« May 2007 | Main | August 2007 »

July 26, 2007

Why I Like...Show N'Tell

Face it, we all have that one toy we get misty eyed about—be it a favorite teddy bear, truck or box of crayons. For me, it’s the Show N’Tell. What’s that, you never heard of it? Not surprising, since it was never a very successful toy (at least in the accounts I’ve read), but it was probably the one that was most responsible for shaping (or twisting) my imagination. The toy consisted of a record player and light box viewer and resembled a TV, which was designed to play a synched record and filmstrip. Compared to today’s technology, it was one step above shadows on the cave wall, but it just captured my imagination, mainly because of the titles that my dear old parents bought to go along with it—Frankenstein, Prometheus, Phaeton, Julius Caesar (ala Shakepeare), The Count of Monte Cristo, "The Fall of the House of Usher "(to name a few).

A few years ago my mom asked me if she was “a good mother” when I was growing up—now the real answer is a resounding “yes” but I was feeling little mischievous and ticked off the litany of gore that my good Catholic mother provided as entertainment: Man playing God (Frankenstein), eternal punishment via having your liver eaten out (Prometheus), hurtling to the Earth as a flaming cinder (Phaeton), assassination and suicide (Julius Caesar), false imprisonment (The Count of Monte Cristo), being buried alive ("The Fall of the House of Usher"). Obviously, General Electric (the manufacturer of Show N’Tell) looked more at the cultural significance of their titles than whether it would psychologically scar little Jimmy (or me—I was about five when I got this toy).

Even though the stories were filled with good old-fashioned boy-centric gore and violence, the Show N’Tell presentations were extremely well-produced with good narration, voice acting, sound effects and most of all music. I developed an abiding love for classical music because of this toy. The artwork was lurid by today’s standards, but that was another part of its appeal. As a writer, I think it was this toy that inspired my love of storytelling most of all—making me eager to graduate to the source material when I encountered them years later. These were my kind of stories filled with horror and high adventure.

As a toy, it stood head and shoulders above the garbage that was deemed “educational” when I was a kid. The reason—it didn’t talk down to us. It presented the stories in a straightforward, intelligent way. There were lessons there (e.g. Phaeton: Obey your parents or suffer the horrifying consequences), but that was secondary to the sheer enjoyment these stories gave me. Again, there was no dumbing down or soft-pedaling of the action—Caesar got it good in the Show N’Tell version. I appreciated the beautiful brutality of it all.

Even though it was an audiovisual toy, the Show N’Tell was still primitive by today’s standards, so the freeze frame action had to be supplemented by my little kid, overactive imagination (which inspired the occasional nightmare)—that really made it fun.

In short, I loved this toy—I loved it when I was a kid, I love it even more today because I know that without it, my imagination would be a lot less fertile. So, thanks, mom and dad, for the best toy you could have gotten me.

 

Posted by woldunn at 01:05 AM | | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

July 25, 2007

Movie Review: Zulu

I’m asked all the time what’s my favorite movie—and, considering that I’ve probably seen thousands of titles ranging from The First Men in the Moon (1903) to Knocked Up (2007) (with most of  including most of the seminal and not so seminal ones in between), it should be a tough choice. Not so. Without hesitation, my answer is—Zulu.

There is nothing cinematically significant about the film—no new techniques, concepts or themes were innovated. In terms of notability, it marks the first starring appearance of Michael Caine.

Other than being solidly made and acted, the fact-based Zulu has little to recommend itself other than the fact that it is the ultimate guy movie.

The film starts by depicting the aftermath of the destruction of a British force of 1,100 men by the Zulu tribe in January 1879. The scene then shifts to a small garrison of about 100 British soldiers—many of whom are sick and wounded—at the Rorke’s Drift river station. Word soon reaches the garrison, under the command of Lt. Gonville Bromhead (Caine) that there is a force of 4,000 Zulus heading his way with the aim of finishing the work started at the beginning of the movie. Bromhead, inexperienced in combat, soon finds his command usurped by engineering officer Lt. John Chard (Stanley Baker, who also co-produced the film). Chard had been sent to build a bridge and, thus, escaped being “chopped” with the rest of the column earlier that day. The British defenders stalwartly prepare for the attack, which comes soon enough.

The run-up to the battle—among some of the best war scenes of their kind in cinematic history—takes up about the first half of the film. Though it can seem tedious at times, it sets up the way these men will meet their fate. Among the men we meet, there’s Pvt. Owen (Ivor Emmanuel), leader of the regimental choir; Colour Sgt. Bourne (Nigel Green), who knows that a “prayer is as good as bayonet on a day like this;” Adendorff (Gert van der Bergh), the Boer who understands the lethal Zulu strategy of the bull buffalo; Pvt. Hook (James Booth), the malingerer; and Surgeon Maj. Reynolds (Patrick Magee), the doctor who is under-supplied and irascible to boot. Throw in a couple of sanctimonious Swedish missionaries (Jack Hawkins and Ulla Jacobsson) and you have the makings of an explosive class struggle.

But class and internal conflict end when the Zulus attack. It is here that the movie really shines and gets into its guy groove. Attacks are repelled, individual soldiers show their true heroic colors, and new cinematic friends die all to a pulse-pounding score by John Barry (of James Bond fame).

The film has several elements that make it the perfect guy movie. There’s the daunting task, the ordinary guys thrown into extraordinary circumstances, and that steely British resolve that we all wish we possessed. Several moments of the movie are just seared into my memory. When Bromhead leads his men in a gap-filling bayonet charge for the first time, the first time the troopers using firing lines to repel the charging Zulus (this is the ultimate guy moment), the singing of “The Men of Harlech” led by Pvt. Owen while the Zulus beat their shields in a seemingly preparatory victory chant. There are other moments—I don’t want to give them all away nor do I want to give away the ending of the story that has been called the British “Alamo” (and remember it’s a true story—though rather toned down from the original events).

What probably helps to make it a movie that has stood the test of time is that screenwriter John Prebble, a well-known and respected Marxist historian, humanized all of his characters—the officers might have stiff upper lips, but they do quiver from time to time, Hook might be a lumpen proletariat, but he is capable of heroics when necessary. The Zulus, too, are portrayed not as mindless killing machines, as an “other” that needs to be vanquished, but, rather as noble, brave warriors. The British soldiers and their adversaries are simply caught in the web of history (Prebble’s only overt target is religion). Prebble and director Cy Endfield are careful about moralizing—the British officers are focused on one issue—how to survive. There’s little talk about the ethics of the British war in Zululand (other than Hook’s asking of “why are we here?” The answer is as straightforward as the question.)

Politics aside, Zulu delivers on the action front most of all. The battle sequences are well designed and edited in classic Soviet montage style (meaning that the editing produces and enhances the action). The plot is also thoroughly straightforward and well-designed, with no sidelines into romance (though there is a rather crudely sexist scene involving the missionary’s daughter) or needless comedic relief. It is the kind of action movie Hollywood can’t or won’t make any longer.

In terms of its value as a guy movie, apart from all of its action elements, Zulu delivers the kind of message that resonates with guy movie watchers. When faced with daunting odds all you can do is buckle down and do what’s necessary—there’s no time for politics, quibbling, cajoling. It’s a time to get the job done.

Though I would recommend that you rent the movie before purchasing it, I have to say that it is a movie that holds up over numerous viewings—even after you know how it ends. I’ve probably watched Zulu about 50 times over the last 30 years and it still hits me the same way every time—I get a lump in my throat at the same moments and I feel the same thrill when I hear John Barry’s horn-heavy score boom out of the television speakers. For me, my DVD collection would not be complete without Zulu.

But use care when buying the DVD. The film’s rights expired a few years ago, so there are several versions of the film floating around. I’d recommend buying the MGM-produced one. It’s in letterbox format and has good color saturation, albeit few bells and whistles in terms of special features.

Four out of four stars. 

 

 

Posted by woldunn at 12:47 AM | | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

July 24, 2007

Cabinet of Wonder: The Museum of Jurassic Technology

Before the invention of the institution we know as a “museum,” private collectors displayed their treasures in “wunderkammer” or wonder cabinets. These collections, which could range in size from a small valise-size container to an entire room or wing of a palace, were usually as eclectic as the owner’s imagination with whale bones being exhibited beside pieces of the true cross or something equally as spurious.

For the most part, the wunderkammer ceased to exist to large extent by the Napoleonic age. That is until 1989 when David Wilson and his wife opened the Museum of Jurassic Technology (MJT) (www.mjt.org) in Culver City.

Part museum, part art installation, part joke, the MJT is as much a state of mind as a place. You can only fully appreciate it if you suspend your disbelief and immerse yourself in the parallel universe that Wilson has created. It’s at once an enchanting and disquieting vision. Permanent exhibits include figures carved out of a single grain of rice, an ode to trailer park culture, disintegrating dice (courtesy of magician Ricky Jay), a library devoted to the study of Napoleon, stereographic x-rays of flowers, folk remedies, and the newest one—portraits of heroic Soviet space dogs.

I first heard about the MJT through a documentary on PBS—but, because I missed the beginning—had no idea where it was. Then I saw an article about it in the late and lamented Westside edition of the Los Angeles Times—it was down the street from me in Culver City. I was on my way almost immediately.  And I had a great time in the winding, darkened, weird dreamscape that is the MJT. The museum is filled with small, seemingly endless rooms and short passages that double back on themselves. The descriptions of exhibits are purely poetic and maddingly evasive. Certain exhibits are permanently out of orders and others look like rejects from a second-hand store. But the MJT is an experience—it’s not so much about learning as it’s about being inspired.

For me, that inspiration is found each time I visit the exhibit about Athanaseus Kircher, a priest who wrote on numerous esoteric topics ranging from ancient Egypt to Zen to magnetism. Kircher really existed, but how much of what is written in the exhibit is real and how much fabricated is anybody’s guess. And really, I could care less. It’s the idea of the exhibit, that the world and existence is deeper than it seems that is appealing, that inspires. Isn’t that what a museum is supposed to do?

Don’t get me wrong, I love other L.A. institutions like the Getty. I love the academically rigorous, verifiability of these experiences, the wide open corridors, the cleanliness of it all.

But there’s something that drags me back to the MJT time and again. It’s like a dream that you can’t escape, the low light, the unexpectedness around every corner, the other dream walkers visiting at the same time, trying to make their own sense of the experience as they delve further into the twisted folds of their own (or is it Wilson’s) brain.It wasn’t until I read Lawrence Weschler’s Mr. Wilson’s Cabinet of Wonder: Pronged Ants, Horned Humans, Mice on Toast, and Other Marvels of Jurassic Technology, that I really got the joke—this is as much a critique of the museum as it is one itself. Ironically, I bought the book at an exhibit at The Getty (Devices of Wonder, which was when I was first introduced to the concept of wunderkammer). Honestly, I really don’t care if half of the exhibits are fake, and that the entire enterprise is a rebuke of the museum qua museum.

Wechsler may have missed the joke himself. The point of the MJT is that it is whatever you want it to be. It’s the meaning that you bring to it that’s the point (obviously, Wilson was making a very post-modern statement with the opening of the MJT). It’s the relativist, artistic underpinnings that make the MJT so much fun.

For me, what the MJT shows is that the world isn’t as boring as it pretends to be. Kircher is right (or is it Wilson whose instructing here) when he writes that “the world is bound with secret knots.” When I walk out of the dream that is the MJT into the post-industrial wasteland of Venice Ave, it seems as if I’ve just awakened and the world looks a bit more vibrant. And if that’s a joke or a con—I’ll be happy to be tricked time and again.
 

Posted by woldunn at 01:36 PM | | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

July 20, 2007

The Practicality of the Martial Arts

When I tell people that I practice kendo—Japanese fencing—invariably I get a comment that it isn’t “very practical.” True we no longer live in an age when men armed with swords are strolling down the street ready to fight at a moment’s notice. But that doesn’t mean that it is an impractical activity.

In a society that worships sports, I find it ironic that a practical pursuit like kendo is disparaged, while an impractical sport like baseball, basketball, football, and, for that matter, boxing are considered “professions.” None of these activities have a practicality off the field or out of the ring. They are highly ritualized activities with set rules and parameters that have no historic application in the outside world.
 

The argument for the value of traditional American sporting activities is that they promote good health, comradeship, sportsmanship, and a natural outlet for aggression. So does kendo. So why does kendo (or any martial art) get slammed with the practicality argument when sports don’t?
 

I think the simplest explanation is that most people don’t get the point of the martial arts. Other than a handful of people participating in things such as “mixed martial arts” (which, in my opinion, is a bastardization of the martial ethos) you can’t make money pursuing it. Glory is limited to the Olympics (for arts such as judo) and local or national tournaments. And there is little societal status to be gained from holding an advanced degree (at least in the United States). So what’s the point?
 

Sure you get in good shape, your reflexes speed up, you can handle yourself in tight situations (as a female judo team demonstrated a few years ago when they foiled a carjacking), and your confidence level increases.
 

But that’s not why I continue to follow the way of the sword—which is one of the toughest martial paths to tread. I continue because it demands so much of me; because it’s difficult. Kendo is brutal—full contact is the rule of engagement (there’s no pulling strikes; as a matter of fact Japanese kenshi complain that Americans don’t hit solidly or hard enough), the equipment is heavy, the physical demands are punishing, and perfection is not attained it is pursued. The demand to be your very best at every moment in every fiber of your being—body and soul together—is the greatest appeal for me. The goal is the pursuit, the doing, the learning, the perfecting. Scoring a point, being better than a fellow kenshi, attaining rank and status in the dojo is secondary at best (or worst as the case may be).
 

In the process of all the endless drills, the sweaty grueling fights, the winless tournaments, I think (I hope) I’ve become a better person—more centered, generous, better able to meet a challenge, and able to see what’s really important in one’s life (good health, family, friends). And if I haven’t or if I falter, it’s possible to improve another day. And if I attain the best in myself, I have to remember that I have to work to remain that way.
 

The key thing to remember is that kendo and all the other budo (warrior ways) are arts. They are a set of skills acquired by a particular means—in my case by the way of the sword—these are not some rarified, esoteric magic powers or knowledge. These are the skills for living. And this is something that I think many martial artists of today miss—they consider their art the same they would football or basketball as something that is separate from the rest of their lives; something that can’t or shouldn’t be integrated into their character. That’s missing the point. Being a martial artist means living a martial life—and that doesn’t mean following a path of carnage—quite the contrary. It means acquiring the skills to face life no matter what it throws at you.
 

To those reading this who are martial artists remember that kendo and the other arts were the way the samurai and warriors of the past trained to survive actual military conflict and live another day—is anything more practical than that?

 

Posted by woldunn at 02:56 AM | | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

July 19, 2007

Why I like...Japanese Giant Monster Movies

The rubber suits, the cardboard cities, the bad dubbing, the Z-grade American “guest stars.” These are all the elements of the “classic” Japanese giant monster movies of the 1950s and 1960s. Believe me the cine-snob in me knows they’re abysmal; the kid in me thinks they’re the greatest thing ever. These and the British Hammer movies are the enduring artistic symbols of my childhood. They’re the movies I spent time with on rainy or snowy Saturday afternoons. They’re as tied up with my childhood as homemade chocolate chip cookies, hassling my brother, and the yearly big trip to grandma’s house. They’re the stuff of nostalgia.

But these schlocky, junky movies are also pure entertainment in the same way that Soviet agitprop is pure cinema. They’re completely unselfconscious about what they’re doing. There’s a sort of weird energy that pervades all of these goofy sci-fi epics that Jerry Bruckheimer has yet to capture. You know everybody was having a great time making Godzilla or Mothra or Rodan (the latter is my personal favorite). Particularly when Toho switched exclusively to color, the tone of the means began to reflect the ends. The bright, garish palette of Toho-color and the grandeur of Toho-scope even helped to ramp up the energy. The result: geek-boy cine-crack.

On occasion I revisit one of these movies when they’re on TV (I think it would somehow being sacrilege to rent one of these movies. They have to be happened upon just as Godzilla seems to happen upon Tokyo). What I find is that all of the weirdness I remember is comfortably intact: the crazy villains, the ridiculously deformed monsters, the impotent JDF’s plastic tanks so easily crushed underfoot by Ghidra or Monster Zero. Beyond the weirdness though is the reason I was enthralled with these movies when I was a kid—they’re just so energetically larger than life. And the heroic, adventurous lives the protagonists lead is irresistible. No matter if they’re scientists or journalists or a policeman adventure awaits them around every corner and they undertake it with the same kind of spirit a kid would. When I became a journalist, I kind of half expected that I’d have to deal with a giant monster—it sure would have beat the weirdoes I had to deal with when I was covering government meetings—I’m still waiting to this day.

Probably the most indelible experience I had with the giant rubber monster genre was watching “Johnny Sokko and his Flying Robot.” This was a TV show that was popular in the early ‘70s, and featured a little boy—the eponymous Johnny Sokko—fighting bad guys(armed with a pistol and a giant robot no less) as part of a super secret organization, the Unicorns. I loved this show. I wanted to be Johnny Sokko. I remember pretending to be him, fighting bad guys, conducting investigations, and having the time of my life. If you’re a youtube.com watcher, you can check out clips from the show to see what I mean (I did this morning and almost got misty eyed).

Yes, the show is bad. The production values are even less “opulent” than a big-screen Japanese monster movie. The bad guys are corny. The situations are just goofy and make no sense. But that energy is there. That sense of larger-than-life action. And that’s what makes these movies in many ways a lot more fun and satisfying than the lifeless mega-budget “events” of today. I might be wrong, but it just seems to me that George Lucas and company didn’t have any fun making the second Star Wars trilogy—it was just so leaden, even if it looked pretty and had a great soundtrack. If I had my choice, I’d take the guy in the rubber suit stomping on the cardboard city any day.

 

 

Posted by woldunn at 01:37 AM | | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

July 18, 2007

Review: The Sword of Doom

Of all the samurai movies ever made, The Sword of Doom (1966) is probably the one that speaks to martial artists the most (at least the martial artists I know). This isn’t surprising since much of the film involves the characters taking part in kendo (fencing) activities—training halls, tournaments, discussing strategy in terms of kendo philosophy and methods (I can’t recall a discussion of tsuke—throat strikes—taking place in any film I’ve ever seen). The backdrop of the film also has a kendo connection, taking place during the last days of the Tokugawa Shogunate and the intrigues of the ruthless Shinsengumi organization, which was formed from the members of several kendo dojos.

Upon repeated viewings, however, there is an undercurrent that could (but doesn’t) make the film less popular with (or relevant for) martial artists. The film is highly subversive, taking several tropes found in the typical samurai film and turning them on their head (part of this may also be a result that The Sword of Doom was originally intended to be the first of two films—more about that later). The anti-hero is Ryunosuke Tsukue (Tatsuya Nakadai), the heir-apparent of a powerful samurai family who live in the shadow of Dai-bosatsu pass (indicative of how important this setting is—the Japanese name of the film translates at Incident at Dai-bosatsu tôge). One day he comes upon an elderly pilgrim who is praying for an end of his life. Ryunosuke obliges with callous efficiency, orphaning the man’s young granddaughter, Omatsu. Later Ryunosuke receives entreaties from his father to throw a kendo match, thus allowing his opponent to secure a lucrative teaching position. Ryunosuke agrees only after the opponent’s wife gives herself to him.

The duel ends badly with Ryunosuke killing his opponent and fleeing with his opponent’s wife in tow. He soon finds himself working as an assassin for the powerful and ruthless Shinsengumi (a private police force employed by the shogunate in Kyoto), and drinking himself into oblivion between his increasingly bloody assignments.

On the face of it, Ryunosuke is an evil man—he does evil almost from the first frame of The Sword of Doom. He’s ruthless, no doubt, but looked at another way his increasing depravity is more a result of the reaction of those who want to continue the status quo. The key moment is his killing of the old pilgrim—was this an act of mercy or was it an act of cruelty? That is the psychological crux of the film. That his cruelty intensifies and his soul becomes more poisoned is the answer. But is it? Is it that director Kihachi Okamoto is really commenting on the samurai ethos that led Ryunosuke to this point? The samurai, as they are portrayed in fiction and idealized in fact, were larger than life characters who were both servitors and rulers of the people. Carrying a sword gave you the power of life and death—a power that was to be used in the pursuit of justice. Status was also a question of ability (and anyone who has trained in kendo will understand why Ryunosuke chafes under his father’s edict to throw his upcoming match). It was an impossible standard, and one that Ryunosuke tries to live up to but can’t—both because of the realities of life and his own cruel personality.

Ryunosuke is perhaps the most subversive and complex character in the film. On the one hand he aspires to be an ideal samurai. On the other he attempts to do so following an evil path. A good indication of this is his constant use of the gedan position when he’s fencing. This technique is almost never used by kendoists and is considered by some to be highly offensive, since it requires the fencer to completely expose all of his target areas (head, side and wrists)—the implication is that they are safe because their opponent doesn’t have the skill to hit any of these targets. Ryunosuke also comes off as a cowardly bully running from at least one challenge, and failing to engage the fencing instructor Shimada (Toshiro Mifune) when he has the chance. It is during this fight that Shimada utters the key line of the movie: “Study the sword to study the soul...an evil mind makes an evil sword.” It is Ryunosuke’s cruelty that makes him evil, it is his cowardice in the face of justified opposition that makes him evil, it is his murder of innocent characters (or characters who are less morally reprehensible) that makes him evil. Ryunosuke is also a symbol of the changing values of the samurai and Meiji-era Japan. He and the Shinsengumi (who, ironically, 40 years later are regarded as cultural heroes in Japan) live by the sword—but it is their evil minds that pollute it. But he his not the only superannuated samurai in the film—there is Hyoma (Yuzo Kayama), the brother of the duelist Ryunosuke killed early in the film. Hyoma is the typical good guy: loyal to his teacher, kind to Omatsu, respectful of his elders, and brimming full of justice. However, he is an anachronism in a world where the sword (evil or not) is being replaced by the gun and those who live by a personal, instead of class, code. Hyoma’s moment to shine is dismissed late in the film when a firearm is introduced (and funding for the sequel presumably ran out). Shimada gets the only chance to shine as the archetypical hero that is purely accidental—his fight, by his own angry evaluation, was a waste of time and good men. So, in several instances director Okamoto shows that the samurai code and the life of the sword is irrelevant—it is a doomed life.

The only truly heroic character comes in the form of the thief, Shichibei (Kô Nishimura). He is shown saving his adopted niece, Omatsu, from a fate worse than death (another instance of the noble samurai as debased) and exacting a form of justice that is both excessive and thoroughly satisfying. He is the new man of the Meiji era and, at the end, when he shows that he has adapted with the times by carrying a firearm, we know who will ultimately survive the chaos and death surrounding everyone in the changing world.

The ending of The Sword of Doom (which deserves its own, exhaustive study) will probably be most frustrating for the first-time viewer. But subsequent viewings reveal its brilliance. Again, probably resulting as it became clear there would not be the planned sequel, the film ends in a delirious frenzy of nihilism. Ryunosuke, haunted by the evil he has done and Shimada’s words, begins killing everyone in his path (primarily his Shinsengumi comrades). His world literally becomes consumed in flames and blood, and it ends in a freeze frame, presumably moments before his final doom. Though this is not historically accurate (the Shinsengumi were destroyed in an equally spectacular fashion by the Meiji government), the absolute nihilism and the fact that Ryunosuke is destroyed from within, makes The Sword of Doom much more than a simple “sword fighting” flick. It is only the non-samurai, namely Shichibei, who is shown to be acting nobly (in that he is acting to save someone, not revenge himself or defend himself against an unjustified act or kill for money).

The Sword of Doom definitely rewards on repeated viewings. And it’s one of those movies that should be viewed more than once, particularly to catch all of the historical nuances (and there are many). Even if you don’t get all of the historical references or understand the ins and outs of kendo, watching the movie for the story of Ryunosuke alone is worth your time.

The film is beautifully photographed (in stunning black and white—which serves to add to the starkness of the story) and the fight scenes are among the best you’ll see.

For kendo or martial arts enthusiasts, I’d say this is a must buy. Four stars out of four.

 

Posted by woldunn at 03:50 AM | | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

July 17, 2007

An (American) Iliad

As the War in Iraq drags on with no end in sight, it’s only natural to see the parallels to the wars of
yesterday.

I had one of those experiences recently when I finished An Iliad by Alessandro Baricco. It is the
book version of a script he authored as a way to present Homer’s Iliad orally to a modern audience (as
Barrico notes in the introduction, the translation that has come down to us is unrecitable). So Baricco went back to his Homeric roots and cut away all that was extraneous, leaving a lean, muscular tale—the story that surely enthralled the poet’s audience 25 centuries ago. It is an epic of bravery and pride, love and hate, beauty and savagery. It is a tale that begins with a wounded ego and ends in blood-drenched slaughter. And, instead of being told by a god-like, impersonal narrator, each character—the living and the dead—tell their shard of The Iliad in their own way and with their own voice.
It’s a brutally personal Iliad now, one that will haunt you (particularly the ending, which shows how
all wars must end no matter the promises of politicians and old men).

Of course while reading An Iliad you can’t help but think about the current Iraq War and the similar
circumstances that led us there—while not explicitly analyzing these parallels himself, Baricco
acknowledges them in his epilogue, an essay on the “beauty” of war. What has probably always made Homer’s epic relevant is its ability to touch the very foundation of our humanity and remind us of our
“beautiful” savagery, and how it coexists as a sort of despotic twin always ready to lead us fragile,
civilized beings to ruination. Like the Acheans of The Iliad, we have tens of thousands of men in a faraway place, fighting a grinding, relentless, never-ending war of attrition triggered as much by pride as an implicit threat. And like that ancient war, our war is seeing the young men who enthusiastically enlisted as soldiers and shipped off to the fight growing into old, weary, disillusioned killers (multiple
deployments simply breaks up the monotony of long-service with the taste of peace—which may make
our very American Iliad a more perverse epic).

In terms of our current war, the American Iliad, like the Trojan War before it, has nothing noble, nothing
virtuous, nothing redeeming or liberating about its cause (in spite of the political rhetoric). It’s a
dirty fight in the name of hubris. And no matter how hard we try to dress it up there is nothing beautiful
about war. It is, in fact, ugly murder on a massive scale. I write this as someone who loves the military
ethos, who is an expert in a martial art, and who believes that it is morally justified to defend
oneself. And because of all those things, I also know that war is a treacherous path that touches
everyone—participant and non-participant alike—and should be avoided at all costs.

Homer knew the cost—and that is why he sang about both sides, sang about the women, sang about the children, sang about how all of them were consumed in savage, bloodstained beauty. Remember this as the American Iliad writes itself: No matter if you support or oppose the war there is only one truth—there’s no going back.
 

Posted by woldunn at 01:45 PM | | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)


Hosting by Yahoo!