Acephalous

Game of Thrones: "Winter Is Coming" for Will and Bran

(This is yet another one of those visual rhetoric posts that's born of this frightenining imminent course.)

You'll recall that according to the first post, Van Patten made Will a sympathetic deserter and oath breaker; according to the second, Van Patten established the family dynamic through Bran's perspective; according to the third, Bran remained the focal point because everyone believed themselves to be acting in his best interest; and according to the fourth and final post in this series, which would be this one, we'll finally witness the "punchline" of the preceding scenes. To begin:

The scene shifts from inside Winterfell to somewhere outside it. It's difficult to tell exactly where because there's a notched log occupying the majority of the frame. Why the log? Because Will's world is now the size of its notch. His world closes in on him as his death nears, so it makes sense that his purview, visually speaking, follows suit. It momentarily expands into an extreme long shot when he believes he's found an excuse that might could maybe save him:

But only momentarily:

Note contrast between these two shots: in the first, the camera is at a distance and captures a large swath of the highlands that are bright despite the mist blanketing them; in the second, the camera tightens in and centers on Will in a medium close-up, and the compositional structure is oppressive: he is flanked on both sides by armed guard and the hill behind doesn't, as the one in previous shot did, suggest freedom so much as unscaleable-rock-that-might-as-well-be-a-wall. He's trapped within the structure of the shot, and the medium close-up reminds us of the fear and pain we saw on his face when he was captured:

The irony of being imprisoned on an open field is more apparent in the above because the framing is looser, but it's essentially the same shot as the one in which he confesses his oath-breaking with one important exception: when he confesses to have broken his oath, he knows all hope is lost. In the shot above, the possibility of escape still exists, if not on that field, then possibly through pardon—hence his mentioning the white walkers two frames previous. But by the time he enters that structurally oppressive medium close-up, he knows his fate.

As do the other characters in the scene, and more importantly, the extent to which they sympathize with is indicated by the distance of the camera from their faces. This may seem like a simple means of identifying a complex emotional response, but it has a long history in film theory, the short version of it goes something like this:

Films used to be silent. Because actors couldn't tell us what they were thinking and many directors found intertitles aesthetically unappealing, the close-up on actors' faces became the preferred means of communicating their emotions. The heightened expressiveness evident in the close-up compelled audiences to pay more attention to the micro-expressions written upon the actors' faces, which made directors pay more attention to directing their actors to wear particular micro-expressions to communicate particular emotions, and so began the vicious cycle that led to the conventions of the modern close-up. Also, there's the fact that we're so hard-wired to pay close attention to faces that we'll "see" the face of Satan in a cloud formation, Saint Mary slumming on some toast, or this Martian fellow looking at whatever it is he's looking at. We want to see faces, and when we see them, we want them to communicate something to us. Just look at my cat. Can't you see the wonder in his eyes? Of course you can't. Whatever emotion Finnegan's feeling might be the feline equivalent of curiosity, but it's inhuman. Its humanity is merely imputed, drawn on his mug by our brain's intense desire to find meaning in anything structured like a face.

All of which is a long way of saying that conventional close-ups have been building on extant brain architecture for more than a century now, which is why the simple act of reversing from long shots of some characters to close-ups of others will make it seem as if the narrative's being focused through the latter. Let's continue with the scene:

Game of Thrones: "Winter Is Coming" for Bran

(This is another one of those visual rhetoric posts that's born of this upcoming course. The next post in this series can be found here. The course blog, which is currently still in the demo stage so don't judge, is here.)

In the previous post we established that the director of "Winter Is Coming," Tim Van Patten, went to great lengths to transform Will into a sympathetic character. He can choose immediate death at the cold hands of the white walker or run back to Winterfell and face immediate death for having deserted his post on the wall. He chose the latter, which in terms of prolonging his life was the correct choice, but eventually his decision caught up with him:

As hinted in the previous post, this shot is almost a graphic match that straddles the opening credits. Will's forlorn face as he decides to run to this death rather than face the other resembles, in a compositional sense, this medium long shot of his capture. The difference is one of scale, and it's an understandable one, as the previous medium close-up highlighted his pained indecision, whereas this medium long shot diminishes him to the "proper" height of one about to be beheaded.

But as I noted in the previous post, Will is but a directorial tool—a means to a sympathy-creating ends. The deep focus in the shot above emphasizes the fact that despite the fact that Will's in the middle of an open field, he's surrounded and escape is impossible. Unlike when he was north of the wall and the danger was effectively hidden in plain sight and shallow focus, south of the wall, easily spotted threats arrive from all directions. Hence, the look of resignation on Will's face. Not that Will matters.

He doesn't. He's but a means to an end, and that end is the introduction of the rigorously structured points of view present in the novel. This episode, "Winter Is Coming," translates nine chapters of Game of Thrones from the page to the screen. Ignoring, for the moment, Daenerys I and II, which cover happenings an ocean away, the episode must introduce the perspectives presented in Bran I, Catelyn I, Eddard I, Jon I, Catelyn II and Bran II. Without going full-Rashomon, how can Van Patten accomplish this? By introducing their internal thoughts and feelings via their reactions to Poor Will's unfortunate fate. The shot above follows some of the riders to an establishing shot of Winterfell:

Without knowing anything else about what's going on here, what has Van Patten communicated? Unlike the inhumanely scaled wall presented in the Prologue, this castle is imposing but clearly of human design and repair. It's also clearly a castle, which creates in the audience the expectation that they'll be meeting the groomers and smithies and kitchen wards. Of course not: if Van Patten had cut to a crack in the castle wall large enough for someone half-starved to slip through, that might be the case, but he cut to a majestic extreme long shot of a castle lording over its domain, so of course we're about to be introduced to royalty:

Or people with pretentions of royalty. That's Bran—of Bran I and Bran II—along with his half-brother Jon Snow and the next Lord of Winterfell, Robb Stark. (Who I initially mistook for Theon Greyjoy, because I need new glasses, but which is an interesting mistake.) Snow and Stark will eventually have chapters of their own, but at this point Van Patten is more interested in introducing Bran's perspective because that's who narrates the chapters in the novel. That said, the introductory image of Bran is telling: Jon Snow, the Lord's bastard son, dominates the center of the frame with what I'd call a pedagogical calm. He's instructing the Lord's legitimate heir, Bran, in the niceties of hitting what one aims at, and Bran's clearly trying to impress him. Bran and Robb flank Jon, but because the movement in the shot belongs to Bran, Robb's position is akin to not insignificant backdrop, but backdrop nonetheless. From this shot, then, it's apparent that Bran wants to impress Jon and isn't unaware of Robb, which is just as it is in the novel.

Game of Thrones: "Winter Is Coming" for Poor Will

(I think it goes without saying that this is another one of those visual rhetoric posts.)

As this is to be the first of many posts breaking down the visual rhetoric of Game of Thrones, I want to tell you either "You're welcome!" or "I'm sorry!" I need to write them for my class this quarter so they will written. Regular blogging will continue as usual. (See?) Now on to "Winter Is Coming."

For those of you who haven't read George R.R. Martin's Games of Thrones, it's important to note that there are twenty-four characters through whose perspective the narrative is occasionally focalized, meaning that the writers and directors of the television series needed to go full-Rashomon or find another way to imbue each episode with the feel of perspectival diversity. Which makes the decision to open "Winter Is Coming" with the Prologue odd but instructive. On the one hand, beginning where the novel begins is a simple decision: Martin placed the Prologue where he did because he wanted to set the mood for the scenes to come and director Tim Van Patten followed suit. On the other hand, in an episode that can only be 52 minutes long and in which numerous perspectives must be introduced, devoting 11 minutes to the quick end of the short life of Will, the Prologue's narrator, seems excessive. I'm going to argue otherwise: what the material contained in the Prologue provides the audience is a means of sympathizing with the different perspectives on Will's life and death, and in so doing begins to recreate the structure of the novel. But I'm getting ahead of myself here. First we need to be introduced to Will:

He's one of those little black dots on horseback in this extreme long or establishing shot, the purpose of which is establish the scale of the wall by providing us with an identifiable reference and the state of the environment by showing us an unimaginably large wall made of ice and a cover of snow that follows the wall to the vanishing point. Before we even meet Will, then, Van Patten informs us that he is a small man beholden to powers great enough to build and maintain that wall, and that he is likely in peril, because no one who isn't builds and lives behind a wall like that. Moreover, the contrast between the blue-white snow and the black riders suggests that not only is Will in peril, he's conspicuously so, which means he's all the more likely to meet a sad end. And Van Patten's communicated all of this in a single shot.

He cuts to another establishing shot that works much like the first: in what we'll call a very long shot, the world is still white and empty of all but some men and trees. This is the classic Russian technique of turning a forest into the cinematic equivalent of a barren desert: the only life visible is either human or snow-coated evergreen. These riders aren't as tiny as they were in the opening shot, but the scale still makes them appear vulnerable because they're still dominated by the other elements of the frame. The deep focus suggests that all of the elements in the scene may be of equal importance, which is strange because the only visible elements are the people and the trees. Combined with the relatively high-key lighting, which should allow us to see everything in the scene, the deep focus creates the conflicting impression that we can see everything in the scene, but that there's something in it that we're still not seeing. But if it's there why can't we see it?

It could be because we are the something we can't see and we're watching the riders approach from our point-of-view. Intimating that camera's perspective belongs to something monstrous is quite common in horror films and series. For example, the first episode of The Walking Dead, "Days Gone By," fiddled with this suggested perspective for nearly five minutes before dispensing with the conceit. Van Patten only plays with it momentarily, but the effect is unsettling enough because as the riders move closer to the camera, their faces become more distinct, and the more we can distinguish about them from their faces, the more likely we are sympathize with them. In the long shot above, the rider's face betrays a wariness about what's behind the trees, and well he should, because it might be us and we might be a monster. We're not. However!

The joys of holding virtual office hours (via AIM) for students enrolled in multiple online courses

STUDENT: Can I write an essay about the rising cost of unnecessary oil platforms off the Korean coast?

SEK: I don't see why not. But, um, what are you writing this for?

STUDENT: Your class.

SEK: My class?

STUDENT: Shit, which one am I talking to?

SEK: Not the one who's teaching you anything about Korean oil platforms, but luckily for you, the one who won't be offended you just wrote "Shit."

STUDENT: Fuck, I won't make that mistake twice.

New syllabus: Game of Thrones: Bold Plan or Blasphemy?

The university's revamped the curriculum to emphasize the written word, so now I have to teach a traditional novel alongside my visual works. (Which I almost always did anyway but no matter.) I've decided to teach Game of Thrones, but there's one problem: I've decided to teach Game of Thrones. In a freshmen composition class. That's only ten weeks long. The quarter will look something like this:

• Week 1: Introduction to the genre. Watch Fellowship of the Ring. Read secondary material about fantasy.
• Weeks 2-5: Read Game of Thrones. Read secondary material about the novel. Write 4 blog posts and 1 short essay about it.
• Weeks 6-9: Watch Game of Thrones. Read secondary material about the series. Write 4 blog posts and 1 long essay about it.
• Week 10: Final project.

You see the problem: the novel's 675 pages long, meaning that from Week 2 until Week 5 they'll be reading 169 pages of the novel and approximately 15 pages of secondary material per week. Experience suggests that having freshmen non-majors read 184 pages per week while also asking them to produce 10 of their own pages may be too much for them to handle. So here's my bold (or blasphemous) plan:

I let them skip the Daenerys chapters (3, 11, 23, 36, 46, 54, 61, 64, 68, and 72). Because I read the novel on a Kindle, I'm not exactly sure how many pages that will save them. But it makes narrative sense: they'll spend all their time on the island of Westeros and we'll spend all our classtime discussing its affairs in Weeks 2-5. When we shift to the series in Week 6, we'll focus our attention on Daenerys and the events happening on Essos. That means the majority of the visual rhetorical analysis will involve horses, but it could be worse.

Another idea, floated by Gerry Canavan, would be to force the students to read one chapter from each of the point-of-view characters and allow them to decide which two they wanted to ignore. They'd have to justify their decision via a rhetorical analysis in a blog post, meaning that they would write that the Daenerys chapters don't provide them with significant information about the context of conversations within the novel, or that they don't believe they're receiving accurate information from Tyrion because of his ethos. I like that from a pedagogical point of view, but I'm not sure about the classroom mechanics. Take a vote and ignore the two characters with the fewest proponents? I don't know.

Any other suggestions are welcome.

Would someone please teach these people how to plagiarize?

Every quarter I tell my students a joke. I tell them that I’ll let them plagiarize so long as they paraphrase their source material and attribute the original idea to its author or put it between quotation marks and identify where they found it. They usually stare at me agog for a seconds before what I’ve said sinks in. But it usually sinks in. It’s a shame I didn’t teach Fareed Zakaria, who’s not only a plagiarist, but one of the most stunningly untalented plagiarists I’ve ever encountered. Another thing I tell my students is that if they’re going to plagiarize well, they need to find source materials specific to the argument they want to parrot, which means that they can’t just type “visual rhetoric Blowup” into Google because the first few links will direct them to stuff I’ve written. Only an idiot would quote my only words back to me. I encourage them to find obscure material—like academic essays on Antonioni or Italian New Wave—and pluck their attributed paraphrases or quotations from there. So what’s so stunning about Zakaria’s plagiarism?

He plagiarized from one of Jill Lepore’s articles in The New Yorker. The New Yorker. I know most people only read it for the cartoons, but I promise you that Google has access to the words as well as the pictures. But Zakaria’s even dumber than that. He plagiarized from a recent New Yorker article in the pages of Time magazine. It’d be one thing to plagiarize a recent New Yorker article in an essay that only one person, your professor, will ever read. It’s dumber thing entirely to publish material lifted from one national publication in another national publication. He should have known that anyone interested in the material he quoted would pop onto Google and see that it appears in two different places in a very nearly identical context. But wait! It gets even better!

It seems as if Lepore herself might have a problem with plagiarism, which if true means it’s possible that Zakaria second-order plagiarized the work of an undergraduate at Harvard. And we let this man talk to president and kings? To coin a phrase: Why oh why can’t we have a better press corps?

Mad Men: "It's not your tooth that's rotten," it's "The Phantom."

(Clearly another installment in this never-ending series.)

My previous post, on "The Wheel," discussed in great detail the relationship of Don Draper to his past via the fading photographs of him and Betty and the children. "Nostalgia," Draper says,"literally means pain from an old wound." The "twinge" Don describes to the Kodak Eastman people is tinged with sadness—the life projected on the wall is one his actions have destroyed—but it is also a pain that's tempered by the knowledge that it can be compartmentalized. The Kodak Carousel is more than a projector: the titular wheel effectively functions as a container for captured moments that can be opened and reexperienced at a whim or it can be a simple storage device for memories a person wants to know are safely preserved. This second person doesn't necessarily want to reexperience their lives one twinge at a time, but the thought of being unable to do so could cause a pain unmitigated by memory. This would be a powerful pain, a constant reminder of itself by virtue of its absence. In "The Wheel," Don feels remorse for transforming the family projected on the wall into something that evokes no more than the twinge of memory. He claims that twinge is "more powerful than memory alone," but clearly it isn't.

In the fifth season finale, "The Phantom," directed, like "The Wheel," by Matt Weiner, the problem with Don's definition of nostalgia is immediately challenged by, of all things, a toothache:

But his toothache isn't an ordinary toothache. As his dentist informs him later in the episode, his tooth had formed an abscess, which means that its core has become rotten and the tooth must be pulled. It's an absence that can only be treated by the creation of a larger controllable absence. Early in "The Phantom," the abscess functions as a physical manifestation of the guilt Don feels about his complicity in the suicide of Lane Pryce in "Commission and Fees." Weiner signals as much in the form of the phantom that accompanies Don's pain:

The reverse from Don's swollen jaw and tired eyes to Adam's calm and open face connects the pain to its source: Lane's the second person who came to Don for help and, after being turned away, committed suicide. Don can feel a "twinge" of nostalgia for the family he fathered under his assumed identity, but his feelings for his younger brother, Adam Whitman, are complicated by the fact that he tried to store them in a wheel he knew he'd never attach to a Carousel. Adam had been stored and compartmentalized, incapable of causing a "twinge," at least unil Lane's suicide forces Don to remember his complicity in Adam's. In keeping with the carousel as a central image, Don's abscessed tooth is the equivalent of being forced to watch Adam meet his end a la

Once he questions his role in Lane's death, Don is incapable of thinking about his life in the neatly compartmentalized way to which he'd become accustomed. He can't drink away the pain of his abscessed tooth any more than he can stop seeing his brother's phantom. When does Adam phantom's disappear? When Don goes to the dentist, which he only does after realizing that he's dangerously close to losing someone else:

Megan petitions her miserable husband to score her an audition on one of his commercials, but he refuses, telling her that it's "better to be somebody's discovery than somebody's wife." He later returns home to find her sprawled on the couch, too drunk to stand:

For the first time, he realizes that she's veering dangerously close to being "somebody's discovery," only that person would be more like Pete Campbell:

And it wouldn't be Megan he'd discovered, only her body.  Don recognizes in Megan what he missed in the days before Adam and Lane killed themselves: the spoken desire to find and maintain a place in the world. He'd denied that to Adam and undermined Lane of his, but now he is confronted by his wife, who insists that if he doesn't help her, she's only valuable for one thing:

And that would be sex. "Isn't that what you want?" she asks him, and the look on his face is one of intense grief intermingling with physical pain:

Here the physical pain of the tooth and the psychological pain of the guilt collapse into a single close-up on the face of a man who has finally decided what he wants. He wants to go to the dentist:

But not just any dentist—his abscess can only be treated by the phantom of his suicided brother, and unlike earlier in the episode, when Adam stood calm and composed on the elevator, this Adam clearly bears the scars of his untimely end. Don's not just remembering here, he's facing the very memory he's denied himself access to for nearly five years. The payoff is still a hole where a tooth should have been, only instead of it being a festering sore it's just a hole. He can manage the hole, as he does by conceding to Megan's wishes in order to make sure he doesn't find himself with another.

There's clearly more to be discussed vis-a-vis holes and memories in this episode—Pete's paramour, Beth, will be using electroshock therapy to create a Pete-shaped hole in her memory—but for now all I'll say about that situation is that it seems at odds with an episode that deals with repression in such a psychoanalytic fashion. Lane's suicides heralds the return of the repressed, which takes the forms an Adam and an abscess, and Don deals with both of them in a manner that speaks to increased psychological health. Beth, however, removes the need for any sort of reintegration by obliterating the organ that records and reshapes memories. She is, by the episode's end, less of herself than she was at its opening. I'm not sure what to make of that, but I'll put it out there and see whether you can't do something with it.

What we don't know we know, aren't quite sure how we missed...

...and are disappointed that none of you lot pointed out. Namely, that when I wrote this post a month ago, it never occurred to me that I was unconsciously admitting to a desire to be bossed around by handsome bald black men:

But apparently I do. Regular posting to resume shortly, now that I've got the majority of the lesson-planning for my new course–which I'm currently teaching, so I'm scripting class-by-class instead of working from previously devised material–completed. 

Don't be surprised if this is the last time you see Lance Reddick on this blog either. (Or Benedict Cumberbatch or Hugh Laurie or Matt Smith for that matter.) 

This Mad Men video won't execute itself, so guess who needs a technical editor?

I could've done this no problem on my now defunct computer, but on this new one, with these new programs, I'm basically incapable of doing anything that doesn't transform the Windows equivalent of this:

In a giant red X which resembles, well:

And when I see that, I basically see this:

And because I don't have a team of dirty Italians to help me take him down, I wonder whether I haven't acquired myself a video editor capable of making this short–and I must say inspired cultural connection–and teaching me how to make it work like it ought to. Because right now it looks like this:

 

Smooth up the transitions, make the words hit their marks, and we'll have ourselves a brand new meme, all the way back from olden times, before anyone was aware of Internet traditions. Eventually, I'll be competent again, but I need a little help with the hefty lifting–or, if you're a former student, my continued commitment to my open door policy. So technically, you'd earn nothing but good will, but karma's karma, no?

I believe in Him, whichever one He is, because why not?

Outside watering the plants this evening I came across an image of my new Savior:

As he appeared to be blowing soot at me, I took that volcanic plume emenating from his head to indicate that my new Savior was some sort of Fire Lord. Then it occurred to me that I might've been seeing my new Savior from the wrong angle, which it turns out was true:

Turns out my Savior is a poorly coiffed but vigorously bearded man who met an unfortunate end when someone put a bullet in his head.

This, my readers, is what students believe rhetoric teachers do in their classrooms. Fun as it may be to find meaning in a meaningless world, that's not actually what we do. That "man" I photographed above had evaporated before I returned from the kitchen with the water jug that'd created "him."

Filming the sausage being made is very, very expensive, my friends.

My promised follow up post about Peter's sad descent into the trappings of Draper's life is nearly half-complete, but I wanted to address something that's come up in the comments first, because I encounter variations of it every time I teach. Uncle Ebeneezer
March 27, 2012 wrote

On a tangent–a friend of mine read your post and remarked that they doubt that THAT much thought really goes into it. I disagree, but I’m sure you must hear that sort of sentiment all the time and I’m just curious how you usually respond.

He's correct in that I encounter this all the time–frequently as a back-handed compliment about me putting more thought into the show than the people who made it–but it's usually the person doing the slapping that has no clue what they're talking example. For example, in an interview I can't relocate, Christopher Nolan was discussing the logistics of using an IMAX camera to capture Christian Bale hanging off of a skyscraper in Hong Kong. The joke of it was that between the helicopter, its pilot, safety equipment, those equipped to use it, Nolan and Bale's salaries, the insurance policy on Bale, the rental cost of the IMAX camera and its crew, every single syllable was costing Warner Brothers $300,000, "so if everyone would quit fucking cursing they could fucking film this fucking shot for under three million dollars."

And that's pre-production. So do I occasionally hazard into a situation in which I over-read some last minute practicality? No doubt. But should the wizards with the duct tape see my analysis and note that I missed their wizardry, don't you think they'd be proud that they'd done their job so well I couldn't imagine it having been done differently? But if your friends are still unconvinced–and if my students are any indication, many of them will be, send them to the "full credits" listing of a show like Mad Men. John Rogers—friend of the blog and showrunner of Leverage—can add to any of the many things I’ve forgotten, but keep in mind that all of the following people must be paid, eat, have their equipment plugged in and powered up, etc., and remember as your friend’s scrolling down that very, very long list, there are a number of unusual positions, such as:

1. hair stylist/background hair stylist
2. hair stylist/key hair stylist
3. hair department head
4. special effects makup artist
5. on-set dresser
6. art department coordinator
7. greensman
8. set decoration buyer
9. second assistant camera “a” cameria/ second assistant camera “b” camera
10. best boy rigging electrician
11. genny operator
12. post-post production assistant coordinator
13. colorist dailies
14. final colorist

I’ve chosen that list a little randomly, but it’s also a little representative of the collaborate work involved in any significant production. Odd as it may seem, the burden of proof that something isn’t in a particular scene should fall to the casual viewer, who thinks television is magic and all you need is a camera, some costumes, and a few pretty pictures to make it work. Granted, that’s true of some reality television — it wear its cheap production for all to see — but for quality, scripted television, each minute of which costs thousands to film, there’s a reason why certain mediocre actors are come to be called “character actors” as they age. It’s not that Benjamin Bratt — and I’m not picking on him — is a good actor, but there’s a reason why people want to work with him. To my knowledge, he’s polite, shows up on time, knows his lines, and is forgo having a potentially short or taller stand-in sit for him in the rehearsals and run-throughs. (That’s anecdotal evidence, but I trust the source, and if I’m wrong, there are a million others I could substitute for him.) Point being:

Shooting quality film/television is very expensive, so it’s all planned out in advance, then modified, script-color-change-by-script-color-change, then ideally handed to actors who behave professionally. In short, the implicit answer to why there aren’t more great television shows is sort of the same as why they aren’t more perfect storms.

 

Shake your meaning-maker

So I've mentioned before that the final project in my class is a creative one in which students must occupy the position they've been analyzing all quarter–that of the meaning-making rhetor communicating something or other to a particular audience. Because I'm working with graphic novels, one of the ways I get them to think like a meaning-maker is ask them to find a song that epitomizes a particular book they've read. This exercise is far more difficult than it sounds, because it forces them to reflect upon (likely for the first time) what the lyric of their proposed song means and how that lyric relates to a book whose rhetorical and thematic complexity we've been discussing for weeks. It's the perfect exercise:

It starts simple then turns fractal.

This quarter, I went with Craig Thompson's Blankets as inspiration, which means the song needs to include equal parts evangelical Christianity, teenage infatuation, Künstlerroman, etc. No single song will perfectly reflect either Craig Thompson's understanding of his own development or any of my students' relation to that understanding, but the act of thinking through that mess will help them discover how they'd like their final projects to resonate with their intended audience.

All of which is merely a preface to my declaration that the song I thought best epitomized Thompson's intent–in both lyrical intent and its relation to traditional form–was this one. (The lyrics can be found here.) I'm obviously playing a rigged game, what with me being the teacher and all, but the point is that I can make a very strong argument about how the thematic elements of that song communicate something very similar to the message of Thompson's novel ... and that I dare any of my students to proffer another case for a different song that's stronger than the one they think I'll make for mine. (Which means they'll have to anticipate a critical response and plan their feints and parries in advance.)

Game on?

 

On notebooks–and the thirty seconds of narrative time I can squeeze into them. (On Doctor Who, "The Impossible Astronaut.")

(I hadn't planned on writing another rhetorical analysis of Doctor Who until next quarter, but my Wednesday night class is composed of nerds and whiners who insist we keep on pushing through the Sixth Season even though the quarter's nearly over. Adding to the difficulty is the fact that the Sixth Season is infinitely more complicated than its fairy-tale precursor. In short, imagine an English seminar full of committed Jamesians who demand to read late-James even though every sane person knows that–outside of the hilariously foreshortened "year" you spent preparing for qualifying exams–it's damn well impossible to do anything with The Golden Bowl, The Wings of the Dove, and The Ambassadors in two weeks. That's what this feels like.)

First let me tell you about how the sausage is made: I watch a film or an episode and I either enjoy it or I don't. If I enjoy a film, I'll watch it again to figure out what I enjoyed it. If I enjoy an episode, I'll usually wait for the next episode and then enjoy the season once it comes on DVD. I typically don't have the depth and complexity–such as they are–evident in these visual rhetoric posts when I'm watching them for the first time. Unless some detail is particularly compelling or some technical mistake particularly galling, I watch like a normal human being. It's only on those second watchings that I pull out the notebook and begin to figure out what I don't know. So what don't I know? 

Judging by the number of notebooks I've burned through since Christmas, the empirical answer would be that I don't know a damn thing. That I'm constantly confused by everything in the world and have begun to hoard the finer points of other peoples' narratives on the off chance they or I forget them. The obvious stuff is obvious and mentioned just in case its obviousness becomes important subsequently. Consider the opening sequence of the premier episode of the Sixth Season of Doctor Who ("The Impossible Astronaut"), in which director Toby Haynes begins by showing the audience some paint:

Paint can be important in this series, I think to myself, so I scribble "H. op w/ c-u paint & brushes." (That's "Haynes opens with a close-up of paint and brushes" for those who can't read my ideoletic shorthand.) I pause here because I want to remember what could be at play. Clearly there is a reason Haynes introduces the Sixth Season via the artistic tools the audience most closely associates with Vincent Van Gogh, but given that Gogh met his beastly death shortly after drawing an exploding TARDIS in the penultimate episode of Season Five ("The Pandorica Opens"), this likely has nothing to do with him. Then it occurs to me that Haynes directed and Steven Moffat wrote "The Pandorica Opens," "The Big Bang," and "The Impossible Astronaut," so the presence of meaningful continuity–even if that's not what I spy here–is more likely than not. I take a note to remind myself to take similar notes later and move on to the next frame:

Look who was wrong? That painting there has as much to do with Vincent's narrative as his style. It's the Doctor, which I could've imagined Vincent getting around to, but it's the Doctor in the nude. There's nothing wrong with a nude painting of a man–or wouldn't be a few decades later after Charles II dies and England rejoices by stripping off the gloom of their imported Flemish masters and then their clothes. (To be followed quickly by a intense desire to live in a world in which flat surfaces and solid colors were anathema.) Point being:

Mathilda's painting of the Doctor is too Rococo for its time–because it's not of its time. He's encouraged her to paint not in the departing style of the Flemish Masters, nor in the coming style of French Baroque or endemic Neoclassicism, and why would he? He doesn't need live time in order, and Mathilda, his companion at the moment, is herself learning a little morality lesson about the knowledge the Time Lord grants: more often than not the world isn't ready for it. Not that she minds:

She looks quite please with her anachronistic creation. Her benefactor seems less so:

Note that even though the shots of Mathilda and King Charles II are both medium long shots, she and the image of her Doctor are both bathed in natural light, as if they belong to the world beyond the window's grilles. King Charles II and his men are exactly where they ought to be: the King in the middle and lackeys at both flanks. They have come for the Doctor for reasons unknown–but their tone implies that whatever those reasons may be, the Doctor needs a grand entrance and the sooner the better.

Perhaps not that soon. Appearing from beneath the swaths of Mathilda's skirts suggests that King Charles's haste and j'accuse-face may be warranted. The high angle of framing here is completely warranted. The Doctor may not be physically powerless, but his given that his moral code only seems to allow him to significantly alter history when its in need of a significant alteration, the consequence of him having lost his social stature which much more likely lead to lots and lots of running. Which is exactly what Haynes has him do in the opening bits–and they are comedic "bits" in no uncertain terms–they establish both that he's no longer traveling with Amy and Rory but that he's no longer done with them (even when they fail to see him):

 

 

That's Rory's head you can't see failing to notice the Doctor trying to catch his attention. As I started watching these first few minutes–and keeping in mind I've seen the entire Sixth Season–I found it difficult not to see these as the Season's narrative arc written small. Bear with me: 

1. The Doctor's there, like the Silence, but Amy and Rory can't see him.
2. The Doctor's always been there, like the Silence, but nobody can see them.
3. The Doctor's happy not because he's alive–though I've little doubt that pleases him–but because his plan to redeem himself worked. Perhaps not in full, but fully enough for him to embark, alone, on a series of adventures through human time seemingly designed to taunt Amy and Rory. (The last time the Doctor went on walkabout the results were far darker, so much so I contend that the darkness left in the Tenth's wake is what the Eleventh's had to deal with throughout Season Six.)
4. The Doctor's no longer afraid of what he'll do, because he can't do any more damage to the universe than gambling that he could extinguish it back to life would somehow work. 
5. That it did is what allows him not only accept, but to crave the attention and flattery in oil of the otherwise insignificant Mathilda. Her ability to stand there, insignificantly, is a direct result of his actions, so whatever pleasure he gains from their interaction is because she exists, not because she exists in any particularly pleasing way. 
6. Other stuff you can suss out in the comments while I cook my wife and I dinner.

I could go, but as aforementioned, it's dinner time and much as I would like sharing my notebook with you, I need food. Also, I wonder whether some of you wouldn't rather toss my notebook at me, in which case, slinking away to make some hash is still a solid idea.

It’s now impossible to tell the diary of a warrior from that of a gamer.

Citizens of the civilized galaxy, on this day we mark a transition. For a thousand years, Our Republic stood as the crowning achievement of civilized beings. But there were those who would set us against one another, and we took arms to defend of way of life against the Democrats. In doing so, we never suspected that the greatest threat came from within.

The Democrat Party, and some within our own Senate, had conspired to create the shadow of racial animus using one of their own as the enemy’s leader. They had hoped to grind the Our Grand Republic into ruin. But the hatred in their hearts could not be hidden forever. As last, there came a day when our enemies showed their true natures.

The Democrat Party hoped to unleash their destructive power against the Our Republic by assassinating the head of shadow government – Breitbart – and acquiring control of the reserve forces But the aims of the would-be tyrants were valiantly opposed by those without elitist, dangerous powers, who never went to school. Our loyal know-nothing troopers contained the insurrection within the Jefferson Memorial and quelled uprisings across the planet.

The remaining Democrat conspirators will be hunted down and defeated. Any collaborators will suffer the same fate. These have been trying times, but we have passed the test.

The attempt on my life has left me scarred and deformed, but I assure you my resolve has never been stronger. The war is over. The Sepratist Democrats have been defeated, and the Decmocrat rebellion has been foiled. We stand on the threshold of a new beginning.

In order to ensure the security and continuing stability, the Republic will be reorganized into the first Global Empire, for a safe and secure society, which I assure you will last for 10,000 years. An Empire that will be continue to be ruled by this august body and a sovereign ruler chosen for life. An Empire ruled by the majority, ruled by a New Constitution.

By bringing the entire galaxy under one law, one language, and the enlightened guidance of one individual, the corruption that plagued the Republic in its later years will never take root. Regional governors will eliminate the bureaucracy that allowed the Democract movement to grow unchecked. A strong and growing military will ensure the rule of law.

Under the Empire’s New Order, our most cherished beliefs will be safeguarded. We will defend our ideals by force of arms. We will give no ground to our enemies and we will stand together against attacks from with or without. Let the enemies of the Empire take heed: Those who challenge Imperial resolve will be crushed.

We have taken on a task that will be difficult, but the people of the Empire are ready for the challenge. Because of our efforts, the galaxy has traded war for peace and anarchy for stability. Billions of beings now look forward to a secure future. The Empire will grow as more planets feel the call, from the Rim to the wilds of unknown space.

Imperial citizens must do their part. Join our grand star fleet. Become the eyes of the Empire by reportingsuspected insurrectionists. Travel to the corners of the galaxy to spread the principles of the New Order to barbarians. Build monuments and technical wonders that will speak of our glory for generations to come.

The clone troopers, and proudly wearing the name of Imperial stormtroopers, have tackled the dangerous work of fighting our enemies on the front lines. Many have died in their devotion to the Empire. Imperial citizens would do well to remember their example.

The New Order of peace has triumphed over the shadowy secrecy of shamful magicians. The direction of our course is clear. I will lead the Empire to glories beyond imagination

I’m 90 percent sure that’s a video game, but am going to buy some extra water tonight just in case

 

Pay attention or I'll **** you up, you little ****.

Though I suppose this would get me fired in Arizona, I’ll admit that I strategically punctuate my lesson plans with profanity. That guy in the back of the class who thinks he failed his engineering midterm yesterday and spent all night fretting about it instead of sleeping? He’s drifting off — and would be, no matter what time it was or class he was attending. How can I keep him awake?

Profanity.

Don’t believe me? Ask science:

The unique emotional power of taboo language reflects properties that affect cognitive processes like memory and attention. Cursing is unlike other forms of speech; it is more physically arousing, as evidenced through physiological responses such as skin conductance or neural activity such as amygdala activation (Jay, 2003; Jay, Harris, & King, in press).

The image accompanying that post also caught my attention, as it reminded me of something I wrote a few years back but feel all the more strongly about now: the language of Deadwood. I’ll put it below the fold, though, as this is a family blog, but I’ll note that the best part about what I wrote may well be one of the comments. So:

“I believe the essay you asked me to write is beneath what I have been trained to expect to believe you would have expected from me, and I feel ashamed for you.”

(This doesn’t quite rise to the level of the most epic student email ever, and in truth more likely belongs to my series on how to write an academic essay, but as it hovers somewhere between one awful mode and another, I thought I’d leave it up to you to decide. Have—shall we call it fun?)

If I begin my essay with a rhetorical question, I contradict the Great French Thinker Montaigne, who believed I should not, because as he wrote, a “mind could not find a firm footing, [therefore he] should not be making essays, but coming to conclusions.” Those conclusions, which were important, are sadly lost to history, but the fact that Montaigne’s name remains reminds those who remember it that his failure was reason enough to memorialize it. My professor said that we should not write in the style of Montaigne, presumably because the stench of his insufficient success might sour my prose, but I believe the best essays are the ones that I write, and if my Professor thinks differently, he can take it up with Montaigne.

First, my professor told me to write a paragraph like a hamburger. Can you believe that? That is not a rhetorical question: my college professor told me that the best paragraphs are structured like a hamburger. But I must follow my muse, Montaigne, and insist that I am not interesting in stabilizing my subject, however slight, in a structure of such déclassé fare, or that if I were, mine would tower above that base alternative in direct proportion to the extent of my genius. My paragraphs will, instead, inform my audience about the manner of their composition, paying special attention not to structure or transitions but to the brilliance that I mustered to tame into interest material others might find trite.

By “others,” I refer explicitly to my Professor, whose ability to mix a metaphor is nearly as impressive as his encyclopedic knowledge of all things which will never make him money. He claims that an essay is like the relationship he’s clearly never had: it begin with a witty conversation, an introduction, if you will, in which impress upon your reader the timeliness and worthiness of your subject. For those who fail to recognize the universal validity of Foucault, this could be an issue, but Montaigne and I know that so long as we only speak engagingly about ourselves and Foucault, the right kind of people will recognize our brilliance and gravitate to the empty table we have saved for them.

My professor then proceeds to argue that the remaining paragraphs in an essay constitute an evolving relationship between the writer and reader not unlike the one initiated in the introduction. “Just as a relationship explodes with initial insight in those first heady weeks,” he says, “so too should a first paragraph make good on the promise of its introduction.” Which is simply wrong — the purpose of an introduction is convince your future reader or paramour that you are to their moon like the heavens above. Moons are wonderful, albeit limited, objects who cannot escape the gravitational conventions of the Earth without an intervention by the likes of myself or Montaigne. Any conversation in which I deign to speak of moon matters is one which is inherently beneath me and an insult Montaigne. An introduction should present a reader with an  incomprehensible possibility that may, in the presence of a sufficient genius, become a comprehensible plausibility that only someone unworthy of their humanity would deny.

As for the rest of my Professor’s foolishness? That the third paragraph should, like any “good” relationship, continue to develop the feelings fostered by having made good on the promise of the introduction? This line of thought strongly suggests that relationships continue to develop after protestations of genius have made and accepted, which clearly falls under the aegis of facts not in evidence. Once proof of inferiority is established, the mendicant mind has no choice but to reel, twirling by half, then again, as if shielding itself from a light so bright it penetrates directly into its tiny brain.

Because knowing what it knows now, it will never know peace. It will only know humiliation. For there are no limits on the number of Grade Change forms I can request, or if there are, I plan to collect them like an ignorant naturalist on a well-trodden shore and submit them in perpetuity.

Scott Eric Kaufman's Visual Rhetoric Compendium (as of 7/09/13)

Films:

• Batman Begins (classic horror) - Christopher Nolan 
• Blow-Up (I) - Michelangelo Antonioni 
• Blow-Up (II)- Michelangelo Antonioni
• The Dark Knight (I) - Christopher Nolan
• The Dark Knight (II) - Christopher Nolan
• Fellowship of the Ring (conventions of high fantasy) - Peter Jackson
• Fight Club - David Fincher
• Fight Club (II) - David Fincher
• Fight Club (III) - David Fincher
• Ghost World - Terry Zwigof
• Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind - Hayao Miyazaki
• Superman - Richard Donner
• Superman Returns - Bryan Singer
• The Dark Knight Returns (animated) - The Zack Snyder School of Literal Filmmaking
• 30 Days of Night - David Slade

Television Shows:

• Avatar: The Last Airbender - "The Ember Island Players" 
• Breaking Bad - "Buyout" I (Naturalism)
• Breaking Bad - "Buyout" II (Realism)
• Breaking Bad - "Say My Name"
• Breaking Bad - "Gliding Over All," Said the Fly to the Money Pile
• Breaking Bad - "Gliding Over All" the Invisible Lines and Immaterial Connections
• Breaking Bad - "Gliding Over All" Until You're Not
• Buffy the Vampire Slayer - "Hush"
• Doctor Who - "Time of Angels"
• Doctor Who - "Time of Angels" - Buckling the Frame
• Doctor Who - "The Eleventh Hour"
• Doctor Who - "Amy's Choice"
• Doctor Who - "Vincent and the Doctor" 
• Doctor Who - "The Pandorica Opens"
• Doctor Who - "The Big Bang"
• Doctor Who - "The Impossible Astronaut"
• Game of Thrones - Embiggening Men in "Blackwater"
• Game of Thrones - "Winter Is Coming" for Poor Will
• Game of Thrones - "Winter Is Coming" for Bran
• Game of Thrones - "Winter Is Coming" for Catelyn Stark and Jon Snow
• Game of Thrones - "Winter Is Coming" for Will and Bran
• Game of Thrones - "Lord Snow," you're no bigger than a half-man
• Game of Thrones - Everyone is alone, everyone is surrounded in "The Wolf and the Lion"
• Game of Thrones - How circular is "A Golden Crown"?
• Game of Thrones - Table-setting and brain-burning in "You Win or You Die"
• Game of Thrones - Learning to use "The Pointy End"
• Game of Thrones - Swords! Swords! Swords! in "Baelor"
• Game of Thrones - "Valar Dohaeris," Indeed. But who? Where? To what end?
• Game of Thrones - Eyelines of miscommunication in "Second Sons," Part I
• Game of Thrones - Eyelines of miscommunication in "Second Sons," Part II
• Game of Thrones - It's always been "Rain[ing in] Castamere," because yes, I am trying to break your heart
• Game of Thrones - Awful Greek words that apply to "The Rains of Castamere"
• Hannibal - The frail horror of shallow focus
• Law & Order: Special Victims Unit - "What will become of the children?" Why, they'll be raped and murdered, of course."
• Leverage - "The Van Gogh Job"
• Louie - "Daddy's Girlfriend II"
• Mad Men - "Don and Sally in 'A Little Kiss'"
• Mad Men - "The Ballad of Peggy and Pete, Redux, in 'A Little Kiss'"
• Mad Men - "The Grown-Ups"
• Mad Men - "Shut the Door.  Have a seat."
• Mad Men (I) - "The Rejected"
• Mad Men (II) - "The Rejected"
• Mad Men (I) - "The Chrysanthemum and the Sword"
• Mad Men (II) - "The Chrysanthemum and the Sword"
• Mad Men (I) - "The Suitcase"
• Mad Men (II) - "The Suitcase"
• Mad Men - Who owns "The Other Woman"?
• Mad Men - Hands and hands and hands in "Commissions and Fees"
• Mad Men - Nostalgia, forestalled, and "The Wheel"
• Mad Men - "It's not the tooth that's rotten," it's "The Phantom"
• Mad Men - One foot in "The Doorway"
• Mad Men - "Collaborators" in the Secret, Sacred Curb Dances of Suburban Love
• Mad Men - Is the Awesomeness of White Men really "For Immediate Release"?
• Mad Men - Fencing with shadows over "The Quality of Mercy"
• Mad Men (I) - "In Care Of" what? OH REALLY?
• Mad Men (II) - Disappointment "In Care Of" Convention
• Mad Men (III) - Who's "In Care Of" What Now?
• The Walking Dead - "Days Gone Bye"

Comics:

• American Born Chinese - Gene Luen Yang
• Blankets - Craig Thompson
• Fun Home - Alison Bechdel
• Ghost World - Daniel Clowes
• Kick-Ass (I) - Mark Millar
• Kick-Ass (II) - Mark Millar
• Planetary/Batman: Night on Earth - Warren Ellis
• 30 Days of Night - Steve Niles
• The Walking Dead (word-specific panels)
• The Walking Dead (picture-specific panels) - Robert Kirkman
• War is Boring - David Axe
• Watchmen (panel construction) (I) - Alan Moore
• Watchmen (panel construction) (II) - Alan Moore
• Watchmen (responsible film criticism) - Anthony Lane
• Watchmen (unfilmable film filmed) - Zak Snyder vs. Alan Moore
• Watchmen (students as murderers) - Alan Moore
• Watchmen (Dr. Manhattan as a figure of the reader) - Alan Moore

 Themes:

• On Poorly Executed Claustrophobia in Film and Television
• On Effectively Executed Claustrophobia in Wolfgang Petersen's Das Boot

Vincent and the Doctor, Together Alone

(This be another one of those posts in which I “[feign] some kind of cultural superiority … even though [my] opinions and tastes are largely shite of the first water [that force most commenters to] make an effort to shaddup when [I] want to wax long and philosophical about some mainstream film [I'm] content to call art.”)

I covered the palette of "Vincent and the Doctor" in my post about the Leverage episode "The Van Gogh Job," so I'll save some time and just say the wheat:

The wheat: 

The wheat: 

The wheat may not seem that important—though damn do I love it—but it calls to mind Woody Allen's famous parody of Ingmar Bergman in Love & Death, which is relevant because "Vincent and the Doctor" is an episode devoted to the consequences of loneliness (felt or otherwise). The Doctor's alone because he's the Doctor; Amy's alone because (unbeknownst to her) Rory's been unwritten from existence; Vincent's alone because Vincent's always been alone; and the Krafayis is alone because it's been abandoned by its fellows. This is a story that's fundamentally about lonely people "coming together," only director Jonny Campbell doesn't shoot it that way. I bring up the visual punning on the wheat because the shots it parodies are relevant. To wit:

An iterative algorithm is implemented to make this say what we all know to be true.

According to the always reliable John J. Miller, “[a] study says that black students take easier courses than white students at Duke University.” He offers the following as his pull-quote:

Although black and white students enter college with similar academic interests, 68 percent of black students eventually chose to study humanities and social sciences. According to the study, this is because “natural science, engineering, and economics courses are more difficult, associated with higher study times, and are more harshly graded than their humanities and social science counterparts.”

The pull-quote is fairly incendiary, I admit, but not nearly as offensive as Miller’s summary of the study with its implication of genteel agreement. Miller’s sentence suggests that this study informs his audience of what it already knows, i.e. that their prejudices are informed by science. But the real problem with Miller’s post is right there in the citation from the study: “natural science, engineering, and economics courses are more difficult … than their humanities and social science counterparts.”

I know what you’re thinking: “But Scott, isn’t economics a social science?” It is. But it occupies its own special space next to the hard sciences because it does. Two of the study’s authors (Peter Arcidiacono and Esteban Aucejo) are economists, but the other (Ken Spenner) is a sociologist. Which means that if the special dispensation of economics is revoked, all three of the authors of this study are as dumb as black students.

Such is the logic of Miller’s implied argument.

But that’s not the logic he intended to use. He wanted to wink at Charles Murray and nudge his fellow-travelers. Miller certainly didn’t want people reading the actual study, either, which indicates that there’s another group of students just as dumb as the black ones:

Legacies at Duke start out behind their white non-legacy counterparts (though not as far back as blacks) with 65% of the gap removed by the end of the senior year. Similar major-switching patterns occur for legacies as well, with large shifts away from the natural sciences, engineering, and economics towards humanities and social sciences. The divergent grading standards across courses legacies and blacks take, coupled with the tighter variances on the grade distributions of upper year courses, accounts for their catch up to their white non-legacy counterparts.

I wonder why Miller didn’t include that in his pithy remark about black students? It’s almost as if the claim “a study says that black students and most of my colleagues at the National Review take easier courses than white students at Duke University” wouldn’t have been well-received at the National Review.

Foreshadowing and Genocide and Quite a Bit More, Actually, in "Amy's Choice"

(Another one of those now-more-conveniently-located posts.)

One of the core assumptions of the way I teach visual rhetoric is that directors often know more than they know (or are letting on). This is because shooting schedules often don't track with air dates—for example, the episode I'm going to be discussing today, "Amy's Choice," was the seventh aired, but last one filmed in Series Five of Doctor Who, meaning that writer Gareth Roberts and director Catherine Morshead already knew what would happen in the four episodes that would follow it. The result is a kind of foreknowledge masquerading as foreshadowing: the audience experiences the latter because the writer and director possess the former. 

Sound obvious? That's because that's how we think foreshadowing works. Only one problem: foreshadowing doesn't require authorial intent to be visible in a work. The Jews didn't sit around writing a book foreshadowing the eventual arrival of some guy named Jesus—they wrote a book that a bunch of Christians later interpreted to contain a number of moments when the coming of some guy named Jesus was foretold. Foreshadowing, in other words, often functions as an interpretation used to bolster the authority of a particular reader. ("What do you mean you didn't see Jesus's coming foretold in the Hebrew Bible? What are they teaching at the monastery these days?") Whereas foreshadowing was once largely a matter of readerly interpretation, thanks to some technological innovations I haven't the time nor the space to get into here—it starts with books and evolves into lending libraries and marches forward—foreshadowing is now considered to be more a matter of authorial (or directorial) intervention.

More succinctly, material that used to be wrenched from variably willing texts is now forcibly inserted into them. The classic example of the latter would be the medical drama in which someone suddenly feels a sharp pain in his or her head. The cause? Some writer forcibly inserted a tumor into it as a cheaps means of "foreshadowing" death. It's about as subtle as: