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Video Blog 5
In class, we’ve been talking a lot about the use of song in films, watching Moulin Rouge and other video clips to see how filmmakers intertwine plot and song lyrics, or simply use the music as a guide for their shots. One really great example of spontaneous song in film comes from “My Best Friend’s Wedding,” which happens to be one of my favorite movies. Most of the film is pretty cut-and-dry, a dyed-in-the-wool romantic comedy with lots of closeups, sexual tension, and montage scenes.
In the middle of the film, protagonist Julianne Potter (Julia Roberts) introduces her gay friend, George (Rupert Everett), as her fiancee so that her best friend and love, Michael (Dermot Mulroney) won’t catch onto the fact that she’s plotting to ruin his wedding with Kimberly (Cameron Diaz). It’s a confusing little tangle of feelings, and one of the funniest parts comes when all parties are sitting down in the middle of a seafood restaurant and Kimberly’s family asks Julianne and George how they met. This is the only time in the film when all of the characters are involved in an elaborate musical number, providing a bit that is both incredibly hilarious and unexpectedly confusing in terms of genre.
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George uses this song as his explanation for what Julianne said the first time they met and “fell in love,” further emphasizing the depth of the pair’s lie and the ridiculousness of the whole situation. But even though the music comes from left field and doesn’t stylistically fit with the rest of the movie, it’s become a fan favorite since it adds a surprising twist to the film. Furthermore, it helps build the tension and highlight the majority of the dramatic irony that the director is setting up at this particular moment. Though the song and its lyrics are facetious and empty, its upbeat rhythm and multiple parts allow for a simultaneous showcasing of all of the movie’s main characters.
You’ll notice the use of closeups and foiling of characters throughout the clip, with Julianne and Michael’s shocked reactions mirroring each other in juxtaposed shots. Kimberly and George’s fun-loving nature leads to the intensification of the song in volume, and their shots are also paired. In one section, the twins are shown singing the response lines (like typical backup girls), and in another, an older gentleman sings the baseline. Occasionally, we’ll see long shots down the entire table, usually on the refrain when all parties join in. It’s a wonderfully ridiculous use of song!
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My fourth video blog!
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Vlog 3: Cutting into Ethics
This week in class, we talked a great deal about the arrangement of videos, or how filmmakers use different shots and cuts to assemble a story. With Pudovkin’s work and theories, we saw how editing can be an art form in and of itself; with strategies like contrast, parallelism, symbolism, leit motif and more, there’s a lot of storytelling work that happens between cuts. As we discussed Pudovkin’s obsession with suggesting a relationship between two otherwise unrelated shots, my mind drifted over to one of my guilty pleasures: The Bachelor TV franchise.
Admittedly, I’m a junkie for trashy reality TV. As much as I would love to pretend that my entertainment tastes are mature and refined, I have to be honest about the fact that I often have more fun watching two girls duke it out in the name of love than I do viewing a documentary. There’s a certain magic to the cheesiness of reality TV that has captivated me (and probably always will). The Bachelor TV show has done a remarkable job of capitalizing on Pudovkin’s theory, layering two separate shots to suggest relationships between them. In fact, many people have criticized the franchise for its heavy-handed editing, claiming that it misrepresents contestants by the way it cuts together shows.
One of the most infamous examples of egregious editing claims came from Vienna of Bachelor Season 14, who was undoubtedly painted to be the show’s villain. Articles have supported these claims, arguing that most of what was seen on Season 14 in relation to Vienna was completely fabricated, little more than a clever combination of shots.
This week, I ran across a really funny video from comedian Molly Hawkey, who has recently been publishing videos in which she edits herself into Ben Higgin’s current season of The Bachelor. She’s easily able to accomplish the feat, utilizing the fact that a good percentage of shots on The Bachelor are close-ups of contestants in a confession room, versatile shots with lots of gossipy statements that are able to be chopped up, rearranged, and used out of context. Molly has several confession shots of herself, juxtaposed with scenes from the group date and drama around the Bachelor house. To a casual viewer, her story line actually fits well.
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She’s executed everything amazingly well, down to the cliched candles that flicker in the background of the set. Obviously, Hawkey is doing this for satirical effect, but her use of editing does point out one of the key dangers of reality TV shows like The Bachelor: they pass off incredibly fictionalized stories as “real-life” events, simply because people don’t realize the power of editing. When we fail to critically analyze shots and juxtaposition in a show, it is much easier to fall into the trap of believing it is true simply because its high-quality nature and clever editing make it look like real life.
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Video Blog 2
The video I want to focus on today is one of my favorites, produced in 2012 and shown to me not long after that when I was a senior in high school. It’s entitled “A Finger, Two Dots Then Me” and was written by Derrick Brown in response to the passing of his wife (If I’m remembering correctly.)
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As I was watching the video again this week, I noticed so many rhetorical elements that I hadn’t focused on before. In high school, I was so concerned with language and writing, that I really only paid attention to the words Brown was speaking (which are incredibly powerful). However, this time around, the topics we’ve been discussing in class gave me a new lens through which to see this performance. Suddenly, I was able to appreciate the juxtaposition of images of childhood and senility, earth and space, death and life. I was able to see how the spinning of the movie reel around 3:42 mimic the line “and the planets begin to spin,” providing a re-envisioned take on the focal point of motion.
One of the things that really interests me about this video is the way it allows the written and spoken word to intersect with traditional videography. Poetry was one of the original modes of expressing love, around since the days of epics like Beowulf and refined until reaching a height in the Elizabethan era. In the late 1800s, we started to see the onset of new media like the moving picture, with Melies and Lumiere providing unique ways to capture spectacles and life moments. In more recent times, the advent of spoken word poetry as an art form has grown, springing up primarily out of coffeehouse performances. So we have all of these disparate historical moments that collide in this one video. To me, that’s wicked cool. It reminds me a lot of the Kracauer reading, which emphasized how photography was actually one of the birthplaces of film. Early on, as we discussed in class, individuals hypothesized that film would completely replace photography, eliminating the need for still shots by providing for a more exciting medium. However, the opposite has proven to be true. Instead of replacing photography, film enhanced it. In much the same way, innovative video techniques and posting abilities (fostered by the rise of the internet) have not replaced old forms of entertainment like poetry, but rather proliferated and transformed the genre into something that is still widely viewed and enjoyed today.
Getting back to the video techniques themselves, I want to speak a bit more about the layering that is seen in Brown’s video. In many ways, it reminded me of a collage, with realistic scenes like the one of the old man in the hospital fading in over washed-out “memory” scenes of childhood play. Then, we get still, face-on and profile shots of Brown himself reciting his poem, with stars that look like they were drawn by children contrasting with the light bulbs all around him. There is so much layering in this video, in fact, that it almost becomes impossible to track or order. This keen use of collage is one of the major factors contributing to the film’s success. It’s very clear that the poet is going beyond the realm of the present to advance an idea of eternality that weaves all of the many moment’s of one’s life together. In the end of the video, this aim is further exemplified by the quick montage of many different life moments which Brown calls “holy, holy, holy.” The scenes fly at the viewer, never staying long enough to be fully understood, but working together to give the impression that life is flying by and yet is fully harmonious as a beautiful whole. The film is chock-full of metaphors, and I get chills each time I revisit it.
There are so many more things I could say about “A Finger, Two Dots Then Me,” but for now I’ll stop writing and leave you with enough time to fully enjoy it!
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Here, I discuss the mise en abyme (multiple frames) within Sherlock, Jr. Images of Las Meninas, the mirrors, and the frames were taken from Google Image stock photos.
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Lumière Actuality
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My video, “Educational Barriers”, was made in keeping with the genre and stylistic elements of Lumière in mind. When this project was assigned, I was attracted to the idea of capturing everyday life at UK, especially since so many students have complained this year about the plethora of construction projects scattered across campus. The lack of mobility at UK this year is frustrating and, at times, limiting. The genesis of this video was in my own personal dissatisfaction with this one aspect of administration’s tendency toward “progress” over serving currently enrolled students.
In the development of this film, I maintained the original black and white aspect of each scene, which was true to the films developed by Lumière in his turn-of-the-century works. I also maintained the static title screens with the opening credit, title, and concluding quote slides. I wanted to preserve the pseudo-documentary nature characteristic of Lumière’s work, and thought the simplicity of the color scheme and title screens was a great way to highlight the seriousness of my subject matter.
Ironically, the tone of my film is one of the things that sets it apart from the work of Lumière. Most of the clips we watched in class depicted life in a very neutral way. The filmmaker, it seems, was not as concerned with political statement through his work as he was documentation. However, given my investment in the central issue of my film, I thought it might be a nice twist to use a relatively apolitical genre to advance a rhetorical message of my own.
One of the biggest challenges as I was making this video was emphasizing the mundane nature of campus-wide construction without actually including the construction sounds. Lumière’s original works were silent films, as the technology to combine audio with video was not yet created during his career. To stay true to the nature of the assignment, I decided that my film would also be silent. This caused me to rely instead on layering many scenes of the construction sites throughout the film. I wanted them to start out fast, then get longer and more involved as the video progressed (thus, the longest shot is the truck backing out of the dirt road). This series of similar shots gave the same dull impression that the original construction noise would have, and also allowed for an overlay of the dramatic, alternative cello music that added coherence to the film. Moreover, this continuity within the diegetic space gives the impression that all (or most) of campus is under construction. Though we don’t see the non-diegetic space as viewers, the monotony within the frame implies it is much the same outside of it. This use of space creates a metaphor for how many students feel about the “never-ending” construction: it seems to be everywhere even though, geographically, it is not.
The one characteristic of Lumière’s Actuality (in addition to tone) that I strayed away from was the grainy quality of those 1890s films. Because I wanted my film to be rhetorically powerful more than true to genre, I left the clips highly realistic. In order for someone to see the scale of construction on our campus, the scenes of demolition and building sites need to be clear. This is what our beautiful campus looks like on a daily basis. This is what students walk by every day. These are the scenes that serve as backdrops for their memories of college. Understandably, I wanted those to be irrefutably high-quality.
I hope you enjoy the video, and let me know if you have any questions!
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MyStory Reflection
What I learned from delving deep into the recesses of past memories to decide the course of the present.
When I started this project, I was actually at a really funny place in my life. I say funny meaning tragic, of course. But not “Titanic-is-sinking-we-must-exit” tragic, more tragic in the sense that I was just starting to realize I didn’t know who I was anymore. And then, of course, I get these projects that want me to talk not only about the memories lying at the heart and soul of who I am, but also how my career choice displays some kind of congruence with that self-image. It was laughably unfortunate and, at times, uncomfortable.
So for the first discourse, I decided I’d just start with who I was. No harm, no foul, right?
For nineteen years of my life I told everyone I wanted to be a high school English teacher. I wanted to walk into my classroom everyday, open up a book, and get kids talking about it. Then, once I got swept up in rhetoric and composition research at the college level, I told everyone I wanted to be a professor. I was still passionate about English, but the seed of doubt about the “rewards of teaching” had been planted (It’s just the rudeness of high school kids, I think. I really would like teaching in college, mom, don’t worry!)
Then, this past summer, halfway through my college experience and practically finished with my English-WRD double major, I started to get the itch for science again. I was sad that I hadn’t touched a calculator in two-and-a-half years, and desperate for some conversation about biology, physics, chemistry--about anything but English. So I signed up for CHE 105 and 111 (its lab).
What was happening to me?
For a long time this semester, I kept quiet about my schedule. And, on the horribly awful chance that a friend would see me goggled in chem phys and discover my secret, I’d laugh it off and say that I just wanted to take it “for fun” and that “it was nothing.”
But was it nothing?
When I wrote my initial career discourse, we were learning about antidefinition and the counterdictionary. To me, these exercises were fascinating because I was experiencing my own form of internal antithesis. On the one hand, I was an English/WRD major with a love of writing and reading, and on the other, I was getting super excited for my chemistry class each day, going through the textbook for fun and watching video after video from Khan Academy. Many people would say that chemistry and English are about as far apart as it gets. UK, in fact, often boxes them off from each other, treating them like separate worlds. Yet here I was, firmly straddling the line between each side. What did it mean?
In the first discourse, I acted like it meant nothing, talking merely of how I was having “career trouble” and didn’t like decisions. However, by the time I got to the first obstruction and revision of the discourse, I had come to more acceptance of the fact that this was not just a mild flirtation with the STEM field, but indicative of a larger career crisis. Suddenly, I was not the woman who had always known what she wanted to do; I was the girl who was being pulled in a million different directions and had no idea of her path whatsoever. So I talked about boxes and feeling trapped.
When it came to the family and entertainment discourses, things were a lot easier. I was able to integrate rhetorical concepts like khora, juxtaposition, closure, and others with ease. I had firm beliefs about my likes and dislikes, as these discourses were firmly rooted in memory. They were not asking me to forecast my future, or make any big decisions. Thankfully, my love of family and cartoons will always be a constant. Even in the revisions, I didn’t feel like much changed. The message was essentially the same: my family has shaped me, cartoons have inspired me. I did try to use different forms of media in the obstructions (Prezi, audio composition, PowerPoint, music), but the changes were more in the delivery than in the message.
When it was time to compile all of these discourses and string them together with some semblance of cohesion, I knew I had to be honest with myself. The most interesting change I had seen this semester was internal, and unspoken: I am incredibly afraid of growing up and deciding on a path for my life. So much of my experience up to this point has been about immersion in various narrative worlds, about taking the world in and seeing what I can learn from it. But being a “professional student” won’t pay the bills or reassure my parents. Eventually, I have to make a choice.
What I decided through all of this is that it’s okay not to know my exact path yet (I’ve still got 3 semesters), but I do need to take confident steps in the direction of my interests. Interests. Plural. And I need to stop thinking of everything like a trap or a box that cannot be changed or molded to fit my needs. I am an English/WRD major, yes, but liberal arts do not (and should not ever) confine me. Who cares what people think about an English major in the lab? So what if I shock my friends with a change in career direction? I am interested in science and possibly pursuing medicine, but I should also know that it’s okay to turn back to teaching if I ever feel like it.
In my eyes, pressuring people into quick choices is a major flaw of American society. “What do you want to be when you grow up?” I can’t tell you how many times I heard that question. But perhaps we should stop asking it. Or maybe we should give people the freedom to say “happy” and then figure out the winding, back-tracking, uphill, downhill paths that will get themselves there, to that point of bliss.
I know I’ve not talked a lot about the importance of the rhetorical terms that we’ve mastered this semester or the ways my discourses and MyStory project exemplified them, but I hope you’ll forgive me that omission. The most important value of this WRD 208 class, to me personally, has been to come to some kind of weird acceptance with the “funny place” I’m at now. One really cool parallel I’ve noticed comes with our unlimited use and transformation of media. In this class, we’ve seen how each medium comes with its own specific message and how the age of electracy gives people the freedom to mix those. I can create an album online. I can make digital art. All of these concepts that seem so oxymoronic and used to be boxed off from one another are now possible--and harmonious-- in tandem. And that mixing, in a sense, parallels my life right now. My life at 21. Being an English major who decides at the tail end of college that she is incredibly interested in science and (possibly) medicine is an oxymoron. A lot of people get uncomfortable now when I talk about my change in interest. “But you’re interested in writing!” they say. I nod. “But you’ve always wanted to teach!” I nod. “But science is so different than English!” I nod. Everyone thinks it’s such an oxymoron. But it’s a possible one. It’s an oxymoron that makes me uniquely me, and that I can do great things with if I give myself the freedom to not only take a path, but also to transform it.
So thank you. Thank you, Dr. Abboud and everyone in WRD 208 for giving me the courage and freedom to unpack the boxes.
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MyStory Submission
So, it’s finally done! For a look at my final discourse (the MyStory project,) please visit me at rachelelise.voog.com!
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The Perfect Human
What is “the perfect human” as outlined in The Five Obstructions?
In The Five Obstructions, we follow Jorgen Leth as he remakes his hit film The Perfect Human five times using a strict set of rules imposed by Lars von Trier. Throughout the film, Leth’s inability to move away from perfectionism is highlighted. Though von Trier keeps implementing harsher and harsher rules with each new remake and advocates for the creation of a terrible film, Leth refuses to reduce the quality of his work. To Leth, a film is not worth making if it isn’t done well.
But von Trier is desperately seeking to make a point that perfection isn’t required for something to be valuable. He sees in Leth a strain of perfectionism that has wreaked havoc on the life and happiness of the filmmaker. As von Trier writes in the script of the fifth obstruction, the entire project was an attempt to get to know the real Jorgen Leth, the one hidden behind a constant drive for success. He wanted to see Leth’s flaws because those, ultimately, make him beautifully human.
In a sense, being flawed is what constitutes being a “perfect human.” That term is a paradox in and of itself, as humanity (something deeply flawed and unique) is required for something to be considered “human.” The two cannot go together and retain their original meanings. The “perfect human” interacts with others. He has feelings and setbacks. He loses love. At the end of the day, though, the perfect human keeps on living. He proves that he is not really “perfect” and in so doing--in overcoming his perfectionism--proves that he is all the more human.
The end of the film features the line “this is how the perfect human falls,” which is included in each of the five obstructions and the original film. However, its inclusion with the final scene is made more powerful when von Trier chooses to juxtapose the line with a clip of Leth falling. The message behind this scene is clear: through the revision process, and with this fifth obstruction in particular, Leth lost some of his power as a filmmaker. Certain scenes failed to pan out as he would have liked, and von Trier rendered him completely helpless with the fifth obstruction’s premise. But in falling, Leth has also stumbled on something more beautiful than a perfect composition process--he has learned to allow himself the creativity to make mistakes and to learn from them.
In some ways, the idea of failing and falling forges creative boundaries. Without experimentation, many of the rhetorical structures that we successfully employ today would not be possible. To “strike gold” in the creative world, artists must give themselves permission to first run through vast amounts of dirt. When I think about “the perfect human” or “the perfect artist” or any other similar idea, I’m always brought back to the improbability of our existence. As a race, we are infinitesimally small and weak when viewed through the lens of the entire universe. We make many mistakes, some of them with huge consequences. So what allows us to survive? The one thing that tips the scales in our favor, at least in my opinion, is our willingness to experiment, to try things out and fail.
The image below is one of my favorite photographs of all time. I’m sure you’ve seen it, if not of your own accord than on the glossy page of a history textbook. This image of the “Migrant Mother” was taken during The Great Depression in America. Clearly, this woman and her children are struggling. Their faces are hidden and they are barely able to survive. Yet, her face shows a grim determination to keep going. Though weak, she must be strong. To me, this photograph embodies what it means to be “the perfect human” and fall. This moment is harrowing, but it gave rise to one of the most powerful images of contemporary times.
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Entertainment Discourse:
The Timelessness and Agelessness of the Cartoon Genre
When I was younger, I was obsessed with cartoons of all kinds. I distinctly remember coming home from school in the first grade and sitting down in front of the TV with my bowl of tuna salad and crackers. PBS was my station of choice back then, and I would sit at the table as episodes of Clifford the Big Red Dog filled the screen in front of me. But Clifford was merely a prelude to the show I loved most of all: Dragon Tales. To have watched the show so long ago, I still remember a lot of strange details about it. Max and Emma are two siblings who have a special, rainbow stone that allows them to be transported to a world of dragons. Inside that world, they help solve problems and restore harmony to the magical community. Two dragons in particular, Zak and Wheezie, were always my favorites because, beyond being loud and boisterous like I was, they were also conjoined twins, a concept which fascinated me.
Sometimes, when I’m sitting bored in class or hearing the tinny music of a passing ice cream truck, I remember the upbeat cadence of the Dragon Tales theme song. I used to always sing it through mouthfuls of tuna: “Dragon Tales, Dragon Tales, it’s almost time for dragon tales. Come along, take my hand, let’s all go to Dragon Land!” For me, the half-hour episodes truly were magical. I remember being captivated by the colors and sparkles, by the complex and recurrent personalities, and by the concept of dragons in general.
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When I watched this opening scene back after researching for this discourse, I was surprised to see that the animation is actually pretty simplistic compared to the depth provided by modern cartoons. The colors almost seem like watercolors, losing sharpness in some places and blending into the colors around them. In many ways, this is an adequate metaphor for growing up--the things I once thought lively have become dull in retrospect, but the joy they brought me remains veiled in memory. So, although I now see Dragon Tales a bit differently when viewed through adult eyes, I still appreciate the world of imagination it introduced me to.
I feel the same way about the other cartoons I enjoyed as a kid: Cat Dog, Cow and Chicken, Dexter’s Laboratory, PB&J Otter, Johnny Bravo, Doug, Rocket Power, The Fairly Odd Parents, and too many others to list. In the video below, short segments from the opening sequences of a lot of these cartoons appear. When I watch them back, I always feel a sense of chora welling up inside me. There’s a nostalgia attached to the songs and familiar images because I spent so much time engaging with them as a child. In fact, I’m amazed by how many of these cartoons I remember. I’ve seen at least a few episodes from each of the shows included in the video, and several episodes (if not all episodes) from most.
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One of the strangest things about cartoons is the way they draw viewers in and the audiences they serve. What is it about an artificial, exaggerated image on a flat surface that commands so much attention? And why do we associate these types of images with children? Perhaps that second question is even more interesting. We rarely show children realistic shows including in-the-flesh actors, preferring instead to show them cartoons. Additionally, when children mature into adults, there comes a time when we transition them from cartoons to more “realistic” media. Society screams for us to “keep our kids young” by censoring what they watch, but tells older children at the same time that they are “far too old for cartoons.”
Perhaps one reason for the association of children with cartoons is the fact that we want to feed their imaginations and encourage them to connect with a more abstract world. Cartoons, we think, do this job best. In other words, animated series seem like the stuff of childhood simply because they require a certain suspension of disbelief that many adults, unfortunately, are too rational to possess once they mature. We assume that children will and should enjoy colorful images with cheesy music, but also expect that there is a time to put imagination away (namely, once the responsibilities of the “real world” set in.)
This association of cartoons with juvenile imagination might also go back to Scott McCloud’s outline of “closure” in which cartoons expect us to fill in the details left in the spaces between their multiple abstract images. To McCloud, cartoons should be simple to allow for higher degrees of closure and self-identification with characters. Cartoons avoid over-complications and too many nuances. However, their simplicity does not negate the inclusion of complex themes. On the contrary, because cartoons are not as concerned with set, wardrobe, side-plots, and other details characteristic of other television genres, I would argue that their focus remains impressively on the lessons included within each episode.
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In high school, to the surprise of many of my friends, I enjoyed watching shows like Handy Manny and The Higglytown Heroes. I specifically remember an awkward lunchroom conversation in which an acquaintance tried to defend my television choices by saying “I know what you mean about watching all those shows, Rachel; I have younger siblings too. Cartoons aren’t totally awful.” This defense would have been really appreciated, had I actually had younger siblings. But I wasn’t viewing these shows as a way to bond with five-year-old brothers or sisters. I genuinely enjoyed watching them in the mornings before I had to enter the harsh reality of high school. To me, few things were more beautiful than seeing Manny’s genuine kindness and willingness to help or witnessing a nesting doll’s struggle to find his or her voice as a hero. It probably sounds like I’m saying these praises in jest, but I assure you that I’m not. I’ve always valued the simplicity of cartoons because they bring me back to a place of innocence, a place where kindness provides the rule.
I also enjoy cartoons for their historic origins, and for the irony that a medium now associated almost exclusively with children was originally used to cover extremely mature topics. During the Second World War, for example, Disney created several anti-Nazi propaganda films using its classic cartoon characters.
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In the above cartoon, we see Donald as a member of the army, deploying in enemy territory and suffering in the midst of heavy gunfire. Though rife with moments of humor, this cartoon carries strong messages about the nature of WW2 and our relationship to “the enemy.” Additionally, it has some extremely racist elements from which most parents today would shield their children.
I’ve also noticed a tendency to create a separation between types of illustrated and animated media linguistically as a means of rationalizing certain age groups’ draw to it. For instance, “cartoons” are different from “animated films” and “comics” are different from “graphic narratives.” Though all of these forms use abstract images of some kind and seem very similar, we have created new terminology to make our entertainment choices seem more acceptable. Even today, in a world in which so many different forms of media are acceptable, many individuals try to shield themselves from judgment by employing hedging statements like “I enjoy political cartoons,” “I’m fascinated by graphic narratives,” or “Animated series compel me.” Rarely will an adult proudly admit that he or she is into cartoons or comics (though the latter seems less “geeky” to claim.)
However, there are artsy folk across the globe seeking to change this mindset and reclaim cartoons as a viable art form for all ages and themes. One of my favorite films of all time, Waltz with Bashir, is composed in an animated, comic-style format that only enhances its narration of the war in Lebanon. When I watched the film for the first time, I was in the basement of Willy T. in a closet-like private viewing room. By the time the ending credits began to roll, I was sobbing in little ball, gasping for air and hoping no one would walk by the door and think I was crazy. Against my expectations, director Ari Folman twisted my stereotyped perceptions of cartoons into something that was extremely dark and powerful.
Seeing Waltz revolutionized the way I viewed animated works, and gave me the courage to speak out more about my love of cartoons and animation as a mode of storytelling. I’m in the minority who prefers animated works to films/shows with real actors, and I’m now more okay with that stance than ever before. There is a power inherent to cartoons that grabbed me when I was younger and still seizes me today.
When I think about why I love cartoons so much, the ideas come back to one central point: in stripping away the frivolity and distractions that accompany realistic works, animated art is able to focus more on the story at hand. When I see a cartoon, I’m not distracted by the way a character is smiling or the fly-away hair that was by their face in the first frame but not in the second. I don’t really care about the depth of the set or trying to orient myself in this strange, highly-realistic world. With a cartoon, I am free to relax and absorb the details as I see them. The story floats to me, then stays firmly planted in my mind. As a writer, I’ve always been extremely image driven, and a lot of that tendency, I know, stems from my early exposure to cartoons. No matter how old I get, there is a timelessness to them that always manages to find its way back to me.
C.S. Lewis once said: “Some day you will be old enough to start reading fairy tales again.” My only hope as I grow older is that I always grow closer to the stuff of childhood that first sparked my fascination with language, writing and, above all, stories. In America, we’re always so eager to grow up; fortunately, I realized early on that there are some art forms for which age has no limit.
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Episode 177: Lawn Order
Okay, first, I just need to take a moment to mention how hilarious the theme of this episode was. If you’re a huge fan of Law & Order (like me), or have just seen a rerun or two on TV, go check out the first 15 seconds of this episode. It mimics the opening of L&O but is, as you probably guessed, about lawns. Here’s the description of the episode:
“In communities across America, lawns that are brown or overgrown are considered especially heinous. Elite squads of dedicated individuals have been deputized by their local governments or homeowners’ associations to take action against those whose lawns fail to meet community standards.”
So, pretty funny stuff. However, once the episode begins, its clear that this satirical tone is actually masking a huge issue--the fact that people are being carted off to jail for having brown lawns. Neighborhood vigilantes across the U.S. are legitimately getting angry at residents who have overgrown or under-watered grass. One man goes to jail for his refusal to lay sod on his lawn again (which comes at a hefty $1500 price tag) and the sane neighbors band together to landscape his house so he can get out of jail.
Though this particular podcast isn’t as focused on architecture itself, it does still connect to the field in a way. Lawns are, in many ways, a manifestation of twenty-first century ideals and materialism. The idea that they should be well-kept is a construction of upper-class homeowner’s associations who are trying to build a specific type of community.
I love the idea of 99% invisible and its mission to dive deeper into what can be seen on the surface. I never would have suspected that behind perfectly-kept lawns (in some parts of the U.S.) lies a web of threats, intimidation and legalistic language. It’s some pretty crazy stuff!
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Career Discourse
For this first discourse, I elected to do a video capturing my introduction to/experience with rhetoric and composition up to this point. The focus is on the audio, but I’ve got a slideshow of images to accompany the story. Enjoy!
youtube
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iPhone Photography Awards
Here’s the award-winning media from iPhone photographers in case anyone is curious. Credit to odysseytape for telling us about this in class.
http://www.ippawards.com/2014-winners/
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Haiku Reasoning
I’m using the haiku to think of my career path within limited bounds. It’s really difficult to choose a path, especially now. The older I get, the more frightened I become when thinking of my impending entrance into the workforce. What field should a person choose when their passions are all so scattered? Which wish (or dream) should they follow?
I feel five again,
blowing hot air all around.
Where will it settle?
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The Punctum
Random photos with lots of equally random imperfections.
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