Sunday, September 28, 2003
酒癖
Tragedy (a serious play or book that ends sadly, especially with the death of the main character) as a genre is non-existent in Hollywood. I'm no expert, but judging from what I saw at CalArts (which was granted not the front lines of the independent film world, more like it's boot camp) I'd also guess that it's also barely present (for different reasons, naturally which in and of themselves would be interesting to investigate) in the independent film scene in that country as well. So interesting questions would be along the lines of . . .
What accounts for this lack of tragedy in America?
What is the opposite of this genre? Disney? Television itself? By TV I'm trying to refer to a world where there is no pathos, no struggle, no triumph/tragedy (these two have been up until recent times inseparable), no denouement (there is no time for this anymore, and every marketing rep. knows that the commercials that would run before and after would loose out to channel-surfing).
Why is it that we find almost nothing but tragedy in the ancient Greek works? What did they know that we don't know? Or better yet, why did they need it and why don't we? Why do we think that we don't need it when we really might.
Just what does the absence of tragedy SAY about modern times? Granted, there is nothing tragic about existence itself anymore. I mean, it's been too long since or last World War, or our last Holocaust, or our last Hiroshima for us to remember anyway. All that can be done is to go to these places (Germany, Japan, or Washington D.C. where they keep the two "back up" bombs) and try to imagine what it was like. The only problem is that it can't be done. Why not? Well, Schopenhauer (and Berkeley) will never speak to me again for saying this, but we seem very capable of making one thing and one thing only manifest through our blind will at least once every era, and moreover that one thing is the only thing that we can't imagine. The unimaginable nature of tragedy. Here we come to the crux of the matter. It's precisely because we can't imagine the nature of tragedy itself the we are doomed to repeat it (in various escalative manifestations) again and again throughout history. Perhaps tragedy as genre was simply ancient man's attempt to remember, and modern man has given up the attempt? But why? I'm not sure, but it makes me uneasy. That's why I can't let Antonin off the hook when he says Tragedy (a serious play or book that ends sadly, especially with the death of the main character) as a genre is non-existent in Hollywood. I'm no expert, but judging from what I saw at CalArts (which was granted not the front lines of the independent film world, more like it's boot camp) I'd also guess that it's also barely present (for different reasons, naturally which in and of themselves would be interesting to investigate) in the independent film scene in that country as well. So interesting questions would be along the lines of . . .
What accounts for this lack of tragedy in America?
What is the opposite of this genre? Disney? Television itself? By TV I'm trying to refer to a world where there is no pathos, no struggle, no triumph/tragedy (these two have been up until recent times inseparable), no denouement (there is no time for this anymore, and every marketing rep. knows that the commercials that would run before and after would loose out to channel-surfing).
Why is it that we find almost nothing but tragedy in the ancient Greek works? What did they know that we don't know? Or better yet, why did they need it and why don't we? Why do we think that we don't need it when we really might.
Just what does the absence of tragedy SAY about modern times? Granted, there is nothing tragic about existence itself anymore. I mean, it's been too long since or last World War, or our last Holocaust, or our last Hiroshima for us to remember anyway. All that can be done is to go to these places (Germany, Japan, or Washington D.C. where they keep the two "back up" bombs) and try to imagine what it was like. The only problem is that it can't be done. Why not? Schopenhauer (and Berkeley) will never speak to me again for saying this, but we seem very capable of making one thing and one thing only manifest through our blind will at least once every era, and moreover that one thing is the only thing that we can't imagine. The unimaginable nature of tragedy. Here we come to the crux of the matter. It's precisely because we can't imagine the nature of tragedy itself the we are doomed to repeat it (in various escalative manifestations) again and again throughout history. Perhaps tragedy as genre was simply ancient man's attempt to remember, and modern man has given up the attempt? Is it too taxing on us? After all, we've so much to busy ourselves with. Well, for whatever reason, this all has something to do with the reason why I can't let Antonin off the hook when he says that Virilio's pennings are irrelevant. That's an easy criticism to make for someone who's never seen a "real" war. (Of course, it's not Antonin's fault. Real wars aren't supposed to happen anymore anyway.)
Tangential anecdote time. Everyone who knows me well also knows this story. I'm constantly telling it. It was about 5 or 6 years ago. I was in Washington D.C. on invitation by Tina Natoli, dear friend, off-broadway aspirant, and a fellow survivalist of well-meant but poorly aimed parental love. Anyway, my lack of fondness for D.C. didn't stop me from saying "yes" since at the time I really didn't have any other place to go. It was X-mas time yet again and I wasn't really in touch with my family. Anyway, we had a pretty typical holiday time with Tina's folks in D.C. which included some snow, extended family, overeating, and a lot of free time in a house with more doilies than drinkers. So without giving it too much thought we went to the National Museum of History. It was New Year's Day and we climbed the stairs up and out of the public transport. A homeless black guy was lying in the melting snow. We made our way over the the museum, and did the normal "suggested route" (we passed on the headphone tour). When I came to the "back up" Fat Man, I stopped for a while, since I had at the time a burgeoning interest in Japan. Even though we were velvet-roped off from it's bulbous, disarmed hull which was faced away from us in profile, I found myself being drawn closer and closer. I ducked under the velvet rope and went around to the tip for a closer look. My curiosity and the fact that there was only a skeleton crew working that day made me do it. What I saw there impressed into the metal badge rivited to the tip I'll never forget, and it has given me cause for endless reflection. It was one of those "seal of quality" things, with something like "inspected by #(whatever)" and some kind of message of assurance regarding the quality of the manufacturing. I stood there dumbfounded for quite sometime, and then only after Tina called after me several times did I come away from the Fat Man, go back under the velvet rope, and back to reality. I never mentioned it to Tina. Since then, I have tried to imagine many times the face of the man (or I guess it was probably a woman since I have so many images of Rosina Bonavita in my mind) who put that badge there. I hold that person as responsible for what happened at Hiroshima as I do myself for not being able to imagine it all.
What accounts for this lack of tragedy in America?
What is the opposite of this genre? Disney? Television itself? By TV I'm trying to refer to a world where there is no pathos, no struggle, no triumph/tragedy (these two have been up until recent times inseparable), no denouement (there is no time for this anymore, and every marketing rep. knows that the commercials that would run before and after would loose out to channel-surfing).
Why is it that we find almost nothing but tragedy in the ancient Greek works? What did they know that we don't know? Or better yet, why did they need it and why don't we? Why do we think that we don't need it when we really might.
Just what does the absence of tragedy SAY about modern times? Granted, there is nothing tragic about existence itself anymore. I mean, it's been too long since or last World War, or our last Holocaust, or our last Hiroshima for us to remember anyway. All that can be done is to go to these places (Germany, Japan, or Washington D.C. where they keep the two "back up" bombs) and try to imagine what it was like. The only problem is that it can't be done. Why not? Well, Schopenhauer (and Berkeley) will never speak to me again for saying this, but we seem very capable of making one thing and one thing only manifest through our blind will at least once every era, and moreover that one thing is the only thing that we can't imagine. The unimaginable nature of tragedy. Here we come to the crux of the matter. It's precisely because we can't imagine the nature of tragedy itself the we are doomed to repeat it (in various escalative manifestations) again and again throughout history. Perhaps tragedy as genre was simply ancient man's attempt to remember, and modern man has given up the attempt? But why? I'm not sure, but it makes me uneasy. That's why I can't let Antonin off the hook when he says Tragedy (a serious play or book that ends sadly, especially with the death of the main character) as a genre is non-existent in Hollywood. I'm no expert, but judging from what I saw at CalArts (which was granted not the front lines of the independent film world, more like it's boot camp) I'd also guess that it's also barely present (for different reasons, naturally which in and of themselves would be interesting to investigate) in the independent film scene in that country as well. So interesting questions would be along the lines of . . .
What accounts for this lack of tragedy in America?
What is the opposite of this genre? Disney? Television itself? By TV I'm trying to refer to a world where there is no pathos, no struggle, no triumph/tragedy (these two have been up until recent times inseparable), no denouement (there is no time for this anymore, and every marketing rep. knows that the commercials that would run before and after would loose out to channel-surfing).
Why is it that we find almost nothing but tragedy in the ancient Greek works? What did they know that we don't know? Or better yet, why did they need it and why don't we? Why do we think that we don't need it when we really might.
Just what does the absence of tragedy SAY about modern times? Granted, there is nothing tragic about existence itself anymore. I mean, it's been too long since or last World War, or our last Holocaust, or our last Hiroshima for us to remember anyway. All that can be done is to go to these places (Germany, Japan, or Washington D.C. where they keep the two "back up" bombs) and try to imagine what it was like. The only problem is that it can't be done. Why not? Schopenhauer (and Berkeley) will never speak to me again for saying this, but we seem very capable of making one thing and one thing only manifest through our blind will at least once every era, and moreover that one thing is the only thing that we can't imagine. The unimaginable nature of tragedy. Here we come to the crux of the matter. It's precisely because we can't imagine the nature of tragedy itself the we are doomed to repeat it (in various escalative manifestations) again and again throughout history. Perhaps tragedy as genre was simply ancient man's attempt to remember, and modern man has given up the attempt? Is it too taxing on us? After all, we've so much to busy ourselves with. Well, for whatever reason, this all has something to do with the reason why I can't let Antonin off the hook when he says that Virilio's pennings are irrelevant. That's an easy criticism to make for someone who's never seen a "real" war. (Of course, it's not Antonin's fault. Real wars aren't supposed to happen anymore anyway.)
Tangential anecdote time. Everyone who knows me well also knows this story. I'm constantly telling it. It was about 5 or 6 years ago. I was in Washington D.C. on invitation by Tina Natoli, dear friend, off-broadway aspirant, and a fellow survivalist of well-meant but poorly aimed parental love. Anyway, my lack of fondness for D.C. didn't stop me from saying "yes" since at the time I really didn't have any other place to go. It was X-mas time yet again and I wasn't really in touch with my family. Anyway, we had a pretty typical holiday time with Tina's folks in D.C. which included some snow, extended family, overeating, and a lot of free time in a house with more doilies than drinkers. So without giving it too much thought we went to the National Museum of History. It was New Year's Day and we climbed the stairs up and out of the public transport. A homeless black guy was lying in the melting snow. We made our way over the the museum, and did the normal "suggested route" (we passed on the headphone tour). When I came to the "back up" Fat Man, I stopped for a while, since I had at the time a burgeoning interest in Japan. Even though we were velvet-roped off from it's bulbous, disarmed hull which was faced away from us in profile, I found myself being drawn closer and closer. I ducked under the velvet rope and went around to the tip for a closer look. My curiosity and the fact that there was only a skeleton crew working that day made me do it. What I saw there impressed into the metal badge rivited to the tip I'll never forget, and it has given me cause for endless reflection. It was one of those "seal of quality" things, with something like "inspected by #(whatever)" and some kind of message of assurance regarding the quality of the manufacturing. I stood there dumbfounded for quite sometime, and then only after Tina called after me several times did I come away from the Fat Man, go back under the velvet rope, and back to reality. I never mentioned it to Tina. Since then, I have tried to imagine many times the face of the man (or I guess it was probably a woman since I have so many images of Rosina Bonavita in my mind) who put that badge there. I hold that person as responsible for what happened at Hiroshima as I do myself for not being able to imagine it all.
