I did a guest lecture gig for an Information School class on Saturday. The topic was “online information delivery.”

I started out by talking about my film studies background and how my hobby is thinking about ways in which screenwriters have to deal with the problem of “magic” technology (to paraphrase Arthur C. Clarke). I’ve blogged about this before.

The example I always go to is how, in Die Hard, the terrorists can effectively sever the Nakatomi Plaza’s communications by cutting some wires with a chainsaw. Had that movie been set just five years later, the screenwriters would have had to account for cell phones. And, sure enough, in Spike Lee’s Inside Job — a more recent film with similar plot elements to Die Hard — there’s a scene of the hostages tossing their cell phones into a bank robber’s bag at gunpoint. In that film, the issue of “Well, what if someone just doesn’t throw theirs in?” is also dealt with in a fairly graphic manner.

The example I gave in class involved the 1941 film Ball of Fire with Gary Cooper and Barbara Stanwyck. Cooper is a stodgy professor holed up in an old house with a group of other stodgy (and much older) professors working on an encyclopedia. It’s a 10-year project and they are doing all the research and all the work themselves. Each is an expert in some field. Gary Cooper realizes his entry on “slang” is outdated, Stanwyck’s tough-talking nightclub singer and gangster moll, Sugarpuss O’Shea, enters, slang problem solved (oh, and she and Cooper fall in love, naturally.) The film’s energy comes from Stanwyck’s “ball of fire” entering the cloistered community of the professors and upsetting their stodgy ways. If I recall, the film never even moves outside the old house.

I compared the film’s main premise of a small group of experts locked in a house producing a “knowledgebase” (to use a trendy term) with that of the Wikipedia model — or the web in general, for that matter. How could Ball of Fire be re-written to account for crowdsourcing? Could it be? Has the Urban Dictionary made slang “experts” such as Sugarpuss O’Shea obsolete? Has the Internet made it impossible for stodgy old professors to be swept away by beautiful young dames?

Discuss.

I have two pet peeves when it comes to screenwriting: expository dialog and character-development dialog. As Amy and I are watching the DVD’s of the Showtime series “Weeds” (the one about the middle-class suburban pot-dealing single mom), both types come up frequently enough that they are starting to turn me off of this otherwise decent show.

If you Google for “expository dialog” you’ll find I am certainly not alone in hating the dreaded monologue that only serves to explain often convoluted plot points to the audience. But what irks me are the small, throwaway lines that ring false and could clearly have been cut or incorporated some other way.

In an episode we watched last night, for example, a character, Celia, is in the hospital recovering from breast cancer surgery and her mother arrives unexpectedly. The situation is clearly awkward — the actors do a good job of expressing the decades of tension that exist between them. But then the moment is blown when Celia says to her mother: “Thank you for coming all the way from Florida to see me.”

If both Celia and her mother know that mom lives in Florida, why is that bit of dialog necessary? If my mother suddenly appeared at my door, I wouldn’t great her by saying: “Mom! You came here all the way from St. Louis!” No. The line only exists to inform the audience that Celia’s mom lives in Florida.

How else could the screenwriter have conveyed the information? Well, after a few more rounds of more honest-sounding dialog, we learn a lot more about Celia’s mom — she’s active in her church, she’s leaving soon to go on a cruise, she’s a miserable control freak. At some point, a more indirect reference to her home in Florida could have been slipped in. But I’m not even sure why it was necessary to establish that she was specifically from Florida anyway. Had she arrived carrying a suitcase or had Celia merely inquired about her flight (“How was your flight?” is a banal question but one that we all ask, right?) then we, the audience, could get everything we need right then.

The other class of cringe-inducing lines are the ones that exist only to establish some aspect of a character’s personality or physical appearance that might not be obvious through, say, acting or just looking at an actor.

The most egregious example of this I can recall was in the dreadful 2001 movie Amy’s Orgasm (AKA Amy’s O), starring, written, and directed (uh oh!) by one Julie Davis (who, not coincidently, hasn’t appeared in any movies since). Ms. Davis is fairly cute, but the movie’s dialog is packed by other characters commenting on just how gorgeous and super-hot she is. The premise of the film requires that the main character’s desirability simply be taken for granted; it’s supposed to be a shock when others learn that she hasn’t had sex in several years. But the actress herself isn’t really a knock-out, so the dialog has to try to convince the audience through incessant repetition that she’s the most beautiful woman in the diegesis.

Sadly, this sort of dialog is starting to spoil my enjoyment of “Weeds” as well, and as with Amy’s Orgasm it involves the physical attributes of a female character. Mary-Louise Parker is the pot-dealing mom, Nancy, and I’ll admit that she is pretty damn hot. It’s also apparent from looking at her that she has practically no ass. And yet, there have been, on average, a half dozen references to her supposedly hot butt in every episode. In one, two African America characters independently comment on her “badunkadunk” (alternately, “ba-donk-a-donk”).

I don’t understand why the screenwriters felt it was necessary that Nancy’s obvious physical attractiveness be augmented by repeated hyperbolic references to her virtually non-existent booty. Is it really that important that all the ass-men (and women) in the audience be catered to? Are they so insecure about Mary-Louise’s actual ability to induce lust that they have to verbally inflate certain of her assets?

It’s really too bad because I’m now so tuned in to it that I’m afraid I’m not going to be able to keep watching the show unless the scripts drop all this “establishment” bullshit and focus on keeping the dialog real.

Amy and I saw the documentary Helvetica the other night.

“You’re expecting me to spend an hour-and-a-half watching a movie about a font?” Amy asked in her typically charming manner.

“It’s not a font,” I explained. “It’s a typeface.”

And it wasn’t an hour-and-a-half either — it was 80 minutes, and probably 20 of those were filled with the camera lingering over hundreds of city signs and ads featuring the eponymous characters. So, we had essentially an hour of graphic and type designers talking about Helvetica — its origins, its history, its status in contemporary design, its political significance, etc. It was actually pretty interesting.

But Helvetica, for all its popularity and ubiquity, isn’t part of the standard Microsoft Windows collection of fonts, and I was never really sure why. I know that license fees for fonts can be outrageous, so I thought maybe that was it. But Helvetica is standard on Macs, so what was up with that?

Type designer Mark Simonson explains in “The Scourge of Arial” that Microsoft bundled Arial — a Helvetica look-alike designed by the Monotype foundry — “probably because it was cheaper and they knew most people wouldn’t know (or even care about) the difference.

“Typeface knock-offs became common after the rise of desktop publishing, and Monotype created Arial as a close-but-no-cigar copy of Helvetica — a typeface with the same proportions and weight as Helvetica but with hundreds of small and seemingly arbitrary differences.

And though the differences are small, they are perceptible if you know where to look. Simonson also provides a handy guide for telling the difference.

The American spirit played out in typography.

When I was a teenager, MTV showed British TV shows on Sunday nights starting at 11:00 pm. Even then, I was an early riser and an early-to-bedder, so staying up until midnight on a school night was always a challenge, and I frequently wouldn’t make it. But when I did, I was treated to such classics as The Young Ones and Comic Strip Presents….

The Young Ones episodes were repeated frequently and over time I probably saw every one 10 times or more … enough that I committed them to memory. The addition of the family VCR to the mix ensured repeated viewing over time.

I have only vague memories of The Comic Strip Presents…. It wasn’t on all that frequently, and the shows weren’t as bombastic and eminently quotable as The Young Ones. Each episode was a standalone film and often parodied other British shows and cultural elements that I only rarely understood.

Last night, I came across episodes of The Comic Strip Presents… on YouTube and watched one I had never seen before: Les Dogs, a surreal little film that reminded me of Buñuel and features Miranda Richardson and a lovely Kate Bush. Adrian Edmonson (Vyvyan on The Young Ones) is hilarious as an embattled best man at a wedding that ends in bloodshed.

Ever since I took my new job, it’s been hard to explain to people what I do. I don’t run any systems, I don’t write code, I don’t manage projects — I develop relationships and partnerships with members of the community. I put people in touch with other people. I assemble the necessary people to fix complex problems.

Amy and I watched Michael Clayton the other day. In it, George Clooney plays an attorney at a prestigious New York law firm who serves as a “fixer” — or, someone who solves difficult situations through his intimate knowledge of “the system” and his network of powerful business contacts. Clayton does not do any trial work himself, and at one point a character comments that many people don’t even realize he works at the firm.

At one point while watching the film, it occurred to me that I am the “Michael Clayton” of my organization.

I’m a “fixer.”

The downside of this position — professionally speaking — is illustrated in the film when Clayton expresses concern to his boss over a pending merger with another firm. He is worried that he won’t be able to convince the new firm bosses that he’s worth keeping on so he wants to do more litigation work to have something tangible to show for himself. His boss tries to assure him that Clayton is far more valuable in his current role and would be wasted as a litigator. Clayton doesn’t seem too comforted by this.

I, too, have a bit of anxiety that my current position can’t be expressed in terms that make sense to future employers (note to coworkers: I’m not actively looking for another job). I am routinely assured by my coworkers that I’m serving a valuable role (and I believe that I do), but that role doesn’t easily translate to a job title or function that can be summed up or easily demonstrated outside of this immediate context.

Of course, I probably don’t have to worry about anyone putting a bomb in my car, so there’s some comfort in that. Oh, sorry: SPOILER ALERT.

A few years ago, I took an architectural walking tour of Chicago. I particularly recall the guide explaining how the distinctive style of Mies van der Rohe emerged partly because of the city’s building codes.

It seems that in downtown Chicago there had been a height limit on buildings that extended too close to the lot line. Mies got around that by constructing the building atop columns and recessing the ground floor so as to create a public plaza area underneath the rest of the building. The open area created by this design was consistent with the spirit of the code, and the majority of the building could then extend out to the lot line starting with the second floor. This fact stuck with me, I think, because I once lived in a Mies building in Detroit (pictured above).

The other night, I encountered another example of a practical restriction leading to an aesthetic innovation. I was watching a documentary about Blade Runner (My Favorite Movie) wherein Ridley Scott discusses that his decisions to set the film largely at night and for it to be constantly raining were ones made largely due to budget constraints. The set used for the urban landscape was the standard “New York Street” set at the Burbank Studios, and they needed to disguise it heavily as it had been seen in so many other films. The darkness and the rain were cheap ways to camouflage the familiar facades of the set.

I realize that in expensive domains such as filmmaking and architecture, such constraints are common, and that art history is full of examples of resource limitations leading to new aesthetics and innovations. But these two examples stuck with me far a number of reasons.

I’d love to learn that Picasso’s blue period was inspired by a sale on blue paint at the local Dick Blick!

Consistent with the overall downward trajectory of my Oscar-picking abilities, the accuracy of my predictions was pretty pathetic this year.

On the “Correct” side, we have:

Best Picture
Best Actor
Best Director(s)
Best Adapted Screenplay
Best Original Screenplay
Best Animated Film
Best Score
Best Short Animated Film
Best Short Live Action Film
Best Cinematography
Best Original Song

On the “Wrong” side, there’s:

Everything else, for an overall score of 11/24, or 46%.

My first sub-median performance.

I blame the French.

Man, those Academy Awards are right around the corner — the curtain goes up this Sunday at 5 PT/8 ET. I thought I had a little more time to fully contemplate the Oscar Buzz™ but, alas, I fear I had to make some hasty picks. Nonetheless, here they are (after the jump).

Continue reading "2008 Oscar Predictions" »

I was awakened at 4:30 this morning by a call from the 562 area code — Los Angeles! I didn’t answer the phone, but maybe it was someone from the Academy trying to get me down to the nomination ceremony at the last minute. Or maybe it was a devastated Kiera Knightley, who found out early that she wasn’t getting the Best Actress nod I predicted and she needed some comforting. Or maybe it was Cate Blanchett looking to do some early celebrating since the buzz had her pegged for two nominations!

Or maybe it was a wrong number. At four-fucking-thirty in the morning. Grumble.

Anyway, it’s time to see how I stacked up against reality.

Continue reading "And the Nominees Are… (Oscar 2008)" »

For the uninitiated: In the late nineties and early part of the oughts, I annually hosted a lavish party for the Academy Awards, the centerpiece of which was a contest to predict the winners (I know; this is not terribly original, but it was fun). I traditionally have been quite accurate at picking winner and routinely scored in the 90% range (I have never had a perfect score) for both nominations and winners.

The arrival of Raymond and our subsequent relocation to the west coast combined to put an end to the festivities (honestly, who can party at 5:00 pm, which is when the show starts out here?), and over the last couple years, the allure of the show has faded at Chez Jim.

Last year, the Oscar nomination announcements sneaked up on me and I missed making predictions. The same thing would have happened this year had I not chanced upon a mention that Jon Stewart will be the host again (yeah!) if the ceremony isn’t canceled by the writers’ strike (boo!). The nominations will be announced tomorrow at 5:30 am.

Two years ago, I predicted an astonishing 86.7% of the major category nominations (see And the Nominees Are...) but then tanked miserably on the awards themselves scoring just a hair over 62% (see Oscar's Golden Sword Cuts Deep).

The first part of 2007 was, for me, the “lost quarter” as I was teaching a class at the UW that seriously kicked my butt time-wise. As I mentioned, I skipped predictions for the nominations, but I managed to issue some half-hearted ones for the awards themselves, and I wasn’t too surprised by another lackluster two-for-three showing for my minimal efforts (see The Sixty-Six Per Cent Solution).

Once again, despite having a Master’s Degree in Movies™, I find myself having seen very few of the likely nominations. Of the movies I saw this year, I predict only Juno and No Country for Old Men will be listed tomorrow. However, predicting an Oscar is only partially about the actual film or performance or costume or whatever. What’s critical is the buzz.

So, relying almost solely on the opinions of others, here are my predictions for the major categories of the 2008 Oscar nominations (I’ll tackle award winners later).

Continue reading "2008 Oscar Nominations" »

One of my first assignments on my high school newspaper (“The Tower Tribune”) was to write a review of “Santa Claus: The Movie,” which I passionately hated and gave a 3 out of 10 following a snide and scathing dressing down.

Apart from “A Christmas Story” and the Alastair Sim version of “A Christmas Carol” I have yet to encounter a holiday-themed movie that hasn’t just sucked, but sucked hard. I’m such a Scrooge about Xmas movies that I even hate “It’s a Wonderful Life.”

But I can only aspire to achieve anything near the brilliant levels of Xmas-movie-directed venom accomplished in Pajiba’s review of Fred Claus. If you’re not familiar with Pajiba (rhymes with “vagina”), go and read this review. Go there now.

My friend Kate recently alerted me to a campaign organized by the Catholic League for Religious and Civil Rights (no, I’m not linking to them) to boycott/protest the upcoming fantasy film “The Golden Compass” because — according to them — it has an “objective to bash Christianity and promote atheism. To kids.” Kate’s fitting response was “I want to slap people.”

Got that Christians: Just don’t go see it lest Nicole Kidman’s bewitching eyes or Daniel Craig’s piercing intensity infect you with godlessness. Because we all know that movies are like giant syringes that inject their ideologies directly into your brain. And the kids, the kids!! Won’t someone please think of the children?!?! Since they are born atheists, seeing this movie might interfere with the other forms of indoctrination you’re subjecting them to. Keep them away!!

Remember when the atheists got all hot-and-bothered about the movie version of noted Christian apologist C. S. Lewis’ Chronicles of Narnia? Remember when we all advised our fellow heathens to boycott the movie’s advertisers and picket the theaters because we were scared for our secularism? Oh wait; that didn’t happen. I forgot, we trust ourselves to not be somehow hypnotized through the mere act of watching a movie.

I read the Chronicles of Narnia when I was a kid. What does that tell you?

Anyway, Catholic League, I’m sure New Line Cinema thanks you for the free publicity.

Oh, and how about teaching kids how to engage with and evaluate ideas critically? Just a thought.

My strictly self-rationed TV consumption is up to three shows now: The Office, 30 Rock, and, of course, America’s Next Top Model.

I am disappointed that 30 Rock is pre-empted tonight by something called Earl so I’m watching 30 Rock clips on NBC.com in protest.

From last week: if Alec Baldwin doesn’t get an Emmy from this single scene alone, then something is not right with the world.

Therapy, Jack Style

The “Final Cut” edition of my favorite movie, Blade Runner, is playing at the Seattle Cinerama, and I was there to behold it last night on the Very Big Screen in all its digitally remastered and directorially tweaked glory.

I first encountered the movie on cable. I didn’t see it on the big screen until the 1992 release of the Director’s Cut edition, which eliminated the two most annoying aspects of the theatrical release: the rambling voice-overs and the incongruous happy ending.

Rumor had it that this new Final Cut edition would introduce numerous, more subtle changes that only die hard fans would likely notice. Well, I noticed them all right, and I admit they were mostly beneficial to the film.

Continue reading "The Final Cut" »

With so many of my favorite movies getting turned into lavish stage productions (“Monty Python and the Holy Grail,” “Young Frankenstein,” “The Producers”), I figure it’s only a matter of time until the American musical theater apparatus sucks more fine films into its downward spiral. I might as well try to make a buck in the process. That’s why I’ve decided to start work on “Blade Runner: The Musical.”

Continue reading "Blade Runner: The Musical" »

When I was a lad, one of my family’s favorite Monty Python skits was “The Four Yorkshiremen,” which the troupe only performed as part of their live show. In it, four wealthy men sit around and reminisce about the good old days when they were poor, and each tries to outdo the others by telling increasingly absurd tales of woe and poverty.

I never knew the origins of the skit, but today I learned that it was originally performed as part of “At Last, the 1948 Show,” a 1967 British comedy series that is all-but-forgotten and mostly lost. Metafilter has the story as well as a link to the surviving clips on YouTube.

Here’s the original “The Four Yorkshiremen.”

Throughout my life I have striven to avoid becoming a cliché. I haven’t always been successful (black-haired, eye-linered, pierced-ear goth phase, anyone?) but I am always mindful of the forces in my life that seek to pull me into categories that allow a simplistic definition or label. I’d rather be misunderstood than summed up in a word.

So, despite having spent the last twelve years of my life working in IT, I have steadfastly avoided reading science fiction or fantasy, drinking Mountain Dew, or getting into MMORPG’s, Star Trek, or comic books. I can’t deny there is a part of me that’s just a bit drawn to those things (well, except for Mountain Dew … nasty shit), but just as a bartender needs to watch how much he drinks, I need to moderate my exposure to and consumption of geekery.

The one chink in my armor is my unadulterated and unwavering love for the movie Blade Runner, and I am all aquiver with nerdiness over the news that the 5-disk “Ultimate Collector’s Edition” of the film will be released in December.

Continue reading "I’ve Seen Things You People Wouldn’t Believe" »

In a tribute to Swedish film director Ingmar Bergman, who died yesterday at 89, I present you with the greatest parody of his most famous films, The Seventh Seal and Wild Strawberries — The Dove (or De Düva):

When I was in sixth grade, my best friend, Ed, discovered a strange book on the shelves of our school’s library — Fungus the Bogeyman.

Fungus is a graphic novel (aka comic book) by Raymond Briggs that depicts the life and existential angst of a Bogeyman named Fungus, who dwells beneath the earth in Bogeydom with his wife, Mildew, and his son, Mould. Bogeys prefer dank, wet, filthy things and their main job is venturing to the surface to scare humans via making things go “bump” in the night, rattling doorknobs, or popping out from behind trees. Left to themselves, however, they are quiet, gentle creatures with a rich culture and history that the book describes in vivid detail.

Ed and I poured over the book and its detailed drawings and humorous descriptions of Bogey life. We could scarcely believe that a school library would stock such a book as it appeared to have very little educational value and was chock full of disgusting grossness and frank topics such as Bogey anatomy (the females have three breasts) and their various unsanitary habits.

But underlying the book’s attempts to make the reader squeamish, there is a touching story of one Bogey’s attempt to make sense of his life.

I bought a copy of my own a few years ago, and showed it to Ray a while ago but it was way too advanced for him. We recently started reading it together again, however, and he loves it. He doesn’t seem at all bothered by the scenes showing a Bogeyman creeping into people’s houses; he takes it all in stride. He’s even taken to pretending to being a Bogey and likes to make scary noises and tries to frighten me and Amy.

I didn’t appreciate this back in sixth grade, but in re-reading the book to my child I am pleased by the total and complete lack of any supernatural or religious content. Here we are dealing with a Bogey on the verge of losing his way in life, who is seeking the answers to the great answers of where he came from, why he does what he does, and what does it all mean. Given the rich and detailed mythology Briggs builds for his Bogeys, it would have been easy to construct a theology for them that would neatly wrap everything up, but he does not do so. Fungus seeks answers not via believing in imaginary sky-fathers or the promise of a glorious life after death, but in the simple pleasures of poetry, a good glass of slime, and the enjoyment of poking sleeping humans with his Bogey-stick. And, importantly, he does not find concrete answers in the end … not because he’s looking in the wrong places, but because concrete answers are not easy to come by and may not even exist.

In looking stuff up for this post, I learned that there was a live-action movie version of Fungus the Bogeyman made a few years ago, The reviews I’ve seen are lukewarm at best, but I stuck it in my Netflix queue anyway.

OK, let’s get something out of the way first.

In high school, I was a big fan of the TV show “Night Court.” I especially liked the character of Judge Harry (Harry Anderson), who wasn’t so much a “character” as he was a direct port of the actor/magician’s own persona. I was so taken by Judge Harry, in fact, that I bought a 30’s-era fedora and raided local vintage clothing stores for old ties and fancy duds. That I then wore. To school. I even learned magic and would produce silk scarves or “vanish” sponge balls at a moment’s notice. It’s a wonder I wasn’t beaten up every day.

Anyway, during the first season, the public defender (Billie Young) was played by a pretty, slighty-punkish actress named Ellen Foley. I had a mad crush on her, as did the character of the judge — the questionable ethics of which didn’t concern me at the time.

Later on, Young/Foley was unceremoniously replaced by the inferior, more conservative Markie Post, who provided the requisite sexual tension for the remainder of the show’s remarkable (and, in retrospect, complete undeserved) run of nine years. I never recovered from this recasting.

Flash forward to a couple days ago. The Clash’s “Hitsville UK” song comes up on iTunes. “Hitsville” is distinctly different from other Clash songs in that it’s (1) melodic, and (2) sung by a female. It never occurred to me to wonder who this guest vocalist was, but it was a slow day so I hopped over to Wikipedia, where I learned that the tune was sung by Clash guitarist Mick Jones and his then-girlfriend … Ellen Foley.

The same Ellen Foley who stirred such warm feelings in my adolescent body!

It turns out, Ms. Foley had been a recording artist prior to her acting career, released three solo albums, and worked with such rock luminaries as Meat Loaf and Joe Jackson in addition to various derivatives of the Clash. She’s currently a noted Broadway actress.

And now the damn song is stuck in my head.

There’s little joy in Detroit these days. The Pistons seized up in the NBA finals, the Red Wings flew out of the Stanley Cup Finals, and Forbes magazine recently listed My Fair Birthplace dead last in the country in terms of metropolitan housing markets (Seattle, I will note, was first).

But Justin Verlander pitched a no-hitter at Comerica Park last night and the Tigers entered into a tie for first place in the AL Central.

There is some hope left in Motown after all.

I remember watching the last no-hitter thrown by a Tiger — Jack Morris’ gem back in 1984. That was the first and only no-hitter I’ve ever seen personally. I’ve always wanted to see a perfect game — the mere thought of which causes me to choke up as I try to imagine what it must be like for someone to accomplish the absolute pinnacle of achievement in one’s profession.

Think about it: there are very few jobs in which “perfection” is a definable metric. Even in sports, there’s, what, baseball and bowling where the concept “perfect” makes any sense. There have only been fifteen perfect games in the modern era of baseball, which makes it a much rarer feat than a perfect game in bowling, in which a 300 game has become somewhat commonplace.

You must, therefore, understand how excited I was when I first heard about the movie For the Love of the Game. Kevin Costner (not my favorite actor) plays a Detroit Tiger who throws a perfect game. While he’s on the mound, the story flashes back to cover his entire career and personal life. Man! A movie about a perfect game pitched by a (fictional) Detroit Tiger! And directed by Sam “Army of Darkness” Raimi!! What could be more awesome?!?!

I dragged a protesting friend to see this movie when it hit theaters back in 1999. To his credit, he didn’t say much during the show. Afterwards, he observed “Well, that’s two hours of my life I’m never getting back.”

I had to reluctantly agree. The film was godawful. Avoid it at all costs. Just thinking about it now makes my brain hurt.

But, Go Tigers!

One of the first papers I wrote in graduate school concerned Jean-Jacques Beineix’s 1981 film Diva. In that movie, the opera singer of the title refuses to allow her voice to be recorded. I found it worthy to spill toner on 12 pages over the fact that the film sets up a hierarchy between “the real” and “a representation” only to have that hierarchy constantly undermined because the film itself can only ever be a representation. The diva’s recorded voice (for there does exist a bootleg tape) is, thus, twice removed from reality — a recording of a recording. In the context of Walter Benjamin’s “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction,” this all made some sense.

The role of art within the filmic world has been of interest to me ever since but I never really pursued it as a topic of interest in my studies. I’m generally ambivalent about art for its own sake, though I am interested in the status it holds as cultural text. In other words, I know a lot about art, I just don’t know that I like it very much.

I recently saw another good example of the problematic nature of art in movies that happened to be within a remarkably decent movie that I’d like to recommend to my legion of readers.

WARNING: Below, there be spoilers

Continue reading "Stranger Than Fiction" »

I did not fare so poorly in the Oscar predictions after all. I am still not up to my old standards, but hitting 16 out of 24 is nothing to sneeze at. I should have gone with my gut and selected Alan Arkin. I’m glad the Academy spared itself and the world the indignity of permitting DVD covers of the film “Norbit” from bearing the words: “Starring Academy Award winner Eddie Murphy.”

I didn’t watch the entire show as I had a class to prepare for, but from what I saw it looked like a pretty dull affair. I’ve never been a big fan of Ellen de Generes, though she managed some amusing zingers that forced me to crack a smile.

I did miss my favorite parts: the classic movie and the “dearly-departed” montages, both of which usually make me cry. I was especially interested to see if they’d include Anna Nicole Smith (which I hear they did not).