Monthly archives of “June 2014

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Her, Spike Jonze (2013)

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Gentle dude, simultaneously steeped in self-help and emotionally clueless per the modern manner, falls in love with the perfect woman, a computer programmed to like him. Nice conceit — Pygmalion in the Matrix — and a lot of ink’s been spilled on it, so I’ll skip the obvious commentary about “modern love” and “our contemporary moment” and just mention my disappointment with the extreme gynophobia of this supposedly enlightened hipster enterprise. In the end, the message here is that not only are real women terrifying and incomprehensible, so are artificial women created exclusively to serve men. Sad movie in all the ways Jonze intended and a number of ways he almost certainly didn’t.

Here, let me put this as concisely as I can: How many more stories where we’re expected to care about the emotional travails of a man-child who’s terrified by confident women and utterly without self-awareness?

Look at him there on the poster: Surrounded by accolades and still so confused and sad. Isn’t he adorable?

Now that I think about it, Jonze has really hit on a elegant solution to the problem of terrifying women. He’s made a movie where the hyper-intelligent, hyper-sexual, and therefore hyper-intimidating woman is literally invisible! So much easier to deal with than the breathing and eating kind. Though still of course impossible to deal with. Because, you know, women.

I will say that the mise-en-scène here is terrific. Gorgeous Portra colors and brilliantly subtle suggestions of a Los Angeles fully recognizable yet eerily skewed into a near future. And there are some sweetly off-kilter passages of dialogue that make me smile. But mostly this is just a wallow in very old-fashioned gender stereotyping, dressed up in a few postmodern tropes.

Actually, I guess now that I think about it there’s just as much misandry as misogyny. Everyone’s such a type. Bleh.

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The Flamethrowers, Rachel Kushner (2013)

flamethrowercoverMany contemporary American novelists write novels to mansplain contemporary America to me which is one reason I tend not to read many contemporary American novels. Rachel Kushner starts racking up points with me from page one on the basis of her chosen subjects and settings alone; I cannot recall ever having read a novel set in the New York art world of the 1970s, industrializing northern Italy in the 1950s, or leftist Italian movements of the 1970s, much less all three.

The novel opens with our protagonist, Reno, a young would-be artist, using a fancy Italian motorcycle to make a mark on the Bonneville Salt Flats. Everyone else present is there to marvel at the power and force of machinery; Reno is there to make a drawing of impermanence. The novel ends (don’t worry; only the mildest of spoilers to follow) with an Italian would-be anarchist using a set of borrowed skis to make a mark on the side of Mont Blanc as he flees the police pursuing him for crimes he’s committed against the Italian industrialist family who manufactured the fancy Italian motorcycle aforementioned. You begin to see the layers of theme and association Kushner’s built up. The novel is about the rise of industrialized postwar capitalism, its early roots in Futurist fetishization of machinated speed, the ways in which its apparent hegemony was undermined by anarchic movements artistic and political, and the ways in which those movements began to fail.

At what point did modernity start to seem other than purely glorious? Everyone’s got a different answer for that, depending on where and when you come from. 1914, 1945, 1967 — you can make strong arguments for any of these, of course. You don’t hear hear 1978 very often, the year the Red Brigades killed Aldo Moro. Have kids these days ever heard of Aldo Moro, or Baader-Meinhof? There’s probably a band in Bushwick named Red Army Faction. God, that’s a depressing thought.

Anyway, apparently Kushner (b. 1968) is old enough to know and young enough to be able to reimagine those “years of lead” when the ideologies of the 1960s turned into the uprisings of the 1970s, and then everything went to hell.

I’m going on about politics because that’s the part most interesting to me, but Kushner’s evocation of the New York art world at this moment is actually the most entertaining part of the book. The implicit but never enforced idea is that the revolutionary movements in art going on at the same time as these attempts at political revolution and anarchism are just as exciting but finally just as overheated, under-baked, and doomed to be remembered more as zigs and zags of fashion than agents of actual upheaval. The characters Kushner creates in the Soho of the early 1970s are wonderful, and it’s fun too to guess who’s supposed to be representing actual artists of the time; I think I may have spotted William Eggleston? Can that be right?

There’s some unevenness in this book — some scenes can feel like they were only written because Kushner had to get someone from point A to point B — but there are some sequences that are genuinely thrilling in their cascades of association which seem both truly surprising and absolutely inevitable. It’s not a perfect novel, but it’s the best work of contemporary fiction I’ve read in a long time.

I’ve got one other line of thinking that doesn’t make me very happy. Our protagonist Reno is a young woman from nowhere (Reno) trying to navigate all the sophistication and sophistry of the rich, the urban, the Italian, the artistic, etc. I wish she had in the end, or even the middle, found something to be other than a girl who looks to men to define her, and something to do other than react to situations. She begins the book with an idea about an art project; Kushner doesn’t let her do anything with it, and by the end, we’ve pretty much forgotten that she ever had any artistic ambitions at all. Is that supposed to be a comment on the fate of female artists of the time? That seems like an interpretive stretch. Anyway, I’m just saying that I felt more interested in Reno’s artistic aspirations than she seemed to be herself.