theology. Maybe.
1:2-5 likewise, the main difference in his introductory comments is that he has met the Thessalonians in person, and does not seem to have met the Colossians at the time of the writing.
1:6-10 Paul seems less confident than in later writings, and seems to spend a lot of time flattering his audience, and . . .
2:1-12 trying to establish his own credibility. Either he is gearing up for some serious reprimanding, or he is less secure in his relationship with the Thessalonians than with the Colossians--all the more remarkable considering his personal establishment of the congregation there.
2:16 One wonders what wrath Paul could be referring to. If the dating were different, I would assume he meant the fall of Jerusalem to Roman armies in 70 C.E., but 1st Thess. seems to predate that.
3:1-4 Another possibility occurs to me, that Paul is really worried about the congregation, due to some intense persecution, and the primary purpose of this letter is just to encourage them. In which case, I would expect little in the way of theological explication.
3:10 This is the closest he has come to anything resembling admonishment: that he wants to strengthen whatever may be lacking in their faith.
4:4 Now we get to the dirt: he urges them to be in control of their bodies, and free from lust. Much different than the lofty, mental focus of Colossians--at least the first 3 chapters.
4:15 Now this is interesting. It is certainly revealing that this early work contains such a strong emphasis on physical resurrection. I would be curious to look back and see how much weight this arguably less noble idea gets in his more mature works.
5:6 And this cry for watchfulness, this warning of "sudden destruction", could also be expected to get less page time thirty years later.
5:8 Perhaps a seminal form of the more developed thought found in Ephesians at least 20 years later.
5:23 Paul speaks of spirit and soul as though they are different things . . . or is it just poetic stylizing?
The part of this that I find most compelling is the mention of resurrection in the last half of the 4th chapter, not only because it's the only real theology going on here, but also because it is so blatantly pandering, and so conspicuously absent in some later letters. It seems altogether likely that messages of impending and sudden destruction would lose their weight after thirty years, and also that as Paul aged he shifted his focus to more noble/lofty things.
1:1 Working from that assumption, it is worth noting that Paul's salutation does not differ significantly from that of Colossians, written perhaps 30 years later. His messages of grace of peace thus appear as constants, and one could look to them as a framework for his theology. Maybe.
1:2-5 likewise, the main difference in his introductory comments is that he has met the Thessalonians in person, and does not seem to have met the Colossians at the time of the writing.
1:6-10 Paul seems less confident than in later writings, and seems to spend a lot of time flattering his audience, and . . .
2:1-12 trying to establish his own credibility. Either he is gearing up for some serious reprimanding, or he is less secure in his relationship with the Thessalonians than with the Colossians--all the more remarkable considering his personal establishment of the congregation there.
2:16 One wonders what wrath Paul could be referring to. If the dating were different, I would assume he meant the fall of Jerusalem to Roman armies in 70 C.E., but 1st Thess. seems to predate that.
3:1-4 Another possibility occurs to me, that Paul is really worried about the congregation, due to some intense persecution, and the primary purpose of this letter is just to encourage them. In which case, I would expect little in the way of theological explication.
3:10 This is the closest he has come to anything resembling admonishment: that he wants to strengthen whatever may be lacking in their faith.
4:4 Now we get to the dirt: he urges them to be in control of their bodies, and free from lust. Much different than the lofty, mental focus of Colossians--at least the first 3 chapters.
4:15 Now this is interesting. It is certainly revealing that this early work contains such a strong emphasis on physical resurrection. I would be curious to look back and see how much weight this arguably less noble idea gets in his more mature works.
5:6 And this cry for watchfulness, this warning of "sudden destruction", could also be expected to get less page time thirty years later.
5:8 Perhaps a seminal form of the more developed thought found in Ephesians at least 20 years later.
5:23 Paul speaks of spirit and soul as though they are different things . . . or is it just poetic stylizing?
The part of this that I find most compelling is the mention of resurrection in the last half of the 4th chapter, not only because it's the only real theology going on here, but also because it is so blatantly pandering, and so conspicuously absent in some later letters. It seems altogether likely that messages of impending and sudden destruction would lose their weight after thirty years, and also that as Paul aged he shifted his focus to more noble/lofty things.
Monday, August 20, 2012
Max Frisch: I'm Not Stiller
In my post on Frisch's play Andorra, I indicated that it didn't seem to justify its existence, and that it would have been better served as a novel or short story. As it happens, I'm Not Stiller is exactly that. It addresses the same ideas as Andorra, namely to what extent we are our own creation and to what extent the creation of others, in more depth and in a way that plays more to Frisch's strengths. His prose is so much more beguiling than his dialogue, one wonders why he felt compelled to revisit the theme seven years later in such an inadequate way. Perhaps there was some aspect of it that he felt remained unaddressed, but for my money I'm Not Stiller is a definitive statement on the subject, and Andorra a lame aftershock.
Which is not to say that it gives a conclusive answer to the question of the extent to which our identities are simply social constructs; merely that it opens the dialogue and pinpoints a few of the pivotal elements. According to Frisch's model, the self is obscured by myriad things, many of which we mistake for self. One of the less influential of these obscuring influences is that of so-called society. Anything we have received from literature, art, philosophy, or discussion of the same with friends, is manifestly not us. The eponymous hero asks,
How the devil am I to prove to my counsel that I don't know my murderous impulses through C.G. Jung, jealousy through Marcel Proust, Spain from Hemingway . . . and all sorts of other things through Thomas Mann? It's true, you need never even have read these authorities, you can absorb them through your friends who also live all their experiences second-hand (158).
And even if the stories that seem to comprise our identities are not received in the above way, they may well be constructed. Frisch leads the reader to believe the narrator's assertion that he is not Stiller, partly through the painstaking detail of his narrative, only to pull the rug out when he admits that he was simply "too tired to make up another murder story" (53). For the rest of the novel, one continues to wonder what to believe, and is never fully satisfied. As the reader becomes invested in the narrator, every question one asks of him one asks of oneself as well: "To what extent can I believe my own version of events?
Frisch thus systematically deconsructs the identity of the Narrator, and allows him to serve as a nameless (as advertised by the title) proxy for the reader. Having peeled away the obviously unreliable sources of identity--society, narrative, perception, associations--he proceeds to identify the ultimate, and ultimately inescapable, culprit for the unreality of our identities: language. "You can put anything into words, except your own life" and "I have no words for my reality", the narrator laments, to cite two of the more clear examples (53, 70).
Which does not mean, by Frisch's model, that there is no such thing as identity, simply that it requires an extraordinary amount of bravery, clarity and self-reflection to perceive it. This, sadly is a task that so-called Stiller (this reader remains unconvinced that he is indeed the man in question) seems to fail. The narrator comes to the cusp of clarity, but retreats out of fear. This affects those around him, for "if he took [Julika's] love really seriously, he would be compelled as a result to accept himself--and that is the last thing he wants" (216). For this reason, he is unable to know the other central character of the book: Julika. We as readers never come close to knowing her, since "Stiller"'s version and Rolf's are at odds, and it is certainly for this reason that neither of them really come to know her either. The book's title takes on a rather sly note, for one realizes by the end that the Narrator may or not be Stiller, but the book was never about him to begin with, but rather "the picture of a being who was dead and had never been recognized by anyone when she was alive" (377).
Which is not to say that it gives a conclusive answer to the question of the extent to which our identities are simply social constructs; merely that it opens the dialogue and pinpoints a few of the pivotal elements. According to Frisch's model, the self is obscured by myriad things, many of which we mistake for self. One of the less influential of these obscuring influences is that of so-called society. Anything we have received from literature, art, philosophy, or discussion of the same with friends, is manifestly not us. The eponymous hero asks,
How the devil am I to prove to my counsel that I don't know my murderous impulses through C.G. Jung, jealousy through Marcel Proust, Spain from Hemingway . . . and all sorts of other things through Thomas Mann? It's true, you need never even have read these authorities, you can absorb them through your friends who also live all their experiences second-hand (158).
And even if the stories that seem to comprise our identities are not received in the above way, they may well be constructed. Frisch leads the reader to believe the narrator's assertion that he is not Stiller, partly through the painstaking detail of his narrative, only to pull the rug out when he admits that he was simply "too tired to make up another murder story" (53). For the rest of the novel, one continues to wonder what to believe, and is never fully satisfied. As the reader becomes invested in the narrator, every question one asks of him one asks of oneself as well: "To what extent can I believe my own version of events?
Frisch thus systematically deconsructs the identity of the Narrator, and allows him to serve as a nameless (as advertised by the title) proxy for the reader. Having peeled away the obviously unreliable sources of identity--society, narrative, perception, associations--he proceeds to identify the ultimate, and ultimately inescapable, culprit for the unreality of our identities: language. "You can put anything into words, except your own life" and "I have no words for my reality", the narrator laments, to cite two of the more clear examples (53, 70).
Which does not mean, by Frisch's model, that there is no such thing as identity, simply that it requires an extraordinary amount of bravery, clarity and self-reflection to perceive it. This, sadly is a task that so-called Stiller (this reader remains unconvinced that he is indeed the man in question) seems to fail. The narrator comes to the cusp of clarity, but retreats out of fear. This affects those around him, for "if he took [Julika's] love really seriously, he would be compelled as a result to accept himself--and that is the last thing he wants" (216). For this reason, he is unable to know the other central character of the book: Julika. We as readers never come close to knowing her, since "Stiller"'s version and Rolf's are at odds, and it is certainly for this reason that neither of them really come to know her either. The book's title takes on a rather sly note, for one realizes by the end that the Narrator may or not be Stiller, but the book was never about him to begin with, but rather "the picture of a being who was dead and had never been recognized by anyone when she was alive" (377).
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