And Horatio's line in Shakespeare's Hamlet in the titled phrase ends with, "by heaven I charge thee, speak!" What art thou indeed. Perhaps a fleeting thought, concealed as an apparition. I read, with great interest and great discomfort, an article titled "6 Harsh Truths that will make you a better person" on cracked.com. While I shall not go into details and critique some of the perverse notions that I felt was implicitly hidden within the article itself (But please, I implore thee, to question, better in what sense? better for whom?), one of the writer's succinct points hit me squarely in the face. It was #2 What You Are Inside Only Matters Because of What It Makes You Do. Again, I find myself disagreeing not only with the overarching point that the writer puts across but I find myself uncomfortable with the way the writer writes. As if he puts himself in a position that is far superior than anyone else reading the article. As if he is beyond criticism and as such he finds this "noble" need to belch out advice that would make ordinary minions a "better person" and perhaps comparable to him.
But lets move back to his minor point that I agree with. So he says:
"Being in the business I'm in, I know dozens of aspiring writers. They think of themselves as writers, they introduce themselves as writers at parties, they know that deep inside, they have the heart of a writer. The only thing they're missing is that minor final step, where they actually fucking write things."
Okay. Fine asshole, I'm guilty as charged. I don't actually fucking write things, unless you count the academic papers where I am forced to dribble and churn out something that reads as "graduate-level". But time and again, there are instances wherein an apparition, much like the ghost of Hamlet's father, visits me in an untimely hour, "usurping the time of night". The apparition when unveiled, appears in the form of ideas and stuff to write about. Fleeting thoughts that upon first glance appear as brilliant but in the aftermath of sleep, gets forgotten, repressed or relegated as unworthy. Hence, by the heavens I charge myself, speak!
But lets move back to his minor point that I agree with. So he says:
"Being in the business I'm in, I know dozens of aspiring writers. They think of themselves as writers, they introduce themselves as writers at parties, they know that deep inside, they have the heart of a writer. The only thing they're missing is that minor final step, where they actually fucking write things."
Okay. Fine asshole, I'm guilty as charged. I don't actually fucking write things, unless you count the academic papers where I am forced to dribble and churn out something that reads as "graduate-level". But time and again, there are instances wherein an apparition, much like the ghost of Hamlet's father, visits me in an untimely hour, "usurping the time of night". The apparition when unveiled, appears in the form of ideas and stuff to write about. Fleeting thoughts that upon first glance appear as brilliant but in the aftermath of sleep, gets forgotten, repressed or relegated as unworthy. Hence, by the heavens I charge myself, speak!
Speaking with (do forgive the brash conflation of speech and writing), a topic that is totally off tangent and unrelated to any of the above slobber that I hope I have not bored you with thus far. I begin with,
the film re-make of Les Misérables. Now, I can't pretend to be an high-classed bourgeois sod who wears a top-hat, swallow-tailed, double-breasted dress coat, and requires the assistance of both a gold-tipped walking cane and a monocle.
I have not read Victor Hugo's novel, nor have I been to a Broadway play in my life before. Neither did the ignorant me know that Les Misérables was borne out of a book. The only thing I knew of Les Misérables was one of the song that I was forced to learn to play on the piano when I was really young, and even then, the faintest memory was only revived halfway through the film.
After watching the film, I now consider Victor Hugo's novel to be a classic, a masterpiece and definitely one on my to-read list. Beyond the random cries of Anne Hathaway for an Oscar award, or "ohh the film was sooo good", there is a need to ask, what is it that draws the spectator to the film? Was it really the songs? the acting performance? the music spectacle? Or something that lies much deeper and further than any of those? Yes, no doubt Anne Hathaway put in a spectacularly moving performance. Her emotional plea that was captured during the rendition of "I have a dream" was sublime. I was, in fact, mesmerized and inebriated by her acting. But that was but a small scene in a two and a half hour long film.
I remember reading an interview by Tom Hooper, who also directed The King's Speech (2010) which won far too many awards that I can mention. In the interview, he was asked how he intends to differentiate the film version of Les Misérables, from the musical. His answer was simple. "Close-ups." Okay. not really, he rambled something long about allowing the spectator to be able to enjoy certain close-ness and engage with the emotional aspect of the characters in the film, which theatre does not afford. Or something along that lines.. I can't really remember, to be honest. But the one thing that strikes you in the film would be the (over)use of close-ups. You could count the number of blemishes on Hugh Jackman's face, both before and after he shaves. Yes, perhaps the use of close-ups does empower and draws the spectator to the invoked emotional responses that the spectacle exalts. Godard, for example, likes to use close-ups as a way to address the spectator directly, yet for a vastly different reason. He does it to dispell the illusion of continuity, to invoke and demand a response from the passive spectator, or perhaps sometimes to reflect the gaze of the spectator on itself. Hooper, on the other hand, uses close-ups to draw the spectator further into the illusion, and to encourage the secondary form of identification with the character.
While it does work to a certain extent, paradoxically though, I feel restricted. Particularly after the 209th close-up shot. Restricted by the way the close-up limits my vision. I am unable to appreciate any other aspect of the Mise-en-scène. Hooper should consider the phrase, "What you giveth, what you taketh away." The close-up, inasmuch as it empowers, oppresses my field of vision and renders the spectator immobile, and subject to the frame's content, i.e. Hugh Jackman's blemishes.
Yet, despite my apprehension on the director's take on the film, I thoroughly enjoyed it. Where then is the lure of desire enacted? What is it about the film that makes it enjoyable? Definitely not Russell Crowing away at what appears to be a thinly veiled attempt to sing.
I think then, the centre of attraction lies in the plot. The philosophical themes that the plot exudes leads one to ponder much about. And when one questions, one thinks (Thus the Heideggerian phrase "for questioning is the piety of thought" as the title of this blog). The romantic notion of the up-rising of the people, the uprising of the proleteriat that sparked the revolution are all major themes. But the one that draws me into the most was that of the absolute justice. The persistence of Inspector Javert to chase a labelled criminal to the end of time and that questioning of the unwavering sense of justice, or rather the absolutism in justice is simply charming. The idea that social justice is clear as day, that right and wrong can be differentiated like black and white are such themes that Hugo explores and then he destroys the binary with a symbolic killing. Absolutely and positively charming.
After all, wasn't it Nietzsche who said "There are no facts, only interpretations"?
