I usually don't write about textbooks here, and not only because it's rare that I read them cover to cover. In general this blog is intended to examine the way we look at literature and media in all forms, and I just don't know that textbooks often qualify as such. Furthermore, by the time I "finish" with a textbook, I feel like I've already been called to write about in the most sterile ways possible, and wouldn't have a lot left to say that would feel at home in this context.
But this book is an exception, and not only because I did read it cover to cover. When I say that this blog is about "media", and even go so far as to express that in the title, I mean that it is about the way in which words and images are used to convey a message, about the signs of which the things that we watch, read, and listen to are signifiers, as Saussure would put it. In that sense, isn't language the ultimate medium? The signifier that begets and predicates all others?
If that's the case, how does it work? Before asking what High Noon means or conveys, suppose we asked how in the hell humans have come to agree what "High" or "Noon" are in the first place. It's amazing, really, that humans even try to communicate, let alone that we've tried to establish some procedure for doing so. The fact that it seems to work, that we are on occassion able to send some thought into the mind of another, is veritable science fiction. In this textbook, which is admittedly a mere scraping of the question's surface, Brown makes the well-advised choice of simply presenting some ideas, not all of which are supportable, and encouraging the reader/student to come up with some sort of framework that works for her or him. In this arena, after all, a framework is all that can be really hoped for.
As for me, the idea of how we acquire language has gone through some evolutions. Chomsky works from the theory that in our brain is a sophisticated circuit devoted for the acquisition and employment of lanugage, but it sure doesn't seem that way sometimes. It feels more like there's a pachinko machine in our brains that we shoot words into, and sometimes one of them goes into the right hole and becomes "acquired". I've also at times thought of it as a Klondike game, although they call them different things elsewhere. You know, the game that you can see at arcades or county fairs that has a stack of quarters or tokens constantly getting pushed forward by some bulldozer-like blade, into which you shoot still more tokens or quarters, hoping to push some off the ledge and reap your reward? You just keep putting words into the top until you get lucky and something comes out of the bottom. Woohoo!
Lately though, language seems more like one of those giant funnels you can see at malls or science museums that purports to reproduce the behavior of bodies in orbit. You slip a coin into the rim of the funnel and watch it gradually make its way to the center. Depending on the angle at which it enters the vortex, it could take a long time, or plop right into the middle. That's what language feels like to me lately. A vortex, a whirpool that pulls things into its center. There are principles at work, to be sure, gravity, centrifugal force, the weight of the coin, the slope of the funnel, and lots and lots of mathy things. But just because there are principles at work does not mean that you can plop something at the proper angle and watch it drop straight into the middle. It does that sometimes! And it's weird! But good luck doing it twice in a row. Like why did the relatively useless and obscure word 개강 go right into my sweet spot and become acquired after only one exposure? While the far more useful and lexically simple word 이발 took me forever? Why did I still have to look it up in the dictionary even the fourth and fifth time I tried to use it to tell somebody I wanted a haircut?
The fact that it's a mystery does not mean that it's random, as Brown clearly, and occassionally wittily presents in this textbook. I can't say that I recommend it for pleasure, but if you are curious about how those quarters get in your slot, it's a good start.
Saturday, April 27, 2013
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
Titus
After several years of this project, I feel like the end is really in sight. Only ten books to go after this, most of them pretty brief, but at least one of which promises to be impossible to parse.
1:1 Paul's greeting here is markedly less warm and familiar than certain others, especially those to Timothy.
1:2 And where exactly did God make this promise of eternal life? I suppose it could be inferred out of certain passages in the Hebrew texts, but it is certainly not self-evident.
1:7 Bishop and Elder seem to be used interchangeably here. I am curious about first century ecclesiastical hierarchy. When did such distinctions develop, and whose idea were they?
1:10,11 In this, widely regarded as Paul's last letter, we still find the specter of circumcision. What possible "sordid gain" could advocates of such a practice hope for? Are they like modern moyls in New York who form an influential guild? Such a thing seems unlikely.
1:15 Now here is a fascinating verse, one that is open to a whole range of theological interpretation. If "to the pure, all things are pure", as indeed Paul has indicated in other books with regard to consumption of things sacrificed to idols, how far does this principle extend? Exactly how far can someone get in the name of good intentions? For that matter, if to the corrupt all things are corrupt, then the idea of conversion, salvation, and generally trying to better one's self takes on a gloomily futile note.
1:16 Rather than taking such a thing too far, however, it seems Paul simply means that we shouldn't trust the godly words/deeds of ill-indended people.
2:1-9 It is interesting to notice the different lights in which Paul views the members of the congregation. Theoretically, what is good is good, whether one is a master or slave, male or female. However the only things that Paul seems to see as univserally desirable are chastity and self-control, having administered this directive to all four groups. Slaves and women are, of course, both advised to be reverent/obedient to those in authority, but it is perhaps advisable to file this with the other many examples of conextual and social influences on Paul's writing, and not to give it any particular theological weight. It is perhaps more revealing that Paul gives older women the additional directive to be kind, something that is evidently not required of men. Such a belief can not so easily be filtered out; the idea that kindness is a virtue is not a modern invention, and indeed permeates Jesus' theology. Lastly, I notice that younger women are not even mentioned, and can eveidently do whatever they like.
2:11-14 Paul is always concerned with purity and uprightness, but I don't recall it being quite so pervasive in his other writings. Such a focus is, of course, a marked reversal in tone from the Gospels, which focused on such external, positive things as charity, love, and forgiveness.
3:9-11 As strident as the above admonitions could seem, it is good that Paul dials it back a notch here. He is seemingly telling Titus no to take silly things too seriously, including the deluded words of others, and I find this approach much more in line with the Gospel than the combative direction in which he seemed to be heading.
3:13 As this seems to be Paul's last book before his death in Rome, it is a bit ominous that he is requesting Zenas the lawyer to be sent to him.
1:1 Paul's greeting here is markedly less warm and familiar than certain others, especially those to Timothy.
1:2 And where exactly did God make this promise of eternal life? I suppose it could be inferred out of certain passages in the Hebrew texts, but it is certainly not self-evident.
1:7 Bishop and Elder seem to be used interchangeably here. I am curious about first century ecclesiastical hierarchy. When did such distinctions develop, and whose idea were they?
1:10,11 In this, widely regarded as Paul's last letter, we still find the specter of circumcision. What possible "sordid gain" could advocates of such a practice hope for? Are they like modern moyls in New York who form an influential guild? Such a thing seems unlikely.
1:15 Now here is a fascinating verse, one that is open to a whole range of theological interpretation. If "to the pure, all things are pure", as indeed Paul has indicated in other books with regard to consumption of things sacrificed to idols, how far does this principle extend? Exactly how far can someone get in the name of good intentions? For that matter, if to the corrupt all things are corrupt, then the idea of conversion, salvation, and generally trying to better one's self takes on a gloomily futile note.
1:16 Rather than taking such a thing too far, however, it seems Paul simply means that we shouldn't trust the godly words/deeds of ill-indended people.
2:1-9 It is interesting to notice the different lights in which Paul views the members of the congregation. Theoretically, what is good is good, whether one is a master or slave, male or female. However the only things that Paul seems to see as univserally desirable are chastity and self-control, having administered this directive to all four groups. Slaves and women are, of course, both advised to be reverent/obedient to those in authority, but it is perhaps advisable to file this with the other many examples of conextual and social influences on Paul's writing, and not to give it any particular theological weight. It is perhaps more revealing that Paul gives older women the additional directive to be kind, something that is evidently not required of men. Such a belief can not so easily be filtered out; the idea that kindness is a virtue is not a modern invention, and indeed permeates Jesus' theology. Lastly, I notice that younger women are not even mentioned, and can eveidently do whatever they like.
2:11-14 Paul is always concerned with purity and uprightness, but I don't recall it being quite so pervasive in his other writings. Such a focus is, of course, a marked reversal in tone from the Gospels, which focused on such external, positive things as charity, love, and forgiveness.
3:9-11 As strident as the above admonitions could seem, it is good that Paul dials it back a notch here. He is seemingly telling Titus no to take silly things too seriously, including the deluded words of others, and I find this approach much more in line with the Gospel than the combative direction in which he seemed to be heading.
3:13 As this seems to be Paul's last book before his death in Rome, it is a bit ominous that he is requesting Zenas the lawyer to be sent to him.
Saturday, April 13, 2013
Three American Westerns
In viewing movies from AFI's 100 Movies list, I have found myself in the process of constructing a theory of what makes a movie "great". I started out by evaluating movies according to certain obvious, discrete elements: direction, performance, screenplay, aesthetics etc., but I lately find myself thinking along different lines. For better or worse, I've lately been evaluating movies (and tv programs too for that matter) by the presence or absence of three things: character, story and idea. Let's hold three items that I watched recently up to this candle, and see if it holds up.
The Treasure of the Sierra Madre
I think it's pretty clear by which of the three criteria this item shines, and by which it suffers. When I look at the use of character in a movie, I find myself asking, "do the people in this film make decisions in a way that I can understand, or do they seem to make decisions because the plot demands it?" Wrapped up in this question is, of course, the quality/naturalness of the dialogue and the performances. Neither the writers nor the actors can solicit a "yes" to this question alone. In Sierra Madre, everybody does a great job, and both screenwriter John Huston and actor Walter Huston (Son and father, respectively) deserved their Academy Awards that year.
When one looks at the story and the idea of the movie, however (are those two things really separate?), the movie begins to suffer a little. When I think of story, I ask (among other things), "Does each plot element of the movie need to be there to get us where we are going?" And in the case of Sierra Madre, the answer is a pretty forceful "No." Many things that happened, from the appearance of the mysterious interloper, to the implausible rescue of a drowned boy, seem to exist merely in order to make some other element of the story make sense, almost as though the story were worked out during filming. As for the idea, it felt tacked on, and the end result is what we have come to see as an "Academy Award vehicle", namely something that exists to highlight performances, rather than to stand on its own merit.
The Searchers
Where the characters in Sierra Madre seemed to exist outside of the plot, the same cannot be said of this John Wayne vehicle. The main character especially seems to be completely at the mercy of the script, and make decisions purely because he is told to do so. Likewise, the various plot developments along the way never seem organic, but rather like the product of a committee filled with people who say things like "Wouldn't it be cool if . . ." and "Hey, is there a way to fit in . . ." as rationale. All of which is not helped by the fact that the central idea is colored by pretty disgusting racism, to an extent that is difficult to explain away with social context.
Sadly, looking at the movie through this lens fails to account for the one thing that was enjoyable it: namely that it was quite beautifully shot, and really lovely to watch. Where do aesthetic elements fit into my little schema? Not sure yet.
High Noon
All three of these movies are trying to do what Western seem to always do: show what a real man is like. Of the three, High Noon is far and away the most successful. "Real", of course, in the Western genre means "admirably masculine", but the sense of "human and believable" also applies here. Gary Cooper's performance and a watertight script create a character that manages to embody the ideal American male, while still acting like a human. The story is similarly focused, driven, and relatively free of ornament. What I found most enduring, however, was the idea of the movie, which seems to be a variation on Sturgeon's Law: ninety percent of everything is crap. People suck, they really do, and if you, dear reader, manage to have somebody in your life who does not suck, marry them, throw your tin star in the dust, and take that buckboard as far off into the sunset as you can manage.
The Treasure of the Sierra Madre
I think it's pretty clear by which of the three criteria this item shines, and by which it suffers. When I look at the use of character in a movie, I find myself asking, "do the people in this film make decisions in a way that I can understand, or do they seem to make decisions because the plot demands it?" Wrapped up in this question is, of course, the quality/naturalness of the dialogue and the performances. Neither the writers nor the actors can solicit a "yes" to this question alone. In Sierra Madre, everybody does a great job, and both screenwriter John Huston and actor Walter Huston (Son and father, respectively) deserved their Academy Awards that year.
When one looks at the story and the idea of the movie, however (are those two things really separate?), the movie begins to suffer a little. When I think of story, I ask (among other things), "Does each plot element of the movie need to be there to get us where we are going?" And in the case of Sierra Madre, the answer is a pretty forceful "No." Many things that happened, from the appearance of the mysterious interloper, to the implausible rescue of a drowned boy, seem to exist merely in order to make some other element of the story make sense, almost as though the story were worked out during filming. As for the idea, it felt tacked on, and the end result is what we have come to see as an "Academy Award vehicle", namely something that exists to highlight performances, rather than to stand on its own merit.
The Searchers
Where the characters in Sierra Madre seemed to exist outside of the plot, the same cannot be said of this John Wayne vehicle. The main character especially seems to be completely at the mercy of the script, and make decisions purely because he is told to do so. Likewise, the various plot developments along the way never seem organic, but rather like the product of a committee filled with people who say things like "Wouldn't it be cool if . . ." and "Hey, is there a way to fit in . . ." as rationale. All of which is not helped by the fact that the central idea is colored by pretty disgusting racism, to an extent that is difficult to explain away with social context.
Sadly, looking at the movie through this lens fails to account for the one thing that was enjoyable it: namely that it was quite beautifully shot, and really lovely to watch. Where do aesthetic elements fit into my little schema? Not sure yet.
High Noon
All three of these movies are trying to do what Western seem to always do: show what a real man is like. Of the three, High Noon is far and away the most successful. "Real", of course, in the Western genre means "admirably masculine", but the sense of "human and believable" also applies here. Gary Cooper's performance and a watertight script create a character that manages to embody the ideal American male, while still acting like a human. The story is similarly focused, driven, and relatively free of ornament. What I found most enduring, however, was the idea of the movie, which seems to be a variation on Sturgeon's Law: ninety percent of everything is crap. People suck, they really do, and if you, dear reader, manage to have somebody in your life who does not suck, marry them, throw your tin star in the dust, and take that buckboard as far off into the sunset as you can manage.
Juan Ruiz: The Book of Good Love
I'm not really sure how to approach writing about this book. In fact, I almost feel like I haven't really read it at all. According to at least one scholar (Spanish literary historian Salceda Ruiz), The Book of Good Love is among "the most beautiful, most humane, and most profoundly moral that literature has ever produced." What I read, therefore, must have been some other book, because I found it stilted, unfocused and clumsy. Whether a translation can actually capture the spirit of the original is a subject worth considering in any medium, but I feel like a translation into verse is especially suspect. The translator, Elisha Kane, is to be credited for tackling such a task at all, of course. English rhymes are so scarce compared to those in Spanish, I can only assume that the often forced nature of the end product was unavoidable. Nonetheless, while he seemed to capture the story and humor of the original, I would be hard pressed to find a single passage that I would describe as "beautiful". Whether the original was poetic in any way, I may never know, and that leaves me feeling a little dissatisfied. Unless I plan on learning 14th century Spanish, however (spoiler: I do not), I will have to be content with what I can only assume is a smudged mimeograph of a masterpiece.
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