Monthly Archives: February 2010
What do you most hate doing (that must be done)?
I like to think I’m a fairly fair equal-rights kinda guy. I tidy things around the house, make dinners, put away the dishes, etc., wash the odd pot, go shopping, look after the kids -homework, play, etc.. I’m a bit of a house-all-rounder you could say, but I have to admit Mrs. Rumm is better at some of the above than yours truly. And I have to admit I don’t mind at all to admit that.
I realise it’s not OK to admit that and leave it at that in this day and age, but we all have our talents and specific likes, dislikes and phobias. No matter what I do, at times Mrs. Rumm will undo and redo it to her liking. Best of luck to her I say. As I said, I’m an equal rights kinda guy. I’d never stand in her way in having something done precisely as she feels is needed. It’s true that she does some things best -by best I mean, to a degree where we can both be satisfied.
Similarly, I’m the go-to guy when the grass needs cutting, lightbulbs changing, TV & electronics setups, computers, DIY (to a degree), etc.. I don’t think Mrs. Rumm has ever attempted to put up a shelf in all our years together. But I’m not bitter. As I say, I’m an equal rights kinda guy, but I’m nothing if not fair. She has no interest in these things and it’s not worth the hassle overseeing her trying to cut the hedge anyway.
Nobody set the rules to these unwritten tasks or who has to do them. Or to what degree. They might not suit everybody in the house at all times, but on the whole, there is something of an understanding when it comes to who-does-what. More or less.
But for the life of me, there is one item in the house I cannot fathom:
…The washing machine!
The thing makes no sense believe me!
Mrs. Rumm sometimes leaves little instruction notes for me if she puts something in but has no time to wait before going out. The notes look something like this:
Rince 10 (she can’t spell rinse you see)
Drain 13
Spin 5
Spin 5
…Like, HUH?
It seems one has to return to this device every few minutes to set it to the next task. Are ALL washing machines like this?? How is one expected to know such things?? Even looking at the above note (which she left for me this morning) I had to ring her for a decryption key. Were the numbers associated with the length of time on each setting? It appears not -they’re the numbers on the dial on the machine.
I was busy at that precise time I was speaking with her, so I said I’d do it in a while. Of course despite my best intentions, this minute lasted a while longer. But eventually I remembered and set it to Rinse -number 10 setting. Mrs. Rumm had added this would take 10 – 15 minutes.
So off I went and got busy elsewhere.
Another few hours elapsed before I remembered and had time to do step 2: Drain 13…
…Well, you get my drift.
Honestly, this thing must have been designed by a woman who thinks we all think like that, or by a man who thinks women think like that. Maybe they do. How would I know??
But all’s I know is if more men used washing machines more of the time (I know -many do) then this kind of come-back-to-the-font-time-and-again nonsense wouldn’t wash for very long.
Can you think of any tasks best suited to women -or men? Or any tasks traditionally done by men that women would do better? And vice versa.
I realise I’ll be sneered at and worse for even rincing this topic, but thought it worth spinning round to see what drains.
Synecdoche, New York -Send me the bill
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I had a problem with Being John Malkovich. I loved its originality and its “fun-ness”, but I didn’t engage with the movie ultimately. I watched it a second time to make sure and yup, second time around I found it even more lacking. It was as hollow as the inside of John Malkovich’s head -the movie’s John Malkovich I mean of course.
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I haven’t seen Human Nature yet, despite the DVD being on my shelf for quite some time. Soon.
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Adaptation seemed a little too aware of itself. I enjoyed it a lot, but it felt a bit forced at times -as though the driving thought was “how can we take this a step further?” rather than “what is real for this world?”
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I’ll have to watch Eternal Sunshine of The Spotless Mind again, because I only saw it once and I think that was spoilt for me slightly by wearing (not great) headphones so as not to disturb the sleeping family upstairs. I liked the movie’s sadness and regret and its “struggle to do better”/ to rectify a lost relationship before it’s too late, etc., but again (with the cheap headphones proviso as a gimme) I felt like I was an outsider looking through a window at someone else.
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That’s not something I can say about Synecdoche New York, the first Charlie Kaufman film made by Charlie Kaufman.
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It’s not about me or anyone I know. It’s not even about the main character (“Caden Cotard”). It’s about living. Or at least, about living a life trying to know oneself.
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It sounds a bit high-falutin’ I know -and I know some people don’t/ won’t/ don’t want to get it and that’s fine by me. I’m not saying everyone has to get it by any means, but I’d like to state for the record that it’s a lovely lovely film and I should have made it my business to see it when it played for a wet week in a distant creaky cinema some vague time ago in my not-so-distant past.
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It’s quite hard to say any more about the movie because I think it’s the kind of movie that you feel rather than understand. In some ways understanding it and analysing it kind of defeats the purpose. It’d be like feeling sad, then afterwards looking for a reason to be sad. In a way, if you found that reason it wouldn’t measure up to the feeling you had before you found it.
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It’s also the kind of movie that those who love it prefer not to say so, because
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a) it’s personal -and “nobody else will feel this way about it anyway” -and “it sounds a bit lovey and artsy fartsy when I try to describe it” -and “I don’t know how to describe what I think about it anyway because I don’t even undestand it” -and “I just don’t want to” (not in an apathetic way, but in a selfish way -“this is my movie and I’m not sharing it with you”).
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and
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b) it’s the kind of movie you get spat at for recommending to others when they rent it out and demand you pay them their money back for the rental and two hours spent viewing, not to mention the emotional trauma of sitting through something so off the wall.
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and
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c) friends will hate you and will be steadfastly convinced you hate the movie and that you feel “superior” and you only say you love it because it’s an independent movie that’s not a Hollywood blockbuster. And they thought it was a piece of shit.
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And who needs that self-alienation? Friends should hate you for what you do, not for an ephemeral ‘other’ …best save up those “reasons I give my friends to hate me” for something that is actually me.
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So, Synecdoche New York is a great film. But I’m not recommending you see it unless you’re ready to see it. It’s not a hard movie to watch. It’s not artsy fartsy. It’s not humorless. It’s just ununderstandable. In a good way. In a way that is fun to think about. And to feel.
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In fact, I think you should see it. You owe it to yourself. Pay for it too. Send me the bill.
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I won’t pay the bill of course, but I’ll frame it and say “I did a good deed” whenever I look at your bill on my wall. And a little part of me will think of you too when I look at that bill. In fact you could say, your bill will make you famous for a lifetime to at least one other individual.
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Go on. Buy Synecdoche New York on DVD or Blu Ray or whatever today. And send me the bill.
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….And one last piece of advice: DO NOT WATCH IT IN PIECES.
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Wait until you have two full hours to spare without distraction (as best you can guess), put it on, then watch it to the end. You might feel like switching off, if only for a cup of tea, but I urge you to stay sitting and stay watching. It’ll be worth it. Don’t stop Don’t pause. Like all the best things, this movie builds. You can’t possibly appreciate that construction by stopping and starting.
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Synecdoche New York -best film in yeeeeaars.
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The Hurt Locker
I’ve read a number of posts/ articles/ essays complaining of inaccuracies in the film The Hurt Locker. To my mind each of these completely miss the point of the movie.
I don’t believe this movie has much to do with the Iraq war to be honest. I can see why serving soldiers wouldn’t like it because it’s not looking to capture realism, but rather it portrays the heightened tensions/ emotions/ situations of people on the frontline (or near enough to it).
It takes many liberties in doing so, but to my mind this makes it a better film. It’s less a photograph than a mood/tone-orientated painting, possibly missing much/most factual information, but instead translating the emotion and many more (perhaps otherwise indescribable) aspects of the world it is presenting.
Ultimately (as the quote at the start of the movie reveals) it’s about adrenelin addiction rather than “Iraq”. Tension is racked up and diffused continuously. It can all end in a mighty explosion or a disappointing deflation -literally, figuratively, emotionally, physically. It doesn’t matter if the events that bring the protagonist or the viewer to this experience are real-world approximations or flights of imagination. What matters is you share in the more ephemeral/ ’emotional’ aspect so you understand where the protagonist is situated mentally (in his head) rather than physically (as, in this movie, in Iraq).
The Hurt Locker is more a movie about thrill seekers, gamblers and junkies than it is about war in Iraq (or anywhere else). To my mind it’s a great movie, but I can understand how it can be ‘misunderstood’ by people who expect it to be something else.
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For a better representation of War in Iraq, Generation Kill is the start and end point.
As this image shows, it’s from David Simon, creator of The Wire -the best TV show ever in the history of TV. Generation Kill is a lot shorter than The Wire and to my sensibilities slightly slower to get into, but a damn fine truthful representation of war from a particular (grunt/marine) aspect. Not that I’m in a position to comment on what that’s like, but for anyone looking for a representation of “war in Iraq” I would steer them here rather than The Hurt Locker.
The Greatest Fear of All
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Did you ever get the impression that the same people have run this planet forever and will go on doing so? Not in a conspiratorial way I mean, but the same character types have always come to the fore. This world rewards certain traits that are anathema to many of the rest of us. Maybe it’s because they do the work that our deepest thoughts and fears do not want to admit must be done? If they do something drastic, it’s not our fault -it’s theirs.
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Whatever the reason, who cares? Don’t you think these types get enough press and publicity? At times, even publicising their atrocities and misdemeanours along with their achievements (if only to be ‘fair and balanced’) can sometimes do more to puff up their image than anything else.
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As a lie leads to another greater lie, to a web of tangled lies, so too with deception and political wrangling and killing and death. The progression from one to another can often easily be charted in an ever-growing throat-grabbing addictive blob of Despair, Fear and Negative energy. Stories of great people (or even not so great) not mired in blood and violence tend to be less linear (“he did this in 1903, then moved to another city, got married and didn’t pop up again until 1922, when he did xyz.”)
Ooyay is a conscious escape, not only from the horrors of the world as we know it, but also from the type of people I feel have sucked the world dry to their own ends and advancement. It lends no flame of publicity to violence or violent ideas, yet is a thoroughly engrossing, fun, adventure such has never been seen before (even if you’ve heard that before).
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Professor Crastinator is a man, who, thirty years ago has lead a kind of new Rennaissance, reforming the world, re-shaping it to his own way of thinking in many ways. Of course he is quite mad (has there ever been such an influential individual who hasn’t been?) and this madness is reflected in the world he has helped create. Now Marcus Crastinator is 89 years old and wants everything to stay the same, but when his little doggie goes missing he finds himself being catapulted through his greatest fear again and again in order to find him. CHANGE is what the Professor fears most of all and CHANGE is what he must endure if he’s ever to see his Ooyay again.
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You can buy Ooyay from any online bookstore. Or a signed copy from here.
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Why Beauty Matters
Roger Scruton had a documentary/ report/ essay on BBC a couple of months ago called Why Beauty Matters. It’s about how the idea of beauty in art is/has been lost/ abandoned.
I agree pretty much with the views expressed in that. People on the whole have become too cynical for beauty in Art. As with in all other artistic areas these days, I would suggest the portrayal of negative attributes is what is often most highly praised.
Most “modern art” (at least the most popular kind) is a jaded death spasm of an urge to rebel, which itself is now nothing more than conformity because few people have the courage to portray Beauty or Happiness or pleasant scenes or thoughts or actions when the Art world is expecting -and only allows- “mind-pricks” with a particular message or non-message or a cynical “dare to nay-say this!”
Beauty in modern art is often used only as a counterpoint to the pain and suffering of others or to come or that has been. It is rarely the focus, the raison d’etre. Beauty is too subjective, and so, too many people might not “get it”.
Death and Fear and disdain and cynicism are more universally shared commodities.
It’s hard to dismiss a portrayal of Death or a work of art that justifies itself simply as “a bit of a mess”. To criticise -or even discuss- this last one is lending it credence and adds to the mockery and disdain of my personal view and ‘wants’ from Art.
That’s not to say “it’s not Art” -but just that it’s nothing I care to talk about or debate.
Feel free to enjoy it yourself. Sleep in it for all I care.
A work that is made to “uplift” is nowadays dismissed precisely because of the bland, homogenised, compartmentalised, formulaic, “digital” view of the world. Everything is labelled and put in its box for easy consumption. Want “uplifting”? Go to Disney or see a Ron Howard movie.
But those places we are “supposed to” go to for that uplifting experience are themselves the greatest distributors of Cynicism and Formula and disdain. They languish in Politically Corrective strategy groups, paring edges off anything that might offend, almost always leaving nothing but the bare bones of a thread that will “appeal to” (which now means little more than ‘not offend’) as wide an audience as possible (which translates as ‘doesn’t have any nipples in it because granny might have a heart attack if she knows the 3-year-old suspects women have breasts!’)
Here’s the programme I mentioned above
Tough Beans
It’s never the big things that get to us. Well, maybe it is, but the small things can be just as upsetting…
I bought two beanbags a couple of months ago. The first time “the cousins” called round, a week or two later, all the kids had a diving match on them. As a result both bags were somewhat deflated and virtually unusable. I/ we had sore backs and sore arses from sitting on them/ on the floor thereafter. So I filled one with the other and resolved to buy some more ‘beans’ soon. Today, over a month later, I went and bought those beans. It didn’t have to be today, but well, if not today then when?
They came in a clear-plastic bag around 5ft tall/ 2ft wide.
25euros -sheesh! But that’s not the worst of it. I haven’t even begun -patience!
I brought the bag home and set it against the wall in the room nearest the front door. As one does.
I didn’t have much time before I had to collect my son from school, so I forgot about the bag o’beans. As one does.
Went and picked him up, then returned home. I had also forgotten his friend was coming with us today. No problem there.
So we get in the door, put down the bags, etc. and within 2 minutes there was a call for me to come quickly… You no doubt guessed it… the bag o’beans had sprung not one but two holes -one in the middle, the other near the bottom. Clearly my son had taken it upon himself to play punch bags (as his friend intimated, but I didn’t want to hear any more at that time).
I tried resting it in a position where the beans stopped pouring out, but though I was successful eventually, my actions increased the flow in the short-term. I wanted to cry. I kind of surprised myself at how upset I was. Yes it was distressing, but ultimately it’s a small problem I know.
Still I was very near real tears and feelings of total inadequacy. I scolded the boy of course -somewhat vociferously as you can imagine. He was cowed by this, but it must be said he wasn’t too bothered. His friend however looked like he wanted to go home, so I closed the door to that room and told them not to go in there for the rest of the day.
A half hour later or so (after I calmed down) I thought I’d take another look. “Sure how bad could it be?” …As soon as I opened the door again, I again felt depressingly helpless. It’s not that the whole bag had emptied across the floor, but it was clear anything I might do to clear it was going to result in more spillage. I got an extra-large black plastic bag from another room and lifted the bag o’beans into it, which of course saw more spurts of tiny aero-beans everywhere.
I could now hear it pouring into the black bag at an alarming rate, but at least it was into the bag now and not on the floor. “How did you manage to make those holes?” I demanded to know, at last feeling like I might be able to handle the answer. “He dived onto it!” his friend pronounced (with serious and weighty glee).
This set me off again, pleading with the 4 year old (5 in a couple of months) to have mercy on his poor father, threatening him with consequences should he not mend his ways, yelping at his lack of undivided concern at the melting of the universe his actions had set into motion.
Just then I thought of something… I was supposed to pick up my daughter at 3PM! I rushed to the kitchen and you can imagine my sheer and utter panic as I saw the time… 3:22!
AAAARRRRRRHHHHHHHHHHHEEEEEEIIIIIIIIIIIII!!!!!!
To put it mildly, the boys were bundled into the car and a new trail of blazing rubber was burnt through the road. It usually takes 10 minutes to get to the school. I don’t know how long it did take, but 3:22 itself was 20 minutes too late -and I wasn’t even there yet!
She was the last one left, but thankfully a mother of another child had waited with her. I couldn’t even begin to explain why I was late (although I tried -and failed). “Sure don’t worry -it happens to us all” said the mother with a cheery wave.
On the way home, my daughter began with the “where were you?s” and I just wanted to die. What made me feel even worse (like an infinite mandelbrot set, dig deeper and this thing has layers on layers that never end and each one is as stupid and pointless as the last) was that I had updated the firmware on my phone earlier that morning. Usually an alarm goes off at 2:45 to remind me to pick her up, but because of this update the alarm had been wiped.
Stoopid is as stoopid does and believe me today was me at my STOOOPID WORST. It was the perfect storm of Mischeviousness + Stoopidity + Timing + Lack of Timing + Sheer Panic +Bad Luck.
And today is only Monday.