Friday, 18 July 2008

The Depths of the American South

As the some of you caring for my cats already know, I'm off tomorrow to reacquaint myself with the depths of the American South.  (I am a Future Mississippi Landowner, after all.)  Blogging may be light, as the internet is carried in buckets uphill both ways during violent thunderstorms down there, but I'll do what I can.  In the meantime, feast on my appreciation of The Dark Knight, or Gerry's, or the one I'm compelling Adam to write via the Power of Link.

(And remember, kids, this ain't a substantial academic post on an academic blog so much as announcement of future unavailability of the sort common to academic listservs, so complain at your own risk.)

Jul 18, 2008 9:44:13 PM

4 Comments

JPool

You academics are probably too lazy to even find your own buckets, much less carry your own internet. If you were a real, honest, hard-working American you'd whittle and join your own damn bucket.

Gah! Personal blogging on you supposedly serious and important personal blog. What's next? Cat blogging?

(Say hi to the South for me and stick close to the air conditioning.)

Posted by: JPool | Saturday, 19 July 2008 at 11:26 AM

j.s.nelson

Hey, I'm a future Mississippi landowner too!

Posted by: j.s.nelson | Sunday, 20 July 2008 at 07:41 PM

SEK

Where will your plantation be? Mine's in Kingston, just outside of Natchez.

Posted by: SEK | Sunday, 20 July 2008 at 07:55 PM

j.s.nelson

Mine's just outside of Meridian. The significant other is inheriting it, and we don't really know what to do with it, except walk around on it an love it or hide out on it if civilization collapses.

Posted by: j.s.nelson | Monday, 21 July 2008 at 04:15 PM

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The Dark Knight, IMAX Edition Two considerations before reading the following: I've never been to an IMAX theater before. I'm deathly afraid of heights. Make that three considerations: Batman likes to jump off skyscrapers. You can imagine the effect of sitting before a three-story, visually immersive—in the it occupies your entire field of vision sense—screen, watching a film whose resolution is ineffably crisp, and seeing this: Now imagine a body violating the laws of anatomy as a stomach plummets and two testicles ascend, and you'll have a quaint approximation of the mortal dread I felt as Batman soared through the new, shinier Gotham in which The Dark Knight is set. This sensation was repeated several times during the film, during both establishing shots and action sequences involving falling bodies and cords no thicker than a mouse cable. But I don't mean this to be a technical review of a visceral experience.* To quote Wally, The Dark Knight is pure, unadulterated "YES." If possible, Heath Ledger's performance as the Joker is underrated by the critical hype machine. It is not one which will be unjustifiably memorialized on the heels of his tragic death, as I suspected, but a genuinely disturbing portrayal of a self-important agent of chaos. If, like me, you were somewhat put off by the inconsistent voices and tics in the previews, let me ease your concerns: they pervade the film and are, in fact, the point. The thing with his tongue that looks annoying in the trailers? It is annoying, and it unsettles you throughout the film, and should, because Ledger wanted to annoy you. He wanted for you to be mesmerized in disgust, and he pulled it off. In essence, I agree with Neurotopia, except for the part about the Joker never being funny. As I mentioned there, the audience at my showing demonstrated a nuanced appreciation of humor—not at all what you would expect from a crowd of fanboys with painted faces. The two moments in particular I'll relate in detail, because I can't ruin execution-dependent scenes. In the first, Ledger's Joker sits down and says "Hi." In the second, he pushes a detonator and things blow up. He looks disappointed, pushes the detonator again, and things blow up bigger. Speaking actorly—I played Hamlet in 11th grade, in a performance notable for me stepping on Olphia's dress and her baring her breasts to an auditorium full of adolescent males, so I know of what I speak—the second scene could only be performed by someone with a deep understanding of physical comedy. Chaplin's amble, Chico's look of disgust, Keaten's slumped shoulders, they're all visible on Ledger's body. It's a studied performance, brilliantly executed by someone who felt the need to augment natural talent with diligent research. The ways in which this scene could've fallen flat—slipped into an unfunny Tarentino meta-commentary on the silent film tradition—are many and varied and Ledger skirted them all. Three more notes, as I don't want to exhaust the topic tonight—I loves me my Batmans—so I'll just touch...
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Coincidence or fate's cruel hand? Of the 339 miles and countless cities between Kingwood, Texas and Kingston, Mississippi, where should my car overheat and die? Where else but in my hometown of Baton Rouge. On the one hand, breaking down within a few miles of my sister's apartment is convenient. On the other—for reasons alluded to in the eighth stanza—the car suiciding here is suspicious and frightening. If you don't hear from me within 48 hours, call the police and express vague concerns about the location of my spectacularly murdered corpse.

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