Bad Education x Tres

Sometimes, I really believe there is something wrong with me. Like how I think school dances are inconceivably boring ,and I'd actually rather do my homework. That's harsh. Maybe there is something wrong.

Alas, no homework last night, and no dance either. Instead, watching badass flicks with the homies. I brought a whole stack of DVDs to Mary's house, and Sruthi, dear girl, immediately zeroed in on Bad Education. So Bad Education it was--come to think of it, a rather bad decision considering adults were home. Still, parental supervision was minimal and we were rather self-supervising anyways.

By this third time watching Bad Education, the shock and novelty of sex worn off. I could sit through without cringing, but it still surprised me. It was definitely more explicit than I remembered. Poor Olga, I'm afraid she's permanently scarred.

Bad Education was a rather polarizing film, especially along Almodovar's fans. Compared to his warm, gooey stories, Bad Education is coldly clinical, a disection of narrative structure and psychopathic cunning rather than the messy pathos that characterized his earlier melodramadies. It is masculine and distant--by god is it brilliant. The layered construction is so skillfully crafted in the editing and script. I agree that Bad Education is emotionally distant; it doesn't immerse you in the world so much as unfold like an elegant flower before your eyes. There's plenty to admire as an outsider. How amazing it would have been to figure how every twist as it hit. Damn you Internet spoiliers; I never go to do that.

Google is My Crack

That is all.

Academic Soup: Communism Upsets Renaissance Art, Falls to College Essay

By some dumb line-up of the schedule, I'm actually one night ahead on the Euro homework, and at least one month behind on the college stuff, but I digress. In my homework perusing, I read a Time article on Renaissance portraiture, which caused a profound sense of deja vu, especially upon the bit about prostitutes dying their hair blond with urine. (Such salacious details find comfortable niches in my brain.) Indeed, I had once read this article in a random Time from the library discard pile. I even have a vivid memory of the accompanying picture of Ginevra de Benci as painted by Leonardo da Vinci. No doubt the vivid memory is because this portrait was one of the select few represented in the Acadec Renaissance Art.

Speaking of Acadec, Chinese art is as boring as hell. If it isn't boring, the writers sure have made a fair attempt at making it so. The CD on the other hand, greatly amused me with the inclusion of Chinese pop songs. My dear mom made an attempt to educate me on all affairs Chinese, beginning with the personal affairs and wives of Mao. I know all about his affairs and nothingof his policies.

Nation Merit Scholarship essay is not being written. It is simply not happening. What a load of bull I have to write about myself. I feel like a lying, cheating braggart.

School atmosphere is buzzing with college talk and flu viruses. Both have a fair shot at the title of Biggest Stress Inducer.

Why Facebook Belongs to the College Crowd ONLY

While searching for the esteemed Zhang clan on Facebook, I encountered a rare species: someone over the age of 40. People you do NOT expect to find on Facebook:

Be a C student in Calc

Despite failing spectactularly on my first BC calc exam, I remain in a remarkable state of Zen-like calmness. Is it senior slide catching up to me? Lethargy and inertia seem the predominate state of my being.

After seeing a small (this is Noeth) red C- on my calc test, in addition to a scrawled note demanding "more study needed," I reacted with little emotion. Perhaps it is a profound state of denial, but I really don't seem to care. Or this there some Freudian defense mechanism (i.e. denial) pretending to me I don't care? There was also a supreme confidence that I would do much better on the next test, that I was capable of doing much better. Really, you think I would freak out more after getting the lowest math test grade of my life. This is from first grade onward and includes all those tedious hours of Kumon. Whatever the case, I cannot profess to be easily moved. I believe myself to be a rather sensitive person--hypersensitive in some cases--but I rarely, rarely cry.

Maybe it's just back-to-school blues, but I have been very spacey all week. I read the instructions on tests all wrong, skip questions on accident, am especially inarticulate, and generally seem to be operating in another dimension. I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself king of infinite space.

Senior, that's old!

I haven't updated in two weeks, which is especially dismal considering the start of school means I should have plenty to talk about. So without further ado, gossipy and judgmental thoughts on my senior year teachers. Compared against other years, they are definitely the best bunch (sophomore year was a real nadir saved only by Veley.)

Starr: Senior Sem seems like a typical slacking-off, sleep-through first period class. Hopefully, I won't sleep through the valuable life skills part. It can't be too hard to teach this class, and Starr seems capable enough if a bit old ladyish and boring. "Darling" and "Sweetie" seem to make up a large extent on her vocabulary.

Green: This class BLOWS my mind. Metaphorically, of course, or else I'd be running around without a head. I have always had history taught to me as a straight set of dates and facts, but Green teaches history with the skill of a master storyteller. Connections between the obscure and the esoteric seem not salacious tangents as in Steege, but threads in the larger tapestry of history. Corny? Only if you've never taken Euro.

McClung: I hated physics in 8th grade and approached this year's physics class with a large sense of dread. Why did I take this class, it might be some hazy thing called "peer pressure," but I certainly don't dread sitting in McClung's class. In Harry Potter terms, he's definitely Flitwick: short, energetic, and self-processed anal. And is there some rule that science teacher's kids have to be cute?

Leavitt: Leavitt is a brunette replica of Mme Laz in demeanor, voice, build, looks, haircut, fashion sense, and enthusiasm for French. Her class lacks the air of lethargy that permeated every other French class I have taken in high school. Here's to hoping I'll learn something this year.

Noeth: The legend, right? I have nothing to add. His class is a riot.

Crick: His class is also a riot, but perhaps not as intentionally. Only some massively insecure person would spend class intimidating 17-year-olds with phrases like "Agenbite of inwit," "sin non qua," "fait accompli" and other words of decidedly pedantic and non-English origins. No matter, I find it amusing for the time and spend the majority of time smirking behind my book. Besides, his no-BS attitude is at least refreshing after Anthony's total lapping up of suckage. Crick's guerilla Acadec recruitment tactics, on the other hand, kind of get on my nerves and make me feel icky, like being used. Mais, c'est un fait accompli. Can't be anything about it now.

The best benefit to being a senior is that our teachers really treat is like adults, and if not adults as least not children either. No more lectures on book-covering and reiterations of cellphone bans; these teachers cut right to the chase. What can I say? They know their shit.

Summer Reading Part 4: It's All About Politics

Fourth in a series to give the impression I did something intellectual this summer. Starred titles indicate books I particularly enjoyed.

Peter the Great
Robert Massie

The juggernaut. The behemoth. I have 15 pages in MS word to describe this book. I’m not touching it until September 10.

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*Absurdistan*
Gary Shteyngart

I have no idea what motivated me to pick up this book. The cover art is blandly abstract, the subject matter is not to my taste, and the main character is a filthy rich, obese, foul-mouthed, horny Russian Jew—totally someone I would identity with. It must be the title: Absurdistan, no other title could evoke so much political outrage, silliness, and pathos in one measly word.

Absurdistan is absurd—absurdly funny, bleakly funny—the type of hilarity that makes you laugh until your stomach hurts and then it punches you in the guts when you realize the situations are not funny at all, but very real and appalling. Shteyngart pulls off this audacious satire, ripping into everything from trophy wives to terrorism to obesity with a touch that turns the horrible into the hilarious. He even manages to satirize himself with his doppelganger Jerry Shteynfarb, who wrote The Russian Arriviste’s Hand Job, as opposed to Shteyngart’s first novel, The Russian Debutante’s Handbook. Where Absurdistan strikes the hardest is American ignorance and greed. A reader will immediately draw parallels between Absurdistan and today’s current events, but Absurdistan cuts off on September 10, 2001. An ominous ending that portends maybe nothing has changed after all.

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*Balzac and the Little Chinese Seamstress*
Dai Sijie

Whenever I start complaining about school, my parents always launch into a rueful tirade on their education in then hands of the Cultural Revolution. And I can’t compare: however aimless English class may seem, it can never be as aimless as reciting Mao’s quotations for the 437th time. (Random: Did you know blogspot is still banned in China?) After reading this book, I had a nice conversation with my dad (not about college for once!), but about how people would wait hours in line to buy Balzac’s books after the Revolution.

Since the Cultural Revolution is one of the most universally reviled policies, a book critical of it can be nothing new (except in China’s official bookstores.) Balzac and the Little Chinese Seamstress, translated from the French since Balzac was a French dude after all, reads like a fable rather than a social critique. Ma and Luo are sent to the countryside to be re-educated where they discover a chestful of the forbidden Western cannon and as the title promises, they also meet the Little Seamstress. There are grotesque images, but the pastoral setting brings to mind a hermetic alter-world. It’s a slim and tightly written novel, made more powerful by its compact construction. The finishing touch is an ironic, oblique criticism of the Cultural Revolution that almost twists the themes around. Makes me want to get off my butt (or maybe on, since I tend to sit while reading) and read Balzac.

I’m also really curious about the film adaptation of this book because it’s directed by Dai Sijie from his own novel. How often does that happen?

Redecorating, Chat Noir Style

This lovely poster is hanging above my bed. Well, it was hanging there until last night, when the forces of gravity pulled it down onto my head while I lay sleeping. Random objects falling on your head does not a pleasant wake-up make. Until I find some heavy duty poster tape or a stapler (preferably orange Swingline), this poster resides on my floor. Upside down. How disgraceful.

Especially since it is my one and only souvenir from Chicago. I bought it at the Art Institute of Chicago and carried it 40 minutes in the drenching rain to our car. Really, you'd think gravity would be more cooperative.

With the aid of Google and Wikipedia, I've been frantically trying to figure out what this poster is advertising. Apparently, it's some cabaret act. Considering it's in French, I'm not sure how salacious that's supposed to be.

I also got Photoshop installed semi-legally on my computer. So excited I was, I quickly went clone stamp happy and made a banner for Ze Blog.

Summer Reading Part 3: Salinger Binge

Franny and Zooey & Nine Stories
J.D. Salinger

I love me some Salinger. I really do. Despite all the backlash, Salinger was a good writer before he became an emo icon. His morose literary progeny are people I would bitchslap in real life, but he renders them palatable and even sympathetic by giving them an air of tragedy. His unique New York (now say that three times fast) exists only in his works, and by extension, The Royal Tenenbaums. There is a lot of criticism on Salinger’s supposed immaturity and manipulative antics because his characters are never quite real; they’re always so precocious, so smarmy, not understanding the gift of their genius or good fortune. But they are also humanistic because Salinger strikes at a common chord: vanity. He and his characters never shied from a certain seflishness we can all relate to, whether willingly or not. Salinger does not illuminate humanity in its best light, but it is a real one.

Favorite Stories:
Franny
The Laughing Man
Teddy

Summer Reading Part 2: I Only Read This Book Because It’s Being Made Into a Movie

Second in a series of remarks to prove I did something intellectual this summer. Starred titles indicate books I particularly enjoyed.

The Prestige
Christopher Priest

Following movies as obsessively as I do, I’ve noticed an uptick in magic-themed movies of late, including The Illusionist, Scoop, War Magician, and some movies about a certain bespectacled teen with the initials of HP. The Prestige, is yet another entry. Because Christopher Nolan (given my eternal admiration for Memento) is directing and Christian Bale and Hugh Jackman are taking up the leads (can you say yummy), I decided to check out this book.

The cover of The Prestige looked like the schlock sci-fi fantasy stuff dominating YA shelves—not a good sign. The paperback cover, shown here, is a huge improvement. Cover art judging aside (of course it’s a reasonable criterion, you absolutely must judge books by their cover), The Prestige is a decent book. The author cleverly makes use of shifting POVs to conceal his plot twist, but his framing device dragged the story before it even started. The Prestige is not driven by good writing or even good plotting, but by the one quality that makes stage magic so interesting: the “How the hell did he do that?” reaction. I sped through the pages trying to figure out how the tricks were performed, and I must say the results are a bit disappointing. It looks to be an entertaining movie, but the best I can do is damning it with some faint praise as a book.

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* Stardust *

Neil Gaiman

I’ve heard the name Neil Gaiman being tossed around forever, but I’ve never read anything by him until now. Turns out, I’ve been missing A LOT. Stardust is an enchanting and adventurous tale that seems at once familiar and utterly new. The story is cut in the classical medieval mold—indeed, it revels in archetypes and clichés—but it is also infused with a wondrous innocence. It’s told with an almost childish marvel; in Faerieland, nursery rhymes reign and childhood fantasies become real. But all this innocence, and our hero Tristran’s naïveté, only cloak the darker themes at play because in the idyllic land of Faerie, murder and death is the still of the currency of villains—and there sure are a lot of them. It saddens me to hear that Gaiman’s other writings are radically different from Stardust, but count my butt in for this movie.

Summer Reading Part 1: Are You There God?

First in a series of remarks to give the impression I did something intellectual this summer. Starred titles indicate books I particularly enjoyed.

* Life of Pi *
Yann Martel

Life of Pi is one of those rare cases where critical interpretation allowed me greater appreciation. An appreciation that has since grown into unabridled love and admiration. Magical! Miraculous! I want to leap up and down shouting every positive phrase to describe this book. Complete with an exclamation mark!

The author approaches religion from such a fresh angle that even I, an avowed atheist, could not help but agree. Perhaps it is because Life of Pi does not preach a story, but tells one. Pi’s journey at sea is characterized not by feverishly renewed faith, but a raw survival instinct—an instinct that speaks to every one one of us, regardless of our belief in a god or the lack thereof.

At sea for months sharing a lifeboat with a tiger, Pi survives against outrageous odds. As Pi’s journey spirals more and more into the outlandish, Yann Martel manages to hold our believability by the thinnest of threads. It is really a testament to his exquisite prose that we want to believe Pi’s story against all odds, even when it becomes wholly fantasy. But nothing quite prepares you for the stroke at the end, where all plot and thematic points are pulled together with the fluidity and grace of a master storyteller. And the symbolism, subtle but clear, is the kind that adds another layer to the story, rather than shows off the author’s metaphorical thought.

In the book’s framing device, a writer is told to seek Pi, now an old man, who will relate a story that will make him believe in God. The writer asks if it’s the tale of Jesus or Muhammad, but is told that it is neither; it is the story of Pi Patel. A dozen viewings of The Passion of the Christ and Bible classes will not make me believe in God; Life of Pi has at least made me want to believe. A miracle on this wizened old cynic heart.

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Brideshead Revisited
Evelyn Waugh

Err….umm…uhh…I really don’t remember this book. It was dead and done with some time around the 4th of July, and it has not stuck. I bought this book even longer ago at a library book sale because I feel in love with the cover, which was a loopy and cartoonish rendition of two bodies without heads. (There we go again, judging books by their cover.) This book was not nearly as funny as its cover would lead you to believe. Yes, it was amusing to read about Charles Ryder and Sebastian Flyte drunkenly carousing with whores and the Oxford version of frat boys, but it was amusing in the way watching little kids pick their noses is amusing. The second half of the book shifts radically from free-wheeling college to high-society and Sebastian Flyte suddenly drops out of the plot. Catholicism also plays a major role, and I gathered the novel somehow came out pro-Catholic…but I didn’t understand any of it. Maybe I need some Socratic seminars with Anthony? No thanks, I’d rather have my talking tigers with Pi Patel. This is why I do not read classical literature—I never like it and come out feeling like a dumbass.

Wit of the Staircase

l'esprit de l'escalier n. Fre. "Those biting ripostes that are thought of just seconds too late, on the way down the stairs—or even, to tell the truth, days later." As coined by Diderot, best known as author of the original Encyclopedia. Literally, "the wit of the staircase."

This perfectly describes, well, everything. How many times have I stood flabbergasted in debate, or even in simple conversation, feeling vaguely insulted but having nothing to respond. And then it strikes, in the shower, that "perfect biting repost." Why does my mind work on just a lag?