Film Review | Five Nights At Freddy’s by dir. Emma Tammi
Book Review | Mortality by Christopher Hitchens
“I am a member of a cancer elite,” says Christopher Hitchens on 60 Minutes, curling the corner of his lips with his trademark charm, rousing his interviewer to laughter, “I’d rather look down on people with lesser cancers.”
Within this particular witticism, one among many in his entire career on the page as a writer and on stage as orator, it shows his contempt for self-pity. If both the avoidance of despair and on the other the commitment to intellectual fortitude manifested in anything, it would be the final column in his own Parthenon: Mortality.
This collection of short essays is of formidable courage. It is a deft observation of the land of the ill and sick but still remarkably lucid. There is no solemnity in his writing about death but an uncluttered mind trying to make sense of it all, not just for himself but for you, too. He demystifies the malady of cancer in general; he wasn’t battling cancer, the dignifying verb that is normally associated with it. No. It was quite the opposite. You’re sat in a hospital, still and rigid, with a transparent bag of poison being injected into you. It isn’t battling. It’s resistance.
His life, rather than his career, was reading and writing, two of the only things at which he claimed he was any good. He admitted that he could never have been a lawyer. But his erudite manner in the way he strings sentences, the rapidity and beauty of his ability to talk in paragraphs, would stand him in good stead in the court room.
His writing is of the highest rationality and a relentless truth seeker. Despite the book’s focus on his own death, Hitchens, as a staunch atheist, never fails to educate and entertain us about the Faith community’s contradictions.
The religious prayed for him, even designating September 20, 2010, as ‘Everybody Pray for Hitchens Day’. A member from these flocks remark that his cancer is well-deserved, that it was God’s revenge on him for using his voice to ridicule against monotheistic Religion. As his enemy writes:
“Who else feels Christopher Hitchens getting terminal throat cancer [sic] was God’s revenge for him using his voice to blaspheme Him? Atheists like to ignore FACTS. They like to act like everything is a “coincidence”?
But only it is not a coincidence if you know how Hitchens lived outside of writing and broadcasting. He incorporated in large quantities the bohemia of smoking and drinking. It is his necessity as a writer, the elixir that prolonged conversations and fired up the engaging arguments with friends. He was and knew well he was, “burning the candle at both ends but it gave off a lovely light.”
As expected, and with the most admirable fluidity of language, he highlights the absurdity in opposing arguments with charm and a contextual tour of historical thought. Under his confident reasoning, like a great philosopher of our modern time, you realise the absurdity of this cancer-getting claim. His demise was not divinely ordered: as fact goes by way of biology it was the cancer he was going to get. It was so predictable that it seemed banal, even boring as he defiantly claimed.
Until death he upheld his principles for truth. The cancer couldn’t deplete him. He never cancelled any engagements for the fear of letting people down and pursued to spread the truth even when a metastasised, “blind, emotionless alien” was eating him up from within. And Mortality is his final literary form of this monolithic courage. It is his testament to his love of life.
He passed on 15th December 2011.
Book Review | Leonardo Da Vinci by Walter Isaacson
Marvelling at the work of genius often leads one to think of them enthroned in the stratosphere. The accumulated stories, myths and legends that are passed down through the ages enthrone them ever higher, beyond mortal reach. But the revolutionary act as a biographer of History’s intellectual giants isn’t to propagate this unearthly image; it is, instead, the writer’s duty and respect to level them to our earth. The most memorable biographical writings are not the ones that just highlight extraordinary character and behavioural anomalies: they draw the similarities with the everyday person. History’s most fascinating individual, Leonardo Da Vinci, is made jaw-gapingly relatable under Walter Isaacson’s pen.
I must be careful to humble myself and avoid declaring a mutual trait of genius (not by a mile),
but Isaacson makes a commendable effort to unveil the artistic divinity that shrouds the architect-engineer-painter-mathematician-anatomist (reading that he always abandoned works and left them incomplete, too, dissolved my guilt). Da Vinci and I’s common relatability is in the curiosity of our surroundings, hijacked by a compulsion to ask questions pertaining to its principles: Why does this or that happen? And what components affecting on it are making it happen the way it does? Isaacson provides a thorough exegesis of Da Vinci’s notebooks, which are bursting with sketches of military contraptions, theatrical devices to simulate flying, detailed and highly artistic anatomical drawings, and a treatise on Light and Shadow.
Crucial drawings punctuate the book as a way to appreciate Da Vinci’s obsession with knowledge through experience and observation, the prominent themes. The most arresting chapters focus on the wonder of notebooks, the troves of writings and drawings as an outlet for his artistic and scientific investigations: Scientist, Birds And Flying, The Mechanical Arts, Math, and The Nature Of Man, as they are titled. He stresses the salient fact that Da Vinci’s genius is dependent on his intense ability to cross-pollinate ideas from different fields. Art and Science, to Da Vinci, are connected and high art depended on the fluency in each.
His analogies exemplify his creativity as Isaacson explains:
“When he was inventing musical instruments, he made an analogy between how the larynx works and how a glissando recorder could perform similarly. When he was competing to design the tower for Milan’s cathedral, he made a connection between architects and doctors that reflected what would become the most fundamental analogy in his art and science: that between our physical world and our human anatomy.
When he dissected a limb and drew its muscles and sinews, it led him to also sketch ropes and levers.”
He also psychologically analyses certain life and artistic choices Da Vinci made. This simulates a journey, and we are with him every step the latter makes. A decent biography, like this one, not only shows the chronological nature of what, but, most importantly, the eternal curiosity of why. If read carefully and meticulously, the love that the author has for Da Vinci softly emanates an undertone of a motivational and self-help book.
Da Vinci’s notebooks –crammed with writings and observations (paper was expensive back then) – is what everyone below the stratosphere can do, with just pen, paper and eyes.
We’re blessed by being in the presence of such treasured remnants of Da Vinci, immortalised in his eclectic oeuvre. “As a day well spent makes sleep seem pleasant,” the Renaissance man would say, “so a life well employed makes death pleasant. A life well spent is long.” In one life, in terms of knowledge, he outlived people by three.
Book Review | Chopin: Prince of Romantics by Adam Zamoyski
British Historian Adam Zamoyski’s 2010 book Chopin: Prince of the Romantics proves to be essential in our understanding of the composer, who is still regarded as a Polish national symbol.
It wasn’t Zamoyski’s first publication of Frederic Chopin but a re-working of a 1979 edition. In this updated manuscript he attempts to uncover the myths passed down through the centuries, weaving more information on Chopin’s illness into the narrative from which he was to eventually die. (The cause of death was initially known to be tuberculosis but there is still tremendous debate about the diagnosis.)
Chopin’s music has an immeasurable effect on many non-musicians and musicians alike. In every music conservatoire around the world, it is highly likely one will hear his Ballades, Scherzos, Concertos, or Nocturnes being played. His music seems very personal. Zamoyski writes of his artistic persona:
“[His musical language] transcends everything we know about the man and draws the listener into a world of the spirit which is the very essence of the Romantic artistic experience. And taken as a whole, his life itself epitomises the notion of the Romantic artist – of the ethereal exile from heaven, half man half angel, who comes into this life to inspire mankind, but does not belong here and suffers the torments of a creature out of its natural element.”
Zamoyski’s knowledge in Polish and French provides reassurance when interpreting letters in their originals. Sometimes transliteration cringingly dilutes a more nuanced understanding of a language in context. Chopin’s character is shown by astonishing number of sources – contemporary letters, diaries, and concert reviews. The praise received is of the highest order. Charles Hallé, a German pianist who heard his performance in Paris, wrote:
“…The marvellous charm, the poetry and originality, the perfect freedom and absolute lucidity of Chopin’s playing at that time cannot be described. It was perfect in every sense.”
But it is easily presumed that the focus of praises from contemporaries seems idolatry. Zamyoski balances this out well with unfavourable reviews, one from the German critic, Rellstab:
“Rellstab simply could not bring himself to regard Chopin with anything but horror… When reviewing the Études op.10, he strongly advised anyone attempting to play them to have a surgeon in attendance, as permanent finger damage was likely.”
A 2011 Guardian review by Guy Dammann compliments the book for reminding us of the composer’s extraordinariness but also mentions that he only “half-succeeds in demystifying” the composer. What was the shrouded other half? His compositional process? His intricate thoughts on his own works? His politics? Sex life? In the appendix Zamoyski submits to a crucial point that Dammann seems to have missed. There was a popular biographical writing style in the late nineteenth century which focused on the emotional perspective. According to Zamoyski, it wouldn’t have worked well with Chopin as there was not enough authoritative precedence to make a convincing argument. It could be that Dammann’s critique was aimed at the lack of an emotional side.
The appealing tone of the book comes across as “Here is the evidence. And here are competing ones. Think what you will.” It’s refreshing because of the confidence in his research, and also his humility at times to admit there isn’t enough evidence. His ability as a historian is convincingly displayed in the objectivity.
Chopin composed a verse on his father’s name day in 1818 when he was eight years old: “Dearly beloved father; it would be easier for me to express my feelings in musical phrases.”
If music was a deep personal expression, then his oeuvre is enough for intimacy with the man.
Book Review | Postcapitalist Desire by Mark Fisher
When it comes to lecture transcripts as opposed to a book, there is a slight change in receptivity. In a formal book there is the stoic image of the author stooped over the desk detailing over his or her choice of wording and prose. The former captures the spoken voice, the everyday oratory of conversation. To hear a real-time lecture taking place is a fresh experience. It’s like he’s talking with you. There is a sense of intellectual adventure and intensity. In this book’s case, it is in the abstract realm of post-capital existence.
Postcapitalist Desire (2021) is a collection of five lectures, out of a total of 15 that were originally scheduled, held at Goldsmiths University. The five are titled as such: What is Post Capitalism?, Countercultural Bohemia as Pre-configuration, From Class Consciousness to Group Consciousness, Union Power and Soul Power, and lastly, Libidinal Marxism. The most tragic and poignant detail about this is Mark’s suicide in 2017, which left the remaining ten lectures untouched; his influence had such profundity that the students – both enrolled and not – continued his lectures posthumously every Monday morning in memory of their beloved lecturer.
The first lecture he gave poses the simple question “What is Post-Capitalism?” Implicit in this question, he does something that any serious thinker should do, which is to find subtle distinctions between similar terms. The flexibility of one’s thinking is determined by how one carries this distinction out. Because post-capitalism is such a theoretical concept, a spectre of sorts with no such graspable features apart from it being preceded by capitalism, Fisher puts the question forth to his students so that it can turn from gaseous to a semi-solid: What are the advantages of Post-Capitalism? And, it is here where I think his credibility as a thinker shines through.
He offers a counterargument: Why not just call it “socialism” or “communism” as the official political/economic structure after capitalism? Those terms are in fact, as Fisher points out, tinted with negative associations from past projects; Post-Capitalism rings out a more neutral tone. The rest of the lectures are fitted with such charming and reasonable explanations that make you nod your head to his reasoning.
But some further reading is necessary in order to understand the theoretical landscape Fisher is exposing. Beforehand, it would be worth dipping into writings by Lyotard, Delueze & Guattari, and Gibson-Graham (an Appendix of relevant literature is given for the dedicated readers out there(!))
The verve for teaching these fundamental socio-political forces is felt through the pace of Fisher’s speech. He relieves the pressure of a one-man discourse – talking at students – by talking with. He does this by giving the students some of the thinking responsibility, proposing in the first instance that students start the lecture with a point or a question. Throughout, they put forth penetrative questions, too, in response to post-capitalism: “Doesn’t it sound more like a theory, in comparison to a political system?” They challenge Fisher not out of defiance or to taunt, but to gain a fuller understanding. The atmosphere’s partially and positively Socratic, and I envy the students for having attended.
Be clear, be confident and don’t overthink it. The beauty of your story is that it’s going to continue to evolve and your site can evolve with it. Your goal should be to make it feel right for right now. Later will take care of itself. It always does.
Fisher helped us diagnose the malaise of our present culture. In another class (not in this book) he gave an insightful talk about the “slow cancellation of the future” in the landscape of culture, music especially. Even the breakdown of the dystopian future could not escape his criticism. A lecturer of great intrigue, indeed, and a beacon of light in these chaotic times.
Film Review | The Mauritanian
In increasing numbers, many ethnic minorities are criticizing the ‘white saviour’ complex that underlies many American films. The tract is this: a courageous Westerner dispenses his or her brilliance to control a situation, and refurbishes the status quo into something of better moral value than what had previously been. When it comes to The Mauritanian, Kevin Macdonald’s screen adaptation of suspected Al-Qaeda recruiter Mohamoud Ould Slahi (Tahar Rahim) and his 2015 Guantanamo Diaries, that charge of ‘white saviour’ can only partly be made.
We are introduced to Nancy Hollander (Jodie Foster), Slahi’s defence attorney, who pursues a relentless fight under the writ of habeas corpus to bring Slahi to court to re-evaluate the nature of his detainment. In fact, Slahi was imprisoned without charge for 14 years. In this harrowing time, he was mercilessly and humiliatingly tortured to admit, under duress, that he played a role in the 9/11 terrorist attacks. It is the strength of Tahar Rahim’s central performance, movingly embodying the strength and selflessness of our protagonist, that becomes The Mauritanian‘s winning element.
Going against Hollander is Lt Col Stuart Couch (Benedict Cumberbatch), the US Military Prosecutor. His prosecution is tinged with personal feeling, as a friend of his perished on a hijacked plane during the September 11 attacks. This legal drama, as most other legal dramas do, puts the opposites head-to-head, wrestling the verdict of the victim caught up in the middle. The battle from both sides does its job for suspense and is well balanced. If the acting ensemble’s calibre wasn’t high, The Mauritanian wouldn’t have been convincing at all, but thankfully this isn’t the case.
Macdonald establishes the lawyers’ motivation early in The Mauritanian, but the weight of their legal strategy is lightened, however slightly, in comparison with the narrative of Slahi. Each side’s incentive, defence and prosecutor, seem to be slightly imbalanced; Hollander takes the case on as an act of ethical preservation of the US constitution, restoring a modicum of justice. Lt Couch, on the other hand, has personal trauma on his side to ensure that in the end there will be “a needle in his [Slahi] arm”, as he promises. Throughout the film, Cumberbatch portrays Couch as a cool and level-headed prosecutor with a sense of—to borrow from Lenin—“heart on fire, brain on ice”. Foster’s portrayal of Hollander, such as the subtle nervous hand rub when meeting Slahi for the first time, is an excellent example of the film’s small details that help establish atmosphere.
Macdonald employs tactics—most of which are successful—to separate the present and past narratives of Slahi’s imprisonment by way of framing. The past is marked with a smaller frame ratio, while the present feels wider, more cinematic. He juggles with the dual, conflicting narratives of Holland and Couch in a balanced way.
Rahim, in an interview with The Guardian about the process of recreating the experience at Guantanamo, expressed how he wanted to exceed the superficial. He needed to experience what Slahi did. The cell-room needed to be cold while filming, for example, and to actually be waterboarded to simulate the drowning. But it was different, as he rightly mentioned, because he knew that it would at the end of the day, all would be over, and a nice hotel bed would wait for him. Nonetheless, Rahim’s clear dedication infuses his gripping performance with a tangible authenticity.
A true story in cinematic form needs stir the audience into discussion and action. It’s about showing the real horrors of the authorities who watch over you and their capacity for twisted ethics. The Mauritanian does just that. Macdonald forces our perspective during the torture scenes into the frame and at that moment leaves us breathless, too. A cinematic experience is memorable when you vicariously, but momentarily, live the victim’s life.
Macdonald’s knowledgeable handling of the cinematographic elements is palable and assured. Tonally, the ‘white saviour’ complex charge is lessened as the story wasn’t as much about Hollander or Couch, but orbiting the psychological journey of Slahi, instead. Tahar Rahim’s performance captures the brilliance in Slahi’s moral strength, reflected in his ability to forgive his American captors for taking 14 years of his life.