Last night I went to see War, Inc, and I have to say I really enjoyed it. Getting home, I decided to look up some reviews (it came out while I was in Central America) and found that most critics considered it largely a failure—“more often than not the satire misses the mark” seems to sum up the prevailing opinion. The inevitable comparison was to Dr Strangelove, with everyone noting: it doesn’t measure up. Has any political satire measured to Strangelove?

Looking through the reviews, though, I’m fascinated that each critic seemed to consider different parts, and different actors, successful. For one it might have been John Cusack’s hitman (Hauser) troubled by his conscience—for the next, Cusack is the weak presence in the film. One finds Hillary Duff terrible; another finds her one of the best features of the film. (I'm not sure if I'm the only one, but I find her reminiscent of Tia Carrera in Wayne's World - though less rock'n'roll.) One finds the obvious reference to current events too explicit; another thinks it doesn’t go far enough—that it needs to go closer to the bone.

It was, I suppose, a hotchpotch: the new version of a screwball comedy. It probably owes as much to Mel Brooks as to Kubrick, the way it parodies various film genres (the leanings toward Westerns were something I particularly enjoyed)—but it’s a step up from what I’ve seen of the Scream/Scary Movie franchises. There were moments of—“They went there!”—but I never found it to be cringeworthy. Yes, the characters are stock characters: and they are aware of it. (Hillary Duff as an Central-Asian Britney Spears could not possibly be unaware of the parody she represents.) One reviewer complained that the movie sells out, so you end up rooting for Cusack’s hitman—in a movie where nearly everything is a target of satire, I found this to be satirical too—everyone by the journalist is so compromised, and the “good journalist” is so good that she’s a parody, that the only person really left to identify with is Hauser. I don’t think it will age that well—set pieces in it might, but probably not overall—but, well, I don’t want my money back.

“Should I bounce on a rock off his head?”
“Respect your father dear. —What kind of rock?”

—from The Bank Dick

Yes, there have been a few more films—All That Heaven Allows and The Bank Dick. Having now seen the former I can see just how much Todd Haynes’s wonderful Far From Heaven owes to this film. Also, I can see why Rock Hudson was such a sex symbol—in the Doris Day films it always seemed obvious to me that he was gay, but as the Walden-esque self-sufficient nature man, with his house in the woods, his hunting, trees and—terribly important—his flannel shirts I can definitely see why anyone would fall for him.

The Bank Dick is W. C. Fields’s best-known films—at least these days. (I don’t know how it stacked up at the time it came out…) I’m so glad I’ve finally seen one of his films—though Louise Brooks wrote that his films don’t capture the genius of his stage performances. The film certainly did well enough—his stage performances must have been something!

On top of this I’ve been catching up with friends, working in the Writing Center, begun working with a Liberal Studies summer class, planning the syllabus for the class I’m (hopefully) teaching in a few weeks (enrolments are still low—fingers crossed the numbers arrive), writing and attending performances, reading things and thinking about the thesis I’ll be writing this coming academic year. As my mother always says, “No rest for the wicked.”

I went to another free performance at the Kennedy Center last night—a dance performance by the NORD/NOBA Center for Dance, which is a community partnership between the New Orleans Recreation Department and the New Orleans Ballet Association. For a number of the pieces the dancers were accompanied by Rising Appalachia, a musical duo of sisters Leah and Chloe Smith—they were pretty fabulous. I’m hoping to track down their CDs soon. The dancers were great—again making me wish I had the knowledge and experience to write about dance (particularly contemporary dance) effectively.

The writing center and writing consultant work has started up pretty much as if I never left off. It still feels strange to me that I’m reasonably good at giving advice on all the writing that comes through the door. I’m used to knowing my way around a poem, but I feel like it’s taken me so long to get the hang of academic writing—and I’m still getting the hang of American academic writing—that I can’t quite trust my own advice a lot of the time! On the other hand, I think the struggles I’ve had, and really learning to think about it in terms of academic conventions has probably helped me relate to writers and helped them understand the very things that troubled me. It does make me wish there had been an explicit pedagogical strategy in my undergraduate degree to assist with writing—my writing fluency has always been considered a strength, but I really feel like I had to begin to find my own way through the labyrinth. In a way I think it has made me a better writer—because I’ve got idiosyncrasies that I wouldn’t otherwise have—but sometimes the weird individuality that creeps into my academic work does raise eyebrows. Of course, finding my own solution is, I think, the best way to have come out of the thing (even if it did take me an inordinately long time to do so!) but at the same time, the lack of focus on the pedagogy meant I was incredibly shy of asking for guidance to improve my writing for a long time. Slowly these things come together…

And now I’m trying to get the nuts and bolts of this syllabus together as I contemplate not just tutoring but actually teaching writing. I was reluctant to even apply for the teaching position as I didn’t feel qualified. As it’s like to be high school students or “rising seniors” I wanted to choose something familiar that they could begin to think critically about, and so the theme for the course is representations of America, specifically American youth, looking at television, print-media, film and short stories. I’m planning to use an episode of The West Wing (probably the last of season one; Charlie is reluctant to join the conversation because he feels his inexperience; Zoe, the priviledged presidential daughter, feels no qualms and doesn’t fully understand his reluctance; the president cites the report Charlie eventually gives him on youth attitudes to politics; the shooters are themselves young white-extremists… there’s a narrative about privilege versus lack of privilege, and about education versus ignorance in youth underlying what seems to be a whole adult focussed drama I’d like them to see) and an episode of My So-Called Life—probably the substitute teacher episode, which raises a lot of questions about youth investment in a cause and youth apathy, when censorship becomes an issue. I was thinking about using the film Pleasantville—which I haven’t seen in years—to try to think about adult nostalgia and youth culture… and perhaps—because, let’s face it, I’m a dork—the king of teen representation John Hughes’s Pretty in Pink. (I suppose Clueless would also work—I like Pretty in Pink because of the class representations and classic teen “types” staples of teen films that are clear but also not so explicit as The Breakfast Club… though The Breakfast Club works better in some other ways, acknowledging the near-impossibility of crossing into other social spaces…)

And of course I want to look at election coverage and the commentary on the youth vote.

I feel like it’s evolving day to day.

I may be heading to Philadelphia tomorrow—if I do it will be my first time in Pennsylvania (another state!)—with Kacee, a girl I met in Costa Rica who’s in DC all summer before moving to Philadelphia for law school. She’s looking at places and areas to live, and hopefully I’ll be along for the ride. If there can be a stop by some major sight and a Philly cheesesteak then I will consider it a good first foray into the city. And I’ll be back. We were also talking last night about going on a crazy five day road trip up to Boston—and maybe going further on right up to Canada and New Brunswick—in the next week or two. I’ve got my fingers crossed. She has access to a car, so I hope it happens. She seems ready to get out of DC, having, like me, been back for under two weeks! Girl after my own heart… Nothing like someone who understands nomadism.

Tonight I’m having a cultural experience of a different kind: I’m going to my first baseball match. Not just any baseball match, though—it’s the “Stitch’n’Pitch,” which means that the game at the DC stadium will have a contingent (I do not know how large) of knitters in the stands, knitting and purling away as the innings pass by… Yes, I’m taking some knitting with me. Yes, I think it is strange—but how could I pass up such an invitation?

The words “you’re so cultured” were directed at me this evening when I told my friend Robyn that yesterday I watched the Clara Bow silent film It and today I watched the 1940s screwball comedy The Palm Beach Story in the basement of the Lauinger Library. It’s a happy day when I can earn culture stripes from screwball comedy, I gotta say. I mean, gosh! I wasn’t even waxing lyrical about Godard or Antonioni or some other auteur.

It’s been so long since I watched films, so I’m determined to sit down and watch a good few this summer—not just screwball comedies, but a lot of classics I still haven’t caught up with. I’ve started investigating Georgetown’s collection, and on the whole I’m pretty pleased with it! I’m hoping I’ll have some time tomorrow, though I start working in the Writing Center again tomorrow, so that means my day is a little more full than the last few have been. I’m thinking Sullivan’s Travels tomorrow… I was so sad that the Preston Sturges films were always so hard to find in Australia. Here, they’re easier—though I think they’ve all started finding their way down south by now as well.

I made it to my first free event at the Kennedy Center yesterday, as part of their Millenium Stage program—four local dance groups performed: Silk Road Dance Company (contemporary and traditional women’s dances of the Middle East, Central Asia and the Caucasus); BosmaDance (contemporary); Jazzdanz/dc (not surprisingly, jazz dance); and Coyaba Dance Theater (West African Dance). I enjoyed the whole, though it was BosmaDance and Coyaba Dance Theater that really excited me. The Silk Road Dance company was lovely, and I was fascinated by the hand movements of the dances—it reminded me of when I was taking Flamenco lessons, and learning to manipulate my wrists and hands in ways I’d never thought about. Jazzdanz/dc didn’t do a lot for me—I was surprised, because I’ve enjoyed jazz dance when I’ve seen it in the past—but I realise that I’ve usually seen it in short bursts, rather than a number of pieces all in a row. There was a female soloist who was terrific though—she seemed to have the kind of fluidity of movement that the other dancers lacked.

Fluidity of movement is one of the things I love about contemporary dance—and I suppose I’ve become really interested in contemporary dance because often there are things that remind me of circus. (I’ve been missing circus again lately…) I took some contemporary dance class when I was in Melbourne, and I felt like the classes tapped into a lot of the work I’d been doing when learning trapeze. I found BosmaDance really rewarding—there was so much in the movement I loved, and yet—I feel like I have no vocabulary to talk about dance. It’s something that—unlike, say, screwball comedies—I am not very familiar with yet.

The final group—Coyaba Dance Theater—were a complete joy to watch. I loved that there was no uniform shape and size to the dancers. What was uniform was the sheer energy. The drumming accompanying the dancers was amazing, and the dancers showed such joy on their faces while they jumped and shimmied around that it was impossible not to feel joyful too. I’m hoping I’ll get to see them perform again.

In the mean time—more writing, bits and pieces. Got one abstract done, and will work on another tomorrow. Staying up-to-date on the Independence Day Project. Catching up with friends.

It’s been quite a few days—I’m exhausted, and in recuperation.

I haven’t been sleeping consistently—odd hours, not enough and then making up for it later. It’s got me a little bit out of whack. On Thursday, following my final Contemporary Poetry class, I was pretty shattered. But, I had to push on and go to the Library of Congress for the reading.

Unfortunately, I was cranky. Things that I would normally have found charming grated on me a bit—this was both being tired and hungry (my food intake on Thursday was appalling. Damn finals season) and also sitting near the infamous Library of Congress Poetry Readings Laugher. A loud laugh at the slightest thing that could be construed to have an iota of humour in it. It wasn’t pretty.

Charles Simic gave an intro that indicated he, Mark Strand and Charles Wright had all known each other for over forty years. Ah! The camaraderie of old men! See, I’m recovering my normally sunny disposition, because once again I find this lovely, adorable. At the time, it made me cranky. But it seems the reading blooms after the fact, and my mind is revising the whole experience. It’s nice that readings, like books, are allowed these afterlives…

At the time, though, crankiness. While that is slowly being revised, it seems to have left at least one lasting mark. Mark Strand read this poem, and the information he gave beforehand blew me away. He quoted Apollinaire and his question—“Who will be the first person to forget a continent?” His poem was about the forgetters. It kind of followed the trajectory of Elizabeth Bishop’s “One Art.” This does strike me as a brave move—and I don’t think any poem can really bear the comparison. I completely understand the impulse to take the Apollinaire quote and imagine it into being—and yet, the poem can’t live up to the suggestion of the quote. In everything it leaves unsaid, the Apollinaire allows for some kind of hugeness that unfortunately the Strand didn’t quite have—Strand’s poem in comparison was “a mere bagatelle.” Cranky? I love Mark Strand. I will continue to love Mark Strand. I apologise for being cranky.

Charles Wright was great. I loved his southern accent. I didn’t take in a lot at the time—so tired, so hungry—but, after the fact, it seems it did sink in, and is now starting to resurface. Thank god! I may have been cranky, but it didn’t mar the transmission.

Yesterday, recuperation in earnest. Unfortunately, my body just wouldn’t get up after only 6 hours of sleep, so I missed the dawn service. Only the second in several years. I feel bad about it—I think it would have been wonderful to attend it in DC. I suppose there’s always next year… But I did tell all the lovely folks at Baked and Wired that it was Anzac Day, and I like to think that Meg made my caffe latte with extra love. I read Daniel Deronda for a while, and then, on a whim went to see a film.

Two films, actually. I snuck into the second. I also got invited to a free preview screening of a new Spike Lee film on Tuesday night. Score!

I saw In Bruges first. In a way, it seemed like two—or maybe even three—films to me—first this drifting film that was beautifully shot, and explored the morality of two very different hitmen. Contrary to Anthony Lane of the New Yorker (! I like to take on the New Yorker when I can…) I found both Colin Farrell—at least in the first hour or so—really did match Brendan Gleeson, and that lingering over their faces, the minutiae of their reactions was beautiful - almost mesmerising. Then turned into a slightly surreal midget comedy, and tightly choreographed cat-and-mouse carnage. That first section, where the two characters are wandering around Bruges, having their very different reactions to the city, as the viewer is trying to come to terms with the morality of the two, sold me. The rest—well, really quite engaging to watch once, but I feel no need to watch it again. Still, some of it will linger.

Then—Smart People. I was disappointed—well, except for when Ellen Page was on screen. (I find it very difficult to be disappointed by Page.) The developments were okay, but there wasn’t enough justification for any of it. The relationship between the two main characters—I don’t understand the why of it. Besides the weird thrall of a former professor. Thomas Hayden Church was worth watching, besides Page. But—huh? Even the professor’s son, a very underdeveloped character—out of the blue he sells a poem to the New Yorker? Um. Okay. It was extreme-lite The Squid and the Whale. I loved The Squid and the Whale. This, not so much. Plus, they didn't seem so smart.

The rest of this weekend really revolves around Daniel Deronda. I just finished the penultimate book of the novel. I am taking some time before jumping into the rest of it—it’s hit me with such an extreme force. I both dread writing my final paper, and can’t wait to jump into it. How to touch this monument?