Saturday, January 24, 2004
teaching, Politics
One and a half years of being a teacher have passed, and I still feel I am well outside of the circles of "eduspeak," the hordes of the theorists and the certified and their jargons, that are, apparently, all over the blogosphere. Even sites that poo-poo "eduspeaK" and call for major reform in schools retain their own loyal and bitter coterie. I embroiled myself, like the bitch I can be, here. It's not that I don't agree with a many of their more conservative arguments; it's the tone that shreds me.
Take this breakdown, for example, by the authors of ReformK12. It contrasts their ends with those of their "enemies," and presents some strong points. And, again, it's not that their site is biased. It's SUPPOSED to be biased. As E.B. White wrote, "aal writing slants the way a writer leans, and no man is born perpendicular, although many men are born upright." It's the snarky, cleverer-than-thou sarcasm that I find unfitting. And I usually love sarcasm. Really.
One and a half years of being a teacher have passed, and I still feel I am well outside of the circles of "eduspeak," the hordes of the theorists and the certified and their jargons, that are, apparently, all over the blogosphere. Even sites that poo-poo "eduspeaK" and call for major reform in schools retain their own loyal and bitter coterie. I embroiled myself, like the bitch I can be, here. It's not that I don't agree with a many of their more conservative arguments; it's the tone that shreds me.
Take this breakdown, for example, by the authors of ReformK12. It contrasts their ends with those of their "enemies," and presents some strong points. And, again, it's not that their site is biased. It's SUPPOSED to be biased. As E.B. White wrote, "aal writing slants the way a writer leans, and no man is born perpendicular, although many men are born upright." It's the snarky, cleverer-than-thou sarcasm that I find unfitting. And I usually love sarcasm. Really.
basic verbs
PhiLL has graciously published a review I wrote the other night of the film Etre et Avoir.
PhiLL has graciously published a review I wrote the other night of the film Etre et Avoir.
Sunday, January 18, 2004
the joy, the annoyance
Going to the movies in Manhattan is so far from the experience of moviegoing I grew up with. At the Salmon Run Mall Cinemas, in Watertown, NY, as the town's economy slowly faded, it was common to sit in the huge theaters with only a dozen or so people, all of whom have travelled and paid to be here in the dark for action, bodies, and entertainment, and none of whom are aware of or can properly employ terms like "empiricism" or "modernity."
At a venue such as Cinema Village, on 12th Street between 5th Avenue and University Place, you cramp together with aging metrollectuals and art-culture enthusiasts, all of whom are city-friendly, and all of whom seem to be discussing their experiences teaching philosophy in a Catholic school, or their approval of "the young people coming out to see Fellini."
Growing up, I'd most likely have been sitting with popcorn anticipating Congo, ConAir, or Cliffhanger. I don't regret those experiences, especially for the time I spent with friends, free. And there are movies I'm so happy to have seen on the big screen: Batman, Fargo, Pulp Fiction. I haven't been to the movies in Watertown for at least 5 years.
What else has changed? Documentaries. I guess somewhere during my constant consumption and examination of acting and film, I became too attuned to the craft of filmmaking. What is necessary to create the fiction of cinema— a pretty intricate scam? I think I pay so much attention to the reality of events that had to occur to make any one scene work in a narrative that the scene is ultimately rendered unconvincing. That is not to say I cannot appreciate a fictional film, but only that I am hyper-attuned to any weakness or seam in a less-than-excellent feature film. That's why I come down so hard on attempts like The Cooler: they show so blatantly what tried to make them work and failed. Documentaries, on the other hand, are real, even when manipulated. Amanda and I drove into Manhattan last afternoon with the agenda of making it a total movie night; we hoped to see a film, eat, see another film, and then end the night with a few drinks. Of the four films we agreed we wanted, or had wanted, to see, 3 were documentaries. The fourth was in Farsi and seemed by all reviews to be fascinating formally. I feel as if the art of acting is going through a public trial. Reality is stripping away more of the veil of fiction, leaving genuine actors in the absurd position of standing in front of cameras not as a character, but as their celebrity in a character. This has always been the case, sure, but without the garauntee that the audience will "willingly suspend disbelief," any fiction seems like an intricately perpetrated lie.
The film we picked was a French documentary about a one-room, Auvergne elementary school, called Etre et Avoir. From the first slow moments, the film was joy. We think it is because we both have a rudimentary comprehension of French and because we are both teachers, that Amanda and I loved and enjoyed this film so much. It soars into the clutch of films I have truly enjoyed this year. I will review it soon, but I will say now that it is worth its time and more. There are so many genuine moments captured, I wonder how, in this tiny room where eleven students from ages 6-10 interact and learn from this soft-spoken but firm French man, goateed and near his retirement.
Going to the movies in Manhattan is so far from the experience of moviegoing I grew up with. At the Salmon Run Mall Cinemas, in Watertown, NY, as the town's economy slowly faded, it was common to sit in the huge theaters with only a dozen or so people, all of whom have travelled and paid to be here in the dark for action, bodies, and entertainment, and none of whom are aware of or can properly employ terms like "empiricism" or "modernity."
At a venue such as Cinema Village, on 12th Street between 5th Avenue and University Place, you cramp together with aging metrollectuals and art-culture enthusiasts, all of whom are city-friendly, and all of whom seem to be discussing their experiences teaching philosophy in a Catholic school, or their approval of "the young people coming out to see Fellini."
Growing up, I'd most likely have been sitting with popcorn anticipating Congo, ConAir, or Cliffhanger. I don't regret those experiences, especially for the time I spent with friends, free. And there are movies I'm so happy to have seen on the big screen: Batman, Fargo, Pulp Fiction. I haven't been to the movies in Watertown for at least 5 years.
What else has changed? Documentaries. I guess somewhere during my constant consumption and examination of acting and film, I became too attuned to the craft of filmmaking. What is necessary to create the fiction of cinema— a pretty intricate scam? I think I pay so much attention to the reality of events that had to occur to make any one scene work in a narrative that the scene is ultimately rendered unconvincing. That is not to say I cannot appreciate a fictional film, but only that I am hyper-attuned to any weakness or seam in a less-than-excellent feature film. That's why I come down so hard on attempts like The Cooler: they show so blatantly what tried to make them work and failed. Documentaries, on the other hand, are real, even when manipulated. Amanda and I drove into Manhattan last afternoon with the agenda of making it a total movie night; we hoped to see a film, eat, see another film, and then end the night with a few drinks. Of the four films we agreed we wanted, or had wanted, to see, 3 were documentaries. The fourth was in Farsi and seemed by all reviews to be fascinating formally. I feel as if the art of acting is going through a public trial. Reality is stripping away more of the veil of fiction, leaving genuine actors in the absurd position of standing in front of cameras not as a character, but as their celebrity in a character. This has always been the case, sure, but without the garauntee that the audience will "willingly suspend disbelief," any fiction seems like an intricately perpetrated lie.
The film we picked was a French documentary about a one-room, Auvergne elementary school, called Etre et Avoir. From the first slow moments, the film was joy. We think it is because we both have a rudimentary comprehension of French and because we are both teachers, that Amanda and I loved and enjoyed this film so much. It soars into the clutch of films I have truly enjoyed this year. I will review it soon, but I will say now that it is worth its time and more. There are so many genuine moments captured, I wonder how, in this tiny room where eleven students from ages 6-10 interact and learn from this soft-spoken but firm French man, goateed and near his retirement.
Please, Please, Please Let me Get What I Want
It seems now that I have traded in the bulk of my fortune for a magnificently swell engagement ring, manifold incredible "things" are becoming alluringly available. Also, having recently scoffed when Dylan told me of his friend who has a deep and manic Smiths vinyl collection (scoffed at the idea of such a hobby, despite my own fascination with the band, not at Dylan's story itself), I was nonetheless tantalized in a rare records store on 7th Street by this alledgedly rare Smiths 12" EP. It's about the 45th record down, and it's a German print, and the record is a pink splatter color, or, as the lady in the store bragged, marbelized. She suggested seductively that it was extremely rare, and I did believe her. And in the arms of morose sin — an embrace not far from many Morrissey lyrics — I coveted it. $90 is just too much now, or perhaps ever. What concerns me is the momentary willingness, like a shot of scotch at noon. And it lingered for a few avenues worth of walking, too, lingers now enough to research. The guy on this site wants £35, or $53ish. I think the lady was adding the "hip" tax. Across the street, a truly excellent 80s kitsch shop promised a lot but delivered little aside from Jackie O. and Pee-Wee action figures, and vintage posters of acts like Duran Duran, Debbie Harry, Twisted Sister, and Thompson Twins. There was a Bowie, but it was uninteresting. Nearby, a women's 80sish clothing/novelty store impressed us. I was close to purchasing a black t-shirt that states "I [heart] M Pussy," almost as close as with the Smiths EP (which, by the way, was of "William It Was Really Nothing," adding to its appeal). But, again, no. Jon would have appreciated it, I know. Jon, when you visit again, I'll take you here and you can perhaps buy the shirt, or the white one with b&w boobs accurately screen-printed on the chest.
Stuff.
It seems now that I have traded in the bulk of my fortune for a magnificently swell engagement ring, manifold incredible "things" are becoming alluringly available. Also, having recently scoffed when Dylan told me of his friend who has a deep and manic Smiths vinyl collection (scoffed at the idea of such a hobby, despite my own fascination with the band, not at Dylan's story itself), I was nonetheless tantalized in a rare records store on 7th Street by this alledgedly rare Smiths 12" EP. It's about the 45th record down, and it's a German print, and the record is a pink splatter color, or, as the lady in the store bragged, marbelized. She suggested seductively that it was extremely rare, and I did believe her. And in the arms of morose sin — an embrace not far from many Morrissey lyrics — I coveted it. $90 is just too much now, or perhaps ever. What concerns me is the momentary willingness, like a shot of scotch at noon. And it lingered for a few avenues worth of walking, too, lingers now enough to research. The guy on this site wants £35, or $53ish. I think the lady was adding the "hip" tax. Across the street, a truly excellent 80s kitsch shop promised a lot but delivered little aside from Jackie O. and Pee-Wee action figures, and vintage posters of acts like Duran Duran, Debbie Harry, Twisted Sister, and Thompson Twins. There was a Bowie, but it was uninteresting. Nearby, a women's 80sish clothing/novelty store impressed us. I was close to purchasing a black t-shirt that states "I [heart] M Pussy," almost as close as with the Smiths EP (which, by the way, was of "William It Was Really Nothing," adding to its appeal). But, again, no. Jon would have appreciated it, I know. Jon, when you visit again, I'll take you here and you can perhaps buy the shirt, or the white one with b&w boobs accurately screen-printed on the chest.
Stuff.
