Films are a magical thing. There is no end to the possibilities, no cessation to their delights. Most movies are enjoyed for their ability to mesmerize. Through melodrama, comedy, or action, we are given a chance to forget our reality and embrace an alternative experience wholeheartedly. On lucky occasions that experience will leave indelible marks on those who view them.
I recently watched Cedric Klapisch's sequel to the wonderful and sublime L'Auberge Espagnol (The Spanish Apartment). Though Russian Dolls, is ostensibly a sequel, I must admittedly disagree with Stephen Holden of the New York Times that it "has not much on its mind beyond updating the lives of the characters in his 2002 comedy L'Auberge Espagnole."
There is so much more on the mind. It attempts to explain the vagaries of love through the experience of the main character, Xavier. Though the film is indeed visually delightful, it was a piece of monologue by Xavier that really stuck with me. I hesitate to summarize so I'll just quote:
"If I think about all the girls I've known or slept with or just desired, they're like a bunch of Russian dolls. We spend our lives playing the game dying to know who'll be the last, the teeny-tiny one hidden inside all the others. You can't just get to her right away. You have to follow the progression. You have to open them one by one wondering, 'Is she the last one?'"
I can't add any more to that sentiment. The depth of those seemingly innocent words are, to me at least, a perfect summary of the human experience.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Fruits of Fantasy
The clementines are here. My preference to fresh fruit has been a relatively recent phenomenon. It began with a few apples here, a handful of oranges there. Soon enough I was delicately handling kiwi, discussing the relative merits of johnagolds, and generally craving tangelos.
Looking back this all seems to be rather pedestrian. Though the produce was always around, it wasn't until my time in France that I begun to really see the merits of fruits outside the flowering trinity of apples, bananas, and oranges. My idea of branching out had been buying a handful of kiwi or a carton of blackberries to supplement my pulsing desire for summer strawberries.
Litchis opened my eyes. The second night I was in Paris, a bowl was set out and filled to the brim with brittle, scaly little pale ovals. I was honestly surprised to find that these oddities were commonplace. Though I was apprehensive, those feelings dissipated after I peeled the outer shell and plucked the translucently pinkish fruit into my mouth. At the center of the fruit is an inedible seed. Both the appearance of the fruit as well as that inner seed reminded me of a peach, though the litchi was much sweeter and less dense than a peach. Before the evening ended I had consumed at least a dozen or more. I was officially a fan of litchis.
Though they were my gateway, litchis would not remain my fruit of choice while abroad. That station was won by the mango. My revelatory experience with the mango came early in my travels as well. Though I do not recall the exact circumstances of the evening, I believe I was walking in the Marais with my girlfriend and her friend. It was well after 10PM when we stepped into a Japanese restaurant for something to eat. Because of the late hour I was not interested in eating much more than a few pieces of sushi while the girls had full meals. For dessert Morgane ordered fresh mango (I must admit that I found humor in this. Beyond the fact that one would actually choose to have fruit for dessert, why on earth would one expect there to be fresh mango of all things? Evidently most Asian restaurants there serve mango for dessert).
When I first bit into the cubed fruit my derisiveness dissipated. I've been lucky enough to eat quite a few mangoes since that night in the Marais but none could reach the perfection of that first mango. For some reason the produce across the ocean seemed so much more fresh, it seemed to enliven my mouth. Now, every watery out of season clementine, each mealy mango just makes me shake my head in disgust and wish for the produce at the fruit stand on Avenue Pasteur in Courbevoie.
Perhaps it is unfair to constantly compare the fruit of my present to that of my past. Though these comparisons never live up to the imagined past, it seems ingrained in human nature to examine their correlation. With fruits or otherwise, we always catch ourselves doubting our present.
Looking back this all seems to be rather pedestrian. Though the produce was always around, it wasn't until my time in France that I begun to really see the merits of fruits outside the flowering trinity of apples, bananas, and oranges. My idea of branching out had been buying a handful of kiwi or a carton of blackberries to supplement my pulsing desire for summer strawberries.
Litchis opened my eyes. The second night I was in Paris, a bowl was set out and filled to the brim with brittle, scaly little pale ovals. I was honestly surprised to find that these oddities were commonplace. Though I was apprehensive, those feelings dissipated after I peeled the outer shell and plucked the translucently pinkish fruit into my mouth. At the center of the fruit is an inedible seed. Both the appearance of the fruit as well as that inner seed reminded me of a peach, though the litchi was much sweeter and less dense than a peach. Before the evening ended I had consumed at least a dozen or more. I was officially a fan of litchis.
Though they were my gateway, litchis would not remain my fruit of choice while abroad. That station was won by the mango. My revelatory experience with the mango came early in my travels as well. Though I do not recall the exact circumstances of the evening, I believe I was walking in the Marais with my girlfriend and her friend. It was well after 10PM when we stepped into a Japanese restaurant for something to eat. Because of the late hour I was not interested in eating much more than a few pieces of sushi while the girls had full meals. For dessert Morgane ordered fresh mango (I must admit that I found humor in this. Beyond the fact that one would actually choose to have fruit for dessert, why on earth would one expect there to be fresh mango of all things? Evidently most Asian restaurants there serve mango for dessert).
When I first bit into the cubed fruit my derisiveness dissipated. I've been lucky enough to eat quite a few mangoes since that night in the Marais but none could reach the perfection of that first mango. For some reason the produce across the ocean seemed so much more fresh, it seemed to enliven my mouth. Now, every watery out of season clementine, each mealy mango just makes me shake my head in disgust and wish for the produce at the fruit stand on Avenue Pasteur in Courbevoie.
Perhaps it is unfair to constantly compare the fruit of my present to that of my past. Though these comparisons never live up to the imagined past, it seems ingrained in human nature to examine their correlation. With fruits or otherwise, we always catch ourselves doubting our present.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Taking Hold of the Scene
I must admit that I have been struggling to write this particular post for quite some time. This has been a result of circumstance as much as anything else. Life has seemed to speed up a bit over the past weeks. Since I am fond of ease and leisure this "speed" would seem to be something I might bemoan. However, it has been largely a result of positive life events occurring rather than tedious responsibility.
As I've mentioned before, I am certainly cognizant of my tastes. I find pleasure in the simplicity and (perceived) purity of an older generation of musicians. I feel as if I'm more critical of the "moderns" than I am older artists. Perhaps it's easier for me to excuse the blemishes of a different era.
There are some who are lucky enough to work in an environment or industry that keeps them abreast of the changing music scene. But for most, myself included, the task of staying current is impossible--between the cost of legally purchasing new music, to the amount of new material out there, it's like a second job. As a result the number of modern artists I consider integral to my existence pales in comparison to those of an older generation.
In reality, it is no small wonder to connect to a new band. This was certainly my own experience with Okkervil River. Though I rarely listened to them, Okkervil River had been on my radar for quite some time. This wasn't out of distaste but out of negligence. They were given a short and half-interested initial listen and largely forgotten. At some point in the past two years they were granted more attention.
Since I love words--their interaction, how they sound, their subtleties--it was the intricate lyrics of front man Will Sheff that first began to attract me. Songs like "Listening to Otis Redding at Home During Christmas" and "A Stone" contained not only a well of emotion but a poignancy rarely accomplished in any medium smaller than the modern novel. Out of that, the majesty and grandeur of songs like "The War Criminal Rises and Speaks" and "Our Life" hit me in a new way. Further and further the flames of my fan-hood spread as I saw the arc of their body of work--the flashes of genius that were coalesced into their two most recent records.
Of course writing about this is a somewhat futile exercise. Those who enjoy Okkervil River already do so in their own private way. Each experience of music is unique to oneself. It might pique the interest of one who hadn't yet been privy to the joys of the band. But, until the body of work is consumed, my words exist only as an empty approximation of my feelings.
As I've mentioned before, I am certainly cognizant of my tastes. I find pleasure in the simplicity and (perceived) purity of an older generation of musicians. I feel as if I'm more critical of the "moderns" than I am older artists. Perhaps it's easier for me to excuse the blemishes of a different era.
There are some who are lucky enough to work in an environment or industry that keeps them abreast of the changing music scene. But for most, myself included, the task of staying current is impossible--between the cost of legally purchasing new music, to the amount of new material out there, it's like a second job. As a result the number of modern artists I consider integral to my existence pales in comparison to those of an older generation.
In reality, it is no small wonder to connect to a new band. This was certainly my own experience with Okkervil River. Though I rarely listened to them, Okkervil River had been on my radar for quite some time. This wasn't out of distaste but out of negligence. They were given a short and half-interested initial listen and largely forgotten. At some point in the past two years they were granted more attention.
Since I love words--their interaction, how they sound, their subtleties--it was the intricate lyrics of front man Will Sheff that first began to attract me. Songs like "Listening to Otis Redding at Home During Christmas" and "A Stone" contained not only a well of emotion but a poignancy rarely accomplished in any medium smaller than the modern novel. Out of that, the majesty and grandeur of songs like "The War Criminal Rises and Speaks" and "Our Life" hit me in a new way. Further and further the flames of my fan-hood spread as I saw the arc of their body of work--the flashes of genius that were coalesced into their two most recent records.
Of course writing about this is a somewhat futile exercise. Those who enjoy Okkervil River already do so in their own private way. Each experience of music is unique to oneself. It might pique the interest of one who hadn't yet been privy to the joys of the band. But, until the body of work is consumed, my words exist only as an empty approximation of my feelings.
Saturday, November 1, 2008
The Curse of Memory
A month ago I had the realization that September was ending. Now I've had that same realization about October. I suppose my wonder at the passing of time either belies a touch of inner boredom or the creeping effects of age.
"Now the days go by so fast"
The passing of time is a subject laden with trite expressions and worn out sentiments, neither of which truly obtain an exact perspective on the subject. Our collective inability to truly pierce the heart of the matter doesn't prohibit us in any way, in fact it seems to cause more attempts--each trying to get their horseshoe closer to the stake.
An argument can be made that photographs (and recording technology in general) have invariably weakened our memories; however, I'm not sure where I would be without them. It is somewhat unbearable to think that there are occurrences in our life whose only chance of "survival" relies on our own mental capacities. As unreliable as we are as humans, it helps to have an aid. I am, therefore, quite thankful to have so many photographs from all stages of my life (these usually bring back a rush of emotions and memories when I see them).
Despite this I have been known to scoff at certain types of picture takers, especially those who replace the experience by way of lens. This tendency is most notable in tourists (the best example being those who take pictures of pictures, i.e. hanging works of art). I am overly self-conscious and as a result I unfortunately tend to behave the opposite. Because of this I often neglect to take pictures of certain things or have my own picture taken by others. It is regrettable ridiculousness on my part.
"I can't remember all the times I tried to tell my myself to hold on to these moments as they pass"
My own goal in life is to simply remember well. It seems at times to be an impossible task. Each passing day grants new experiences that serve to block out the more dated memories. As these new memories crowd the edges of your mind, the older ones meld together and form a jumbled mess. Hazy uncertainty reigns in place of clarity. Despite the hazy uncertainty of memory, the over all feeling is usually retained. These are most often summarized in basic emotions--a smile, an exclamation of discord, or even a sense of general ambivalence. And then there are also those exceptional memories that are so ingrained, so real despite the passing of time, they remain tangible. It is unfortunate but those seem to be the exception and not the rule.
Often we are filled with longing to relive moments, to reconnect with people or places. This ability to remember certain things in the face of the present is the curse of memory. As such it seems to me that the oddity of our existence is in fact the present. Invariably, like the above quote attests, we lament our inability to derive the appropriate sense of fulfillment out of the moments we live. In a sense we are not truly living our life but living the memories to come and are thus forced to derive most our joy retroactively.
"Now the days go by so fast"
The passing of time is a subject laden with trite expressions and worn out sentiments, neither of which truly obtain an exact perspective on the subject. Our collective inability to truly pierce the heart of the matter doesn't prohibit us in any way, in fact it seems to cause more attempts--each trying to get their horseshoe closer to the stake.
An argument can be made that photographs (and recording technology in general) have invariably weakened our memories; however, I'm not sure where I would be without them. It is somewhat unbearable to think that there are occurrences in our life whose only chance of "survival" relies on our own mental capacities. As unreliable as we are as humans, it helps to have an aid. I am, therefore, quite thankful to have so many photographs from all stages of my life (these usually bring back a rush of emotions and memories when I see them).
Despite this I have been known to scoff at certain types of picture takers, especially those who replace the experience by way of lens. This tendency is most notable in tourists (the best example being those who take pictures of pictures, i.e. hanging works of art). I am overly self-conscious and as a result I unfortunately tend to behave the opposite. Because of this I often neglect to take pictures of certain things or have my own picture taken by others. It is regrettable ridiculousness on my part.
"I can't remember all the times I tried to tell my myself to hold on to these moments as they pass"
My own goal in life is to simply remember well. It seems at times to be an impossible task. Each passing day grants new experiences that serve to block out the more dated memories. As these new memories crowd the edges of your mind, the older ones meld together and form a jumbled mess. Hazy uncertainty reigns in place of clarity. Despite the hazy uncertainty of memory, the over all feeling is usually retained. These are most often summarized in basic emotions--a smile, an exclamation of discord, or even a sense of general ambivalence. And then there are also those exceptional memories that are so ingrained, so real despite the passing of time, they remain tangible. It is unfortunate but those seem to be the exception and not the rule.
Often we are filled with longing to relive moments, to reconnect with people or places. This ability to remember certain things in the face of the present is the curse of memory. As such it seems to me that the oddity of our existence is in fact the present. Invariably, like the above quote attests, we lament our inability to derive the appropriate sense of fulfillment out of the moments we live. In a sense we are not truly living our life but living the memories to come and are thus forced to derive most our joy retroactively.
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