If I may say so...

WOW! (comic)

2009-09-23T08:40:00.008-03:00

WOW! is a new short story created for Spanish science-fiction magazine Exégesis, this time in collaboration with Spanish artist Moisés Bello. I'm leaving links to both the English and Spanish versions. Enjoy it!

Click here to read the English version online .
Click here to read the Spanish version online (you can also download it as a PDF).
Click here to dowload the comic as CBR or PDF, in English or in Spanish.
You can download the comics viewer CDisplay to read the CBR files (click here)

Soupe aux champignons (comic)

2009-08-28T11:39:00.014-03:00

I've never used this blog for publishing fiction before, but, in truth, this is the first time I've got some fiction in English to share. I've been working a lot on comics in the last year, and this is the product of a collaboration with Spanish artist and friend Antonio H G. Soupe aux champignons is a uchronic satire created for the Spanish science-fiction magazine Exégesis. I'm leaving links to both the English and Spanish versions. Hope you can enjoy it as much as we did while working on it!

Click here to read the English version online.
Click here to read the Spanish version online.
Click her e to download the comic as CBR or PDF, in English or Spanish. I'm also including CDisplay (an excellent comics viewer) for those interested in the CBR file.

Beowulf: the 2007 film under the light of the old Saxon poem

2009-06-10T23:02:00.028-03:00

Adaptations and new retellings of old stories establish an implicit dialogue with their predecessors. The outcome of this dialogue is what should interest any critic. Sometimes, however, the nature of dialogue is marred by the limitations of the new interlocutor –that is, in a dialogue, not all interlocutors are equally valid. Robert Zemeckis’ Beowulf (2007) could be deemed as a more than valid dialogical counterpart to the old Saxon poem. A greater part of the merit, we must admit, should go to the enormous pair of screenwriters. The screenplay for this motion-capture animated film was part of a personal low-budget project started by Neil Gaiman and Roger Avary. When it reached Zemeckis’ hands, the project just blew up to a 150-million-dollar motion picture. The inevitable interference of mainstream standards in the screenwriter’s proposal may be evident to a certain extent, and not always welcomed, but on the whole, Zemeckis’ Beowulf is worth seeing and contrasting with the original poem. Personally, I prefer to distinguish two more or less clear sides to this new version of the ancient story –one, deep and critical, which clearly relies on Gaiman and Avary's script, and the other, somewhat flawed and unnecessarily commonplace, which looks more like the responsibility of the leading filmmaker.

I’ll begin considering what Semeckis’ Beowulf introduces as astounding new questions and answers into the ancient dialogue started by an unknown poet of the eighth century. This dialogue has already included many other interlocutors, from all artistic fields, cinema included. But Gaiman and Avary bring into it a clearly new and profound perspective. The leading force in this 2007 version is the interrogation about the origin and reasons underlying the actions and existence of Beowulf’s famous monsters –Grendel, Grendel’s mother and the dragon. The authors fill the gaps left by the original’s loose composition and a definitely different conception of narrative unity. While the Saxon poem justifies the narration with the sole presence of a hero, Gaiman and Avary give each character a reason for action. The authors then build a past that is unnecessary in the poem, but that imbues the story with 20th-century verisimilitude.

The almost plain and one-faceted nature of the characters from the poem grows in complexity and the story ends up definitely enriched. In doing so, of course, many of the situations and character relationships from the ancient poem are consciously altered, although –and this is one of the authors’ greatest achievements-, most of these changes can be felt as implicit in the original Saxon story. Gaiman and Avary’s proposals stand not as an alter reality to the original background, but as that hidden truth that the heroic nature of the poem was forced to ignore. In fact, this 2007 version could be imagined as the ‘real’ facts which, deformed and ornamented by secrecy and poetic imagination, would have given birth to the heroic Saxon lay. Such is the interlacing between the poem and the screenplay.

Attempting not to give away the plot, I will try to enumerate some of the effects that result from this new approach to the ancient story:

Perhaps the most noticeable change takes place in the nature of the hero. Beowulf is not any more the flawless, virtuous and supernatural hero of the Saxon poem. This affects the whole nature of the story, which is drastically transformed from a simple collection of heroic deeds to a story of lies and ambitions.

The more human and ambiguous nature in the characters turn them psychologically more interesting and plausible. This change touches not only Beowulf, but all other characters: from Hrothgar to Wiglaf, from queen Welthow to Grendel’s mother.

In attempting narrative unity, the authors also find a link to all of Beowulf’s deeds –his race against Brecca, Grendel, Grendel’s mother and the hero’s final battle with the dragon. Unlike the poem, each situation and the character’s attitude appear soundly justified and linked to one another.

The authors play exquisitely with the narrative gaps and deficiencies of the poem. Why would Grendel not hurt Hrothgar? Why would Beowulf carry Grendel’s head but not that of his mother? How can we believe Beowulf’s deeds when there are no more witnesses than himself? Why is it that Beowulf doesn’t leave an heir?

There are also new elements and situations included by the authors which enhance the symbolic potential of the original story. Such is the case of the golden horn, Beowulf's nudity before the battle against Grendel, Grendel’s mother’s physical appearance, Beowulf’s self-mutilation in his final battle, and even the erotic melting of the hero’s sword.

The authors also show clear signs of wit and erudition when playing with the Christian nature of the poem, acknowledging in a way the pagan spirit that underlies the attitudes and actions of most of the characters, in flagrant contradictions with the religious constancy of their words. In this respect, the script prefers setting the action during the spread of Christianity, showing this faith as a moral foreign to the characters, although gradually contaminating their lives.

All these rather interesting narrative elements added to Beowulf’s tradition do not always find an equally valid cinematographic counterpart. Zemeckis’ talent for mainstream taste is perhaps the film’s weakest point. The director has been quoted asking the script writers to “Go wild!” This would mostly mean to turn somber fighting scenes into grand-scale visual spectacles. Although this expansion of the story may have its rewards -as in the final battle with the dragon-, its payback is not always clear. Such is the case of the hero’s acrobatics during his fight against Grendel.

The unlimited possibilities of motion capture animation can also become dangerous in hands more interested in visual effects than in narrative meaning. In this respect, the film offers us from a floor subjective shot to several extreme perspectives of pointed weapons, all meaningless. And the same could apply to the insistent aerial travellings that end up becoming tiring and redundant.

Possibly the clearer sign of mainstream taste affecting the visual rendering of this film is the seven-minute scene of Beowulf nude encounter with Grendel; seven minutes through which the filmmaker manages to avoid showing the hero’s virility by concealing it with the most improbable objects. This tour de force of puritan discretion cannot but move to laughter. And the same goes for some historical inconsistencies such as Beowulf’s karate stance against Grendel, Grendel’s mother’s high-heels, or the rap-like song chanted by the Geat warriors.

It may be unfair to put the blame of these flaws in the director alone while leaving to the writers the whole merit for the strengths of the adaptation. Films are collective products, this is true. However, there are clear heads in the process of creating a film, and sometimes -such in this case-, these heads can be identified with more clarity than in others. It is improbable that Zemeckis, who has acknowledged lack of sympathy for the Saxon poem, could have devised a narrative rationale so deeply intertwined with the original; perhaps, as improbable as it would have been to have Gaiman and Avary devising variety of props and furniture to conceal Beowulf’s groins. But I admit it may be unnecessary to assign and distribute blames; after all, films are also unities, with their strength and their weaknesses. So perhaps the best one could do would be to recommend this adaptation, which is valid and enjoyable, but also to recommend the Saxon poem, which can prove an interesting background with the potential to enhance the pleasure and understanding of this and other versions of the ancient Saxon story.

The ideology of technologies

2009-05-14T21:25:00.018-03:00

Once again, the issue of technology arose; this time, prompted by Néstor’s concerns regarding Richard Berntein’s article “Don’t trust anyone under 30?”, which was published in La Nación under the (maliciously translated?) heading “¿Es possible que Facebook estupidice a los usuarios?” [1] When discussing this article in our L&C blog, the main concern seemed to be whether Facebook users should feel stupid or not. In fact, that was not Berntein’s main concern. In his article, the author rather refers to a recently published book by English professor Mark Bauerlein: “The Dumbest Generation: How the digital age stupefies young Americans and jeopardizes our future (or, Don’t trust anyone under 30)”.

This cumbersome title carries an almost explicit assertion: “new technologies stupefy.” The first counterargument one may think of is that technologies cannot be blamed for the content they are given. From this point of view, if Facebook is banal this would be because of its users and not because of the technology itself. This answer, however pertinent to a certain extent, seems to be avoiding a crucial idea implicit in Bauerlein’s title. To say that the digital stupefies implies linking stupidity to the digital technology, not as a risk or a potentiality, but as an unavoidable fact. This is the same as saying that technologies carry their own ideology. From this point of view, banality and stupidity would be natural characteristics of the digital gizmos, Facebook and the Internet included.

However counterintuitive this idea of technologies carrying ideology may be, this has been an academic topic of debate for a long time. Langdon Winner (1986) went over this issue in his essay Do artifacts have politics? There, he concluded that different technologies embody different values and power relations that are inherent to them. In his words:

“The adoption of a given technical system unavoidably brings with it conditions for human relationships that have a distinctive political cast –for example, centralized or de-centralized, egalitarian or inegalitarian, repressive or liberating.”

He also quotes Lewis Mumford, who writes that “from late Neolithic times in the Near East, right down to our own day, two technologies have recurrently existed side by side: one authoritarian, the other democratic (…).”

Winner’s and Mumford’s position go beyond saying that technologies can consciously or unconsciously be used or developed in the benefit of a particular ideology. What they are saying is that technologies have their own ideology, and no matter what the intention of the users is, this ideology will persist.

Among the examples posed by Winner, the atomic bomb is the easier to grasp. Developing nuclear technology -anyone would agree- requires of a centralized, rigidly hierarchical and militarized administration. “The internal social system of the bomb must be authoritarian,” writes Winner. And there is no other way such lethal technology could be handled. Nuclear technology, thus, is inherently authoritarian; this is the ideology it possesses.

Going back to Bauerlein’s title, if the ideology of the digital era were banality and stupidity, this would mean that no matter how hard we try to avoid it, the digital technology would always draw us to banality and stupidity. However, paying a quick glance to the content in technologies like the Internet or even Facebook should be enough to notice that there are serious and academic uses given to these two technologies. The Internet is the natural environment of a worldwide network of universities, libraries and research centres. Facebook, on the other hand, grew as a resource for college campuses, to allow students to get to know their new academic communities. If the content in Facebook was originally more banal than the universities sites, this is because Facebook was developed not as an academic tool, but as a community tool for academic support, which is very different.

All this should be proof enough that banality and stupidity cannot seriously be deemed as the ideology of the digital era. But what is the ideology of technologies like Facebook or the Internet then?

The Internet, it is fair to admit, was born as part of a project for the United States Department of Defense. However, those in charge of developing this technology were academic minds. Thus, although the American government had in mind the control of the quality of military information, it is most probable that those developing the system were really thinking in transmitting and sharing information (which is similar, but quite different). This ideology, coherent with the academic and university contexts that surrounded the development and later perfection of the Internet, may account for its current shape and ideology. This is easy to appreciate. No matter how hard companies try to limit the free transmission of information on the net, no conclusive obstructions can be imposed. People go on finding ways to share information, disregarding of the legal limitations imposed by universal copyrights. The ideology with which the Internet was developed was that of sharing, and in this respect the Internet could be placed within Mumford’s ‘democratic technologies’.

Hackers and virtual communities may serve as an example of this. Castells (2001) mentions these two Internet cultures as part of the four subcultures that helped create and shape the web [2]. Hackers –not to be confused with crackers- are programmers who reject the idea of a restricted copyright for software and freely share their developments on the web. Communities, on the other hand, are groups of people from different fields who simply share their common interests online. And, as Castells reminds us:

“Technological systems are socially produced and social production is culturally informed. (…) Therefore, the culture of the producers of the Internet shaped the medium.”

The Internet was developed within a democratic, communitarian culture, in which information and free access to it were essential, and this is the ideology the Internet naturally developed. Provocatively, Castells goes on to say that, in the Internet, “the network is the message.”

Randall Munroe's 2007 Map of the Online Communities (and other places of interest) [click to see full size]

Being Facebook a community network, its ideology is also democratic. In fact, the ideology underlying most of the digital inventions of our time is, to a certain extent [3], democratic and communitarian. People are the ones who produce, share and control; not the governments, not companies or organisations. But of course, this needn’t be good in itself. A powerful tool in untrained hands could derive in a rustic use of it. And perhaps, this is what Bernstein wonders in his article. After all, he acknowledges:

“Those who have honored me by accepting to be my Facebook friends are, I’m happy to report, high-achieving people who need no lessons from me about how to spend their time.”

But he goes on:

“Still, it does seem a bit odd to me that so many of them take the time to announce to their social circle what are often rather unimportant daily matters (…).”

These ‘unimportant daily matters’, however, are the same trifles most people share and talk about when they are in private, face to face. But if our private life is banal, we shouldn’t expect technologies to change that. Here we go back to our first counter argument: we cannot blame technology for the content we give to it. However, by now, we should be able to realize that even when online banality is a question of content, we can be banal (or not) only because we are using a medium that is democratic and allows all kinds of participation. And it is to us to give it a better use if we do not agree with the one that is being given today.

____________

[1] The original article is not online now, but I found the full text here.

[2] Castells, Manuel (2001) La Galaxia Internet. Barcelona: Plaza & Janes Editores. [I’ve found a summary of Chapter 2 –the one I’m using- here]

[3] Some programmers like Theodor Nelson, although acknowledging the democratic nature of the web, question that the current Internet protocols limit the potential participation of people. Simplifying Nelson’s ideas, we could say that the author believes that the World Wide Web is not yet a real hypertext, to the extent that people cannot interact with the texts they read. In this respect, many features of the Internet would still be as authoritarian in ideology as a traditional book is. [Read about his Project Xanadu here]

Trusting photographs

2008-09-22T11:00:00.023-03:00

Far from being objective reproductions of the world, photographs imply taking creative and ideological decisions that may bias or alter reality. Using photographs as sources, then, should require from us a skeptical and critical attitude.

The problem of representation has already engaged us in several class discussions. Some months ago we expanded one of these debates here (that time, concerning maps). A few meetings ago in L&C III, a new debate on representation took place, this time regarding photographs. One of the students was dealing with the topic of cannibalism in the novel Robinson Crusoe and reading on the controversy about the factual existence of anthropophagy, whether past or present. When looking for some images for his class presentation in Google, he came across the following photograph under the heading “cannibalism.”

After looking at this apparently self-evident portrait of reality, we posed this skeptic question –Can photographs lie?

The same we had done before with portraits and maps, but we must admit that even when we can easily accept the fabrication that underlies painting or cartography, we definitely tend to see objective reality in a photograph [1]. People seldom reflect or perceive that photographs are representations and fabrications as well, and that, although constrained in some way by objective reality, this constraint is to not avail enough to render photographs airtight reproductions of that reality. There are a few photographic and semiological concepts that can give us a hand in this respect.

The first one is the concept of frame. Reality is a continuum. There are no physical limits to reality. If we open our eyes and turn our heads around, we will perceive that reality is not fragmented. No camera can reproduce this perception (not even a cinematographic one). Cameras can only take discrete fragments of reality. They can only select small bits of it, and, in doing so, most of reality is left aside. When framing, the photographer is leaving aside everything that is beyond the four boundaries of the frame, plus everything that is behind the camera, and even everything that is hidden by other objects within the limits of the frame. Thus, any photography contains an extremely simplified view of reality. Can we trust photographs then? In the example above mentioned, for instance, some doubts could arise –Where was this photograph taken from? What is the situation around the main character? Can we really explain this photograph without its context?

The act of framing goes hand by hand with another concept, that of point of view. This concept emphasizes the presence of a subject, the photographer, with a particular understanding of the world and moved by particular interests. If the camera, as we said before, can only take discrete portions of a continuous reality, then it is the photographer who will decide what of this continuum to portray. And this choice will be determined by the photographer’s position, but also by his ideology, what he considers relevant to be photographed. Two people holding cameras in front of a singular event will not take the same pictures. What we see when we see a photograph is the result of a personal choice, somebody’s choice. We would ask then, going back to our previous example –Who took the photograph? Why? What was he trying to show? Can his choice condition, in any respect, our interpretation of the event?

Attempting to answer all these questions may help us see that photographs alone carry not much more than uncertainty [2]. Susan Sontag explains that “photographs, which cannot themselves explain anything, are inexhaustible invitations to deduction, speculation, and fantasy,” and she adds that “in fact, we never understand anything through photographs.” [3]

However, most people would still feel that they do get meaning from most of the photographs they daily come across with. In most of the cases, this is due to the fact that photographs rarely come along on their own, but they are usually immersed in a textual environment from which they also derive meaning. This leads to a third concept of interest, the concept of surround (context). Words, although not a part of the photographic art itself, are very much connected to the use of photographs, mostly in the press. Captions are the most typical ‘textual anchors’ for photographs, although headings, subheadings and articles can also function as such. Captions are explanatory words usually attached to photographs. These words are of utmost importance for the simple fact that they can completely bias the interpretation of an image, and, in doing so, serve us as proof of the limited capacity of evidence that photographs possess [4]. Cartoonist Quino reflects on this interaction between text and image through a cartoon in which completely different captions are attached to the same photograph, entirely affecting and transforming its meaning (click on image for full cartoon). But newspapers give us daily example of this relationship, providing we critically face the task of ‘reading’ images. As to our original example, we can still wonder whether we would still see an act of cannibalism had any other label been attached to it. What if the caption had read “Angian warrior celebrating their victory at Jartar”?

To all this, perhaps, we should even add the digital editing power of modern software, that can drastically transform an original picture without leaving visible traces of any transformation (click on image to compare). Photographs are, in the end, just representations of reality. And, as such, we cannot relay on them more than we relay on any other human product. If photographs can lie, or if people can make them lie, then doubt and skepticism, at least, should be two mental attitudes that always accompany their use.

__________

[1] This may be perhaps related to the everyday use we give to photographs. When we take photographs, we tend to look at them as objective reproductions of the moments we portray. We remain unaware of the many ‘artistic’ and even ‘ideological’ decisions we make before pressing the shutter.

[2] Even when they are not the only ones, these two first concepts –frame and point of view-, should serve to account for the artistic potential of photography.

[3] Susan Sontag, On Photography, quoted in Rocca and López (1995) Fotografía. Buenos Aires: Editorial Ars.

[4] Roland Barthes expands on most of these ideas in a classic study of press photography: “The photographic message.” Image Music Text, 1977.

Defoe and Swift: different critical insertions in early 18th-century England

2008-08-31T10:04:00.012-03:00

It may be possible to use Defoe’s and Swift’s works to explore the more or less successful way in which both authors relate to and are inserted in their contemporary society.

Last class in L&C III we attempted a contrast between Daniel Defoe and Jonathan Swift, taking into account the particular insertion each author achieved in their social, literary and political context. We agreed that Swift’s relationship with early 18^th-century British society seemed more problematic than Defoe’s. We explored the acrid sense of failure and disappointment that signed Swift’s life, and the unresolved contradictions of his spirit. But -we noticed- even if we put aside the biographical data and only focused on the author’s literary production, it could be also possible to perceive the degree to which his mind seemed fit for his society. And the same seemed to apply to Defoe.

We noticed that Defoe’s social criticism was mainly oriented towards the fulfillment of Christian religious principles. Robinson Crusoe or Moll Flanders could function as examples of how social disruptions and personal flaws can be amended by commitment to religious values and rules. Even his caustic The Shortest Way with the Dissenters, which sent him to the pillory, was mainly a religious satire (although with deep political implications).

Swift never got to the pillory, but still his clash with society went far beyond a mere religious stance. Swift’s criticism seems to have been directed against society as a whole. Gulliver’s Travels, his incontestable masterpiece, is a minute and comprehensive dissection of Western culture and an attack against everything that is dear to the English (and European) mind, its most salient object of scorn being humanity itself.

Perhaps, it is possible to understand this contrast between Defoe and Swift as originated in a definitely opposed conception of humanity. Defoe looks backwards, to the mythical origin of humanity, when man is still the image of the divinity, and he consequently strives for the recuperation of that original (Christian) man. Contrariwise, Swift looks forward. For Swift, there seems to be no mythical past. Humanity does not appear seriously linked to any divinity, but it is, instead, the mirror of the revolting Yahoos, the trifling Lilliputians, the insubstantial Laputians, or the useless projectors in Lagado. Rather than spiritual in essence, Swift’s man is seen in his utter animality. This is present in Gulliver’s horrified depiction of the Brobdingnagians, but also in Swift’s revealing treatment of bodily functions, of which The Lady’s Dressing-room is perhaps the most enlightening example. In Swift, it is possible to infer, humanity is not really ‘human,’ but still animal.

Thus, Swift’s ideal of humanity seems to be placed at the end of a forward movement from animality (the present) to a purified, improved ‘humanity’ (not yet achieved -and perhaps, even unattainable) [1]. Clearly, the means for this purification is reason. In fact, if there is one thing that all of Swift’s writings seem to condemn, that is irrationality, even under the disguise of rational and scientific thought. Accordingly, the Master Houyhnhnm reproves Gulliver’s depiction of the atrocities of war: “He seemed therefore confident,” Gulliver retells, “that, instead of reason we were only possessed of some quality fitted to increase our natural vices; as the reflection from a troubled stream returns the image of an ill shapen body, not only larger but more distorted.”

Hopelessly aware of this reality, Gulliver feels as an exiled in his own nation. He does not fit. Crusoe or Moll Flanders, on the contrary, are triumphantly welcome by their formerly adverse societies. Swift’s and Defoe’s creations can help us bring light on how the authors’ minds were suited to their own time. While Defoe’s characters manage to find their place in the world, Swift’s heroes and situations are in a constant state of clash and tension. Where Defoe’s works find a path towards light and hope, Swift’s, on the contrary, show a flawed, irreparable world. Where Defoe sees redemption, Swift understands condemnation; where Defoe sees humanity, Swift can only perceive a damned, debased, futile race.

_________

[1] It is possible to perceive in this argumentation a somewhat implicit, precarious Darwinist conception of humanity. Mankind would be no more than sophisticated and evolved animals. Just as the Yahoos look like degenerated human beings.

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The 'myth of the good immigrant' in Argentina

2008-07-06T21:26:00.021-03:00

Key words: immigration, Argentina, nationalism, education, Lilia Bertoni

The issue of immigration in Argentina arose last meeting in our L&C III class out of a student’s contrast between today’s TV-mediated dissemination of foreign culture in our country and that occurred in the past by the hand of Southern European immigrants. We noticed that we tend to have a somewhat idealized perception of the presence of immigrants in our past. Perhaps we can even talk about a ‘myth of the good immigrant,’ that may be connected to the important wave of immigration arriving in Argentina after the First World War and the Spanish Civil War. For us (who are, in great number, descendants of those old newcomers) the word 'immigrant' tends to be associated with hard-working people who left the miseries of their homeland to fulfill their dreams on our generous soil and help building our nation. However, it is possible to think that, if the waves of immigration of the first half of the 20^th century were so successful and left such a positive impression in our social imaginary, this is because the Argentine State and the ruling elites were already strong enough and well-prepared to hand the tension and risks that any important immigration movement implies. But that hadn’t always been the case.

The problem of immigration (at least from the point of view of the ruling classes) is always the risk of social, cultural or political instability. This was made evident in Argentina by the end of the 19^th century. Lilia Bertoni (1992) [1] studies the internal tension generated by immigrant groups and how local rulers showed apprehension by the strong national pride and sense of unity some of these groups showed. She quotes an 1888 article from La Prensa in which the Italian community was called to celebrate the (quite recent) Unification of Italy:

“Being far from your Motherland, you must keep the festivity uncorrupted, celebrate the glory and cultivate the love to deserve being called her children. So be willing to answer to these sacred duties celebrating September 20^th.”

Argentine ruling elites felt more troubled when, in Italy, the economist Gerolamo Boccardo included Buenos Aires among other Italian "spontaneous colonies," and advised the crown to occupy these offshore territories as the “natural consummation of a right (…) created through work and virtue by several generations of Italian.” In fact, the parliamentary debate in Italy during this time of European imperialistic growth was whether to advance on the conquest of new ‘artificial colonies’ in Africa or to pay attention to the ‘spontaneous colonies’ in the Rio de la Plata basin.

Bertoni’s thesis is that national celebrations together with an emphasis on national history and on patriotic feeling were consciously introduced in schools by this time as an ideological instrument to control and lessen the potentially harmful impact of foreign nationalism [2]. In this sense she quotes an 1887 regulation by the CNE (Nacional Council of Education) which establishes national celebrations at schools:

“The well-intended interests of the whole country require promoting the patriotic feeling, which gives cohesion to the constitutive elements of our nationality.”

An article appearing in La Prensa by 1983 seems to be even more representative of this perception when it declares that “in the Argentine Republic, more than in any other country on earth, public education must have a national purpose (…), to neutralize that atmosphere of foreignness the child has been breathing exclusively during his early years and which he continues breathing each day before going to school and after leaving it.”

After decades of strengthening and consolidating a system of cultural homogenization (and after decades of persecution and expulsion of destabilising foreign groups), it seems easier to explain the effective integration of the immigration waves of the post-war periods and the positive feeling left in our national imaginary. But this should help us bare in mind that the natural reaction towards immigration tends to be tension and not straightforward acceptance. And this is telling a lot about ourselves (or about any cultural identity in the end), about our conception of the self and of the foreign, and about the limits we consciously or unconsciously draw between communion with the Other and maintenance of our cultural individuality.

__________

[1] All the quotations in this post are taken from Bertoni’s paper: Bertoni, Lilia (1992) “Construir la nacionalidad: héroes, estatuas y fiestas patrias, 1887-1891.” Boletín del Instituto de Historia Argentina y Americana Dr. E. Ravigniani, Tercera Serie, Nº5. Buenos Aires: Instituto de Historia Argentina y Americana Dr. E. Ravignani.

[2] Bertoni's proposition is coherent with Tedesco's thesis that education in Argentina was meant to primarily fulfil the political function of integrating different cultures within the values of the hegemonic groups rather than to be functional to the economic policies of the Argentine State. This would explain the choice of an encyclopedist rather than pragmatic education in the early Argentine education system. [Tedesco, Juan Carlos (1993) Educación y Sociedad en la Argentina: 1880-1945. Buenos Aires: Ediciones Solar. (The chapter dealing with the political function of education can be downloaded here)]

Reactions to Technology: past and present

2008-05-24T17:27:00.038-03:00

Key words: technology, new technologies, computers, writing, Walter Ong, Plato

What we understand by technology is not always clear. Realising that most of the things that surround us are technology should help us consider new technologies from a more open and critical perspective.

___________

From an anthropological point of view, the word technology could be defined as “the body of knowledge available to a civilization that is of use in fashioning implements, practicing manual arts and skills, and extracting or collecting materials” (The American Heritage Dictionary).

Whenever we hear the word technology, however, we tend to instantly associate it with computers, electronic appliances, cell phones and the like. If we understand technology in its broader sense, we should also think of writing, books or pens as technologies. The difference between a pen and a cell phone is that cell phones are later technologies, but no doubt they’re both technologies in the end.

The problem seems to be that we tend to naturalise those technologies that have been with us for a long time and look at them acritically. Nobody, for example, sees anything wrong in a book; but new technologies like computers are commonly looked at with distrust and apprehension. Many people see books as natural elements, while they consider computers openly artificial things. Or, what is even less clear, they think books are less artificial than computers, as if there was anything natural in a book. They would attack computers by dubbing them cold and impersonal, but nobody would say the same of books, even though the way of approaching text is essentially the same, and books –unlike computers- are not suited for real-time communication.

Negative reactions towards new technologies have always been present throughout history, although in different extents. The Luddites in 19^th century England charged against textile factories sabotaging and destroying their machinery. Even today, Amish communities try not to rely on modern technologies that can alter their simple lifestyle and promote individualism. Current environmentalist movements plan mediatic demonstrations to boycott technologies that are considered harmful, like nuclear energy or GMOs. In education, current technologies like notebooks, ball pens and calculators have also had to go through harsh criticism when first introduced in the classrooms [1].

Walter Ong, in a book subtitled "The Technologizing of the Word," writes that “most persons are surprised, and many distressed, to learn that essentially the same objections commonly urged today against computers were urged by Plato in the Phaedrus and in the Seventh Letter against writing” [2]. The author explains:

Writing, Plato has Socrates say in the Phaedrus, is inhuman, pretending to establish outside the mind what in reality can be only in the mind. It is a thing, a manufactured product. The same of course is said of computers. Secondly, Plato’s Socrates urges, writing destroys memory. Those who use writing will become forgetful, relying on an external resource for what they lack in internal resources. Writing weakens the mind. Today, parents and others fear that pocket calculators provide an external resource for what ought to be the internal resource of memorized multiplication tables (…)

Ong also quotes Hieronimo Squarciafico, who in 1477 expressed similar misgivings towards print. But, just as Squarciafico still promoted the printing of books, Plato also wrote. This paradox can prove even greater if we agree with Ong, who -citing Havelock- goes on to affirm that Plato’s analytical thought was only possible because of the effects that writing was beginning to have on mental processes. This means that Plato could articulate his thought the way he did only because his mind was not the mind of an oral person. Writing affects our mental structures, as any technology does. If technologies transform our societies and our minds, then, the question seems to be: How positive or negative can these transformations be?

Of course, together with the pessimistic views on new technologies, we also have the optimistic ones. Some people during the 18th century and later thought power engines would make labourers’ life easier, turning the world a better place. Before that, some thought print would make everyone wiser. Similar ideas were also heard about television during the aftermath of the Second World War, and can still be heard about computers.

The pessimistic and optimistic views on technology usually fall under the terms technophobia and technophilia –dislike or love for new technologies. Placing ourselves on any of these extremes implies avoiding the task of consciously pondering and analysing technologies. I have for me that if we really want to arrive at a sensible perception of a particular technology, we should get to know it, use it, apply it, see its benefits and disadvantages, and be critical about it. No technology is hundred per cent good or bad [3]. Sometimes it is us who either feel unconsciously charmed by new fashionable things, or who can’t be flexible enough to challenge our habits and try something that is not what we’re used to.

__________

[1] Fisch’s What if… presentation gives a clear survey of this reluctance to new technologies in education. I’ve already included this video in a previous post.

[2] Ong, Walter (2002) Orality and Literacy: The Technologizing of the Word. London: Routledge. (Chapter 4 can be consulted here.)

[3] Langdon Winner (1983) analyses whether certain values and power relations are inherent to some technologies. In his article Do Artifacts have Politics? the author answers positively to the question in the title.

Lost and the hyperbole of mystery

2008-05-19T20:09:00.000-03:00

Key words: Lost, TV series, mystery, time, flashback, fast forward

The TV serial Lost is built on mystery. The nature of this mystery, however, seems qualitatively different from more traditional enigmas due to the complex relationships arising from the interaction of three different temporal planes: past, present and future.

No, I don’t watch much TV. However, I’ve become quite fond of the series Lost (2004-onwards). I’ve devoured the three first seasons in a few months and I’m still deeply engaged during this fourth season. I’m anything but an exception; most of the people I know have become equally addicted to the series. Are we so conventional then, or is there really something about this TV show?

I’ve always seen the series as the hyperbole of mystery. Mystery is a narrative strategy; a fine strategy to hook the audience to a story. More specifically, a mystery is an enigma, an unresolved question, a puzzling and incomprehensible thing, something whose meaning and reality is hidden from us [1]. From the very first chapter, Lost begins overwhelming the viewer with questions. Every single element in the story gives rise to an increasing number of enigmas; and, whenever an answer arrives, it comes along with more and more perplexing questions.

For instance, when the veil on the nature of the hatch was finally lifted at the beginning of the second season, this new knowledge came together with a plethora of new enigmas: Why was the hatch inhabited? How did these other people arrive on the island? How long have they been there? Why didn’t they go outside? What was their function? What would happen if they didn’t comply with their obligations? Who did they work for? And so...

This hyperbolic nature of mystery in Lost, however, is not based on mere accumulation. It’s not only adding one enigma over the other. In fact, the structure of mystery in the series is a bit more complex. What I’ve found particularly interesting is the different levels on which the enigmas work. During the first seasons, the enigmas in Lost worked on two different planes: the present and the past. Questions and doubts not only arose regarding the events on the island, but also about events prior to the plane crash. Here it is important to notice that the past in Lost is not inferred through present actions and dialogue, but concrete, and brought forward through the regular use of flashbacks.

To the question “what is happening?” it is added the one “what happened?”

In relation to this, I consider of particular interest the way the real nature of the characters becomes itself a mystery. The characters in Lost are not only qualified through their present actions, but also through their past behaviour; and, by showing that past actions sometimes contradict present ones [2], the series screenwriters are able to build both new and more complex mysteries and characters.

To the traditional question “who are they?” (answered by what the characters are doing in the present), it is added the new “who were they?” (answered by what the characters are doing in the past).

The convergence of past and present complicates the nature of the mysteries. Some mysteries arise from present events and situations (What will Sayid find in his self-exile from the camp?), some from past events and situations (How did an Iraqi torturer end up in a Los Angeles bound flight?), and some from the relationship between both past and present events (Will Sayid torture and kill the false Henry Gale?)

But this is not all. This plural-plane strategy seems to have found its apex during this fourth season, when the future is added to the levels on which actions and enigmas work [3]. As with the past, this future is not a predicted but a concrete one (this time brought up through flash forwards). As such, the future acts as a new plane in which specific enigmas are posed (Why is Sayid killing people? Why does Hugo regret having gone with Locke?) while generating a new reading about the present (Has Ben been always speaking the truth? Is Locke leading his group to death?)

The convergence of these three planes and the complex relationships they establish turn mystery in Lost qualitatively different from more traditional uses of it. Mystery is not only a present question about the past that will be answered in the future (the typical detective mystery), nor a present element that we can’t understand yet (the usual fantastic mystery); mystery, in Lost, is provided by the three planes simultaneously –past, present and future. There is no solid ground then, no certainty in Lost. The present poses questions about the past and the future; future and past pose questions about the present. We don’t know what’s happened yet, nor do we know what is happening, or what will happen. It is the hyperbole of mystery. We’re facing the past, the present, the future, but any of them gives us certainties, just more and more questions.

This is perhaps one of the reasons why Lost proved so addictive, even to those who were not much interested in this type of series before. Lost is a huge open question and natural curiosity forces the viewer to sit in front of the TV screen to get some answers. And, provided some answers are delivered from time to time, those who feel hooked by mystery seem to have found in Lost the right place to feed their endless hunger for uncertainty.

________

[1] Not by chance, etymologically speaking, the word is derived from the Greek verb muō (to shut or close lips or eyes).

[2] For example, characters who seemed dull, naïve, spoiled or mischievous in the past can acquire a new heroic dimension in the present.

[3] Lost is not the only TV series rediscovering the flash forward technique. Read here.

Re-thinking Maps

2008-04-17T09:53:00.025-03:00

Key words: Maps, cartography, Keith Jenkins, History, ideology, representation

Although apparently objective representations of the world, maps are rhetorical tools which express, like any other portrayal of reality, the values and ideology of those who design them.

Last meeting we went on talking about Keith Jenkins’ critical perception of History[1]. We recalled that the British historiographer had gone as far as to state that History was a literary construct. For him, no matter how much constrained historians are by historical evidence, when interpreting and writing about the past, they cannot do away with their own values and ideology. The work of the historian is, in consequence, contaminated with his personal views and ideology.

Of course, Jenkins arguments (which follow authors like Foucault, Lyotard and Eagleton) do not only help us establish a critical relationship with History, but with the entire body of representations about reality, whether past or present. As we discussed in class, the principles to which Jenkins refers can be easily applied to documentaries, journalism and any other type of portrayal of reality. Any representation is always mediated by individual perceptions, interests, values and ideology. It’s impossible to face reality without our own personal and cultural bulk. And this, as we agreed in class, also applies to cartography.

In our positivist world, we tend to mistakenly see geographic maps as objective representations of physical, static territories. However, the word ‘representation’ alone should make us doubt of this seeming objectiveness. Although the cartographer is also constrained by reality, the creative freedom he enjoys is not so far from that of the realist portrait artist. The cartographer is supposed to portray the physical reality in the best possible way, but which is the best possible way? This sole question implies that there is more than one way to portray the world. It’s just that since cartographers are used to follow a certain number of conventions, we tend to think of them as natural, as if there were no alternatives. But if we did away with these conventions, it would be possible to see how much arbitrariness and ideology is contained in maps. Let’s consider some examples.

One of these conventions could be the European centrality. Europe appears at the centre in most maps of the world. Actually, there’s no reason –other than historical and political prominence- to place Europe at the centre. Why not China, Australia or America? Or the Pacific Ocean? Having Europe at the centre and top of the map is saying a lot about western history, politics and power relationships. This consideration must have crossed somebody’s mind when the Chicago Daily Tribune published, during the peak years of the Second World War, a map with the US at the centre and top. The map was overtly entitled America–the Real Center of the World Today [map 2]. Maps of this sort are still published nowadays, mostly –of course- in the US.

Another convention, although in a slow process of being changed by other alternatives, is the use of the Mercator projection [map 1 and 2] as a way to represent the spherical globe on a flat surface. The problem with this projection is that it distorts the relative size of regions, showing an increase in size according to the proximity to the poles. Consequently, Greenland appears to be similar in size to Africa, although the continent is thirteen times bigger than the island. The result of this projection is a world in which the territories in the northern hemisphere –closer to the pole- look bigger than those round the Equator. German historian and filmmaker Arno Peters noticed that this distortion favoured the look of the developed countries, while giving a belittled perspective of the developing ones. Thus, in 1974, he devised a new flat projection that aimed at producing a proportional map of the world [map 3]. The result –widely controversial- shows a very atypical view, with a huge, vast African continent below a small, dwarfed Europe.

Perhaps, the most naturalized and widespread convention is the North-up orientation. There are no geographical or astronomical reasons why North must be on top and South at the bottom. However, the political and ideological implications of this arrangement can be many, mostly when most of the poor countries lie South of the developed ones. In 1979, Stuart McArthur, a ‘resentful’ Australian, published what he called McArthur’s Universal Corrective Map of the World, showing Australia at the top and centre [map 4]. Different South-up maps have been published since then, but they have always implied an act of transgression. For us, people from the South, these maps bring a definite new perspective. How would we see the world today if we had been taught that we were on top? Doesn’t it make a difference? [map 5 -click on the map to enlarge]

All in all, nothing seems to be innocent. In all human productions there’s always somebody –consciously or unconsciously- expressing his values and culture. Ideology speaks through any representation of reality. Our task, I infer, would be to look at those representations critically, and to pick up for us the one that better goes with our own values and beliefs.

________________

[1] Jenkins, Keith (2003) Re-thinking History, Routledge, Londres.

In defense of Shyamalan

2008-04-12T17:55:00.000-03:00

Key words: M. Night Shyamalan, authors, Hitchcock, criticism, critics

M. Night Shyamalan is one of the most curious, imaginative and stylish filmmakers of current American mainstream cinema. Throughout his filmography he shows himself as an expert narrator of fantastic, neat, short stories with carefully delineated plots and perfect endings[1]. He adds to this a rare awareness of the grammar of films. Such is his usage of narrative devices, that he could be easily found an oddity, at least within commercial standards.

From the very beginning, I was one of the many who found a resemblance to Hitchcock’s cinematic language. Jeet Thayil put it this way: “Like Hitchcock, Shyamalan is in express control of his tools. He uses music, sound and expert manipulation of human psychology.” Michael Agger would add “the point-of-view editing, the emotional close-ups of actors, the fixation on detail, and the eerie score,” together with a compliance with Hitchcock's definition of terror: "If you want the audience to feel the suspense, show them the bomb underneath the table."

Curiously, Shyamalan’s ties to Hitchcock’s style do not seem to have acted as a shield from the critics’ attacks. Even those who acknowledge his utter dexterity with films charge against him with violence and contempt. Personally, I understand Agger makes a point when he accuses M. Night’s films of being “fragile, sealed-off movies that [fall] apart when exposed to outside logic.” I think it’s just so, provided you do away with the ‘fragile’ qualifier.

Shyamalan’s films are soundly structured -every line, every element, proving crucial to the final development of the plot. However, it is true that they all have a logic of their own that works only when the film is running. The important thing is that it does work when the film is running. Even when seeing Shyamalan’s films for the second time, even after having already exposed his plots to a killing ‘outside logic,’ the films prove catching, thrilling and sensible again.

In this sense I find Shyamalan’s films have the logic of dreams, which prove moving and effective until we wake up and rationally dissect them. But again we dream, and again we believe what is impossible under other conditions. Fantasy itself calls for some rational withdrawal. Sometimes also cinema does[2].

On the other hand, I’ve got the impression that some critics’ attacks on Shyamalan do nothing but show their own –perhaps unconscious- attraction towards his films. Some arguments against his work look as if the critics were pretending from the filmmaker more than he can really give. This pretension implies a hidden liking of his work. They see and understand that Shyamalan is an expert and creative director –they even compare him with Hitchcock- so they ask him an ambiguously defined “Cinema” (with capital letters) that perhaps he’s not able to give. He’s no more –and so far no less- than a creator of little, suggestive, fantasy stories for the mainstream taste. Critics seem to even forget that Hitchcock himself furnished a name and a legend by filming a majority of dull, conventional arguments. It’s just that Hitchcock filmed expertly, and, from time to time, gave birth to an incredible masterpiece. What would critics say if M. Night brought us another The Sixth Sense?

Nowadays, The Sixth Sense (1999) seems to have become the critics’ reference point when approaching any of Shyamalan’s later films. The problem is that even critics appear to have liked that film so much that they are frustrated when new Shyamalan’s attempts prove unable to retrieve the original thrill experienced with it. People like Agger, when questioning the author’s last films, seem to forget that The Sixth Sense contains the same logical problems than all of M. Night’s other films. Perhaps they were so involved with the plot that they didn’t realise it. Or perhaps, since the author was not yet famous, they decided to by-pass it.

I think the soundest criticism comes from those who question the author’s trademark ‘twist endings’. It is true that I do not see ‘twists’ in Shyamalan’s endings. A twist makes reference to a surprising sudden change of direction in the plot. Instead, I find Shyamalan’s films are structured as multiple lines that logically converge in a single final point where their true meaning is realized. So there is no sudden change, but logical realization. How surprising this realization can be seems to be the problem with the later films. And this is the product of redundancy, the problem derived from resorting to the same narrative structure film after film. Here is where I agree M. Night is facing a weakening point. His problem –being an author who always attempts at surprising- seems to be that you cannot really surprise the audience when the audience is waiting for a surprise, and knows exactly when and of what kind it will be. But this is a minor problem for a creative and young director. It is a problem that can be, in theory, easily corrected. Perhaps it’s just a question of time; perhaps, a question of maturation. Shyamalan can still learn to surprise in other ways. He can also learn to quit being surprising. He has got all the necessaries to go on growing, improving, and why not, redeeming himself.

Although irregular, his filmography is wholly recommendable (Wide Awake excepted). I list the films I’ve seen according to my personal liking (I haven't yet seen his first film, but I'm on it):

-Unbreakable (2000)

-The Sixth Sense (1999)

-Signs (2002)

-The Village (2004)

-Lady in the Water (2006)

-Wide Awake (1998)

[1] Of course this is not to say that his films are perfect (in fact, they seem to be getting less and less perfect every time). But I’ll refer to this more in detail later on.

[2] Cinema and dreams have of long been related by authors and theorists. See here.

What not to do to a new school subject

2008-04-06T21:11:00.004-03:00

Key words: Construcción de Ciudadanía, education

This time I'm just writing to invite you all to read a post on education. More precisely, about the still brand new school subject Construcción de Ciudadanía. I'm particularly interested in this truly innovative subject, and I felt moved to write something about how terribly wrong its implementation in Buenos Aires’ schools is going. Since I wrote this post in Spanish I didn’t think it right to publish it here. That’s why I’m inviting you to my Spanish blog to take a look at it. Just click here.

Till next time.

March’s recommended film - Professione: Reporter (1975)

2008-03-21T16:37:00.000-03:00

Key words: Professione: Reporter (The Passanger), Michelangelo Antonioni, Jack Nicholson, cinematic codes, expectation, films.

I’ve just got this idea –quite obvious, isn’t it?- of writing a short review to each recommended film. So let’s get into this before the month is over.

This month’s film is Professione: Reporter [AKA The Passenger] (1975), by Michelangelo Antonioni, starring a 38 year-old Jack Nicholson as a journalist who changes the direction of his life by assuming the identity of a dead stranger.

To be honest, I chose this film because I had seen it for the first time and couldn’t believe I had been going through my cinephile life without having ever seen it (I’m a lazy cinephile I must admit –the film had been in my ‘to-be-seen’ list for almost a decade).

You know, many films have acted as turning points in the history of cinema (Citizen Kane, Breathless, The Idiots, just to mention a few). They have all introduced new elements to the language and grammar of films after which the ‘state of the art’ has never been the same. Well, Professione: Reporter is not the case. Not because there’s nothing new in it. On the contrary, the film is a beautiful bunch of narrative and cinematic reformulations. As Martin Walsh (1975)[1] put it, Antonioni tests “the limits of cinematic codes.” His strategy seems to be “a consistently varied deflection of the normative transitions from shot to shot.” That is, Antonioni subverts our logical expectations, and, in doing so, he questions most of the traditional narrative codes of cinema. All traditional ideas about continuity (spatial, temporal, narrative [2]) and even about the “diegetic centrality of the plot” (where the attention of the camera is –Walsh again) are put at risk.

At the very beginning of the film, after we see Locke (Nicholson) struggling with his language in the Sahara desert, we follow him through rocky hills in search of something. He seems to have found it -a pack of Bedouins at the foot of a mountain. Cut to Locke’s Landrover making its way through the desert, back to his hotel.

What has happened? Who were these men? That was not important. We, as traditional viewers, would expect some answers, but they will never come –not as answers at least; if anything, they’ll arrive later on, as personal inferences. Thus, Antonioni is violently submerging us in a world where the expected is never realized.

Antonioni’s narrative, however, could not incarnate in many later filmmakers –leaving aside the intentionally experimental ones. In consequence, Professione: Reporter remains, as much of his filmography, no more –and no less- than a profound cinematic experiment. A beautiful one I would say.

[1] Walsh, Robert (1975) “The Passenger, Antonioni’s narrative design.” Jump Cut, no. 8 [on line]

[2] I’m already writing a post on Antonioni’s use of off-screen space. I hope it will be published soon.

Has liberty failed?

2008-03-20T14:03:00.038-03:00

Key words: freedom, Modernity, humanism, slavery, Ilha das Flores (Isle of Flowers), Jorge Furtado.

We’ve just began our 2008 L&C III course in IPES Almafuerte. Our first meeting intended an eagle’s eye view on the three-century period we’ll be dealing with this year. Our focus was on the 18th century and how it became the converging point of different social and philosophical ideas that changed the direction of humanity. We noticed that many of the beliefs, ideologies and institutions we still hold dear nowadays had their origin as part of the great cultural, philosophical and technological movement that we now call Modernity.

When looking at the present, however, we were able to see that many modern structures and institutions are undergoing a crisis. Among other things, we referred to the crisis of some traditional modern values, within which we mentioned the possible failure of one particular modern principle –traceable to the French Revolution-, the principle of individual inborn freedom.

We agreed that there is nothing ‘natural’ in being free, just as there is nothing ‘natural’ in being a slave. Both are just social and cultural choices (or impositions). The important thing was to acknowledge that the discourse of humanist enlightenment –which still nowadays works as the basis for human rights- is just another historical construct, conceived by people who would see a personal benefit from it. Of course, humanism was supposedly designed for the benefit of all; nevertheless, it’s worth wondering –after two centuries of humanist philosophical rule- whether this change really benefited everyone. One of the questions we posed in class was thus -“Does everyone benefit from being free?” [1]

Brazilian filmmaker Jorge Furtado makes a point in his appalling and beautifully disheartening documentary Ilha das Flores (Isle of Flowers, 1989). With sincere irony, Furtado shows freedom is the problem of many people in a world in which only money and property count. When people don’t have money or property, how can they survive? Their problem seems to be they don’t have an owner. Just as dogs, or pigs, they wouldn’t die of hunger, nor live a life of the worst humiliation if they had somebody to provide them.

Does this mean we should revive slavery then? Reality is not that simple, and this we know. But perhaps it’s good to start acknowledging that abstract modern principles like ‘freedom’ or ‘equality’ were imaginations that –so far- have in very little solved people’s problems, guaranteed happiness or changed the world for the better.

This is, of course, a nice controversial issue to begin this school year with. So I’m inviting you all to see Furtado’s film (it’s only 13 minutes), and to write and exchange your ideas and impressions on the topic. In the end, when discussing freedom, we’re pondering what we are, what we want to be, and what we can be as human beings.

View the film here or at DailyMotion, or download it from this folder:

Ilha das Flores-sub Eng
Cargado por Simud

[1] The other question was “Are we actually free?” (but let’s only deal with the first one today)

Biological determinism in Houyhnhnmland

2008-03-02T20:14:00.023-02:00

Key words: Gulliver’s Travels, Jonathan Swift, Houyhnhnms, racism, colonialism, Plato.

After Tuesday’s final board I went back home thinking about Jonathan Swift. One of the student’s presentations dealt with Swift’s utopian society, incarnated in the Houyhnhnms (Gulliver’s Travels, Part IV). The Houyhnhnms are presented by Gulliver as a perfect and balanced society (of horses) ruled by reason, and opposed to the irrational and debased English society -far closer to the Yahoos, the other (human-like) inhabitants of Houyhnhnmland.

As we mentioned during the exam, among other ambiguities, the perfect Houyhnhnm society is based on a disturbing biological determinism. As Gulliver explains in the novel:

He [his Houyhnhnm master] made me observe, “that among the Houyhnhnms, the white, the sorrel, and the iron-gray, were not so exactly shaped as the bay, the dapple-gray, and the black; nor born with equal talents of mind, or a capacity to improve them; and therefore continued always in the condition of servants, without ever aspiring to match out of their own race, which in that country would be reckoned monstrous and unnatural.”

The Houyhnhnm social structure is thus fixed, with no place for social mobility. Each individual’s role in society is given by the intellectual talents with which he or she is born. However, these talents are determined by coat colour, by race. In the country of the Houyhnhms, each race is given a particular role.

Christine Rees [1] points at the similitude between this colour determination and the one present in Plato's Republic, “with its graded gold, silver, iron and brass for the different classes.” Rees acknowledges, however, that even Plato’s society gives place for certain social mobility. In The Republic, “a golden parent may have a silver son, or a silver parent a golden son, and then there must be a change of rank; the son of the rich must descend, and the child of the artisan rise, in the social scale.[2]”

Gulliver’s perfect society, on the contrary, is racist and inflexible. And even so, it is presented as an ideal opposed to English (and western) society. Our question then would be: Could Swift be intending to apply this metaphor to humanity as a whole?

The answer to this question will depend on how we understand a yet unresolved problem. Some scholars (the so-called soft school) consider Swift is mocking at Gulliver’s admiration for the Houyhnhnms, while not really adhering to the character’s abhorrence of humankind. Others, however, (the hard school) feel Swift is really ‘meaning’ what he writes [3]. Whether we perceive Gulliver as Swift’s alter-ego or as an ironic persona will determine our interpretation of the Houyhnhnms’ rational social structure.

In any case, it’s worth remembering that the understanding of race in Swift’s time was different from the modern biological explanation. Race was in fact a historical and cultural factor. An example of this could be the English relationship with the Irish at the time, which bore most of the characteristics and racial connotations that would apply to European colonialism beyond Europe’s frontiers [4]: the Irish were considered inferior by the English –and even Swift couldn’t do away with this inherited perception (he was an Irishman, he wrote in favour of Irish freedom, but at the same time seemed to acknowledge English cultural superiority).

Also important is the fact that even when some people realized that all races were equally human and had all the same origin, the notion of hierarchy was something that most thinkers didn’t seem to question. Most people in the seventeenth and eighteenth century took hierarchy and racial domination for granted [5]. Leaving aside Swift’s interpretation then, there’s no doubt that his Houyhnhnms comply with that way of thinking: in their balanced society, a fixed hierarchy based on racial determination is necessary to keep order and peace.

[1]Rees, Christine (1996) Utopian Imagination and Eighteenth-Century Fiction. New York: Longman.

[2] Plato (427? BC-347? BC) The Republic. On line: Project Gutenberg.

[3] Stock, R. D. (2003) “God, Gulliver, and Genocide: Barbarism and the European Imagination, 1492-1945.” [review] Christianity and Literature Journal, vol.52, issue 3. Gale Group.

[4] Mahony, Robert (2002) “Swift, Postcolonialism, and Irish Studies: The Valence of Ambivalence.” Representations of Swift. Connery, Brian (ed.) Newark: University of Delaware Press.

[5] Thomson, Ann (2003) Issues at stake in eighteenth-century racial classification. On line: Cromohs.

The Time Machine (1895) (2002)

2008-02-16T14:25:00.000-02:00

Key words: films, novels, The Time Machine, H.G. Wells, Simon Wells, adaptations

H. G. Wells wrote his novel The Time Machine in 1895. His great-grandson, Simon Wells, managed to butcher this beautiful legacy a hundred and seven years later (2002), with the homonym Warner Bros. motion picture.

Not that the film deserves much attention; however, such a violent and unnecessary outrage moves to some reaction. Sorry, but I am reacting.

Although the great-grandson’s film keeps the core elements and relationships of the novel (perhaps the only thing that accounts for keeping the famous title as well), it chooses to completely deviate from the original plot. This, in itself, shouldn’t be questionable. I think it’s absolutely valid to do so provided the adapter adds new meaning that can establish a ‘dialogue’ with the first work, a conversation that may render new knowledge or cast a new light on the topics or issues treated by the original work. The problem is that deciding on a new path to an old story constitutes an extra risk for a screenwriter or filmmaker whose narrative talent is poor.

A natural prerequisite to any real dialogue is that those who are to face the task of dialoguing consider themselves as valid interlocutors. It’s hard to grant such a grace to a film which worries more about the plain action than about the philosophical and logical ideas underlying the original work. I felt the great-grandson’s film assaults the great-grandfather’s novel rather than establishing any dialogue with it. The changes to the original seem more oriented to enhance the standard elements of mainstream taste rather than to deepen in the social and scientific implications of the story. Some of these additions could be the following:

In the film, the main character is in love and the tragic death of his fiancée sets him to find a way to alter past events. In the original, only scientific curiosity moves the character’s actions.

In the film, the Eloi are a primitive but active community, something that allows the character to freely interact through dialogue with them. In the original, the Eloi are a passive, indolent race, and the character rather despises them.

The Eloi from the film live in spectacular, beautifully ornamented caves in a cliff instead of the old decayed buildings of the novel.

The Eloi girl of whom the main character gets fond is, in the film, a smart, exotic beauty with strong will, rather closer to an Amazon than to the dull, apathetic Eloi girl from the novel.

In the film, this girl has a little brother who also interacts with the main character.

Unlike the Eloi from the novel, those in the film are not passively induced to go into the hands of the Morlocks. Instead, the Morlocks carry out violent hunts.

The Morlocks have a master, who controls their mind and verbally interacts with the main character (giving all the necessary explanations that the film can’t deliver in another way).

Non of these elements add to the ideas present in the novel, but to the expected audience taste for action, romance and adventure. Of course, these latter could also be welcome; action, romance and adventure are valid elements as well, and they are also present –to a different extent- in the novel. The problem is that in the film, these elements are meant no more than to get the audience’s attention, to entertain, regardless of how much they contribute to deepen in the philosophical implications of the story.

Together with this, the great-grandson's version also shows a feeble logic, which definitely places a barrier between the film and the novel, rendering any ‘dialogue’ impossible. It’s worth wondering, for instance, if it could be possible to travel to the past, to interact with people from the past, to generate new events, and still claim that we can’t change the past. Or to shatter the moon to pieces by mistake due to mining operations. Or to have, 800,000 years in the future, a society which has their own language and no care for the past, but goes on learning English from carved rocks (mysteriously acquiring a neat American pronunciation[1]). Or to have a physical and intellectually active community passively accepting the assaults of strong but seemingly unintelligent beasts. And so...

I’d like to finish this long diatribe by mentioning four aspects from the novel that the film leaves aside or doesn’t provide with a convincing alternative:

The social dystopia: in the novel, the two future societies (Morlocks and Eloi) are the result of a furthered class division, being the Morlocks the descendants of a submitted working class and the Eloi, those of a neglectful, indolent upper class.

The anthropological logic: in the novel, the way of living of each species justifies their acts. For example, it is deep ignorance the cause of the Eloi utter passiveness (they behave like cattle and are treated as such).

The physiological logic: the Morlocks live underground and have consequently turned nictalope; they are afraid of light and never attack by day.

The physical logic: the possibility of traveling in time implies the possibility of altering events. The novel doesn’t deal with time travel to the past perhaps because of the insoluble paradoxes that it brings. The film does, and there it fails at being logical.

All in all, this is a film I wouldn’t recommend, unless to those who are interested in comparisons. There is, as well, a famous 1960 film directed by George Pál that stays somewhat closer to the novel and which gives some place to the sort of ‘dialogue’ I referred to. This film has become a classic and I feel it’s a valid adaptation. I do recommend this one. But my advice would be to read H.G. Wells’ novel before moving onto any of the films. It’s not by chance that it’s become one of the most important science-fiction books of all times.

[1] It is not, as I read somewhere, that they were taught by a computerized librarian. The library is deserted and almost forgotten when the main character arrives. The librarian is recovered as a teacher only at the end of the film.

Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life (1983)

2008-01-13T21:47:00.000-02:00

Key words: films, Monty Python, The Meaning of Life, The Miracle of Birth, Find the Fish, The Crimson Permanent Assurance, Terry Gilliam.

I’ve just seen Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life, and I guess it’s a good film to start this conversation with. I have to admit this was the first time –although it’s already two times by now- that I saw it completely. Not that I hadn’t tried before. I made an effort to finish it long time ago, but I simply couldn’t put up with it. Blame the criminal Spanish dubbing! Now I regret not having seen it before, and I promise to see again those other Monty Python’s films from which I keep an unimpressive memory.

The Meaning of Life claims the intention of, precisely, reflecting upon these fundamental questions: “Why are we here, what is life all about?” But of course, being the Monty Python, no wonder if these mysteries remain unresolved –or poorly resolved, indeed. The questions arisen, however, are many and profound. The film, in the end, attempts to mock at (or reflect upon -choose the verb you like, I keep both) different philosophical matters through a series of individual sketches, very much in the tradition of the Flying Circus. Of course, being the Monty Python again, no wonder if this philosophical inquiry is also forgotten more often than not.

Although I found the film irregular -perhaps due to its loosely integrated structure- I admit it’s full of corrosive imagination and high-level satire. I won’t go over the whole of it here, but I would like to mention at least two memorable scenes. The first one is “The miracle of life, Part II: The third world,” with a delightfully blasphemous musical reflecting upon the Catholic prohibition of contraception. The second one is a terrific example of pure surrealism beginning with a Zulu-clad announcer's welcome to “The middle of the film” and ending in the “Find the Fish” utterly bizarre shot; this latter being one of the craziest cinematic moments I’ve ever seen.

However, I wouldn’t be fair if I only focused on the main film. In fact, although I didn’t do well the first time I attempted to see it all throughout, I was already then stroke by Terry Gilliam’s The Crimson Permanent Assurance, the short film that acts as a prologue to the main feature. In fact, this was what I was looking for when I downloaded the Monty Python’s film this time. It is well-known that Gilliam’s work was supposed to be included as just another sketch, but it grew so ambitious that it got to unbalance the film, and was thus cut from it and presented as a ‘supporting feature’.

I strongly recommend this short film and still think it’s the best bit of the whole movie. It’s Gilliam at his most. The author of Brazil and Twelve Monkeys delivers 16 minutes of bizarre comedy, social satire, filming dexterity and poetry, all at once. Just consider the plot: the elderly office clerks from an old British company just taken over by an American multinational (literally) mutiny against their bosses and (literally) turn into pirates, and (literally) sail their building "upon the high seas of international finance”.

The highly poetic feel of this short film is given by the constant identification of everyday objects and situations from the dull administrative world with those of the bold-spirited, hazardous life of pirates. A clear example can be the company building itself, covered with sheets by cleaners, which is turned by association into a real pirate ship, with sails and all. But this identification is not reduced to logical analogies only. Gilliam includes also beautiful metaphors that are incarnated in concrete things. This is the case of the anchor that keeps the building attached to the financial district, or the shining metal sword wielded by the American corporate, which contrasts with the improvised hand-made weapons of the brand new pirates.

My intention is not to analyse these symbols now, nor to give out more details that are supposed to be found and judged by each viewer alone. I’m just trying to move others to see this film and consider commenting on it. The aim of this blog is precisely to become a place for recommending, discussing, analysing and criticizing films. I’d like to begin with this one. If any of you is willing to continue this conversation, do it by adding a comment to this post. I will answer.

Meanwhile, I leave some links to bits of the film (try to get it complete though!):

The Crimson Permanent Assurance in two parts (Part I – Part II)
The Miracle of Birth, Part II: Third World
The Middle of the Film (together with Find the Fish; the Zulu-clad announcer’s presentation missing)

Welcome then,
And hope to see you around.

To beep or not to beep (mobile phones in the classroom)

2008-01-06T15:15:00.001-02:00

Key words: new technologies, mobile phones, m-learning, "What if...", Jerome Morrissey.

I agree there are few things more annoying for a teacher than the interruption of a good learning atmosphere. And I know cell phones are particularly suitable for that kind of interruption, and thus inevitable recipients for the teacher’s anger.

However, a difference should be made between an appropriate regulation of the use of mobile phones in class and their drastic prohibition, as it’s sadly been the case in Buenos Aires province. Here, even our top ministers have a negative view regarding the presence of cell phones in the classroom (find Filmus’ and Puiggrós’ opinions here). So it was great to find a number of people who think a bit more critically about this issue.

The first one was the American teacher Karl Fisch, whose already famous “What if…” presentation worries at the almost identical apprehension with which different new technologies have been received by 'experts' throughout the history of modern education. And this goes for slates, ball-pens and computers alike. So what can we say about cell phones?

As I discussed with a headmistress recently, the idea would not be to ‘teach’ students how to use cell phones, as if there was a right and a wrong way to use them. In fact, as regards use, students know much better than us! The point would be for us teachers to find uses that may be integrated within our pedagogical aims. In this sense, I’ve recently found a clarifying conference by Jerome Morrissey, director of the Irish National Centre for Technology in Education. Among other things, he calls for teachers to use ICTs by focusing on the ‘C’ part of the acronym. That is, to focus on the Communicative aspect of the Information and Communication Technologies.

He shares a few experiences among which there is a splendid attempt to include cell phones in the classrooms, with social and cultural consequences that no technophobe could ever challenge as negative. The project I'm refering to was meant to get students in Ireland to recover the Irish native language, endangered by the English omnipresence in the country. And this, by resorting to mobile phones.

Precisely, this experience is what I wanted to share with you. Anyway, I’d recommend to view Fisch’s presentation first, since it will give Morrissey’s words the right dimension.

Then, here is Fisch’s “What if…”

Or view in YouTube.

Now, enjoy this fragment of Morrissey’s conference in Buenos Aires. You can download the whole of it too. The conference is in Spanish, but you can find more extended English information on his project right here.

Learnosity, a company which also participated in the exprecience, has a chilling prediction about m-learning on their home page. They wrote: Mobile phones are the pencil cases of the 21st century and the future of interactive learning.

I guess it's a nice controversial phrase to finish with. I'm willing to hear your opinion about the issue, and, if you heard of or can find any other interesting experience with cell phones or ICTs in the classroom, don't doubt about sharing them here.

See you next time.

Getting started...

2008-01-04T16:07:00.000-02:00

New year, new toy.

So I’m up into this blog stuff in the end. Not that I’ve found it easy anyway. I don’t want to expand much on this, but I found it particularly hard to come up with a suitable name for this blog that was not already taken (the availability of English adverbs is close to zero from what I learned). Anyway, when I decided to pay a look at those blogs which where ahead of me in finding a proper name, I found most of them –almost all- contained no more than one or two posts, the last of which were, by average, from three to five years old.

I guess it’s not fair that old, dead blogs take up all the nice names and let us with complicated, cumbersome choices only. I wonder if there is any place to complain about that. I’m brand new into this so I’m sure I’ll have time to find out.

But my intention, in fact, is to turn this blog into a pedagogical tool to enlarge what we do in our Language and Culture classes by sharing and exchanging thoughts and interesting material.

We're in our summer break now, so it's ok if I take advantage of that situation to start trying out this new toy. How about a welcome video? This is a nice morphing animation by Philip Scott Johnson, "Women in Art."

Welcome then,
and I hope to see you soon.