Category / Needless Intellectualizing

by Edward Champion

The Silliest Article Ever Published at Slate

With the release of Aidan Wasley’s Star Wars article on Slate today, all day job malingerers can finally find an article that is absurd on almost every level. To compare George Lucas with the likes of John Ashbery’s poetry, Peter Greenaway and Matthew Barney’s Cremaster films is to remain highly suspect, as Yoda is an amusing little character but poetic in the most puerile of ways (“Do, or do not. There is no try.”) and Barney scaling the Chrysler Building’s elevator shaft (without CGI, yo) is more impressive than some half-baked lightsaber duel near a lava flow.

Let’s be clear on this: the Star Wars sextet is not pomo. Not in any real way. There is no blurring of distinctions. A space opera is a space opera. We do not see any fragmented moments that are meant to be mourned, any form of self-referential narration (The Force? Are you fucking kidding me?) other than that yellow scrolling text, any moment where George Lucas himself appears within the story as author, and, particularly in the most recent trilogy, anything that even approaches a minimalist design. Further, the idea that a series of films with some of the most atrocious B-movie dialogue ever written can be considered “intellectual” is tantamount to inviting a bunch of grad students to seriously consider the literary merits of Run’s House.

And let’s be clear on this, Wasley: Anytime an audience goes into a theatre, they are going to be “self-conscious” of a fucking narrative. It’s called paying attention to a movie. And unless an audience member is too busy making out because the movie in question sucks or ingesting an interesting and possibly illegal substance to enhance the visuals, assuming that the audience member is not a dumbass, he is sure as fucking fuck going to be self-fucking-conscious of what’s going on. Because ten fucking bucks is a lot of fucking money.

“Lucas even seems to acknowledge these stumbles toward excess within the structure of the films themselves.” No, pal, it’s called focus groups.

“Lucas is firmly committed to digital cinema, but in this single shot we see him acknowledge, perhaps a little sheepishly, his technology’s erasure of a fortuitous or exciting human accident.” No. It’s called one-upping Firefly.

by Edward Champion

Bad Lost Theories #1

Since speculating about the meaning of Lost is apparently the thing to do at cocktail parties (if not a pretext to get someone’s phone number), and since said activity has replaced speculating about, oh say, real people across the room as the topic du jour, I’ve decided to offer a running series of theories explaining the motivations of the show. **SPOILERS SPOILERS** and all that.

Theory 1: It’s All About Sexual Repression. The show’s creators have been reluctant to explore John Locke’s sex life (until this week’s episode, where a relationship was profiled). That is because John Locke is sexually repressed. After his kidney was removed by his father and Locke was left hung out to dry, reduced to sipping coffee with a disturbingly giddy grimace on his face in a car (the grimace itself closely matching the cup’s shape), note that Locke had great difficulty snuggling in bed with his girlfriend (who, not so coincidentally, teaches an anger management class). Even when she gave him the key to the house! (This is an ancient myth that goes back to the classic cinematic comedy Ghostbusters, whereby the Gatekeeper and the Keymaster must enjoin.)

The kidney represents virility and shares its shape with Locke’s grimace and his girlfriend’s beautiful ass crack (unseen, because this is teevee we’re talking about). Keep in mind too that Locke did resort to a phone sex line with “Helen” (a woman who he never met and, indeed, did not see, a sly reference to Helen Keller!). His idea was to go to Australia, aka Down Under, i.e., “going down under” on a woman. Locke then is partially frustrated because he has been unable to perform cunnilingus. Thus, he must “walkabout” the continent that is the global equiavlent of Helen/Anger Management Teacher’s vagina. It has not yet been revealed, but I suspect that the trajectory of Locke’s planned walkabout resembles a grimace, thus maintaining the symbol of the slight curve. Locke is also confined to a wheelchair — thus, reinforcing the circular motif. Is the real miracle then not Locke’s use of his legs, but his forthcoming ablity to lap his tongue with gusto?

Now, conversely, the French woman (who is, incidentally, named Rousseau, a philosopher exploring similar social contract issues as the 16th century philosopher John Locke) is also quite a lonely woman. What’s the first thing she does when Sayid comes looking for? Why, she ties him down and gets extremely close to him, demanding that he not bolt out of the building. Now it’s worth noting that Sayid is tied down to a square and uncomfortable bed, thus demonstrating that Rousseau is the exact opposite of Locke! (And where Locke is a man, Rousseau is a woman — another set of obverses. And where Rousseau has wild and unruly hair, Locke ain’t got much on top.) Where Locke has problems expressing intimacy and must resort to grand and despearate bravado (such as expensive plane tickets bought for phone sex operators), Rousseau is a woman ready to party (no LCD Soundsystem in her lair to speak of, but there is, at least, a music box; the woman can improvise). She also speaks French, the language of love.

Thus, it is the love/sexual repression that is one of the island’s many experiments. Locke and Rousseau are mere pawns. By the middle of Season 2, we will see rampant copulation among the island’s population. This season’s finale will end in an orgy uniting “The Others” with the survivors of Flight 815 in a very naked and licentious way. Kate will become the island’s dominatrix, demanding subservience from both Jack and Sawyer. Dawson will apply his carpentry skills to the construction of bamboo-related toys for the dungeon. And the Mamas and the Papas’ music will form a lasting soundtrack for this televised debauchery.

by Edward Champion

This Week in Desperate Similes

Robert Cringely: “Google is like that kid ahead of me at the bank, driving others mildly insane and enjoying every minutes.”

In Earlier Drafts:

“Google is like that mail order catalog that comes in the mail when your checking account balance is low.”

“Google is like that burned spot at the top of your mouth, just after you’ve finished eating a few slices of pizza.”

“Google is like that final orchestral moment in the Beatles’ ‘A Day in the Life.’ It sounds impressive but goes on too long.”

“Google is like whiskers you forgot to shave under your nose. You don’t mind them, but you can’t wait to go home and shave them off.”

by Edward Champion

Summarizing Traister

If you decide not to read this dumb and ridiculous Rebecca Traister article, here’s a summary:

First midlife crisis at 31. Where do I begin? Ah, yes, memory lane. Blame a book. Piggy! Name too funny for character, dismiss book. I was diligent and smart. Because I could outsmart Quakers without reading the book! I was better than them and now I’m a writer! In your face, ex-schoolmates! Can’t really break down “sooey” in phonetics, but what the hell, I need a transition point. Overintellectualization of book I barely remember. Never really liked this book, so I’ll go off the deep end here. Rape! Murder! Mother England! Guess the book sucks and junior high was foolish. Still better than you.

by Edward Champion

An Open Note To Virginia Hefferman

[SIX FEET UNDER FANS: Spoilers ahead. Proceed, only if you’ve seen the episode.]

Yo, Virginia. I’m enjoying the final episodes of Six Feet Under too. But it’s just a TV show. That you would willingly bring Fortinbras and Lionel Trilling into the equation, while completely overlooking the likely Clare-Nate consummation (which seemed strongly implied, given the episode’s final shot of Clare lying on the bed), suggests a deconstructionist who needs to inhale and exhale for several hours, get out of the house, and inhabit the real world for just a whit. Television is hardly as intricate as you make it out to be. I know your editors expect you to sound smart. But really, Virginia, we’re talking Alan Ball here. Not exactly Mr. Subtle.