by Randolyn Zinn

Despite being a fan of Wim Wender’s previous films, I was frankly dubious when I heard about his latest project. Really, I wondered, the work of legendary choreographer Pina Bausch shot in 3D? Admittedly, my limited experience with this technology was a passing glimpse of computer-generated fantasy fluff for kids…but still, what was Wim Wenders thinking, I wondered?

After seeing the film the other day, I’m pleased to report that Wenders has given a great gift to the world. Not only is PINA one of the first European 3D movies ever made, it is also the world’s first 3D art house film. Even better, the film brings the work of Pina Bausch to a wider audience. During a good part of its 103 minutes, I felt like I was alongside the dancers, hearing them breathe. When they leapt, I felt their exhilarating takeoffs and landings in my own body. When a line of dancers crosses behind a gauzy scrim at one point, it seems to reach into the audience, inviting us to join in the dance. PINA opens in New York on December 23 and will be coming to a theater near you. Here's the trailer.

PINA – Dance, dance, otherwise we are lost – International Trailer from neueroadmovies on Vimeo.

Wim Wenders and Pina Bausch met in 1985 after the filmmaker saw her piece “Cafe Müller” in Venice. “There were people performing who moved me as I had never been moved before,” he has said. “I had a lump in my throat and after a few minutes of unbelieving amazement, I simply let go of my feelings and cried unrestrainedly. This had never happened to me before.”

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by Hartosh Singh Bal

The West came to know him in the sixties. The children of parents who had lived through a world war wanted no part of the old answers. With their disdain for everything their parents stood for, they searched for easy answers elsewhere. Among those offering such answers was this man named Rajneesh, who later preferred to be called Bhagwan and then Osho.

Rajneesh’s notoriety predated his Western disciples. In 1964 he had delivered a series of lectures in Bombay. The lectures became a book – From Sex to Superconsciouness. In the prudery of the India of his time it was a shocking title, little heed was paid to what he had actually written, here was an Indian Guru putting his whole heritage to shame. A nation struggling for respectability felt the shame, a tradition used to shore up their view of themselves was being sullied.

Strangely enough in the compilation of 1500 pages devoted to himself not once does Rajneesh speak of a romantic attraction or a sexual experience. In over half a million words, from the servant at his grandparents’ house to a professor in his college, he takes up every interaction that matters to him. There is no hint of a woman. The Rajneesh who delivered these lectures in 1965, at the age of 34 was in all likelihood a sexual novice. The book that first evoked sex in the public consciousness of modern India was probably written by a virgin.

It is only such naivety that would allow the man to imagine sexuality devoid of jealousy and betrayal. It is almost as if the man writing about removing jealousy from relationships, of sexuality as a burden without guilt, is hoping to create an ideal world removed from the constraints of his surroundings. In the small town where he grew up it was precisely the fear of these emotions and the disruptions they bring in their wake that had forced sexuality into spaces closed to most unmarried youth including Rajneesh. He wanted the sex, but he thought he could do away with its attendant emotions. Only a man who had lusted in the abstract could think so.

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Or: How Brett Ratner, Slajov Zizek, and Shane Battier Can Make a Poet Wish She’d Taken that Stats Class

by Mara Jebsen

Part I. To Have Your Cake and Eat It, Too

“Lets go see the dumbest movie we can find,” I said to a friend of mine, an actor. I’d had a personal disappointment. He was chivalrous and agreed to escort me. Then we were awkwardly alone in an enormous theatre in Times Square. For nearly two hours, we cringed through “Tower Heist”, in which a star-studded cast devotes their theatrical energies towards hiding their shame at the thuddingly unfunny nature of the lines. “The dumbest movie we can find?” I couldn't help it– in my head I began to think: “In movies, as perhaps in romance, you really ought to be careful what you wish for . . .”

The stars who drew us in (Ben Stiller, Eddie Murphy, Alan Alda, Matthew Broderick, among others) come together to make a heist movie that, for the longest time, has no heist in it. The film spends a while giving glimpses of the inner workings of an upscale hotel and delivering a pastiche of little sketches meant to allow Ben Stiller’s character, a sort of manager-concierge, to establish his relationships with the hotel staff. The multiracial cast of employees reveal themselves to be goodhearted, mock-able, sometimes stupid folk. Once its established who the villain is—the rich and charming, brilliant and evil Alan Alda character—the heist begins. But the machinations of it are so disappointing that one immediately develops nostalgia for the part of the movie that had no heist in it.

Anthony Lane, in a New Yorker of a week or two ago, reviewed the film in the only ways it can be reviewed: by a) noting how it doesn’t quite hang together as a piece of entertainment, and b) pairing it with the new Gus Van Sant film, to read “Tower Heist” in terms of its accidental 'place' in history. Like all films, it is a cultural document, but in this case special because, as Lane points out, it is one of the first films to get caught up in the VOD debate.

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So, Socrates to young Plato said,”The things we think we know are like shadows
cast on the walls of a cave by a distant light of unseen things we do not know.”.

A Hole in The Banal
-For L.

You called last night troubled.
Looking for something in particular
(a pink balloon shaped like the heart
of your long dead cousin)
you'd stumbled upon a hole in the banal:
a weakened spot in the thin skin of our conceits
stretched so taut over the otherworld
a hint of it broke through and pierced
your shell of rapt doing
and you glimpsed the truth of shades
that dance upon the walls of caves
to music most often unheard
under the rush of jets,
behind the daily brushing of leaves against sky,
drowned by the litanies of radios,
made almost silent by
the roar of willed tornadoes
blowing through the aisles of malls,
muted by the fierce narcissism of war,
the accumulation of stuff thrown up
as dikes to keep the unspeakable sea at bay
and you wondered if perhaps Socrates was right
So I recalled for you a day driving to Colrain
when a song bled from the dash
so filled with poignancy my heart broke too
and I sobbed from the steel arched bridge
where two rivers meet to the office door
remembering my mother,
my father, and Danny my autistic brother,
hearing them hearing me sob
through a veil of ordinary tears and regret
saltier than the Dead Sea
This is where you and I meet, where we all meet,
on the beach of that sea, catching now and then
between horizon and surf, glimpses of creatures
breaking through, breaching the membrane
between worlds unexpectedly
as we wonder how the dancing shadows
on cave walls can be true

by Jim Culleny
11/14/11

Plato's allegory of the cave

by James McGirk

Our brains are filled with the whispering of objects, the shrieking presence of things we lust after or despise or simply want to ignore but can’t for all the noise. It seems impossible to write fiction without addressing it but so little does. Part of this is the nature of the medium. The contemporary novel or short story is a ghostly place, a necropolis where memories are dissected and pinned to the page.

“Anecdotes don't make good stories,” the great Canadian short story writer Alice Munro once told an interviewer, “Generally I dig down underneath them so far that the story that finally comes out is not what people thought their anecdotes were about.”

Writing literary fiction is a bit like tunneling (minus the physical component). You gnaw a room out of the wall of the previous one, scaffold it with description and feed in a few disembodied voices, hoping the histories and hierarchies those voices are quibbling over create enough momentum to propel your reader into the next room. Munro takes this a step further, using the shape of those excavations to back engineer a second, deeper narrative structure from the first.

Hers is a second order of story, ideal for spelunking the complex residue of a lifetime of deep emotion, but one that seems to collapse the realm of the object. Unless an author like Munro is a pure technological determinist, a deep dive into character motivation seems unsuited to describing a world where the collective ache of consumer culture – and being left out of it – might manifest itself in something like the Occupy Wall Street movement. Yet it is not impossible to use intricately rendered characters as a way to roam the realm of material consciousness.

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Some Notes Made on Evacuation Day 2011

by Jen Paton

One hundred years from this moment, crowds in this same city would stand on the streets, in the rain, under “stars and stripes from every Flag-pole,” to commemorate this day, and to commemorate it for the last time on such a scale: “every tower, every steeple, every rooftop which commanded” river views would be “peopled with human beings,” and thousands would brave torrential rain to catch a glimpse of the festivities. Two hundred and twenty five years later, this would be the subject of a snarky Gawker Post. Two hundred and twenty eight years later, a humorous conversation in The Daily Show. But for now, in 1783, it’s just eight hundred guys waiting at Bowery, waiting for the signal.

Once this road was a footpath for the people who lived here first, a bit later it was a road that led to the Dutch Governor General's farm. At one o'clock, in the distance, they heard the cannon fire, fired from the departing enemy ship, and this meant it was safe to enter New York City. They marched in, a newspaper would say a few weeks later, with “an inviolable regard to order and discipline, as Tyranny could never be enforced.” (qtd in Hood, 2004). Quite.

The occupying British commander, Sir Guy Carleton, now on a ship living the island, had received the orders to evacuate months before. It was a delicate operation: the Americans wanted military control of the city as soon as possible, the better to quell any lingering dissent there, but they also hoped to keep the British army and their own from exchanging fire in the process. Carleton had to pull out not only his troops, but the thousands of refugees loyal to him, who had been streaming into this city since rebel victory became assured, as well as the slaves liberated from the enemy who had sought refuge within its walls. He would leave with thousands of refugees, including 3000 freedmen, whom the British promised to “pay” the Americans for at Washington’s insistence and, apparently, never did. Some would settle in Nova Scotia, of which some would end up in Freetown, Sierra Leone.

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by Hasan Altaf

In their outlines, all of Joan Didion's novels seem more or less the same: The protagonist is always a woman, in some way “troubled”; there are always men, usually two, usually powerful in some way; there is sometimes a son but always a daughter, who is generally what the woman is “playing for,” as Maria Wyeth puts it in Play It As It Lays (1970): “What I play for here is Kate.” The stories of the troubled women torn between the two men and trying to save or reconnect with or find their children do not, in general, end happily; the children remain lost, the men too are gone (divorce, death, abandonment, some combination thereof), and at the end the woman we've been following is alone and still in some way “troubled.”

The first time I read Didion's novels, I read them all at once, and the similarities began to annoy me: If they were all going to be the same, what was the point in reading more than one? (There are other writers who do this, who write the same story time and time again, and those in general I abandon after the first; Didion's style is what always kept me coming back.) Recently, however, as a way of preparing for the publication of Blue Nights, I went back and reread the novels, starting with Run, River (1963) and ending with The Last Thing He Wanted (1996). The second read-through answered this question for me. It also answered another, perhaps more important question – what is the point for the writer in telling the same story so many times?

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by Kevin S. Baldwin

There is nothing quite like a serious illness or injury to focus one's mind on what is truly important. I recently injured my back (probably from lifting my 6 year old off the floor where he had fallen asleep). I do this about once a year, usually by forgetting to bend at the knees when lifting something. I bent my knees this time, but I guess it wasn't enough. I don't recall a pull or a pop, but over the next few days, things slowly deteriorated. I went from taking 2 Ibuprofen at a time to 4 at a time, and even that didn't help like it usually does.

Eventually, while climbing stairs, a turn on a landing threw my back into such spasms that I collapsed. Sweat began pouring off my face and I felt extremely nauseous. This was terra incognita for me. Had I ruptured a disc? (I guess I've been pretty lucky so far. I am pushing 50 yet have suffered no broken bones, major accidents, or diseases. I think I took a single Tylenol after my wisdom teeth were pulled). Suddenly, I was helpless and in agonizing pain.

Pain is one of these enigmatic aspects of existence. It serves a purpose, but there can be too much of a good thing. Pain and swelling keep you from moving or using an injured area so it can heal. Of course, a lot of pain is uncomfortable and has a way of consuming most or all of your mental bandwidth. People who are born without pain receptors tend to live short lives because of all the injuries they suffer without realizing it.

I remained crumpled on the landing while pondering my next move. Not enough room to stretch out: I would have to stand up. After several attempts that ended when my lower back locked-up, I finally convinced myself to work through that pain and made it back to being vertical. Standing was actually fairly comfortable as long as I didn't move. But I couldn't be stranded on the landing for the rest of the day. I ended up sitting down on the stairs and pushing myself up backwards one step at a time. I grabbed the handrails at the top of the stairs and managed to pull myself up and drag myself to the bedroom to lie down.

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by Akim Reinhardt

On the morning after Mayor Michael Bloomberg had the New York City police expel the Occupy Wall Street Protestors from Zuccotti Park in the middle of the night, I wrote that the next 24-48 hours could very well be pivotal. Well, it’s now been forty-eight hours since I woke up to hear that Bloomberg had sent in riot police to clear out Zuccotti Park, supposedly in the name of a molly maid cleanup of the park; I’m writing this on Thursday morning since I will be traveling as of Friday.

The protestors have responded. Several hundred of them gathered this morning (last Thursday) and tried to prevent workers on Wall Street from working. Of course that literal action failed. But as far as this movement is concerned, it’s the symbolic actions that are most important, at least for the time being. Their presence was felt. Bloomberg’s actions have not put an end to this, far from it. And so the symbolism of Occupy Wall Street remains vital.

Why is the Occupy movement’s so important? The movement’s now famous horizontal organization, as opposed to a more typical top-down vertical structure, has created many opportunities for many people to participate. But it also means that specific agendas and specific action proposals have been sometimes slow to form. Consequently, in some way the real importance of the demonstrations thus far has been it’s ability to influence the national discourse and provide a symbolic stance against the corruptions and ethical shortcomings permeating American society.

It seems to me that of all the Occupy demonstrations that have emerged around the country, and indeed around the world (including the one right here in Baltimore where I live), that Occupy Wall Street is vitally symbolic for several reasons. Of course it was the first, the one that kicked off all the rest. But much more important than that, Occupy Wall Street is, well, at Wall Street. And I believe that matters quite a bit. To that end, Occupy Wall Street is central to the Occupy movement because nothing represents the current economic system in all its sodden disarray better than Wall Street.

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by Misha Lepetic

“Cultures aren’t fixed or fixable. They are barely measurable…
Culture is not so much what you plan but what you get away with.”
~ Marcus Westbury

One could do worse than to think about a city as an endlessly frustrating exercise in the ongoing, suboptimal allocation of space, capital and – let’s not forget – humanity. Oftentimes we find ourselves contemplating extremes of density and sprawl, and occasionally the stark juxtaposition of the two (such as this notorious image which, despite having made the rounds over the last few years, has lost little of its shock value). These vistas further enervate us if we contemplate them from a divine, that is to say, aerial perspective. From this point of view, we become, by default, would-be SimCity urban planners, and consider that our benevolence, made manifest in the form of design, usually in the form of urban master planning, should at least be heeded, if not respected by those who we expect to live in our cities. This is the privilege and/or responsibility that this particular kind of view affords. At the same time, the obvious juxtapositions of sprawl and slum, of waste and want, re-assert the fundamental futility, and therefore irrationality, of many of our planning efforts. This may be conveniently summarized by the parental plea, “Can’t you kids just sit still for a moment?”

So, what gives? I have three examples in mind, although there are many more, the catalogue of which amounts to a comprehensive list of reasons that the more skeptical among us might call “Why You Can Never Win,” and the more optimistic might term “Why We Should Always Try Harder.”

At any rate, in the first case, what gives is, quite literally, the ground itself.

Informal settlements, to which I will informally refer as slums, are by definition built in undesirable places; citizens whose desire to live in proximity to city centers is contradicted by their inability to afford “legitimate” colonization of these spaces. Another significant attribute of slums is that services, such as transportation routes and public spaces, are foregone for the opportunity of proximity; the lack of zoning or property ownership results in even greater density. Finally and most critically, slums are oftentimes built in plainly dangerous locations, exposed to natural forces that can have disastrous consequences where not even the dead are spared.

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by Rishidev Chaudhuri

My first winter that could properly be called such seemed to be spent in frozen Northern wastelands, where the world was covered in snow and the sun seemed to leave for the day after lunch (recalling the work habits of a number of my relatives). The scenery alternated between the bleakly restrained (snow stretching under a wintry horizon, broken by an occasional shrub) and the melodramatically self-indulgent (winds howling around buildings in the night; afternoon blizzards). My initial reaction was delight. Winter is a much mythologized season and, like many a tropical child, I grew up with winter tales from books and movies. Two weeks in, after the inevitable disillusionment, I opted for the honorable exit and retreated to bed with a couple of bottles of brandy and a heavy blanket. Various circumstances forced me out after a few days (struggle with classes, the non-alcohol necessities of a fallen world) and like so many desperate people before me, I attempted to redeem the world in food.

There are several different culinary strategies for encountering the extremities of weather. The first and most classical involves hecatombs and frenzied appeals for divine intervention. Despite its old world charm, it is both expensive (especially for a student) and often fails spectacularly. In our latter day, god-devoid world we are left with the usual artistic options of fantasy and escapism on the one hand and of realism (that wanders between the brutal and the lyric) on the other. The escapist strategy (whimsical defiance, if you prefer; I prefer) evokes the productions of warmth and sun, letting displaced summer food alight on the palate amidst the barren winter wind. This is made easier by the wonders of the modern world, which allow us avocados and the occasional decent tomato in winter (one of the grandest triumphs of humanity over a world that does not love us)¹. The realist strategy is hearty comfort food. At the simpler end, this should be stodgy and meat-and-potatoes laden (the sort of medieval richness where Northern European peasants lurk behind each dish). At its grandest, it should sing of deeply concentrated flavors and long-reduced stocks.

What follows is something of an accidental hybrid. Its subcontinental origins and spice-heavy punctuation (ginger sweetness, the bite of chilli) suggest warmer lands and sunnier times. But at base its flavors are primarily warming – slow-braised meat, rounded onion sweetness, heavy dairy-warmed fat. This strategy drifts towards Orientalism, but remember that curry has a colonizing life of its own.

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