Cornered by Culture, July 2024
At a loss for anything else to write, I've decided to try doing a monthly review series, where I write some brief remarks about three pieces of media I've enjoyed over the past month, viz. music, literature, and kino (cinema). Since I'm supposed to write these on a monthly basis, I may very well forget to pen the article for August, or September or what have you, and this series will come crashing to a halt. You'll just have to stay tuned to find out what happens. Who am I kidding, nobody reads this blog, anyway. And if you are reading this, then how would I know?
Music: Sunday by Xeno & Oaklander
It's difficult to describe Xeno & Oaklander's music to those who haven't listened to it before. I suppose a normal thing to do would be to compare them to other artists ("they're just like MGMT, but one of them is French!") but that method is kind of a cop-out&em;and also, Xeno & Oaklander have carved out a genre of their own, practically incomparable to other electronic music. The version of Sunday from the single features languid, poetic vocals sung atop what sounds like several layers of synths and drum machines. It demonstrates two qualities that make Xeno & Oaklander's music so fantastic: first, the timbre of the synths has this unique, crystalline edge, and sounds different from most electronica somehow. Second, the vocalist (Liz Wendelbo in this case) doesn't hide behind the noise of the instrumental, which is a common occurrence in a lot of minimal wave, post-punk, and goth music. I suppose this is because Wendelbo has a good singing voice and also the confidence to use it well, which other artists might lack. When I hear this song, I tend to imagine the seashore up north during the wintertime, when the sky is cloudless and colored pale blue, and the sun blanches everything with its slightly attenuated rays, yet the world remains cold.
Also, a fun fact for any Xeno & Oaklander fans out there: I met them at a concert once, and asked about their band's name because I felt too self-conscious to request an autograph but still wanted to interact with them somehow. Apparently, their name is inspired by an academic philosopher called Nathan Oaklander, who wrote about paradoxes including those described by Zeno of Elea. Hence, Xeno & Oaklander.
Literature: The Prince by Niccolò Machiavelli
People use the word "Machiavellian" as a fancy synonym for "unscrupulous", "amoral", and "power-hungry". A common (mis)understanding of The Prince is that Machiavelli espoused those traits himself, and that his book advises rulers to be evil rather than good. But the truth is that The Prince is just Machiavelli's attempt to formulate rules for how a ruler should maintain power, based on his reading of classical and contemporary history. Many of the rules sound logical, like "battles are inevitable, so you shouldn't waste effort trying to avoid them" and "don't hire mercenaries". If I knew more history, I could probably argue against some of his points; but if I were a ruler of a small state in quattrocento Italy, I think I could make it pretty far with this book. Machiavelli has a direct style of writing the lacks the academic verbosity of other political science that I haven't read and probably never will. And while he does endorse evil as an occasional means to an end, he never describes it as an end in itself. Personally, Machiavelli desired a ruler who would follow his principles and unify Italy, which at the time existed as a patchwork of constantly feuding states, preyed upon by more powerful entities like Spain and France. Overall, I learned a lot about political science and history from The Prince, and will probably consult it if I ever study more history, to see how well its principles apply.
Kino: Pulp Fiction by Quentin Tarantino
I watched this film last weekend and haven't had much time to analyze it. This is a work that pretentious cinephiles are supposed to idolize, and if they do, I can't blame them. All else aside, the acting and cinematography feel satisfying; metaphors may only obfuscate what I'm trying to say, but the film is a great piece of engineering where all pieces fit together precisely as intended, and the whole thing moves with the mute fluidity of a panther. Even the awkward Quentin Tarantino cameo seems justifiable, but perhaps that's the credulous, sheep-like part of my mind talking. See, it's difficult analyzing something with such a strong reputation, especially when I'm insecure about my own abilities as an analyst and moviegoer.
Critics have described the structure of Pulp Fiction as "postmodern". The prime example of the film's "postmodernity" is its nonlinear chronology: pieces of the plot are presented out of order, so that the "ending" comes in the middle of the film. Unlike many stories which attempt an avant-garde structure, the postmodern narrative method doesn't detract from the movie as a whole. If I had to guess, the plotline of Pulp Fiction holds less significance than some other part of it, and that "other part" bears more meaning than the narrative. Hence, we see the events of the film in an order that develops the "other part" in an optimally lucid or satisfying manner. This contrasts with a more traditional story, where the plot acts as the ultimate vehicle for communicating a set of themes: a good example is the hero's journey, perhaps the single most ubiquitous form of narrative. That being said, I haven't concocted any theories about the film's overall meaning, so maybe the ambiguity mystifies me: I don't understand it yet, but I assume something exists beyond the veil of confusion, and my respect for the work derives from that feeling of potentiality. I also experience this dynamic when contemplating many other forms of art, like poetry or literature (Pynchon, anyone?) Sometimes it feels good to be confused, but does ambiguity truly enrich a work of art?
I think this was the first of Quentin Tarantino's films that I've seen. Maybe his other films aren't like this, but I'd guess from Pulp Fiction that, as a filmmaker, Quentin Tarantino has a good sense of what's cool. This encompasses fashion, music, mannerisms, etc. But did he actually have a role in costuming or music selection? The world of Pulp Fiction is an embellished version of real life, where every joke lands correctly unless it would mean more for it to fail: where everything happens with a certain flourish, panache, ... whatever, I'll leave it to the actual film critics to sling those funny-sounding words. The movie also reminded me of William Gibson's cyberpunk ethos, in an odd way, which is really a certain pastiche of times, places, and genres, in which technology plays a less privileged role than many would assume. Anyway: Pulp Fiction!