The Wilhelm Scream

Empty Book Shelves

    It's official: George W. Bush's presidential library will be housed at Southern Methodist University, the alma mater of his wife who is also a trustee.
    The deal is a little shady because it sounds like the Bush Foundation overseeing the library will ensure it properly reflects the president's views and ideology.
    What's great is that several SMU professors, including some involved with Christian studies, have been throwing some classic hissy fits, claiming this arrangement will impede serious, objective scholarship.
    How about this ditty from Suzanne Johnson, associate professor of Christian education:

“The whole purpose of a library is for unfettered, unbiased, critically reflective academic inquiry into the administration of a given presidency. It’s not to cheer-lead for a particular president. It’s not to be groupies. We all know very well that this institute — which has no lines of accountability to the faculty — is about getting some scholars lined up to put window dressing on the presidency of George Bush.”

   But what really befuddles my mind is this: What sort of books would be contained in a library named after a president who admits he doesn't read?

My best guess:
One copy of "A Purpose Driven Life"
One copy of every book in the "Left Behind" series
One copy of "Pre-Emptive War for Dummies"
37 copies of "Clifford the Big Red Dog"

As for the DVD collection, there'll probably be a copy of "Woman Thou Art Loosed" to look both pious and sophisticated and then 148 copies of "Animal House."

What do you guys think will be housed in the George W. Bush presidential library?

Adrift in Translation

Almost two months ago, I was fortunate enough visit the Middle East, where I climbed around the rose-hued ruins of Petra, dove in the Red Sea off the Sinai Peninsula and got lost in the labyrinth that is the Old Town of Jerusalem.
    Before leaving I had seen a documentary and read some articles on how our society villifies the Arab people. It's something that's deep-rooted and hard to notice until you're there in their country, speaking to them face-to-face.
    Admittedly, I was only there for two weeks, but it was still long enough for my eyes to be opened. People were extraordinarily kind to me, and on more than one occasion complete strangers would see me dining alone at a local cafe and buy my dinner, refusing to take any money.
    Local cab drivers ribbed me playfully about the West's preoccupation with romantic love and how the tradition of arranged marriages works so much better.
    "You meet a girl, you go to bed with her, and then what? Then she leaves!? What good is that?" said Mousa, an inveterately wise cabby from Aqaba.
    Yet I won't lie. There were aspects of the culture I found strange and others that even turned my stomach. It was impossible to avoid feeling a creepy sensation when I saw women in full-body burqas, and I fell ill at ease whenever I'd hear the eerie call to prayer blaring from the local mosque's PA system.
    (Hence, I find it pretty outrageous that some mosques England want the right to broadcast the call to prayer in communities where Islam is a minority religion. Sorry, dudes, freedom of religion doesn't necessarily mean freedom from noise ordinances.)
    My point is that even though I was meeting people who were breaking down stereotypes, it wasn't difficult for me to remember what makes Middle Eastern cultures so distant and bizarre to many Americans, including myself. And what makes them so unfamiliar is what makes them so easy to dehumanize.
     Yet, however different our views are on religion, morality and sexuality may be, Arabs are just people like us who want the same things we do: safe streets for their children to play, good-paying jobs to provide for their families, a home to call their own and a government where their voice can be heard.
    Persepolis is a French film based on the eponymous and autobiographical graphic novel about a young Iranian, Marjane Satrapi. It focuses on the cultural dislocation she feels during her adolescence as she flees her homeland for Europe and then returns only to feel like an outsider.
    Marjane grows up in Tehran beating up boys, wearing sneakers and listening to MIchael Jackson. This is an important film because, though Persian, she is immediately recognizable to American audiences.
     She wields a bold and ironic sense of humor and is quick to ridicule what she knows is myopic. She is bellicose and rebellious, especially when confronted by fools, but this belies an incredible vulnerability.   
    Stranded in Europe on her own, caught between her need to adapt to her new home and her desire to retain what had made her Iranian, she founders. Her landlord, for instance, eyes her dark hair and olive complexion suspiciously, surmising she is likely to pilfer various household amenities. At a party, Marjane betrays her culture, claiming she is French so as not to scare away an attractive male flirt.
    The film is darkly funny, beautifully animated and absolutely redolent of what binds humanity together.
    In a way, I felt a kinship with Marjane because I too have a blurry vision of where I came from, having bounced itinerantly from place to place these past six years. At times I wonder if I'm just a conquistador circumnavigating the globe: the farther I wander away, the closer I come to returning. Others I think I'm a permanent drifter, and home is a concept that no longer applies.
    Of course, for Marjane, the difference is she had no choice.  Her nomadic path was set in motion by political forces and the fear of persecution. In the end, she might have survived at a time when others like he perished. But as Persepolis gracefully reminds us, her survival was not without a sacrifice.
   

Dude, Where's My Grocery Store!?

    It's taking some time for me to gather my opinions about the excellent French film Persepolis, and maybe because there's been some excellent news stories distracting me with thoughts about the growing gap between the rich and the poor in this country.

   

The Washington Post printed an eye-opening, but I suspect under-read story, on the startling dearth of grocery stores in New York City, especially in low-income neighborhoods. While it's long been known that grocery store chains tend to eschew poorer, urban neighborhoods (this never made sense to me; poor people need food too), apparently skyrocketing real estate values are almost forcing stores to sell to developers because the low-profit margins on groceries can't keep up with the hikes in rent.

    Because there's no grocery stores nearby, people tend to buy non-perishable foods when they do go shopping, so that means a limited supply of fresh fruit, vegetables and meat.

    Not surprisingly, some are calling the lack of grocery stores an impending health crisis, as NYC neighborhoods with fewer stores tend to have higher rates of obesity and diabetes.

    There might not be an exact causation at work here, but still it's a problem. Even when I lived in a small Florida beach town, I noticed this issue. The Atlantic coast and the downtown area, where most of the middle and upper-class residents lived (including Sly Stallone!), were awash in Publix stores (and their amazing cakes and cookies!). The town was deeply segregated, and further inland was Gifford, the black neighborhood, where there was one glorified 7-11 masquerading as a grocery store. Many residents in that part of town did have to subsist on convenience store shopping, which not only meant unhealthier meals but also higher prices! Talk about the cycle of poverty. . .

    Not too long ago, some states wanted to ban the use of food stamps to purchase junk. But as this article suggests, maybe it'd be more prudent to ense all food stamp recipients actually have access to healthy food before denigrating their shopping choices.

    As for a film that addresses some of these issues how about the documentary "The End of Suburbia?" It features a small number of experts who purport that depletion of the world's oil reserves will happen soon rather than later, causing all sorts of changes in how Americans live (i.e. we won't be able to depend on cars to get us everywhere).

    Mentioned in the film is the growing movement of New Urbanism, which seeks to return our society to its urban design roots, with walkable city centers. Street cars, which were bought up and destroyed long ago by the auto companies, would be resurrected for the morning and evening commutes.

    And while I don't know whole lot about this growing movement, I'm guessing they'd probably be sure to include some incentive for grocery stores to set up shop.

    And for the record, I think if someone wants to use their food stamps for Fritos, it's bloody well they're right to do so. Mind your own business, you condescending douchebags! 

   

Obama-tomy update

Just today I found this interview on Salon.com with Samantha Power, author of possibly the most amazing piece of journalism I've ever read - A Problem From Hell: America and the Age of Genocide. It basically chronicles every instance of genocide in the 20th century, while digging deep into how U.S. foreign policy reacted to the atrocities. In short, it was lackluster at best, downright inhuman at worst.

What's especially fascinating is the beginning of the book which describes the invention of the word and concept of "genocide" by the Polish attorney Rafael Lemkin. I don't think a lot of us, including myself before I read this book, even understand what genocide really means. Often this lack of understanding is used to obfuscate cases of clear genocide to justify international inaction.

Anyway, the point of the Salon article is that Power was signed on by Obama a few years ago to be his head foreign policy adviser. AWESOME! And he called her after reading the book over Christmas. SUPER AWESOME!

This is almost as good as Obama's predilection for Dunkin Donuts in terms of justifying my vote for him. I can't think of a person who'd be better suited for changing the mindset of American foreign policy than Power.

Hurray for Obamatomies!

Trains, Planes and Codpieces

So TheWilhelmScream is back from London, my first visit to the United Kingdom, and I'm definitely impressed with the Brits' little island. Though why the English somehow decided "jacket potatoes" was a better name for baked potatoes is beyond me. 

One highlight was certainly my visit to the Tower of London where in addition to seeing the crown jewels and learning of medieval torture techniques (tour guide: Torture isn't used for punishment. It's used to enrich the conversation.),  one can tour the armory in the White Tower where swords, muskets, bayonets and armor worn by several kings of England are all on display.

Unfortunately, King Henry the VIII's codpiece made TheWilhelmScream feel more than a little inadequate about himself, though admittedly that is not very difficult to do. But honestly, that weenie protector is about the size of a pair of Chipotle burritos! With extra guacamole! Was the King getting stiffies on the battlefield? I tend to doubt it; I think the codpiece's only purpose was self-aggrandizement to which I say, "Henry! You were already the King of frackin' England! Did you really need everyone to think you had gigantism of the woody to improve your reputation?"

Royal jewels aside, I also checked out The Lion King on stage at a Covent Garden theater. It was truly a visual spectacle with performers portraying various jungle creatures with elaborate and ornate costumes, puppets and Rube Goldberg-esque contraptions. The creatures reminded me of rainbow-hued and three-dimensional prehistoric cave paintings, brought to life by the graceful dancers and actors.

The stage version of The Lion King was originally directed by the visionary Julie Taymor, who is also the director of Frida and Titus (often called Shakespeare's worst play; though I like to think of it more as his Pulp Fiction). She most recently helmed Across the Universe, a Hair-like musical about social protest in the 60s and 70s suffused with more than 30 Beatles songs.

Make no mistake, folks, Taymor is a visual genius. Every film of hers is chock full of creativity and images I've never seen anywhere else. I compare her favorably to Tim Burton, both being incomparable stylists whose visual ingenuity can sometimes interfere with their storytelling. Across the Universe, for instance, meanders a bit and doesn't really provide much in the way of suspense. Yet there is still incandescence here - especially the provocative dream-like sequence set to "Strawberry Fields." Bloody strawberries replace the bombs in stock footage of Vietnam War air raids, and explode across the black-and-white landscape in oozing profusions of crimson.

I don't think Tim Burton ever really found the right balance between style and story, but Taymor definitely has come closer -- especially with Frida. It's truly only a matter of time before Taymor finds the palette for her real film masterpiece, and I await eagerly for that day.

Lastly, the flights to and from London provided me a chance to catch up with some movies I missed in the theaters. Here are some quick thoughts.

• Into the Wild - Sean Penn proves to be a capable director, but I still can't get over how both he and author Jon Krakauer position Chris McCandless as some kind of folk hero. The guy was a narcissistic and possibly suicidal douchebag, a view best summed up by this Alaskan park ranger's article.
• Knocked Up - Definitely funnier than I expected after it was panned by several friends, but I really couldn't buy that Katherine Heigl's character would consider Seth Rogan a serious marriage partner. It's pretty rare to find a relationship that works when two people have such drastically different life goals (Rogan wants to smoke pot; Heigl wants to be the next Ryan Seacrest).
• Resurrecting the Champ - Wow. This movie reminds you just how often Samuel L. Jackson totally mails it in (cough. . .Jumper!. . . hack. . .SWAT!) because he does really fine work here. His portrayal as a homeless man who claims to be a former champion fighter deserves a better script. Josh Hartnett is pretty but lame as the reporter who eagerly believes the former boxer's tale in hopes of landing a big scoop.

Getting outta Dodge

TheWilhelmScream is heading to London for a short getaway, but don't fret! He'll be back next week with his thoughts on Persepolis, that splinter-in-your-finger of a TV show Lost and the approaching 25th anniversary of Goonies!

To all the lovebirds out there - Happy Valentine's Day!

To all those jealous, bitter spinsters out there - She's probably fucking Matt Damon.

V-Day wisdom from Roger Ebert

There is much to be gleaned from the sagacious writings of Roger Ebert, including some relevant advice for those spending Valentine's Day with someone new. Not sure how to make that first move? Roger lays it all out for the less than romantically adroit young fellas in his review of Shopgirl:

"I've been around a long time, and young men, if there is one thing I know, it is that the only way to kiss a girl for the first time is to look like you want to and intend to, and move in fast enough to seem eager but slow enough to give her a chance to say "So anyway ..." and look up as if she's trying to remember your name."

And for those of you involved in a long-term relationship, contemplating the next step, Ebert advises:

          Never marry somebody you couldn't sit next to on a three-day bus trip.

Sound advice for us all.

I've also been trying to conjure a list of romantic films to recommend for this day of luuuvre, but it's been a struggle. Mostly because I kinda hate romantic movies - they tend to be saccharine and simplistic. I loathe meet-cutes, and usually the dramatic tension in these movies is based on some ridiculous misunderstanding that any normal person would have cleared up pretty quickly.

I could only come up with three good suggestions.

1. Eternal Sunshine on the Spotless Mind - It's ironic a film centered on a science-fictiony plot device provides one of the most realistic depictions of a relationship I've seen. Kate Winslet and Jim Carrey's characters know how to love one another, and they also know how to hurt each other. In the end, they realize no relationship is perfect just like no person is perfect.  Love, the movie observes, is about accepting the ways your partner drives you crazy.
2. Me and You and Everyone We Know - Miranda July's quirky film is a mosaic of several eccentric lonely characters yearning to make a connection with someone who understands them. July is very wry in how she observes the interactions of the smitten, and how the fear of rejection can stanch a romance before it even begins.
3. L.A. Story -  Steve Martin's L.A. is a place where the surreal masquerades as the mundane, where absurdities become habitual. And yet there is a sweetness and humanity beneath the city's silicone veneer. There is a sooth-saying highway billboard; a boobalicious, young Sarah Jessica Parker whose character prefers an enema over dinner for a first date; and a radiant Gloria Tennant who plays tuba duets with her mother in England over the phone. Love in L.A. seems sort of like a contradiction, but not in Steve Martin's world.

How about you? Have any great romantic movies to help those lonely hearts out there make it through today?

Undergoing my Obama-tomy

TheWilhelmScream is not a political animal, but there is a time and place for everything.

This Tuesday I voted in the D.C. primary for Barack Obama, and I did it with some apprehension. Whenever someone supports a political candidate, Democratic or Republican, with a blind, religious-like fervor, I tend to roll my eyes.  Even the most well-intentioned candidate with the most meticulously constructed policies would probably never accomplish all, or even much, of what he or she promises during a campaign.

And it's much more likely the candidate is just stringing us along, telling us what we want to hear, so they can get elected; the whole process is kinda like getting negged by Mystery from "The Pickup Artist."

So when a politician is portrayed as a savior, it tends to irk me. Obama supporters this campaign have been especially annoying. While he and Jesus are both people of color, that's about all they have in common. Obama might be squeaky clean, but there's a good chance that's only because he hasn't been around long enough to get drawn into the fray like everyone else.

And I think McCain is right when he says that Obama's campaign is more about reciting hopeful platitudes than actually digging in and providing tough answers to tough questions. I admittedly have not studied the various candidates' policy proposals with any great depth, but as far as I can tell, Obama's ideas about Iraq, health care and education aren't really all that different from the other candidates'.

In the end though, I voted for him. After Hillary's campaign got nasty spreading those rumors about Barack's Muslim background and her shady dealings with Norman Hsu, I gave up on her. She's a cog in the machine, which is not what I want in the next president.

Yet something happened on Tuesday that made me feel good about Obama.

I stepped outside my polling precinct, after making my vote, and there he was - surrounded by about 30 cameramen and carrying a big box of Dunkin Donuts.

Following a hunch, I got home and logged on to google, and in about five milliseconds I found this pic of Hillary. She drinks STARBUCKS!
That was all I needed to know - one candidate drinks the coffee brand that represents the gentrification and homogenization of American culture by latte-sipping douchebags.

The other frequents the donut store of the people and will feed us on munchkins, the fucking best hot chocolate ever, and hope.

That's good enough for me. I'll wash down my jelly donut with your Kool-Aid any time, Barack!

 

Home of the Brave, Bravery for the Homeless

In education policy circles, there's a constant debate (and a rancorous one at that) about how the country can close the "achievement gap" - generally defined as the gaping chasm between the scholastic achievement of rich white and Asian kids and low-income black and Hispanic kids.

Trying to pinpoint the roots of the gap can be a political minefield - some blame low-income parents' attitudes toward education, others say it's the lack of good teachers and resources. What doesn't get talked about as much is simply how much being poor totally sucks.

Published today in the Las Vegas Sun was this heartbreaking piece about the increasing numbers of homeless students attending the local public schools co-written by education reporter Emily Richmond. It makes you question a lot. When we think of students from "advantaged" backgrounds, we imagine kids whose parents took them to art museums and ballets and read to them every night.

Rarely, do we categorize getting enough to eat every day and having bed to sleep in as an education advantage, but sadly that's the reality.

From the Sun article:

In Mariah Velasquez’s case, homelessness has taken a toll on her emotions and her education.

Being homeless makes her “a little sad,” she says. The freckle-faced 7-year-old adds, “I’m angry sometimes.”

Daniel Velasquez later explains that his daughter sometimes shakes and shouts, which she never did before the family’s pick-up-and-leave living began about 12 months ago.

Mariah goes to Hollingsworth Elementary School, her second school in the past three months.

The family’s situation has improved, but it wasn’t long ago that most days started with only bread and butter for breakfast and ended with Mariah losing her homework and her temper.

Unfortunately, it's a trend that's occurring elsewhere. A couple years ago, the Baltimore Sun published an award-winning series, "On Their Own," a riveting story of two homeless high school seniors struggling to earn their diplomas.

We have to be careful about where we're heading. I don't think it's crazy to think if inequities in educational opportunities persist that we could become a country as stratified as India - a small, rich class of Brahmins at the top presiding over a giant class of publicly schooled Untouchables at the bottom.

It's also important for people like me, who did come from a privileged background, to stop and think: What if I were born into Mariah Velasquez's situation? Would I have ended up where I am now?

It might be hard to admit, but the answer is this: Almost certainly not.

"Day Night, Day Night" = Bore Dull Bore Dull

There is a growing movement in independent film that I've nicknamed the  Gazing-Out-The-Window-Towards-A-Bleak-Landscape genre. These films are minimalist and realist, usually shot with handheld cameras in grainy digital video (increasingly becoming the bane of TheWilhelmSream's existence).

Characters in these films are always laconic and Type B personalities who have trouble expressing their emotions much less even showing them. (Personally I think this is likely due to socially retarded, pale-faced writers subconsciously yearning to believe the world is full of people like them. But that's just a theory.)

The idea is that where there is a lack of exposition and expression, the audience will compensate for it by filling in the blanks themselves through the actors' emoting and directors' contextual hints. 

While the Dardennes brothers are examples of directors who excel in this mode, my sneaking suspicion is most directors use this style because it's cheap, and it allows them to stretch out a story that really should be a short into a full-length feature. Hence, my name for this genre - even the Dardennes' L'Enfant must have about 20 minutes of the main character staring wistfully out the windows of buses and trains.

"Day Night Day Night" is a film that abuses the minimalist style at the expense and betrayal of its characters. It tells the story of a 19-year-old girl who's been recruited by terrorists to blow up Times Square (and herself in the process). She is of an ambiguous ethnicity and speaks softly and fearfully with an American accent. The movie begins with her arrival from the West Coast in New York City, and trundles along at an arduously slow pace. We are treated to extended sequences of her shaving her legs, brushing her teeth, cleaning her only pair of underwear (Because Dear God! She only brought one pair of underwear! Because she's going to kill herself the next day! And doesn't need another pair!).

It's as though the filmmakers constantly expect us to be blown away by this iconoclastic depiction of a terrorist. Wow, this young, sweet, soft-spoken and inveterately self-conscious teenager is a suicide bomber! Omigosh, my whole world view has changed!

Within the first 10 to 15 minutes I understood their point, but they kept hammering away at it without adding any nuance or depth.

And by the climax of the film, I didn't buy it. We are given almost no background about the girl who is only named "She" in the credits. No explanation for how she developed the rage and anger that is need to desire to murder a few hundred people in cold blood. The character comes off as suicidal rather than homicidal. There is a difference.

The director is playing a dirty trick here. She's taking a highly implausible character and masking it stylistically in realism. 

Don't get me wrong - there are moments when the film is well-acted and well-directed, such as the heart-stopping sequence when the unnamed girl approaches Times Square with the bomb inside a yellow backpack hanging loosely from her shoulders. But in the end it's all window dressing for a film that's really just a simplistic, stick-figure drawing of a ghostly nightmare.