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Stephen Ausburne, Editor-In-Chief
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Erin Dunigan, MDiv
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Gordon Gartrell, FU
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Ivan Goddard, PhD (ABD)
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Michael Mulligan, MA
C.C. O'Lorin, PhD
General Editor
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Kermit Pitsfield, PhD
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Christin M. Rice, MDiv, MFA
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The Darkside of Eucatastrophe: A Review of Children of Húrin
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 By Dagmar Schröter
J.R.R. Tolkien left his son mere outlines of his Middle-earth epic, of which Christopher Tolkien found his life’s work. With luck, a few of the stories had been detailed enough to warrant fuller treatment. Such warrant was found in the story of Túrin Turambar. It took him almost forty years of judicious revision, but Christopher finally published this story in 2007 under the title The Children of Húrin. Thus reframed, the story proves worthy of his father’s promise. The Children of Húrin rivals the greatest Greek Tragedy complete with shades of Oedipus. Granted, this is a rather large premise with which to begin a modest review of The Children of Húrin, but I am told that webzine’s are an exercise in “genre-bending.” If this is so, let it be so.
It has been said that all western philosophy consists of footnotes to Plato. Whitehead’s adage takes various forms. Sometimes it is rendered, “All of philosophy is footnotes to Plato (and Aristotle!).” Other times it is rendered, “All philosophy consists of footnotes to Plato until Wittgenstein.” I do indeed think that J.R.R. Tolkien might have developed a similar theme for literature. “All literature consists of footnotes to Homer.” Perhaps literary critic Northrop Frye would have rendered this, “All literature consists of footnotes to Homer (and the Bible!).” This essay begins upon the position that all literature consists of footnotes to Homer until Tolkien.
I am convinced of this motto anew with every reread Of Beren and Lúthien. It is the author’s greatest work, the climax of his Grand Mythology. Tolkien claimed that all his other stories were built upon (indeed a retelling of) this story. Of Beren and Lúthien is perhaps the purist form of what the author called “eucatastrophe.”
Tolkien coined this word from two Greek words: eucharista (a climatic joy; thanksgiving) and katastrophe (a dramatic overturning). Beren lays claim upon that jewel of jewels, the Silmaril. He thus claims the right to marry the fairest jewel in Middle-earth and his greatest love, Lúthien. This comedy converges with tragedy as the same fey bravery that brings his boon facilitates his death. The heroes’ journey turns again to comedy, but of that I will say no more.
As Aristotle to Plato, Tolkien’s greatest story is given through the lens of his most ardent disciple. Christopher Tolkien published The Silmarillion (1977) after his father’s death. The story Of Beren and Lúthien is chapter nineteen of that book. Chapter twenty one tells Of Túrin Turambar. It is the story of Túrin that drives the recently published The Children of Húrin. But it is the shadow of Beren that drives Túrin.
If Beren mediates the sacrament of eucatastrophe, Túrin is Tolkien’s patron saint of tragedy. In Beren we see an archetypal comedy wrapped in tragedy, ever turning inside out. In Túrin the Darkside gets its due.
 Húrin is a warrior of men set several generations before Frodo and his sojourners set forth to Mordor. Húrin is captured by the Dark Lord leaving his wife, son and daughter fatherless in a war torn village. When his son, Túrin, comes of age, he leaves his family for education and adventure amongst the Elves. Túrin is brash, arrogant and stubborn. The Elf King tries his best to temper the youth, but Túrin proves to be as good a warrior as any elf and even draws comparisons to his cousin, the great Beren.
Three times, Túrin reminds those who doubt him that he has Beren’s blood in his veins. Túrin is reminded three times that he is not his cousin. Although Túrin becomes a captain of great renown, he is forced to live in the shadow of other men. Indeed, the Shadow darkens his fate. Túrin becomes the antithesis of his hero. In this way, Túrin’s life reveals Beren’s legacy all the brighter by contrast.
Both men are wounded by the loss of their fathers. Both care little of their own lives until they find new meaning in love. Yet while Beren’s love sets the stage for eucatastrophe, Túrin’s love sets the stage for catastrophe. Túrin ignores the warnings of friends and gods alike and continues toward his downfall. He eventually meets his match in a firedrake. Bewitched by the shrewd creature, Túrin marries and finds his undoing in misplaced love.
There are some who will aver that a story should be read and reviewed in its own right. For these people the question that rules the day is whether a story can stand by itself, for better, for worse. Such philosophy will lead many toward sound critique with respect to most literature. Tolkien is not most literature.
In Tolkien story bleeds into Story; Story bleeds into Epic; Epic bleeds into Mythology. In Tolkien we see mythology bleed upward six feet to color red the gravestones of the author, that is to say stone, cold reality. The name Beren marks the grave of John Ronald Reuel Tolkien and Lúthien graces the moniker of his wife. The author’s life can not be separated from his life’s work, much less his individual stories. Mythology is something that forces meaning upon the stories of history. In the case of Tolkien, as with Homer, narrow literary philosophy will lead many to ruin.
The tragedy that befalls Húrin’s son is the dark, black marker that underscores the tragic history of Middle-earth. Mythology that does not paint history darkly, is in danger of leavening to the froth of fable. With the story of Húrin’s son, the author dips his pen in utter darkness. We would do well to remind one another that the same shade of black colors our own histories. The woeful Darkside revealed in the story of Túrin Turambar serves to demonstrate the absolute improbability of eucatastrophe.
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In 1973 a film was released that became an instant horror classic. That film was the Exorcist, based on the novel of the same name. It was nominated for 10 Academy Awards, including Best Picture. Being an iconic horror film, the chances are good that you have seen it. I have not. I almost did, I came very close in fact. You may be wondering what would possess me to write a review about a movie I’ve never seen, but indulge me. Allow me to share my tale.
It was my sophomore year in high school and I was spending the evening with two of my good friends. One of them was of the female persuasion and, as is the case with all heterosexual high school aged males, my guy friend and I wanted to be more than just friends with her. We desired a more intimate relationship, or more accurately, we wanted to see her boobies. Sure we enjoyed her company, but like divining rods in close proximity with water, we were fixed on the source of that which could quench our loin thirst above all else. I mention this because it is true, and because I have to assume that if this notion ruled over our every conscious act, then it had to influence the decision we made for that particular evening’s entertainment.
We had agreed upon renting a movie and watching it in the seclusion of the detached studio on the property belonging to the family of my male friend (let’s call him, Ivan, because that is his name). How we concluded that The Exorcist should be the film of choice for said evening is difficult for me to recollect – one can only assume that it was to induce the young lady into such a frightened state that she would seek comfort and reassurance in our not quite yet manly arms. The plan, as one could imagine, was not fully fleshed out, as it also assumed that the ensuing demonic masturbatory images and prolonged vulgarity would be necessary ingredients to get her in the mood (keep in mind that neither Ivan nor myself owned a Marvin Gaye or Barry White album). I recall being somewhat uneasy  with the prospect of watching this film as the legend of its shockingly ghastly scenes had been explicitly shared with me through the years. Mind you, I was no stranger to the horror genre and I actually considered myself above being truly frightened by them, but this was different somehow. Perhaps it had to do with my conservative Christian upbringing and the idea of combining religion, profanity, and puke just didn’t quite settle within my spirit. Machismo won out though, as I was not about to wax puritanical on my comrades lest I might reveal that I might, in fact, be a wittle scared. Besides, the aforementioned arms of conciliatory holding could end up being mine – or perhaps even better yet – the fear might strike our fragile flower so that she passes out, and you know what can happen then. The truth is, nothing would have happened, though we probably would have mused over what we could do if we were a more rakish duo, and end up playing a video game until she came to.
The three of us settled in a shared bed for the proper viewing/whatever comes next. The lights were all off and the FBI warning was fading away as our feature film began to take over. We were transported to a desert scene where an archaeological dig is taking place. An item of some sort is discovered and it is at this very moment that I fall asleep. Completely dead asleep. As if I am no longer in control of my body, I apparently went full speed into dream land. By the time I wake up, the credits are rolling and my two friends look like they just saw, well, just saw The Exorcist. No one was in anyone’s arms. No one was speaking. I  don’t think anyone was blinking. I do know that I had drooled excessively on Ivan’s pillow and had to turn it over to conceal my shame.
Since that day, the opportunity to view the film has not availed itself, or more precisely, I haven’t availed myself to create such an opportunity. It appears that I am alone in my circle of friends and acquaintances as someone who has not seen the movie. I have yet to talk to anyone who has seen it and not heard the words: disturbing, uncomfortable, terrifying, or gross. On one hand, I’m intrigued; I wouldn’t mind seeing what all the talk is about. On the other hand, I prefer the legend that suggests that this movie is truly the pinnacle of cinematic horror and I fear that I might actually be let down by the real thing. With that, I highly recommend that you see The Exorcist; apparently it will stay with you for a while. After you are done, be sure to tell me about it. I’m sure you’ll be glad to get it out of you.
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In Memory of LeRoi Moore, Saxophonist for the Dave Matthews Band
1961-2008
by Michael Mulligan
 Without music, life would be a mistake.
Nietzsche
On June 30, 2008, LeRoi Moore suffered an ATV accident. During the months that followed, Moore battled the complications seemingly successfully until suddenly, on August 19th, he died.
Being a DMB fan for the last twelve years, my spirit sank. The musician who, during concerts, lurked deep in the shadows wearing sunglasses, whose baritone sax created the image of a fog horn sounding ominously in a sea of darkness, whose tenor sax soared to the heights of exuberance, whose flute was nothing short of the effervescence of champagne, whose whistling rivaled that of the bluebird--this musician had died.
Last night, as a valediction to LeRoi, I bought a bottle of Merlot, cranked up Live at Red Rocks, and settled into my listening chair for an evening of great music. LeRoi always liked to sprinkle his solos with musical echoes from other famous songs. During "Proudest Monkey", he echoes a phrase from Zippity Do Da, and in "Lie in our Graves", he triumphantly lets loose on the famous phrase from Somewhere over the Rainbow just after the climatic heights of the solo.
 LeRoi added layers of musical ideas to the song's lyrics and their recurring thematic tension between life and death in that he could unleash a hellish fury (as in "Along the Watchtower") and yet push the listener to new limits as he aspired to reach the fullness of life at its apex (as in "Ants Marching"). He contributed a vast spectrum of musical talent to the notably eclectic band, and he will be missed.
After my private concert came to an end, Dave's words, "That's LeRoi Moore on the saxophone..." echoed in my head. I swirled the last drops around my glass, and then toasted LeRoi, to thank him for his gift of music.
May his past solos continue to take us to that mystical place just beyond the rainbow.
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Watchmen: a Graphic Novel Review and/or a Question of an Individual’s Coolness
Geeked up for The Dark Knight, I sit and let the previews perform as the foreplay for my cinematic ride. There were a few that caught my attention, but they were mostly forgettable. Save for one that at first did nothing for me, as I was confused and had no frame of reference for the apparent interest extracted from select members of the crowd. This preview had a skulking figure in a pattern shifting mask and trench coat, superheroes in peculiar costumes, and a vision of some naked blue man’s wiener. The movie was a DC Comics adaptation called Watchmen. I am aware of comic book characters, specifically the heavy hitters that have shown up in cartoons or movies, but this was completely foreign to me. I sat intrigued up until the computer animated advertisement for the theater’s sound system came on and then I shifted into feature presentation mode.
Fast forward to a couple of days later when I’m discussing TDK with one of my friends and he asks me if I’m excited about the Watchmen movie. At this point my only vivid memory of the preview is my wife leaning over and saying “Look, you can see that guy’s penis.” I explain that it looked interesting, but that I have no idea what Watchmen is. He explains how it is the graphic novel in comic book land and has won a Hugo Award. Not knowing what a Hugo Award is but not wanting to reveal even more ignorance, I say something like, “wow.” It turns out he hadn’t read it yet either, but knowing was half the battle. After a week or so, he finishes reading the book and lets me borrow it. The remainder of this article will be my attempt to give a review of Watchmen and reconcile the fact that I might not be as cool as I originally thought.
I’ve never read a superhero comic book all the way through. I seem to recall reading Richie Rich and perhaps an Archie, but the closest I’ve come to a superhero comic book was something called Spider Ham about Peter Porker and  his adventures as a crime fighter but I don’t think that counts. This is uncharted territory for me and it brings up an inner conflict that I was forced to wrestle with. I know that I like superheroes; I’ve seen the films and I do a little Wiki research to get some semblance of a back story, but to actually sit down with a comic book means something different. While it may thought of as a graphic novel, at the end of the day, Watchmen is a comic book, a 416 page comic book. For those of you who aren’t in the know, a graphic novel is a comic book based story that is more lengthy and complex, usually dealing with more mature subject matter (murder and boobies) and there is a complete absence of advertisements for X-Ray Specs. Whatever you want to call it, I was reading a comic at 32 years old even though I don’t live in my parents’ basement. My wife gave me a weird look when I brought it home and started reading it. I got the feeling that had I been reading Hustler she would have been less disapproving.
On to the novel. Watchmen is set in an alternate 1985 where, due to events of the past being influenced by costumed avengers, Nixon is serving his fifth presidential term, electric cars are the norm, and Russia is still the big bad guy. Masked vigilantism has been outlawed and many crime fighters are retired, save for a couple who still work for the government. Society is in decay as the cold war tension has everyone on edge. Russia is reluctant to advance its communist cause too aggressively because of the U.S.’s super weapon, Dr. Manhattan. Dr. Manhattan is a being that has been created due to a mishap during a nuclear physics experiment (you would think those chambers that scientists set up to do experiments would have security keeping people from wandering in or at least an emergency stop button, but I suppose even the child proof cap was a reactive measure). An average physicist known as Jon Osterman prior to the accident, Dr. Manhattan is the one true “super” hero in the novel, as he is the only character with actual powers. Every other crime fighter is an adventurer with expensive gadgets, superior intellect, or some sort of social disorder. Dr. Manhattan can teleport, increase in size with superhuman strength, manipulate matter at a subatomic level, and see events before they occur. Also he is emotionally withdrawn, displays a deterministic ideology, is blue and throughout the story gets progressively more naked. With the exception of the coloring and super powers, he is like my friend Anthony.
It is Dr. Manhattan’s presence that has increased the Cold War threat. Russia has been stockpiling weapons at a hastened pace in order to neutralize the blue hero’s protection should nuclear push come to nuclear shove. This is a theme that is seen in The Dark Knight in the sense that Batman’s heightened protection has caused the evolution of the criminal element in Gotham. Before working for the government, Manhattan worked with a team of vigilantes to protect citizens from the dangers lurking in society. One of the crime fighters, the Comedian, also ended up working for the government as an assassin and it is his murder that opens up the novel. The story revolves around one of the vigilantes who has refused to hang up his mask (Rorshach) and his investigation of the Comedian’s death. Rorshach interacts with many of the members of his former team and even deals with some previous villains in order to solve the crime. Along the way Nite Owl and Silk Spectre (both second versions of the characters, picking up where past alter egos have left off) dust off their cowls and spandex to get into some life saving as well as a little hanky panky. Through a series of flashbacks and adventures to places such as Anartica and Mars, a convoluted conspiracy is revealed. Each character’s psyche is explored and in some cases, there are complicated and weighty issues to be dealt with.
This is not light comic fair, pulp to be sure, but the novel is rich with layered symbolism and stories within stories. Each chapter concludes with a quote from the likes of the Old Testament, Nietzsche, and Bob Dylan. There is a great deal of social and political commentary as well as the deconstruction of the superhero ideal where Freudian psychosexual motivations rule the day and altruistic servanthood is replaced with misguided concepts of justice and/or simple goodness. Is it a masterpiece? Difficult for me to say given my inexperience with the genre, but I am glad I read it. It’s entertaining to be sure, at some points its melancholy and heavy handedness seems a little much for a comic book, but that may have more to do with my own preconceived notions of what comic etiquette is supposed to be. Thought provoking themes are revealed through what I originally thought to be a throwaway medium, further demonstrating that the power of art is limitless. Creative, bleak, sometimes brilliant, sometimes melodramatic, and thoroughly captivating, I read it rather quickly and wanted more when I was done. Not because I was left wanting, but because it was a fun ride that offered enough intellectual stimulation to justify the diversion.
The question for me personally still remains: how has the reading of Watchmen affected my coolness? In terms of traditional society’s measures, I can’t help but think I’ve a dipped a bit, though one graphic novel reading does not put me at fanboy level. I would stick out like a sore tentacle at a Comic Con (where coolness is clearly a relative notion), leaving me with no place to call home. I have to make a decision. I either chalk up my Watchmen experience to a moment of weakness or I give in and read The Killing Joke and make my journey to the Dork Side complete. My inclination is to move pass this graphic novel phase and beg forgiveness from Fonzi. No more graphic novels. Unless of course you want to loan me one.
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A review of Californication: Soft-Porn for Writers
by Christin M. Rice
I only watch television via Netflix, so I see everything at least a season behind everyone else. This happens to reflect a trend in my (lack of) fashion style. It is not born out of some kind of self-righteousness in the ethics of T.V.: I'm just too cheap and lack discipline in the realm of cable. Enough preamble. My current Netflix addiction is Californication, the David Duchovny Showtime show about a successful writer in the midst of several years worth of writer's block and enormous (yet somehow still charming) relationship issues. Read: many, many gorgeous naked women appear in his path and they proceed to, well, fornicate. He also has an ex-near-wife and a wonderfully precocious twelve year old we would all be lucky to hang out with. His life is the center of an orbit of beautiful and/or interesting women. Oh, and he has a really cool blogging gig that allows him to emote every last pet peeve while people tell him he's awesome and pay him gargantuan sums of dough. Did I mention the blog gets optioned?
 As a writer, what is not to like about this show? Real writer's lives, in as much as I have observed (and I've observed a lot because I want to look like one) are never that exciting, sex-filled, or well dressed. Our unsuccessful relationships remain unsuccessful, and the people we spend time with do not appear to have fallen off the pages of a Victoria's Secret catalog. So this show is a bit of soft porn just for us writers. As long as you keep the pact with yourself to remember it is purely fantasy and in no way a substitution for the real thing—in this case, slogging along with your bad writer self—what is the harm really?
The amount of sex this man has (and it is David Duchovny, so really, I don't mind that he's continually being undressed) by the end of an episode leaves me with an eaten-too-much cake feeling. I believe this is intentional so we won't ultimately emulate his life.
Throughout the series, which is easily devour-able in two discs, I found myself completely sucked into rooting for him to get his ex-almost-but-never-quite-wife back. I just hope he also gets tested regularly. I truthfully didn't care, like his secretary spanking agent did, whether he ever wrote again. But he does, and the twist at the end that is so wonderfully karmic, is well worth any over-saturation along the way.
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The Dark Knight (a Review)
Breaking box office records, achieving critical acclaim, receiving Oscar buzz, what more could Christopher Nolan’s The Dark Knight possibly do in terms of garnering the attention of the world? Answer: get a review from Culture Voice’s own Stephen Ausburne, that’s what. While my take on TDK (for all the fan boys out there) might not amount to a hill of guano, I have to talk about this movie. It’s got everything you want in a superhero movie; scratch that, everything you want in any kind of movie. I’ll try to break it down on just those two levels: as a movie derived from comic book origins and as a film dealing with complicated morality issues that happens to be set against the backdrop of characters within our modern mythology. First though, I thought I’d stroll down some Batman memory lane.
I have to begin by saying that my Batman knowledge is not pure, it has been tainted by the old Adam West TV series and the numerous iterations of the character on film and/or episodes of Scooby Doo. I don’t think I’ve actually read a Batman comic book or graphic novel but I hear things, things that at least provide me some background on the characters within the Gotham universe. Batman has been a character whose dark side has been famously explored throughout the years. While I may not be wearing a bat cowl to a Comic Con any time soon, TDK is the Batman movie I’ve apparently been waiting for, even if I didn’t fully realize it. I liked Tim Burton’s Batman when it came out and I thought that his vision for Gotham City and its inhabitants was about as dark as a major superhero movie could get. Subsequent sequels were all over the map:
• The almost great Batman Returns offered an even more disturbing look at the Caped Crusader and a grotesque Danny DeVito (even more grotesque as the Penguin).
• Batman Forever gave us Val Kilmer and whoever played Robin vs. Two Face and The Riddler (who I believe were played by Charles Nelson Reilly and Paul Lynde).
• I think there was another one with George Clooney and Governor Schwarzenegger, but I’m pretty sure that never really happened.
 Fast forward to Christopher Nolan’s Batman Begins, and the series was suddenly reinvigorated. Just when people thought they had enough of the character, Nolan gave us a substantial back story for our hero with a cast of actors we could rally around (save Katie Holmes, but not even her inexplicably perpetual smirkiness could ruin the show). Batman got even darker, and I got even more excited. When the TDK hype machine started its engines, I climbed on board and there was no looking back. As reviews trickled in, I tried to temper my expectations though I was feeling confident that this was going to be the superhero movie to end all superhero movies.
The Dark Knight did not disappoint. Everyone from the last film is spot on and Maggie Gyllenhaal is indeed an upgrade as Rachel Dawes. Gary Oldman proves that when he isn’t grossly overacting, he can be damn good. Christian Bale is a threatening figure, just ask his mother and sister – a cheap joke, but at least I didn’t refer to him as Christian Bail.
While I’m digressing, I don’t know what’s worse: allegedly assaulting the women in his family, or the police delaying his arrest so as not to interrupt the London premiere of The Dark Knight.
All that aside, Bale is still good as the conflicted hero, and his batgear is everything you’d want as a fan. Cool gadgets and vehicles, plus some great aerial stunts. Plus, TDK has something that Batman Begins lacked: a compelling villain. The Scarecrow and Ra’s Al Ghul just weren’t quite given enough to do, which at the time was fine, because it served as a Batman origin story, but a real enemy was needed. Enter the Joker. I wasn’t sold on the casting of Heath Ledger as the Joker when the word first got out. Nicholson’s version of the Clown Prince of Crime was so memorable (even if Jack’s version really seemed like the Joker playing Jack Nicholson) that to resurrect the character with Ledger seemed, unspectacular. I stand corrected and instead of repeating everything every other reviewer has said, I suggest you see it for yourself. Hyperbole ceases to be hyperbole when praising the performance.
Nolan and Co. provide a Batman adventure for the ages. Chaos abounds in Gotham City and Batman/Bruce Wayne shoulders the heavy burden of maintaining order in a town riddled with mobsters and corrupt officials. Nolan’s vision of Batman’s environs is steeped in reality, with a very familiar Chicago portraying Gotham City. The Burtonesque gargoyles and cartoonish cityscapes are absent giving way to a hybrid of modern day and myth – these characters exist in our world. This isn’t to suggest that the idea of a millionaire playboy in a cape fighting crime is plausible, but that’s the beauty of Nolan’s work. It transcends logic and makes Batman feel like the retelling of a legend as opposed to a tribute to pulp fiction. As a superhero movie, it soars above all other attempts (both great and not so great), because of the character development, the storyline, and the intense action scenes.
Superheroness aside, the film is terrific storytelling. The subject matter is anything but a standard story of good versus bad; instead it is a bleak portrayal of the evil in everyone. Batman wants to be the agent of good in Gotham City, but his ego and thirst for vengeance keeps him from pure altruism. Harvey Dent is the representative for justice, though he struggles with the protection of his image as do those who believe in him. They wish to preserve his legacy even when a tragic circumstance leaves him susceptible to the Joker’s manipulation leading to Dent’s descent into vigilante vengeance. And that Joker: that mysterious man (?) who is the personification of pure chaos and anarchy. He has no qualms with who he is. We don’t know where he comes from or why he is evil. Evil comes to him innately and he is in no mood to thwart it. While Batman and Harvey Dent tried desperately to stave off their demons, the Joker not only embraced his, but made sweet love to them, where everyone could see.
The Joker is the essence of not only the malevolence that Batman and Dent oppose, but the essence of the malevolence that they oppose within themselves. In The Dark Knight, Nolan has demonstrated an existential crisis in humanity: integrity may be a virtue, but it’s a struggle, and no one comes by it naturally. Batman resorts to questionable spying techniques in order to serve the greater good – eliminating a terrorist – disregarding Spiderman’s “with great power comes great responsibility” notion of superhero accountability. Dent/Two Face cannot resist the intoxicating instant satisfaction that is revenge. There are glimpses of hope in The Dark Knight, but everyone is flawed and it is unclear what each character will choose as their course of action when faced with conflict.
The Dark Knight is dark, somber, long, and most of all, brilliant.
You will like this movie if:
• you like character studies that don’t have to be balanced with happiness.
• you like movies with great villains.
• you like gritty narratives that take their time to develop themes.
You will not like this movie if:
• you like nipples on your Batsuit.
The Dark Knight will be considered one of the best films of 2008 and Heath Ledger will probably be nominated for an Academy Award and one day someone will screw up this franchise again, but it won’t be Christopher Nolan. 10/10.
C.C. O’Lorin has responded to the above review:
First of all, a shout out to my sister for laying down a Hamilton and taking me to this movie. I’m a fan of superhero flicks. I like the genre enough to forgive certain peccadilloes. I forgave X-men for cliché casting. I forgave Spiderman for lame villains. I forgave Superman for not dieing. TDK has no peccadilloes. Not a one. Sure, there are things that I would have done differently from Nolan, but there are simply no Achilles’ heels in this movie.
I had some serious reservations about Ledger. Not to dishonor the deceased, but I’ve hated the guy since the Mel Gibson debacle known as The Patriot. Brokeback Mountain was fantastically overrated. (I’m still baffled by the scandal caused by Brokeback. It was a movie about homo-cowboys—King Kong came out the same year portraying a love story between a human and a giant monkey. King Kong wasn’t just bestiality but sexual dimorphism! Now, if Ledger had been cast as a giant monkey in Brokeback, then you’d have something.) I was really disappointed with the casting choice… until I saw the film. So good. The intro-scene with the pencil… dude is old school like the old school. Dude has a fucking knife in his shoe! That’s like 1930’s-Chicago-south-side old school. Batman may have gadgets on his gadgets but my man is just plain crazy. How do you beat ‘just plain crazy’?
Believe it or not, the Joker wasn’t even central to the true storyline. The Joker was like the magician’s assistant in a sparkly dress. He was there to distract you from what’s really happening on the other side of the stage. The real story is in the ironic juxtaposition between the two knights. I can usually pick up these sorts of themes early on in a story and follow their development. Nolan distracted me just long enough to keep his true story under the sonar. When his irony finally surfaced, I was just itching to see the whole thing again just to follow that theme. Nolan’s TDK is black magic.
Okay so there is one peccadillo. Throughout the movie there are tons of people who just want to kill the Batman. How about this idea: how about following the big spot light in the sky to its origin and using a big bomb?
Mr. Ausburne has offered this rejoinder:
We are in a agreement that TDK is a great movie. I also agree that Dent and Batman representing the "hero that Gotham needs" and "the hero that Gotham deserves" is a major theme. A theme that plays with the idea of a need for hope and how that idea might not amount to reality but it serves a purpose nonetheless. I would say that the Joker was more than just a distraction but a personification of the slippery slope one could travel when one abandons their ideals altogether and determines that all is vanity. The question that remains for me is: was Two Face or Batman the true "in between" in terms of walking the tightrope of good and evil? Both had alter egos and both vacillated between the two extremes.
I will disagree with Mr. O'Lorin on the late Mr. Ledger. Brokeback's overratedness and The Patriot's overall suckiness were not attributable to Ledger's performances. He was disposable in The Patriot but he was pretty good in BM (if I can use the acronym TDK, I have the right to use acronyms anywhere I choose). In fact, I agree that BM was overrated in terms of controversy and significance (though gay cowboy movies are not exactly mainstream) but that Ledger actually made the movie compelling for me. The turkey baster scene is still too silly for words.
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The Formula Wins Again
And We’re all Worse Off For It:
A Review of The Great Debaters
by Bobby B. Faces
What’s your favorite Tom Cruise movie? Mine is on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t quite remember the title. It’s the one where Tom Cruise plays that young cocky guy who battles his demons and ends up on top. What’s the name of that one?
No matter, this is a review of Denzel Washington’s The Great Debaters. Washington is really coming into his own as the most celebrated cliché since Tom Cruise. Believe me, it hurts to say it. Lee’s Malcom X actually enhanced one my favorite books. Very few movies can do that. In that movie, Washington took a single life and rendered it in three characters over four acts. For Malcom X, he should have won best actor and best supporting actor.
Training Day—nough said. I am preconditioned to like him…. but The Great Debaters was crap.
The Great Debaters pulled all the right levers with impeccable timing. It elevated a few unknown actors with fantastic performances. It took on an important topic and told a story that needed to be told. It did all of the above with Oprah’s money. What’s not to like?
The biggest problem is that there isn’t a single person who saw that movie that didn't know how it would end. The darling underdog takes on the morally bankrupt elitist and wins! If there is a more well-worn cliché in Hollywood, its last screen time was in the thirties.
Washington did a serviceable job in the big chair. He gets points for getting stellar performances out of newcomers Junee Smollett and Nate Parker. But I can’t get over the fact that he actually typecast himself! His character was identical to the same old tired dog he played in Remember the Titans. Even Tom Cruise would have been a better choice, if only for the reason that it would have been different.
Just to make the cliché complete, the movie changed the venue of historical debate from the University of Southern California to Harvard. I suppose that not enough people are aware that white kids at USC are rich snobs. On the other hand, everybody hates Harvard brats. Pepper in a racist sheriff and an overbearing preacher and you’ve got yourself a Hollywood race movie.
Oprah, please, pah-leaz, don’t give Denzel any more money to direct films for you! Important stories, important issues deserve more than syrupy music and teary endings. The Great Debaters had nothing I haven’t seen five hundred times before. In truth, all would have been forgiven if the movie were titled The Master Debaters.
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Subversive Bull: A Review of Munro Leaf's Ferdinand
 By Dagmar Schroeter
In the Autumn of 1935 Munro Leaf sat down to pen a children's book to, at long last, quiet his friend. His friend was Robert Lawson, an unknown, who had aspirations to showcase his talents as an illustrator. Lawson had long suggested that Leaf should write a children's book for this purpose. In one afternoon a subversive classic was born.
The Story of Ferdinand tells of a queer little bull.
While all of the other little bulls in Spain prepare for Madrid, Ferdinand happily sits under the cork tree smelling his favourite flowers. Madrid, as every little bull knows, is the place where bulls get famous fighting matadors. Indeed, the fiercer the bull, the greater the promise of fame.
Ferdinand's mother worries for her odd and lonely son.
All of the little bulls become big bulls and the men from Madrid come calling. While the rest of the bulls endeavour to prove themselves the biggest and fiercest, Ferdinand retreats passively to his place under the cork tree. A twist of fate lands the passive bull atop a bumblebee. For once in his life, Ferdinand is ferociously wild. Off to Madrid with him! Rumours of his wrath spread before him.
On the big stage Ferdinand is ferociously disappointing. The matador is reduced to tears without a venue to showcase his new cape and sword. Ferdinand just sits and smells the flowers in the hair of the women dressed for blood sport.
So goes The Story of Ferdinand.
Leaf's book was soon outlawed in Spain alongside several other European  countries. The world was at war and posturing for greater wars in 1936. Such subversive books would not help boys grow to be proud nor brave. Such books were "leftist" and "communist." It didn't help that Lawson had given the book a little red cover.
Because the political right had banned the book in several European countries, the left had no choice but to sing its praises. The Story of Ferdinand was one of the few "non-communist" books promoted in Soviet Poland.
Today The Story of Ferdinand is just another children's book about individuality. It sits on the shelf next to several dozen other books with the same moral. Children's books about individuality are as numerous as fake flowers in an old folks' home.
But are any of these books so dangerous as to undermine the pride and false bravado of grown men?
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God Bless…No God Damn the Neo-Cons!
A review of “The Revolution, A Manifesto” by Ron Paul
by Sawyer Retlaw
The short review: Liberal, Conservative, anyone who still thinks that the old guys in wigs knew a thing or two about government, should read this book. Well-written, intelligent arguments for those of us who want to actually make choices about politics instead of personality.
The longer review: I kind of like the old man. Not for his dynamics as a speaker, or his captivating abilities to work a crowd to frenzied orgasm, but rather for his ability to articulate the founding principles of what I still believe is the best directive that humanity has put on paper for government: the United States Constitution. Ron Paul is a wacko, dismissed by his party for being too extreme, and not war-mongerish enough to satisfy the desires of the neo-cons, and I love him for it. I admit, I am a Ron Paul supporter, donated to his campaign, watch his speeches on YouTube, and helped push his book to the top of the sales charts. So…this has bias.
For me, the compelling arguments put forth by Mr. Paul offer a different way to look at the issues facing the country. I find this refreshing. He is a pro-government liberal, but not in the frame of Lyndon Johnson. The government he wants is a return to the founding documents that supposedly gird decisions by policy makers. Thus a liberal departure from the status quo. He despises American foreign policy. He believes that the Federal Reserve is the reason for prolonged economic crisis. His arguments have compelling merit to those of us who still feel that the founding documents are the best offered by any society for the progress of freedom and liberty (those virtues that are so compelling to the innate desires and rights bestowed by a creator to humanity).
This book is like drinking a cold glass of water on a summer day for those of us who desire something different in government. It reads like Paul talks, somewhat disjointed, but nonetheless compelling. I had a hard time putting the book down to attend to my duties as a father, because the book had so many revelations about the way to look at government. Try these ideas on for size:
Bring the American military home from all 131 countries that they are in.
Listen to the advice of George Washington when he spoke on foreign policy: “The great rule of conduct for us, in regard to foreign nations, is in extending our commercial relations to have as little political connection as possible... Why, by interweaving our destiny with that of any part of Europe, entangle our peace and prosperity in the toils of European ambition, rivalships, interest, humor, or caprice? It is our true policy to steer clear of permanent alliances with any portion of the foreign world."
Return to the Gold Standard
Abolish the Income Tax
Let the free market determine the outcome of health care by returning to a cash only system, removing government from the equation altogether, and making hospitals and doctors compete with price.
Abolish the Federal Reserve and return the powers of the market to the banking system.
Let people choose how to manage their social security
Abolish any federal jurisdiction over schools, environment, or law enforcement.
Restore civil liberties that have been stripped away for safety concerns
Eliminate the misnamed Patriot Act
Fascinating choices to me, and all of which are shown to be part of the founding documents and are articulated and illustrated quite poignantly in the book. Paul’s real discussion is about returning the political discourse to actual choices instead of pseudo-choices that the parties make up for fear and monetary reasons. Are we really making a choice when we choose between John McCain and Hillary Clinton? Do any of Barack Obama’s proposals really change what is going to happen in Washington with special interests, or domestic or foreign policy? I think that Ron Paul has a great argument when he suggests that Americans are interested in different choices, that if given the choice to return to sound economic, domestic and foreign policy they would choose that over the status quo.
I would highly recommend the read; I think it is a great discourse on American Politics and the choices that are being faced in the 21st century.
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You Think Snoop Dogg has a Rhyme!
I have heard this music before / saith the body....
Mary Oliver
Distinguished guests, ladies, gentlemen, black rappers, white rappers, Japanese rappers, Norwegian rappers, Peruvian rappers, Latino rappers, and all readers before me now, I have some shocking news. Rap exploded in the 1990’s, but it did not begin then. It did not even begin in the 80’s or 70’s. In fact, if truth be told, the first rapper may have been a white rector living in England and writing not long after Columbus set sail into the unknown. John Skelton. Fortunately, he was a criminal—or at least he served some time. His satirical “rap” provoked a religious leader, Cardinal Wosely, to rage, and he was sent to prison because of it (Payne). However, the tide turned for Skelton. Both he and Wosely thought Lutheranism was heretical, and they later reconciled their issues and locked arms to fight the rippling effects of the 95 theses Martin hammered to the door (Payne).
But let us return to the rap. Here is a portion of Skelton’s “poem.” Just skim down the end rhymes, and then feel syncopated beat of a couple of the lines:
My name is Colin Clout.
I purpose to shake out
All my conning bag,
Like a clerkly hag.
For though my rhyme be ragged,
Tattered and jagged,
Rudely rain-beaten,
Rusty and moth-eaten,
If ye take well therewith,
It hath in it some pith.
For, as far as I can see,
It is wrong with each degree.
For the temporality
Accuseth the spirituality;
The spirituality again
Doth grudge and complain
Upon the temporal men;
Thus, each of other blother
The one against the other.
Alas, they make me shudder!
For in hugger-mugger
The Church is put in fault;
The prelates been so haut,
They say, and look so high
As though they wouldé fly
Above the starry sky.
Now, juxtapose Skelton’s work with rap from the contemporary artist Lauryn Hill:
It's funny
how money
change a situation
Miscommunication
leads to complication
My emancipation
don't fit your equation
I was on the humble—
You on every station
Some wan' play young
Lauryn like she dumb
But remember not a game new under the sun
Everything you did has already been done
I know all the tricks
from Bricks
to Kingston
My ting done
made your kingdom
wan' run...
At this point, I hope you are on edge, wondering what my motivation is. After all, rap is intensely a black phenomenon. Its roots reach back through New York City and Sugar Hill Gang’s “Rapper’s Delight” in 1979 (watch the embedded You Tube!!), back through jazz, spirituals, and cotton fields, back across the Atlantic to the pulse of African rhythms (Fernando). Not in some white rector from the early 1500’s. Let it be explicitly clear, my intent is not to claim John Skelton as the headwater for rap. Such a claim would be preposterous. Rather, I want to explore why he gets the distinguished press while rapping remains a secondary art.
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Musings on Cyberpoetry and the Tradition of Innovation
By Michael Mulligan
At the end of the hefty anthology, Poems for the Millennium (volume two), Jerome Rothenberg and Pierre Joris (the editors) conclude with a beginning. The chapter title, “Toward a Cyberpoetics”, hints at the emergence of a new category of poetry: the cyberpoem. Cyberpoems push the limits of poetics, challenging the conceptions of what a poem is and what a poem accomplishes.
Of course, cyberpoetry is only the latest in a long trajectory of writers who have experimented with new possibilities. Indeed, the poetic tradition teems with innovators of language. John Skelton, the court poet for Henry the VIII, developed what is now called Skeltonics which has an eerie resemblance to contemporary rap. The Shakespearean Sonnet, with its abab cdcd efef gg rhyme scheme, re-defined the possibilities of where fourteen lines could go with its final rhyming couplet. Such a poetic risk may not seem daring today, but in its time, it was radical. Anne Bradstreet, the first poet to publish in the 13 colonies, also pushed the limits of rhyme and meter. How could she have written in the old patterns amidst an air rarified with revolution?1 When speaking of poetic possibilities, it is impossible not to mention Ms. Dickinson:
She is one of the precursors of open-form poetry, and her ingenuity with slant rhyme remains unparalleled.
Moving forward to the turn of the twentieth century, the Futurists redefined poetry by pushing it off of the page and into the realm of performance.2 One of the forerunners of Futurism was the Italian poet F.T. Marinetti. His poem “Zang Tumb Tuuum” (1914)3 was crafted with performance in mind as much of the text is dependent upon the sounds of words:
Marinetti emphasized sound, exemplified in how the word “train” morphs into its onomatopoetic counterpart, “tren tron / tron tron”. As the train picks up momentum, the text becomes boldfaced. And one cannot help but notice that Marinetti is visionary when he wrote, in 1914, “No poetry before ours / with our wireless imaginations" (emphasis added). The “seeds” of Futurism grew into Dada, which grew into Surrealism.4 Ultimately, the twentieth century was full of innovators, from Gertrude Stein and T.S. Eliot to E.E. Cummings and May Swenson to the Beats. All of these poets dwell in possibility pushing the limits of what poetry, and thus what language, can accomplish.
But now poetry (and language) is in the midst of an epochal transition. It is plausible (yet still debatable) that language has not had a transition of this magnitude since the oral stories were written down. The technological revolution is the catalyst for the current changes within language, and it is conceivable that future linguists will use the cyberpoem in order to demonstrate how language evolved with such rapidity.
A cyberpoem is extremely difficult to define for two reasons: 1) the form is incipient, and thus any definition must be broad enough to be inclusive, but not too broad so as to render it worthless; and 2) since the cyberpoem has pushed poetry into something new, the poetic nomenclature does not yet have the words to talk about it. That said, a cyberpoem is a poem that exists in cyberspace. It must have words (or at least letters5), but the words must exist in a technological medium. However, a cyberpoem is not simply a poem that is posted online. If it could be written in a book, then it is not a cyberpoem. A cyberpoem utilizes technology to play with language in ways that pen and paper (and even keyboards and Word documents) cannot.
One example of a cyberpoem is Peter Howard’s “Xylo”.6 It exists in time, much like music, and it must be viewed. Here is a recreation of one moment of “Xylo”:
The red, green, and black texts are actually rapid lists of words. The orange text seems to be the main event as it lingers on the computer screen the longest. The “gunsight” increases and decreases in size throughout the performance, adding a foreboding tone to the “poem.” Finally, music is looped throughout the duration of the piece, adding to the ephemeral effect.
I showed the cyberpoem to my students, and using Professor Kirschenbaum advice,7 we gave the poem a “close-read”. Students noticed the intentionality within the seemingly random lists of words. For instance, Howard makes several allusions to mythology, one of which is Atropos, who at any time can cut the thread of life. Students made a connection between Atropos and the gunsight. When will the trigger be pulled? Howard also alludes to Shiva, the creator and the destroyer. We discussed whether the poem is being renewed each moment, or whether it is vanishing. Students also noticed that there is the recurrent theme of brevity and mortality in “Xylo”. There is a rock-climbing accident; the gunsight constantly hovers; and the form of the poem is transitory while the content explicitly states that we have between “one and a thousand million seconds” left to live. One student looked up “xylo” and learned that it is a prefix meaning “wood”. Connections were made to xylophones, which helped give direction to the music of the cyberpoem.
One way to judge a poem is to see how well it responds in a discussion. If a poem is flat, then discussion is short. If a poem has many dimensions, layers, and inter-textual connections—if it can inspire and sustain discussion—then it is a good poem. “Xylo” accomplishes this. It delights, and it invites discussions concerning the human experience, namely the age-old themes of life and death.
However, with the incipience of cyberpoetry, nostalgia seeps into my thoughts. I picture Walt Whitman, sitting near a pond, beneath an oak, reading poetry. In my daydream, I walk closer. I can smell his beard. He | | | |