Archives for March 2017

A morning’s commute, particularly by car, leaves very little to the imagination for the unimaginative. In the truest sense, it’s little more than a mean to an end. We do it every day, usually at approximately eight a.m. and again at five. These daily doldrums through which we semi-autonomously drive (before the caffeine has driven through us) have led me to begin tuning into the things I see on the road around me. Namely the things are names, but not of people or places, but of fellow cars cozying up to me. Between the yawns and the stop signs that punctuate each morning’s sleepy commute, I began to take notice of car makes and models and the meaning behind some of the most frequent ones. It’s become an interest piqued by boredom rather than inspiration.

I’ve learned that one’s automobile serves society as an expedient of sorts. It transports not only a person but a perception as well. There’s no better way to show off social status than while watching and waiting in the left-turn lane. It’s never easier to tell the haves from the have-nots. Names become interesting in this light—which…well wouldn’t you know it…just changed. The light is green. Take a journey with me and you might see what I mean.

Though not as ubiquitous on the roadways, the Land Rover is a wonderful car to first explore. The latest Rover advert shows its Sport careening down a dangerous declivity, presumably in some hinterland hundreds of miles from the next closest troglodyte tribe. How often, I ask, is the average Land Rover owner navigating a terrain as tortuous as this? In my experience, it seems as though the greatest concentration of Land Rovers are found in the flattest, most affluent places on Earth. The Land Rover Adventure evokes (apropos, another of its models is called the Evoque) similarly enthralling reveries of ventures to be had. In reality, roving through a gravel parking lot at a softball game will likely be the most rugged encounter those rotund tires see. These names, plastered on every one’s posterior, try to capture the essence of what life might be. Seldom, if ever, are these sporty and adventurous ends realized.

In contrast to the Rover is the humble Honda. If we are to anthropomorphize at will, the Honda to me is the diffident, deferential, and less successful little brother to the Land Rover. Honda’s models appear to cater to a socially conscious milieu—a milieu, I might add as a proud Honda owner, within which I live. The Civic, for instance, whispers intonations of “civic duty” in my ear every time the ignition awakens the engine’s buzzing bowels. The Civic is economized in both size and pomp. One must flout all flamboyance when driving this car, believe me.

Honda builds other models like the Accord and the Fit. Like their Civic sibling, these names stimulate scant sexy appeal. That classic archetypal young, restive beat generation degenerate, driving itinerantly on Route 66 wouldn’t be caught dead in such a humdrum Honda. Honda’s models sound more like a prescription for a pacific, health-conscious world rather than masculine contraptions of muscle, steel, and fuel. If take the model names as prescriptions, we might assume the Honda ethos to be this: Honda wants of us a civic-mindedness, an accordance with our fellows and our laws, and physical fitness to top things off. Perhaps the Chinese automaker is on to something here, but I for one have their number; Honda’s subliminal, salubrious edicts aren’t lost on me.

Nissan, Honda’s Japanese competitor, is a bit more exciting with its models’ names. The Rogue, Frontier, Altima, Pathfinder—all names that push the pistons and stir the camshafts in the mind. These four terms taken out of place make me think of things like Teddy Roosevelt whacking with a machete at the River of Doubt or Lewis and Clark blindly pushing their way toward the brink of the West. In other words, I’m not thinking of mid-sized sedans.

The Rogue, similar in style and function to the aforementioned Accord, evokes the feeling of a very different experience. Upon turning the Rogue’s key, one becomes a picaresque Jack Sparrow, equipped with the derring-do to drive alone in the HOV lane. Roguish, indeed. I like to believe, once combined, Nissan’s models create an exciting tale. Perhaps the company’s plan is for you to roguishly embark…upon an unformed frontier…find a path unbeknownst and reach the Altima (ultimate?) destination? If so, I say bravo to the company’s poetic panache.

American cars are always less inventive. Ford’s Focus could be a harbinger to today’s campaign trying to curb distracted driving. It’s also possible Ford was working its way through employee attention deficiency at headquarters. Imagine seeing the word Focus as the last thing to fall from the assembly line as the car moves toward the lot. The Fiesta is easily enough understood with even the most basic bilingualism, and the name is one that dances off the tongue in North and South America alike (the same can’t be said for the Chevy Nova, which, when added to it a space, becomes no va, or “not going” in Spanish. It may as well be called limón). The Taurus is suited for those born between April and May and the Escape is what I would like to do when thinking too long about these names.

The bourgeois motorists make themselves known in their BMWs and their Mercedes Benzes. These cars come from the Germanic tribes, with all their famed craftsmanship and repute. It seems both spend too much attention on luxury and design and not enough on names. They choose names that are blander, yet somehow contradictorily more imaginative than the competition. The BMW or Benz doesn’t preordain the driver. The BMW has the stock X1, X3, and X5. Mercedes has the G Class, E Class, and S Class. There’s nothing telling about them; they’re mere letters and numbers—like cattle—but with an emphasis on “class”. You’re not made in the image of a roguish, civic, sporty, or focused motorist. Instead, the mystery is left to driver’s device. Class is the springboard, ambiguity and intrigue take the wheel.

Perhaps mine are the misplaced musings of an uninspired motorist on his way to work. Perhaps I’d better pay more attention to the street signs ahead. Either way, the focus groups should know that their days spent naming names aren’t for naught. I’ve taken notice, and maybe from now on, during the dry diurnal drives, you might too.

“Hacksaw Ridge” is in the running for this year’s Best Picture award, but the nomination seems to me misplaced. While the title might evoke a cautious feeling that this is another teen slasher flick, nothing could be further from the truth; any WWII aficionado would be quick to recognize this and put your Jason and Freddie nightmares to rest. This film is based on the true events and circumstances of one, perhaps hitherto unknown and obscure American soldier embroiled in the tumult that was the Pacific theater.

Auspicious though the subject matter is for cinematic success, the film’s first sixty minutes are underwhelming and boring. Andrew Garfield’s character (who later ages into the film’s protagonist) and his brother find themselves in a fraternal tussle—a brotherly fisticuffs. There’s nothing abnormal about it, until the fight escalates to a Cain and Able-esque fever pitch and young Desmond Doss (Garfield’s character) acquaints his brother’s skull with the soft side of a cinderblock. From that point on, as young Desmond gapes at the family Decalogue and its proscription to kill, we’re expected to infer this is Desmond’s damascene moment. It’s not explicitly revealed, but the implication is that our character has begun a life of incorruptible Gandhian-style pacifism. This epiphany is cursory and not altogether clear.

Doss holds fast to his pacifistic ways, which are admittedly unusual for a young Southern man in a world at war. He’s sworn an oath, however, to tread a non-violent path. Much to the consternation of the other cadets and commanding officers, from this oath, Doss won’t budge. His stance is unchanged, even after he sustains a crepuscular beating by fellows in the cadre.

He’s eventually court-martialed and made to stand before the military camp’s court. Being that these legal and physical troubles occur before the film’s mid-point, it’s no spoiler to say our hero trumps the brutes. He earns his place as a bona fide soldier, but without a scabbard or sword. Nonetheless, without a weapon Doss wants to be with the boys on the front line.

Macabre verisimilitude describes well the film’s second half. If its antebellum period was a bit of a bore, the second half overcompensates. As the film shifts from North Carolina to Nagasaki and beyond, the violence never stops. You’re led to an exciting mélange of combat scenes, but the path to arrival is not so smooth. The transition lacks continuity and care. Nonetheless, as the American soldiers charge forth through the sluiceway atop the namesake ridge, the action is immediate and inexhaustible. The many combat scenes were filmed well, so much so that the flamethrower’s penumbra nearly scorched my own forearm hairs.

The pugilist scratching and seething to expose itself from Gibson’s bowels overplays its hand. The first fighting scenes are overindulgent and I had a feeling of being force-fed. I waited for an hour during the preprandial character development, and my gullet wasn’t prepared for the brouhaha that rushed out at me too quickly. Horrific shots of limbs torn asunder, explosions, and crumbling ramparts might have been more deftly depicted and steadily paced. The change from the bucolic alpenglow on the Virginian mountains to the precarious southern Japanese precipices was too much to take.

A consistent theme throughout the film was a general reliance on that which is objectionably cliché. It came in many forms. It was only a matter of time before the un-armed and therefore vulnerable Doss engaged in a bare-knuckled throw down with a Jap. Sans-rifle, he struggled to the brink of death, and was only saved courtesy of a fellow G.I.’s good aim. Pacifism has its place on the pulpit, but its practicality is a question. One pacifist makes for a hero, but only insofar as the thousands supporting him are shooting to kill. More than one pacifist, and you leave quick work for an enemy.

Other compulsory clichés pop up, including the time Doss gazes with longanimity at his pocket-sized photo of his young bride’s face. It would hardly be an American war flick without the stifled but fledgling love affair between the native son and his beloved. Their relationship is somewhat hastily strewn together, but the two surely make for a comely couple. Garfield’s boyish infatuation with his lady back home receives in return a bat of the eyelashes. At first reserved, she succumbs to his gentle charm. This sub-plot is incomplete, and leaves the viewer wanting a bit more depth. The relationship seems only to serve the purpose of resurfacing amidst the inevitable toil to come. She gives Doss a pretty face upon which he might rest his war-wearied eyes. Otherwise, their love is one implemented solely for another cliché.

As an act of perhaps unintended omission, there was a noticeable dearth of ethnic diversity. I’m slow to even bring this up, but ever since the “#OscarsSoWhite” outrage, it’s an unavoidable theme. As director, Mel Gibson might’ve immunized himself from the cudgels of the “PC” police by including in the film a few more skin tones. Perhaps he was trying for authenticity and North Carolina’s 1940 barracks simply didn’t have a black face to boot. In this case, if historicity was the hand that drew the scene, there’s no outrage to be had.

Two other examples show Gibson’s heavy-handed symbolism and analogism. The first is executed more adeptly and with an artist’s touch. Garfield begins the film ascending the Virginia Blue Ridge mountains with ease, so much so that he’s able to reach down and assist his brother and later his spouse to meet him where he alone stands. He does much the same on the precipice of Hacksaw Ridge only, during the later occasion, by lowering his brothers-in-arms to the buttressed reinforcements below. By lowering them, he effectively raises them with symbolic vigor and spirit that they desperately need.

The second example of heavy-handedness is the literary Christ figure. Christ’s inclusion has become a contractual obligation for any Hollywood hoping to have Gibson star or direct. That said, it would’ve been quite a revisionist’s account if his previously directed film lacked a literary Christ figure of the same sort; I’d love to know what end would be in store for The Passion of the Christ.

In the case that Garfield’s parallels to Christ are at all unclear throughout the film, the final scene leaves very little to the imagination. It’s at this point we witness our supine hero descending from the heavens toward his earth-bound glory. The literary Christ figure is thus complete with his talismanic bloodied good book held in his ethereal clutch. The metaphor is laid with a heavy hand, where perhaps more nuance might have sufficed.

All said, this is a blue-blooded film rife with the sounds and scenes of a proudly patriotic and conservative America since passed. In the times such as we find ourselves, these themes are a welcome change of pace. Heavy-handed and over-compensatory at times though it may be, this film is easy to enjoy and ideal for those needing a re-affirmation of America’s splendid men and her splendid past.

On a recent February episode of Real Time with Bill Maher, the eponymous host compared Milo Yiannopolous to a “young, gay Christopher Hitchens”. A week later, as Milo’s soaring popularity approached its zenith, the young alt-right provocateur was an opening guest on Maher’s show. Milo—a now mononymous name in its own right—has enflamed liberals and moderates alike. Their shared disdain has become common ground across an ever-widening political chasm. Milo continues to reign in some corners, though; he’s the Caesar leading a staunch and often churlish claque of alt-righters. A man, after all, is only as good as his minions.

Milo’s newfound infamy, which isn’t necessarily a black mark in this age of rabble-rousers, has become well-known. The media began devoting much of its attention to him and his curious eccentricities after the Berkeley fiasco. At that time, a bunch of privileged but puerile pupils—students who find differing opinions and expressions inimical to their peace, held demonstrations to hamper his first Amendment right to speak. This unsettling trend of “de-platforming” is one that hasn’t yet gone away.

Being that Milo is a paradoxical personality (he’s both gay and conservative, Trumpian and Epicurean, a sybarite from the roughened alt-right), he’s forced pundits to try to place him in the mold of another. Choosing from a trove of earlier contrarians is no easy task. Perhaps, so far as the contrarian is concerned, that’s the whole point. Nevertheless, I was shocked to hear such a comparison slip through Bill Maher’s teeth—a fellow contrarian, for better or for worse, in his own right. Maher compared Milo to the late Christopher Hitchens. Hitchens was the author, journalist, and polemicist best known for his publications in The Nation and Vanity Fair. Inherently flawed as these comparisons tend to be, this one was especially so.

In comparing the two, Maher not only errs, but sullies Hitchens’ memory. The comparisons between them are tough to find, but when they are, they can be tersely listed. Among them are a British birth and upbringing, an incendiary ideology, and an unabashed affinity for their adopted America. Sandwiched in between the first and last commonalities is the only point worth fleshing out. Both men can and did stir otherwise subdued interlocutors into furors and apoplexy. This is the only converging point, but it’s not wholly what it seems.

We must parse it more fully. Maher can’t claim these two were equally effective fingers poking and prodding society’s large and somnolent cultural-correctness bear. Their provocations were brought with different means and motivations, each eliciting very different results. Although Milo is eloquent and often better able than his adversary to articulate a point with polished parlance, he seems to provoke merely for provocation’s sake. His substance is sometimes lost, although you’ll always feel his punch. The problem is, you won’t know from whence it came or where or if it will leave a bruise.

Hitchens, on the other hand, approached disagreements much differently. He was earth and fire, if Milo is wind and air. After reading an article or hearing a debate, a tremor could often be felt beneath an audience’s feet. I for one was forever moved, and even the most recalcitrant Richter scale would have to agree. His wit and insight still reverberate to this day.

Hitchens was nothing if not unadulterated. He never brandished some faux bohemianism as a front, in the way Milo does. He was stubbornly opposed to niceties and style; seldom if ever did he appear in public with a necktie. The focus was always on his message rather than his image, and that was his ultimate appeal. Milo, on the contrary, feels compelled first and foremost to flaunt his pampered pompadour on one day and his gaudy accoutrements on the next. The more dressed up he is, it seems, the more denuded his points become. Hitchens was bohemian with his syntax rather than his style; with his philosophy rather than his flamboyance. He was at once both regal and unkempt, and would’ve scoffed at Milo’s showmanship.

While on the air, Hitchens was stolid, though contemptuous might be the better word. He approached each conversation or contest (the lines delineating the two were always unclear) with a Spartan-like severity from beginning to end. He rarely allowed an insouciant smile to sneak in, even when his point was the better made. No visible joy came from a “win”. Clarity and persuasion were their own rewards. Milo, on the other hand, wears his grin on his sleeve. It’s devious and distracting, and serves only to increase an opponent’s ire. This inevitably shifts a person’s anger from his ideas to him, and to ad hominems to come. In this sense, Milo is perhaps effective, but not useful. His flippancy weakens an argument that might’ve been strong.

Moving from appearance to substance, there’s no competition. Hitchens was a polemicist par excellence. He was not only sharp but pointed. He punctured with entry wounds and hemorrhaged positions upon his exit. He left those with whom he conversed tired, foolish, and enfeebled and consoled only with the knowledge that they were felled by a wiser man. Milo is more of a blunt instrument. He might leave a mark, or a bruise as I alluded to earlier, but it’s one that will soon vanish and will never change a mind. This is where the two split most drastically. Milo’s modus operandi is to incite an enraged response at any cost. Hitchens’ was to convince otherwise incorrigible opinions and break down dogmatic thought.

Because of this, when Milo’s fifteen minutes are up, he’ll be forgotten. Like an Icarus of sorts, he’ll likely fall from this spotlight he’s found. It’s not the sun in this case, as it was for poor Icarus, but rather the incandescent flame of fame that pulls Milo ever closer toward a fall. Hitchens’ was himself a light, and a fiery one at that. His mystique won’t leave us so quickly. At the end of the day, Milo stands to be the provocateur du jour, but Hitchens was the dissident of a decade—perhaps even more. As such, there’s no comparison to be made.