Today during class, Mr. Mitchell showed us a YouTube loop of the JFK assassination footage (Zapruder film). Keeping in mind that 1. DeLillo made "22 November" as a close explication of the scene and 2. the readers have a sideline expectation of having seen the footage already, I found it interesting that we had a couple differing comments during class about the video vs. book scene.
Some people commented that the the book scene was more emotionally provoking for them than the video footage, and I agree with this point of view for a few reasons. The multiple and direct perspectives from the characters in the book is something we can't get from the video. Lines describing the gore from Nellie Connally ("She heard Jackie say, 'I have his brains in my hand'), the shocked, bloodsprayed woman photographing the scene, or Agent Hill hanging on to the back of the car and staring into JFK's head, are raw and blunt details that burn into our minds in a way the footage can't give us with it's distance, fast-speed, and relatively low resolution.
We also get Lee's personal reactions and emotions during the shooting--we start with his childlike sensation of hiding in a fort in the book depository, then we move to his moment of clearness during the shooting, and we eventually see him start to realize the set-up behind the whole plan. Because Libra follows Lee's developing character, and avoids any of the usual focus on JFK's significance in the American dynamic, the emotions evoked from the shooting scene in the book are much more complicated than anything evoked from a straight dip of the footage. Lowkey shock, pinches of something like sympathy for Lee but not quite, expectancy, inevitability, etc.
Although "22 November" was written with the expectancy that the reader had already seen the footage, I actually hadn't. So watching the video in class, I knew what was coming and DeLillo's close detailing of the scene kind of reduced the impact of the video. I could expect there to have been more of an emotional provocation if the footage had been my first exposure.
Interestingly, during the first play of the footage, I had a thought running through my head that this could almost be a view of the scene from Lee's aerial point while the car passes by. (How conspiratorially post-modern). As the scene started replaying in the second loop though, I finally began getting a feeling of unease, and "here it comes," and inevitability. But I think that just seeing the footage would have just left it at that: a bit of movie-like distance and awe, and some wonderment and unease at the historical realization. Even though DeLillo contains the story from going beyond this exact footage, the book induces some effects that would have been impossible otherwise.
On another note, Libra was interesting to have as our last book. Reading and discussing pretty much taught me everything I know about the JFK assassination. Somehow beforehand, whether due to a gap in my history teachings or impressive misses in my media/cultural exposure, I had known almost nothing about it. I knew JFK had been killed, didn't know (or forgot) by who, where, or what context. Educated now though!
Tuesday, May 10, 2016
Wednesday, April 13, 2016
Marguerite and Lee
Marguerite in Libra is currently a mystery character to me. We don't get to see much of her, and when we do, everything just seems to add to her convoluted relationship with Lee.
The way DeLillo introduces Marguerite at the very beginning makes her seem like a relatively sympathetic mother in a bad situation, but still trying her best. This is right after the scene of Lee "playing hooky" on the trains, and he and Marguerite are sitting together watching TV. Lee is telling her about riding the trains, and Marguerite notes that it's okay to skip a day of school or two since the other kids bother Lee and he's likely to have "turbulence running through him," as a boy without a father.
"She sat and listened to the boy's complaints. She couldn't fry him a platter of chops any time he wanted but she wasn't tight with the lunch money and even gave him extra for a funnybook or subway ride" (4)
Hearing about Marguerite's multiple failed marriages and her low jobs also add on to make her seem like a mother who's also gone through some hard times but is still trying to stay supportive of Lee where she can.
Except that under the facade, Marguerite's character has some ambiguous quirks and weird flaws that aren't much highlighted in the book so far--but may be the reason for some of Lee's antagonism (in addition to just his asshole character):
Although we get some positive images of Marguerite's mothering, we also later learn that she sometimes leaves Lee in the orphanage for periods of time. The reason isn't given, but it seems rather strange to casually do this multiple times; it doesn't seem that they are quite destitute enough either, for a mother to leave her child this way.
In addition, Marguerite doesn't seem to really try and get Lee back in school for his benefit after receiving official notice of his skips. She just complains for "two hours in [a] high piping tone," not an effective or conscientious way or solving the problem (6). The long sections of Marguerite's rambling narrations to the ambiguous "your honor" are a similarly ranty, expressive, and rather untrustworthy side of the woman. In one single section she bemoans her family situation and wavers between unrelated (and probably untrue) assertions such as Lee buying her a parakeet with a planter and ivy and food etc. (48).
In class, Mr. Mitchell mentioned that Marguerite in the records is known to be a pretty weird person and tried to get off as much publicity as possible from Lee Harvey Oswald. She seems to a rather ambiguous character so far in Libra, but is definitely already showing her weird side--whatever future development comes to play, I'm on the side of taking everything Marguerite represents with a grain of salt.
The way DeLillo introduces Marguerite at the very beginning makes her seem like a relatively sympathetic mother in a bad situation, but still trying her best. This is right after the scene of Lee "playing hooky" on the trains, and he and Marguerite are sitting together watching TV. Lee is telling her about riding the trains, and Marguerite notes that it's okay to skip a day of school or two since the other kids bother Lee and he's likely to have "turbulence running through him," as a boy without a father.
"She sat and listened to the boy's complaints. She couldn't fry him a platter of chops any time he wanted but she wasn't tight with the lunch money and even gave him extra for a funnybook or subway ride" (4)
Hearing about Marguerite's multiple failed marriages and her low jobs also add on to make her seem like a mother who's also gone through some hard times but is still trying to stay supportive of Lee where she can.
Except that under the facade, Marguerite's character has some ambiguous quirks and weird flaws that aren't much highlighted in the book so far--but may be the reason for some of Lee's antagonism (in addition to just his asshole character):
Although we get some positive images of Marguerite's mothering, we also later learn that she sometimes leaves Lee in the orphanage for periods of time. The reason isn't given, but it seems rather strange to casually do this multiple times; it doesn't seem that they are quite destitute enough either, for a mother to leave her child this way.
In addition, Marguerite doesn't seem to really try and get Lee back in school for his benefit after receiving official notice of his skips. She just complains for "two hours in [a] high piping tone," not an effective or conscientious way or solving the problem (6). The long sections of Marguerite's rambling narrations to the ambiguous "your honor" are a similarly ranty, expressive, and rather untrustworthy side of the woman. In one single section she bemoans her family situation and wavers between unrelated (and probably untrue) assertions such as Lee buying her a parakeet with a planter and ivy and food etc. (48).
In class, Mr. Mitchell mentioned that Marguerite in the records is known to be a pretty weird person and tried to get off as much publicity as possible from Lee Harvey Oswald. She seems to a rather ambiguous character so far in Libra, but is definitely already showing her weird side--whatever future development comes to play, I'm on the side of taking everything Marguerite represents with a grain of salt.
Friday, April 1, 2016
Brutal birthdays
Unlike the usual happy and celebratory feeling associated with birthdays, birthdays and days of birth seem to be a bad omen in Kindred.
We learn in the very first paragraph of The River (right after the prologue) that Dana's troubling time travels to the nineteenth century begin on her 26th birthday, June 9, 1976. This is small detail when we don't yet know who Rufus is or Dana's family history. I quickly skimmed over the fact until Dana realizes that Rufus and Alice are some of her great (times three or four) grandparents, and it became a conspicuous detail to start Dana's series of visits on her birthday.
Dana's birth becomes the crux of a central dilemma in the book. As we discussed in class, the worth and morality of Dana's existence and conception is called into question; she herself has to choose between facilitating the birth of her ancestors and trying to prevent it. It is obviously painful for her to push Alice along. Rufus' rape highlights an abundance of problems: the blind mindset of physically "owning" a person/body, the unfairness to Alice as a black female slave, even the plight of Rufus who loves Alice as a white man.
Understandably, Dana is super frustrated when she returns to the 1800's and Alice has had three children, two who are dead and none Hagar. It's a setback to any considerations of intervention between Alice and Rufus among other things. The lone baby Joe, however, looks white, which will place him in a different position than kids who are born looking black. Any children who look black enough have a big chance of becoming slaves.
Slave births are a strange, sweet-bitter type of event. Nigel's scene with Weylin in the middle of The Fight (161) is a perfect example. The parents are obviously happy about the baby, yet as Nigel says, Weylin is "one [n-word] richer" because of the child. And Nigel is also tied down to the plantation by one more person (Carrie being the other).
Births highlight the central racial issues in Kindred, and Octavia Butler sets a brutal trend with these examples. She reinforces the points by setting the novel during the nation's bicentennial, a reminder that with the birth of the US also developed a history of problematic slavery.
We learn in the very first paragraph of The River (right after the prologue) that Dana's troubling time travels to the nineteenth century begin on her 26th birthday, June 9, 1976. This is small detail when we don't yet know who Rufus is or Dana's family history. I quickly skimmed over the fact until Dana realizes that Rufus and Alice are some of her great (times three or four) grandparents, and it became a conspicuous detail to start Dana's series of visits on her birthday.
Dana's birth becomes the crux of a central dilemma in the book. As we discussed in class, the worth and morality of Dana's existence and conception is called into question; she herself has to choose between facilitating the birth of her ancestors and trying to prevent it. It is obviously painful for her to push Alice along. Rufus' rape highlights an abundance of problems: the blind mindset of physically "owning" a person/body, the unfairness to Alice as a black female slave, even the plight of Rufus who loves Alice as a white man.
Understandably, Dana is super frustrated when she returns to the 1800's and Alice has had three children, two who are dead and none Hagar. It's a setback to any considerations of intervention between Alice and Rufus among other things. The lone baby Joe, however, looks white, which will place him in a different position than kids who are born looking black. Any children who look black enough have a big chance of becoming slaves.
Slave births are a strange, sweet-bitter type of event. Nigel's scene with Weylin in the middle of The Fight (161) is a perfect example. The parents are obviously happy about the baby, yet as Nigel says, Weylin is "one [n-word] richer" because of the child. And Nigel is also tied down to the plantation by one more person (Carrie being the other).
Births highlight the central racial issues in Kindred, and Octavia Butler sets a brutal trend with these examples. She reinforces the points by setting the novel during the nation's bicentennial, a reminder that with the birth of the US also developed a history of problematic slavery.
Friday, March 11, 2016
Trauma
Slaughterhouse Five does seem to have aspects of multiple genres and can be read in many ways. Today during Elissa, Keisha, Kari's panel, we discussed reading the book as a trauma novel.
Vonnegut never really makes Billy's mental state explicitly obvious in the book. Near the beginning, Vonnegut writes in a way that subtly leans us toward Billy's assertions vs. Barbara's arguments claiming his insanity.
We get a scene of Billy peacefully writing his time-theory letter when Barbara comes home. After calling for Billy and not getting an answer, Barbara becomes "nearly hysterical, expecting to find [Billy's] corpse," a rather hasty conclusion, and also threatens to "put [Billy] where [his] mother is" (locked away in an old people's home) (28,29). All Billy does in the face of her hysterical ranting is calmly back his assertions; "his anger was not going to rise with hers. He never got mad at anything. He was wonderful that way" (30).
The stability around Billy's character, in contrast to Barbara's snappy and frantic extremes, pushes Billy viewpoint as legitimate when in actuality Barbara's worries are very legitimate and much more logical than Billy's absurdity.
On inspection, Vonnegut sets Billy's entire character up in a trustworthy manner. After the destruction in World War II, Billy seems to have an interestingly stable mental temperament--no signs of PTSD or trauma. But moreover, Billy is a successful and respected Optometrist in Ilium. He ran a steady business, was living very comfortably, had a wife and two children, had made it to be president of the elite Lions Club, etc. Vonnegut intends for us to believe Billy. In the beginning.
Vonnegut never really makes Billy's mental state explicitly obvious in the book. Near the beginning, Vonnegut writes in a way that subtly leans us toward Billy's assertions vs. Barbara's arguments claiming his insanity.
We get a scene of Billy peacefully writing his time-theory letter when Barbara comes home. After calling for Billy and not getting an answer, Barbara becomes "nearly hysterical, expecting to find [Billy's] corpse," a rather hasty conclusion, and also threatens to "put [Billy] where [his] mother is" (locked away in an old people's home) (28,29). All Billy does in the face of her hysterical ranting is calmly back his assertions; "his anger was not going to rise with hers. He never got mad at anything. He was wonderful that way" (30).
The stability around Billy's character, in contrast to Barbara's snappy and frantic extremes, pushes Billy viewpoint as legitimate when in actuality Barbara's worries are very legitimate and much more logical than Billy's absurdity.
On inspection, Vonnegut sets Billy's entire character up in a trustworthy manner. After the destruction in World War II, Billy seems to have an interestingly stable mental temperament--no signs of PTSD or trauma. But moreover, Billy is a successful and respected Optometrist in Ilium. He ran a steady business, was living very comfortably, had a wife and two children, had made it to be president of the elite Lions Club, etc. Vonnegut intends for us to believe Billy. In the beginning.
The first time any warning bells rang for me, however, occurred only when Vonnegut, in a very non-discreet fashion, brings in Billy's use of science fiction as an escape method. After this, Vonnegut starts a cascade of numerous hints that Billy's mental state is indeed dubious:
Billy commits himself to a mental institution, where "science fiction became the only tales he could read," and he used the books to "reinvent themselves and [his] universe" (101). Then Vonnegut mentions that one of Kilgore Trout's stories, The Gospel From Outer Space, features a character "shaped very much like a Tralfamadorian, by the way" (108). By the end of the novel, we see Billy venturing in a bookstore looking at Kilgore Trout books with details very similar to his experiences with Tralfamadore and Montana Wildhack films.
In the second half of the book, Vonnegut tears down Billy's credibility. Billy's distressing flashback with the barbershop quartet becomes a glaring sign of possible post-war trauma. By this point, Billy's general calm demeanor has also become creepily placid: the way he simple accepts the destruction of Dresden, his "happy moment" right after, the way he simply grins dumbly when a Dresden citizen fumes at his clownish appearance.
Billy starts to look rather inhumanly distant in emotional capacity. Especially with Vonnegut's convincing portrayal of "sane Billy" at the beginning, this new reveal becomes very conspicuous. It could be seen as an effective way to put a normal reader in the obscure viewpoint of a trauma-affected veteran of war.
Vonnegut could also be writing a warning regarding escapism. By turning to science-fiction and an inventive world, Billy distances himself from humanity (literally and metaphorically), and turns into a simple shell. Vonnegut, who is himself struggling to look back at the war, could be presenting Billy's situation as a soft warning to himself and other veterans not to suppress their memories--thus his reminders of "That was me. That was I." He was in the war, went through it "beside" Billy, but in contrast to Billy himself, Vonnegut is looking back at his memories, going back to Dresden, and writing a war novel. Whether as an expository viewpoint, warning, or coping method for Vonnegut, a PTSD/trauma reading of Slaughterhouse is legitimate.
Billy commits himself to a mental institution, where "science fiction became the only tales he could read," and he used the books to "reinvent themselves and [his] universe" (101). Then Vonnegut mentions that one of Kilgore Trout's stories, The Gospel From Outer Space, features a character "shaped very much like a Tralfamadorian, by the way" (108). By the end of the novel, we see Billy venturing in a bookstore looking at Kilgore Trout books with details very similar to his experiences with Tralfamadore and Montana Wildhack films.
In the second half of the book, Vonnegut tears down Billy's credibility. Billy's distressing flashback with the barbershop quartet becomes a glaring sign of possible post-war trauma. By this point, Billy's general calm demeanor has also become creepily placid: the way he simple accepts the destruction of Dresden, his "happy moment" right after, the way he simply grins dumbly when a Dresden citizen fumes at his clownish appearance.
Billy starts to look rather inhumanly distant in emotional capacity. Especially with Vonnegut's convincing portrayal of "sane Billy" at the beginning, this new reveal becomes very conspicuous. It could be seen as an effective way to put a normal reader in the obscure viewpoint of a trauma-affected veteran of war.
Vonnegut could also be writing a warning regarding escapism. By turning to science-fiction and an inventive world, Billy distances himself from humanity (literally and metaphorically), and turns into a simple shell. Vonnegut, who is himself struggling to look back at the war, could be presenting Billy's situation as a soft warning to himself and other veterans not to suppress their memories--thus his reminders of "That was me. That was I." He was in the war, went through it "beside" Billy, but in contrast to Billy himself, Vonnegut is looking back at his memories, going back to Dresden, and writing a war novel. Whether as an expository viewpoint, warning, or coping method for Vonnegut, a PTSD/trauma reading of Slaughterhouse is legitimate.
Wednesday, February 24, 2016
Party Rocking: the Modern Jes Grew
Recently in class, Mr. Mitchell gave us a prompt revolving around Papa LaBas and Earline's conversation at the very end of Mumbo Jumbo.
________________________________________________________________________
Recap of conversation (Reed 204):
Earline: Is this the end of Jes Grew?
Papa LaBas: Jes Grew has no end and no beginning...We will miss it for a while but it will come back, and when it returns we will see that it never left...We will make our own future Text. A future generation of young artists will accomplish this.
(These are selective points I highlighted from LaBas's paragraph answer.)
_________________________________________________________________________
LaBas' answer induces the question of how Jes Grew has continued and manifested in the current day. Reed presents a detailed account of Jes Grew, beginning in Osiris' ancient Egyptian dominion. He then takes the story to Europe and connects it to the main Jazz-age context in Mumbo Jumbo. Although there is no real-life correspondence to Mumbo Jumbo's 1920's Jes Grew event, documented dancing pandemics are a real thing in history. (Caroline wrote a post about these occurrences in Europe.) But records of these dancing plagues has stopped since the seventeenth century, and indeed we don't have these dancing pandemics today.
However, just by Reed's introduction of Jes Grew in the first few pages of Mumbo Jumbo, of people doing " 'stupid sensual things,' in a state of 'uncontrollable frenzy,' wriggling like fish, doing something called the 'Eagle Rock' and the 'Sassy Bump'," I had immediately formed a connection between the Jes Grew in the novel and a real-life, modern day counterpart (4-5).
In the form of a one-time, pop-music hit song that took America by storm in 2011: LMFAO's Party Rock Anthem ft. Lauren Bennett, GoonRock
"Party Rock Anthem" is a straightforward, blatant, and non-convoluted song promoting things related to partying, dancing, and having fun. But in the context of Mumbo Jumbo's Jes Grew, the song and music video become newly interesting.
At the opening of the music video, a black screen shows with the words "On March 1, LMFAO's Redfoo and Sky Blu slipped into comas after excessive party rocking," introducing the apocalyptic setting of the music video. We see Redfoo and Sky Blu wake up from their comas to a deserted hospital; going outside, the streets and cars are in disarray and also deserted.
The apocalyptic presentation of the world and the infectious nature of party rocking is the premise of the music video. We see one man at 2:06 get surrounded by party-rockers while trying to escape the dancing mania and subsequently become infected with it. The portrayal of party rocking as a "physic plague" and "spreading infection" is exactly how Jes Grew is also introduced (17).
However, in Mumbo Jumbo we quickly start to distinguish between the two views of Jes Grew. Seeing Jes Grew as a spreading disease, a pandemic that needs to be contained, is the Atonist viewpoint; LaBas, Black Herman, Harlem, and the promoters of Jes Grew see it as an "anti-plague," something that "enlivens the host" and is the "delight of the gods" (6).
In the music video, we also begin to see a distinction between attitudes toward party rocking. The individuals who are scared of party rocking are presented as typical adherents to respectable, stiff, rule-following society. Notice that the man at 2:06 who gets surrounded and infected makes the sign of the cross and prays before dashing into the open. The main anti-party-rocking character is the man at 1:07 who tries to keep the dancing mania away from Redfoo and Sky Blu by giving them earplugs. His appearance, in contrast to everyone else's brightly colored, fantastically printed clothing, is that of a typical, respectable office worker in a collared white dress shirt, pants, and tie. His fearful description of party rocking, saying that "It'll get into your bones" and "They've been Shufflin' ," is reminiscent of the Atonist way of describing Jes Grew as an 'uncontrollable frenzy' and calling out dance moves such as the 'Eagle Rock' and 'Sassy Bump' in a comically serious and frightened manner.
In contrast, everyone in the music video who is actually party rocking is having a good time, enlivened and dancing with smiles on their faces. The point of this, being the same point of Jes Grew, is to promote letting go and allowing natural expression. Jes Grew at the core is not rooted to Harlem or a single culture; it spreads anywhere--Egypt, Europe, America--with the purpose of shedding oppressive society and allowing people to follow their desires and natural inclinations.
Jes Grew in Mumbo Jumbo's Jazz age promoted black expression in America. Jes Grew in the current day as presented by "Party Rock Anthem" and similar media would perhaps be promoting something such as freedom against rule-stricken, pressurized, American worker society. Partying, flaunty clothing, the party-rock infected nurse dancer included in the music video I think are all bits and pieces pointing toward this idea. As LaBas said, "We will make our own future Text. A future generation of young artists will accomplish this." Aside from the power of the internet and catchy nature of the song, it's interesting how a release such as "Party Rock Anthem," quite shallow on the surface, was able to hit and spread virally all across the nation.
________________________________________________________________________
Recap of conversation (Reed 204):
Earline: Is this the end of Jes Grew?
Papa LaBas: Jes Grew has no end and no beginning...We will miss it for a while but it will come back, and when it returns we will see that it never left...We will make our own future Text. A future generation of young artists will accomplish this.
(These are selective points I highlighted from LaBas's paragraph answer.)
_________________________________________________________________________
LaBas' answer induces the question of how Jes Grew has continued and manifested in the current day. Reed presents a detailed account of Jes Grew, beginning in Osiris' ancient Egyptian dominion. He then takes the story to Europe and connects it to the main Jazz-age context in Mumbo Jumbo. Although there is no real-life correspondence to Mumbo Jumbo's 1920's Jes Grew event, documented dancing pandemics are a real thing in history. (Caroline wrote a post about these occurrences in Europe.) But records of these dancing plagues has stopped since the seventeenth century, and indeed we don't have these dancing pandemics today.
However, just by Reed's introduction of Jes Grew in the first few pages of Mumbo Jumbo, of people doing " 'stupid sensual things,' in a state of 'uncontrollable frenzy,' wriggling like fish, doing something called the 'Eagle Rock' and the 'Sassy Bump'," I had immediately formed a connection between the Jes Grew in the novel and a real-life, modern day counterpart (4-5).
In the form of a one-time, pop-music hit song that took America by storm in 2011: LMFAO's Party Rock Anthem ft. Lauren Bennett, GoonRock
"Party Rock Anthem" is a straightforward, blatant, and non-convoluted song promoting things related to partying, dancing, and having fun. But in the context of Mumbo Jumbo's Jes Grew, the song and music video become newly interesting.
At the opening of the music video, a black screen shows with the words "On March 1, LMFAO's Redfoo and Sky Blu slipped into comas after excessive party rocking," introducing the apocalyptic setting of the music video. We see Redfoo and Sky Blu wake up from their comas to a deserted hospital; going outside, the streets and cars are in disarray and also deserted.
The apocalyptic presentation of the world and the infectious nature of party rocking is the premise of the music video. We see one man at 2:06 get surrounded by party-rockers while trying to escape the dancing mania and subsequently become infected with it. The portrayal of party rocking as a "physic plague" and "spreading infection" is exactly how Jes Grew is also introduced (17).
However, in Mumbo Jumbo we quickly start to distinguish between the two views of Jes Grew. Seeing Jes Grew as a spreading disease, a pandemic that needs to be contained, is the Atonist viewpoint; LaBas, Black Herman, Harlem, and the promoters of Jes Grew see it as an "anti-plague," something that "enlivens the host" and is the "delight of the gods" (6).
In the music video, we also begin to see a distinction between attitudes toward party rocking. The individuals who are scared of party rocking are presented as typical adherents to respectable, stiff, rule-following society. Notice that the man at 2:06 who gets surrounded and infected makes the sign of the cross and prays before dashing into the open. The main anti-party-rocking character is the man at 1:07 who tries to keep the dancing mania away from Redfoo and Sky Blu by giving them earplugs. His appearance, in contrast to everyone else's brightly colored, fantastically printed clothing, is that of a typical, respectable office worker in a collared white dress shirt, pants, and tie. His fearful description of party rocking, saying that "It'll get into your bones" and "They've been Shufflin' ," is reminiscent of the Atonist way of describing Jes Grew as an 'uncontrollable frenzy' and calling out dance moves such as the 'Eagle Rock' and 'Sassy Bump' in a comically serious and frightened manner.
In contrast, everyone in the music video who is actually party rocking is having a good time, enlivened and dancing with smiles on their faces. The point of this, being the same point of Jes Grew, is to promote letting go and allowing natural expression. Jes Grew at the core is not rooted to Harlem or a single culture; it spreads anywhere--Egypt, Europe, America--with the purpose of shedding oppressive society and allowing people to follow their desires and natural inclinations.
Jes Grew in Mumbo Jumbo's Jazz age promoted black expression in America. Jes Grew in the current day as presented by "Party Rock Anthem" and similar media would perhaps be promoting something such as freedom against rule-stricken, pressurized, American worker society. Partying, flaunty clothing, the party-rock infected nurse dancer included in the music video I think are all bits and pieces pointing toward this idea. As LaBas said, "We will make our own future Text. A future generation of young artists will accomplish this." Aside from the power of the internet and catchy nature of the song, it's interesting how a release such as "Party Rock Anthem," quite shallow on the surface, was able to hit and spread virally all across the nation.
Wednesday, February 3, 2016
Killing off Tateh
It's been a few days since we've finished Ragtime, but I wanted to make this last point before we jumped into Mumbo Jumbo. One of our final topics in class discussion was, naturally, the ending of the book. We looked at Tateh and Mother's reinvented family as possibly the largest, and perhaps only, beacon of optimism in the sea of violent character-death. Although it is a refreshing point, I can't help but hold a particularly cynical view of this idea. In Ragtime's finale, the Tateh-Mother ending is the most off-putting for me--more so than the deaths.
Father, although dying in a violent explosion on the Lusitania, is taken in a fitting fashion. We discussed in class that Father's traditional nineteenth century character simply couldn't survive into the new age, as earlier began to show from the rift between him and Mother--Father's character finally crumbles while he significantly is still holding onto his firearms, the symbolic constant of his life work.
Father, although dying in a violent explosion on the Lusitania, is taken in a fitting fashion. We discussed in class that Father's traditional nineteenth century character simply couldn't survive into the new age, as earlier began to show from the rift between him and Mother--Father's character finally crumbles while he significantly is still holding onto his firearms, the symbolic constant of his life work.
In this case, we contrasted the progressive nature of the Tateh-Mother family versus the immobile condition of Father's mentality. The ones who changed were able to poke through the modern era, while the unchanging character was left behind. In class, we proposed to view the situation of the Tateh-Mother family as a ray of hope in modernity compared to Father's bleak ending. This pulls on the core assumption that the progressive changes in the reinvented family are a superior development over Father's constancy--an assumption I find controversial.
As earlier analyzed, the death of Father at the end of the story, although violent, was not unfitting. Father was a character who remained steadfast in following his beliefs and work to the end, an individual who held onto his identity. This lends reason to why the brash character-death doesn't feel more off-putting, just also a bit pitiful, despite the tragic setting.
In contrast, there is something continuously disconcerting about Tateh's success story. The full-blown and ironic manifestation of Baron Ashkenazy is definitely something to point out. Doctorow is blatantly dancing around the American success story, what with the high-end but meaningless connotations of "Baron" and Jewish presentation of "Ashkenazy." The new identification, although a splotch in the seriousness of Tateh's evolution, isn't much to completely overturn the good feeling of Tateh's success. No, it's something else.
At the beginning of chapter 34, I was shocked when Doctorow casually dropped the bomb on the Baron's identity. Although there were plenty of signs in the previous chapter of who Baron Ashkenazy was (his daughter, film-making, ethnicity, etc.), I had been unsuspecting of his identity as Tateh and aligned him as a new character Doctorow was introducing to the story. The main reason for this is the apparent difference between what the story had established to us as the character of Tateh and Baron Ashkenazy; the "flamboyant, excited person [with] eyes darting here and there, like a child," is too much of a contrast between the serious, white-haired, and grim character of Tateh (254). It is as if these are two completely different people and is also what I think the root of the problem.
En route to success, it seems as if Tateh was forced to lose himself in the process. Baron Ashkenazy has consumed his existence. The name is one thing, but Doctorow also decides to do a complete 180 on Tateh's character, and that is what makes this success story off-putting. The happiness of the Tateh-Mother family and the film-making success itself is not disputed. The push of Tateh into a different identity and then into someone else's (Hal Roach, producer of the Little Rascals) identity completely is my point of contention. By finalizing "Tateh" as someone who has, in actuality, a completely different background then Tateh's origins in Ragtime, there is a falseness to the whole bright ending of this situation.
As earlier analyzed, the death of Father at the end of the story, although violent, was not unfitting. Father was a character who remained steadfast in following his beliefs and work to the end, an individual who held onto his identity. This lends reason to why the brash character-death doesn't feel more off-putting, just also a bit pitiful, despite the tragic setting.
In contrast, there is something continuously disconcerting about Tateh's success story. The full-blown and ironic manifestation of Baron Ashkenazy is definitely something to point out. Doctorow is blatantly dancing around the American success story, what with the high-end but meaningless connotations of "Baron" and Jewish presentation of "Ashkenazy." The new identification, although a splotch in the seriousness of Tateh's evolution, isn't much to completely overturn the good feeling of Tateh's success. No, it's something else.
At the beginning of chapter 34, I was shocked when Doctorow casually dropped the bomb on the Baron's identity. Although there were plenty of signs in the previous chapter of who Baron Ashkenazy was (his daughter, film-making, ethnicity, etc.), I had been unsuspecting of his identity as Tateh and aligned him as a new character Doctorow was introducing to the story. The main reason for this is the apparent difference between what the story had established to us as the character of Tateh and Baron Ashkenazy; the "flamboyant, excited person [with] eyes darting here and there, like a child," is too much of a contrast between the serious, white-haired, and grim character of Tateh (254). It is as if these are two completely different people and is also what I think the root of the problem.
En route to success, it seems as if Tateh was forced to lose himself in the process. Baron Ashkenazy has consumed his existence. The name is one thing, but Doctorow also decides to do a complete 180 on Tateh's character, and that is what makes this success story off-putting. The happiness of the Tateh-Mother family and the film-making success itself is not disputed. The push of Tateh into a different identity and then into someone else's (Hal Roach, producer of the Little Rascals) identity completely is my point of contention. By finalizing "Tateh" as someone who has, in actuality, a completely different background then Tateh's origins in Ragtime, there is a falseness to the whole bright ending of this situation.
Friday, January 22, 2016
American Ideals and Ideal Americans
What exactly is the "ideal American?" There is no single persona that fits the bill. With reference to America as the "melting pot" of cultures, races, and beliefs, pinpointing any true "ideal American" has become exponentially harder in this day and age.
In class (Tuesday, Jan. 19th), we discussed Doctorow's depictions of J.P. Morgan, Ford, and Tateh. We briefly lighted upon the idea that the three characters embody different concepts of an "ideal American." J. P. Morgan is explicitly called the "classic American hero, a man born to extreme wealth who by dint of hard work and ruthlessness multiplies the family fortune until it is out of sight (Doctorow, 138)." Morgan, top dog in the U.S. economic enterprise, is a shining portrayal of the aristocratic and capitalistically American concept of optimized wealth and success. Ford, also a figurehead in the American industry, is an epitome of the hardworking, rags-to-riches ideal; through his genius, Ford has revolutionized the automobile market and American laboring system with his assembly line and Model T. Tateh, although never having been rich, is perhaps the best example within the three of a quintessentially American concept: opportunity for all. Tateh's decision to mass-produce his flip books "points his life along the lines of flow of American energy (Doctorow 134)." The hardworking immigrant digs himself and his daughter out of the lower working-class hole by finding his own chance in the Land of Opportunity.
Morgan, Ford, and Tateh are each optimized upon some American ideal. However, Doctorow's prose also directly undermines the idealism of each character and their situation with individual flaws, restricting the image of a true "ideal American." Morgan feels prosperity at an awe-inspiring level, but he "knew as no one else the cold and barren reaches of unlimited success; in his affluence, he feels lonely (Doctorow 139). Henry Ford, en route to his success, has not only mechanized automobile production but also made the "men who build the [cars] be themselves interchangeable (Doctorow 136)." Everything in the Ford empire is mechanized--including himself. In the slightly preposterous way that Ford "allotted sixty seconds on his pocket watch for a display of sentiment," the man's persona lacks a certain stroke of humanity that dissembles the idealism around his character. Tateh's flaw centers more around his actions rather than his person. His rise to American opportunity is characterized by a stripping of the uniqueness of his flip books. Doctorow's explicitly calls Tateh an "artist" for the first time right after Tateh sells his books for mass production (Doctorow 134). This points out an odd contrast between Tateh's pragmatic success and the loss of both the books' physical individuality and the special sentimentality toward his daughter.
These contradicting portrayals of flaws and idealism puts each of Doctorow's characters in a gray area. Each time, the ambiguity produces a challenge for the reader: Should this character's persona be really considered an "ideal?" Considering the flaws, is one persona of an "ideal American" better than another? Are these flaws due to the character of the person or the American system? Doctorow never shows a specific alignment toward or against Morgan, Ford, or Tateh but openly shows both their merits and imperfections. In this way, Doctorow opens up room for the reader to challenge each concept of an American ideal on their own.
In class (Tuesday, Jan. 19th), we discussed Doctorow's depictions of J.P. Morgan, Ford, and Tateh. We briefly lighted upon the idea that the three characters embody different concepts of an "ideal American." J. P. Morgan is explicitly called the "classic American hero, a man born to extreme wealth who by dint of hard work and ruthlessness multiplies the family fortune until it is out of sight (Doctorow, 138)." Morgan, top dog in the U.S. economic enterprise, is a shining portrayal of the aristocratic and capitalistically American concept of optimized wealth and success. Ford, also a figurehead in the American industry, is an epitome of the hardworking, rags-to-riches ideal; through his genius, Ford has revolutionized the automobile market and American laboring system with his assembly line and Model T. Tateh, although never having been rich, is perhaps the best example within the three of a quintessentially American concept: opportunity for all. Tateh's decision to mass-produce his flip books "points his life along the lines of flow of American energy (Doctorow 134)." The hardworking immigrant digs himself and his daughter out of the lower working-class hole by finding his own chance in the Land of Opportunity.
Morgan, Ford, and Tateh are each optimized upon some American ideal. However, Doctorow's prose also directly undermines the idealism of each character and their situation with individual flaws, restricting the image of a true "ideal American." Morgan feels prosperity at an awe-inspiring level, but he "knew as no one else the cold and barren reaches of unlimited success; in his affluence, he feels lonely (Doctorow 139). Henry Ford, en route to his success, has not only mechanized automobile production but also made the "men who build the [cars] be themselves interchangeable (Doctorow 136)." Everything in the Ford empire is mechanized--including himself. In the slightly preposterous way that Ford "allotted sixty seconds on his pocket watch for a display of sentiment," the man's persona lacks a certain stroke of humanity that dissembles the idealism around his character. Tateh's flaw centers more around his actions rather than his person. His rise to American opportunity is characterized by a stripping of the uniqueness of his flip books. Doctorow's explicitly calls Tateh an "artist" for the first time right after Tateh sells his books for mass production (Doctorow 134). This points out an odd contrast between Tateh's pragmatic success and the loss of both the books' physical individuality and the special sentimentality toward his daughter.
These contradicting portrayals of flaws and idealism puts each of Doctorow's characters in a gray area. Each time, the ambiguity produces a challenge for the reader: Should this character's persona be really considered an "ideal?" Considering the flaws, is one persona of an "ideal American" better than another? Are these flaws due to the character of the person or the American system? Doctorow never shows a specific alignment toward or against Morgan, Ford, or Tateh but openly shows both their merits and imperfections. In this way, Doctorow opens up room for the reader to challenge each concept of an American ideal on their own.
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