6/5/06 The Spectrum
6/6/06 A Broader Spectrum
6/7/06 The Narrow Spectrum
In the last week, a number of official and unofficial school publications have managed to cover what was once thought impossible—the entire spectrum on news available at AB. Granted, there isn’t much news at AB, but impressively, these three publications managed to publish on consecutive days.
I understand there are both petty and humane reasons for the existence of A Broader Spectrum, some of which may have to do indirectly with me. I greatly admire and respect the tenacity of the founders who got their issue together, despite the broad opposition that they faced from the administration. Yet, I cannot respect BS (too easy, too easy) as a publication. They call themselves an underground paper, all the while subverting the very point of an underground paper
The Broader Spectrum wants to be an eye-opener (as represented in the front page graphic), “bringing personality back to the news.” What it actually does, however, is lob political softballs on issues already overplayed in the media. It functions as a liberal speaker preaching in a liberal echo chamber to a very liberal choir. These type of cotton-candy “news” does nothing to shake AB out of its current complacency, which was seen the demise of VOICE, MESA, Common Ground, and pretty much every other socially aware group.
If it wants to succeed, the Broader Spectrum needs to be more than an “underground” hybrid of Spectrum/Lit Mag/Idiosyncrasy/CNN World News printed on hand-stapled, black-and-white, low-quality paper.
On the subject of The Narrow Spectrum, there are no words. All bow down.
Thursday, June 08, 2006
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
The Hit List 6/6/06
The Antichrist is coming! Or not, since everything seems appalling normal right now. I did, however, encounter one somewhat odd occurrence when the lamp on my desk fell directly onto a plate of grapes, shattering a small chunk of the plate. Prophetic? Metaphorical? Ominous? Who cares?
If then is to be some apocalypse today, I would first like to take a moment to rue the end of one wonderful class—AP Bio. In a class where silliness and nerdiness mingled abashedly with intellect and science, I had some of the highest highs and lowest lows of my junior academic career. As we reluctantly left the class during its final moments, the last few minutes of Contact played out in the darkened classroom. And what a finale. I loved Contact. I loved the delicious layers of irony. I loved the corny clichés of its genre. I loved Jodie Foster. I loved the tracking shot to the mirror. I loved everything except a smarmy Matthew McConaughey, who ribbed me to no end.
I finished reading Perfume: The Story of a Murderer (aka book with boob on cover), an awkwardly translated but entertaining novel. Perfume takes on the diffcult task of transcribing smell--a sense all too epheremal and unfamiliar in the language of words.The novel does a more than adequate job in that regard, but its main character, the thoroughly evil Jean-Baptist Grenouille, failed to interest me in the least. The ending, however, was so gruesome and flamboyant as to blast itself into my mind. Interesting read, and despite its dark tone, a rather fluffly one. On a side note, I can totally see Tom Twyker adapting this book into a movie; the flashforwards are all too reminiscent of his directorial style.
To further prove the frightening amount of information colleges have managed to accrue me, I got a call from an economics major at Carnegie Mellon. After bumbling about awkwardly for a few seconds, I realized he was trying to get me to ask questions about CMU. Not wanting to turn him down flat, I proceeded to quiz him on the economics program at CMU, when he half-admitted was transferring elsewhere and found his job prospects rather poor. The kid was pretty nervous. I hope he is getting paid to deal with stupid people like me.
Like a bird on a wire
Like a drunken midnight choir
I have tried, in my way, to be free...
Why am I so attracted to slow, sad music? Leonard Cohen has such a beautiful, deep, soothing, and melancholy voice.
If then is to be some apocalypse today, I would first like to take a moment to rue the end of one wonderful class—AP Bio. In a class where silliness and nerdiness mingled abashedly with intellect and science, I had some of the highest highs and lowest lows of my junior academic career. As we reluctantly left the class during its final moments, the last few minutes of Contact played out in the darkened classroom. And what a finale. I loved Contact. I loved the delicious layers of irony. I loved the corny clichés of its genre. I loved Jodie Foster. I loved the tracking shot to the mirror. I loved everything except a smarmy Matthew McConaughey, who ribbed me to no end.
I finished reading Perfume: The Story of a Murderer (aka book with boob on cover), an awkwardly translated but entertaining novel. Perfume takes on the diffcult task of transcribing smell--a sense all too epheremal and unfamiliar in the language of words.The novel does a more than adequate job in that regard, but its main character, the thoroughly evil Jean-Baptist Grenouille, failed to interest me in the least. The ending, however, was so gruesome and flamboyant as to blast itself into my mind. Interesting read, and despite its dark tone, a rather fluffly one. On a side note, I can totally see Tom Twyker adapting this book into a movie; the flashforwards are all too reminiscent of his directorial style.
To further prove the frightening amount of information colleges have managed to accrue me, I got a call from an economics major at Carnegie Mellon. After bumbling about awkwardly for a few seconds, I realized he was trying to get me to ask questions about CMU. Not wanting to turn him down flat, I proceeded to quiz him on the economics program at CMU, when he half-admitted was transferring elsewhere and found his job prospects rather poor. The kid was pretty nervous. I hope he is getting paid to deal with stupid people like me.
Like a bird on a wire
Like a drunken midnight choir
I have tried, in my way, to be free...
Why am I so attracted to slow, sad music? Leonard Cohen has such a beautiful, deep, soothing, and melancholy voice.
Monday, June 05, 2006
The Age Old Debate (Not Really)
I've always been perplexed by those who adamantly pit science and humanities against each other as if there were mortal enemies. Propogated at AB by the likes of Noeth and Anthony, and their respective disciples, this debate rages in high school as if there was a true conflict.
In the midst of a Frankenstein discussion, Anthony, a self-admitted humanities advocate, once again dragged up the topic of science v. humanities. "Be careful, you science people," she warned. "You must take responsibility."
Interesting that Anthony should frame the debate this way, as if science were a rampant monster strewning destruction through society. Of course there are morally ambiguous areas of science, but there is no need for debate on whether science has changed society for the better or the worse. Science is far, far from a destructing force; it is the foundation on which our society lies. If Anthony would prefer a world where everyone sits around in Socratic seminars discussing the inherent nature of man, that is fine. But this Socratic seminar would take place in a lightless stone cave.
Ironically, in urging responsibility of scientists, Anthony also demeans the work of her treasured humanties. Are humanities so trivial to society that its creators have no need to take responsibility? Does the work of a poet, musician, philosopher, writer, filmmaker or theologian have no bearing on society? Absolutely not. These creators, as any scientist, must shoulder their responsibiltiy as well.
On a wanton whim, the atomic bomb can kill millions. But how many people has religion killed? The Crusades. The genocides. The suicide bombs. Conflicts continue to rage. Religion, originally a march toward peace and harmony, has provoked and caused the death of untold millions in the course of history. And these deaths were made possible with increasing deadly technology.
There is no inherent divide. Ideas and techonolocy work in tandem toward destruction or creation. It is our choice. We must all take responsibility.
In the midst of a Frankenstein discussion, Anthony, a self-admitted humanities advocate, once again dragged up the topic of science v. humanities. "Be careful, you science people," she warned. "You must take responsibility."
Interesting that Anthony should frame the debate this way, as if science were a rampant monster strewning destruction through society. Of course there are morally ambiguous areas of science, but there is no need for debate on whether science has changed society for the better or the worse. Science is far, far from a destructing force; it is the foundation on which our society lies. If Anthony would prefer a world where everyone sits around in Socratic seminars discussing the inherent nature of man, that is fine. But this Socratic seminar would take place in a lightless stone cave.
Ironically, in urging responsibility of scientists, Anthony also demeans the work of her treasured humanties. Are humanities so trivial to society that its creators have no need to take responsibility? Does the work of a poet, musician, philosopher, writer, filmmaker or theologian have no bearing on society? Absolutely not. These creators, as any scientist, must shoulder their responsibiltiy as well.
On a wanton whim, the atomic bomb can kill millions. But how many people has religion killed? The Crusades. The genocides. The suicide bombs. Conflicts continue to rage. Religion, originally a march toward peace and harmony, has provoked and caused the death of untold millions in the course of history. And these deaths were made possible with increasing deadly technology.
There is no inherent divide. Ideas and techonolocy work in tandem toward destruction or creation. It is our choice. We must all take responsibility.
Saturday, June 03, 2006
The Hit List 6/3/06
Today marked the last SAT II subject tests that I will ever take. I say this with a measure of hopefulness and cheerful optimism because it is certainly the last chance I have to take any SAT IIs. Despite breezing through the Math IIC ("The easiest test evaaaah!" according to my classmates), I have a horrible sinking feeling that I somehow totally fucked up my bubbling. Sigh, must get rid of excessive paranoia.
How did I not discover the magic of Windows Movie Maker before? After spending 4 hours at Liz's house editing our history project video, I have finally been initiated in the awesome wonderfulness that is Windows Movie Maker. The history project, by the way, is also wonderfully awesome. And Liz's dog is cute and fat and smelly, but most of all cute.
It is once again raining and pouring and the old man is snoring--the old man representing my inner child who craves sunshine and dandelions. Uh, that metaphor is very disturbing in way; I am in no way implying that children should have any type of Jekyll/Hyde relationships with old men. Nor should there be any three-ways between children, old men and teenage girls. Topic: Why is it still raining? Acton have invoked the wrath of God to deserve such an utter downpour dousing our spirits and our lawns.
In a place where it is bright and sunny, a group of elite athletes are slugging it out on the streaky red clay of Roland Garros. I'm not really a tennis afianciado but watching tennis is an enjoyable and appropriately brainless way to spend a Saturday morning. Besides, what's hotter than a sweaty guy streaked in red dust? I tried watching the highlights of the Nadal-Mathieu match online but the ball completely disappears into thin air when your viewing screen is only 3 inches. All I'm getting is two guys grunting back and forth--not hot. I really detest this whole thing with grunting; it's the most unpleasant, jarring, and borderline gross behavior. If you're going to play well, play with class. Who else but Federer?
How did I not discover the magic of Windows Movie Maker before? After spending 4 hours at Liz's house editing our history project video, I have finally been initiated in the awesome wonderfulness that is Windows Movie Maker. The history project, by the way, is also wonderfully awesome. And Liz's dog is cute and fat and smelly, but most of all cute.
It is once again raining and pouring and the old man is snoring--the old man representing my inner child who craves sunshine and dandelions. Uh, that metaphor is very disturbing in way; I am in no way implying that children should have any type of Jekyll/Hyde relationships with old men. Nor should there be any three-ways between children, old men and teenage girls. Topic: Why is it still raining? Acton have invoked the wrath of God to deserve such an utter downpour dousing our spirits and our lawns.
In a place where it is bright and sunny, a group of elite athletes are slugging it out on the streaky red clay of Roland Garros. I'm not really a tennis afianciado but watching tennis is an enjoyable and appropriately brainless way to spend a Saturday morning. Besides, what's hotter than a sweaty guy streaked in red dust? I tried watching the highlights of the Nadal-Mathieu match online but the ball completely disappears into thin air when your viewing screen is only 3 inches. All I'm getting is two guys grunting back and forth--not hot. I really detest this whole thing with grunting; it's the most unpleasant, jarring, and borderline gross behavior. If you're going to play well, play with class. Who else but Federer?
Friday, June 02, 2006
Kingdom of Heaven (Scott, 2005)
A good epic is the very epitome of a cinematic experience. Amidst the exotic sets and moments of rousing glory, you taken for three hours to a world wholly different from the real—in a world where villains crackle, beauties tempt, swords flash, and heroes always win. I begin with this paragraph because Kingdom of Heaven is not a traditional epic. Untraditional in the sense that the “hero” is not a hero, the “villain” is not a villain and the “victory” is not a victory. This is admirable endeavor on the part of director Ridley Scott, even if it keeps his film from attaining the highest peak. (This review refers to the Director’s Cut released on DVD.)
Kingdom of Heaven tells the story of Balian (Orlando Bloom), a French blacksmith who is reluctantly thrown into his role as hero. After killing the lord’s nephew, Balian is forced to go to Jerusalem with a company of Crusaders who pass his village. The film moves as a brisk pace until we get to Jerusalem, where we are introduced to the king (a masked Ed Norton), his sister Sibylla (Eva Green), and her devious husband Guy de Lusignan (Marton Czokas). As Sibylla is literally the only female character in the film, our hero aptly begins a laborious love affair with her.
Sibylla’s brother, the judicial King Baldwin, rules Jerusalem with an even hand. It has been 100 years since the Christians reclaimed Jerusalem, and there are once again seeds of a Muslim uprising led by Saladin. In retelling a battle between Christians and Muslims, Kingdom of Heaven has a political undertone that is hard to ignore. Yet Scott admirably maintains a fair and balanced approach, refusing to paint either side in broad black and white strokes. In this Kingdom of Heaven, Christians and Muslims live together largely in peace, and Saladin even sends his physicians to tend the Christian king. But recent bloodshed has stirred the pot, and all it takes is a hot-blooded firebrand to make it boil over.
Our hero, Balian, is not this firebrand. When the peace is suddenly shattered, a reluctant Balian finds himself literally and figuratively in the crossfire. Here, our hero finally steps up, and here, the film itself falls flat. Despite some thrilling battle sequences, Kingdom of Heaven never quite achieves the triumphant climax that marks an epic.
The blame lies in both the script and in Bloom’s performance. Bloom may be simply playing the character as written—inert and merely reacting—but even his rousing sequences fail to inspire. To put it plainly, Bloom's Balian is milquetoast. You've got to hand to the guy though; throughout the film, he endures all kinds of torture as he's bloodied, dirtied, and burnt. But bloodied, dirtied, and burnt milquetoast is still milquetoast.
What redeems Kingdom are its lavish technical production and the exceptional cast of secondary characters that far outshine Bloom. Perhaps it is the presence of such lush sets and characters that make Balian seem bland in comparison. Especially memorable is Green’s Sibylla, whose transformation in the film is utterly believable and real.
Epics require a certain suspension of disbelief. If the ingredients are blended just right, the effect is a rousing tale of love and courage. Done incorrectly, it simply becomes a hokey story with excessive sex and gore. Scott eschews the time-tested elements of an epic, and while it is daring, it is these choices that tamper Kingdom of Heaven down from the great to the merely good. Kingdom of Heaven never quite rises to its heights, merely panning out to an end. It is still, however, a sumptuous, complex piece of filmmaking.
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