Mittwoch, Januar 31, 2007
Sing, sing blog-O!
Okay, sorry about the unreadable "blog entries" that are so un-blogworthy. By the way, that could totally be a P.G. Wodehouse name, couldn't it? Rupert Blogworthy. Horatio Simpkin-Blogworthy, known about the club as Blotto. Horatio "Bloggo" Blogworthy. Poor Bloggo. A truly superb and giving blighter, one of the best, but bound more tightly than most to fortune's wheel.
a perlocution is what an utterance does
I never quite got into the kinds of illocutionary force I think Twain's n-word might be taken to have. The thing to do is, I imagine, to categorize the perlocutionary effects - the impacts the text has - and work back from them to theorize those illocutionary forces. For instance, some possible perlocutions would be:
- a generalized, non-specific, perhaps physical feeling of disgust
- a feeling of disgust aimed at the fictional speaker
- a feeling of disgust aimed at the "author of Huckleberry Finn"
- a feeling of disgust aimed at "Mark Twain"
- a feeling of disgust aimed at the vocalizer (if the book is read aloud)
- a feeling of disgust aimed at the teacher
- a feeling of disgust aimed at the school
- a feeling of disgust aimed at the American educational system in general
- a feeling of disgust aimed at white America
- a feeling of disgust aimed at the white America of some specific era
- any of the above, with disgust replaced with disappointment, delight, confusion, etc.
- a feeling of self-loathing
- and skipping over many other possible types of disgust...
- shame of any number of kinds
- a feeling of superiority of any number of kinds
- true indifference (which is perhaps not a perlocution at all, but is in any case rare)
- a sense of willful indifference
- shock
- curiosity
- anger
- a conscious argument regarding the moral meaning of the word's appearance
- a vocalized response, such as saying "I will not read another word of this!"
- a physical response, such as leaving the room or closing the book or leafing through the book
This is clearly wholly incomplete and perhaps skewed in one direction or another. But they all rather beg the question, What "made" the reader or hearer do this? The short answer is, the words. But this brings us to the heart of speech act theory's investigations - how do words do things? I would suggest the average unsophisticated reader (I won't bother at the moment to make claims for the sophisticated ones) is only capable of being impacted so powerfully because he feels he is in a lively, living conversation with somebody when he is reading. This somebody is surely not the actual historical person Samuel Clemens, but he may be part of it, as may his public persona, as may a more non-specific "author of Huck Finn," as may the teacher who assigned the book, the school that hired the teacher, the "system" that sets the school's rules, and so on and so on. The "author," whatever that is, clearly lives in the emotional life of the reader as he reads.
Once we have established that the reader is, or believes himself to be, in a conversation, we can look more systematically at the (already systematized) varieties of illocution and find out just what the reader might think the writer is trying to do (to him(?)).
This is not to attempt to undermine the logic of "the death of the author," or of historicist reconstructions of the author. I follow and generally approve of these arguments. It is an attempt instead to get at the reader's powerful, perhaps indelible sense of an author. Why do people idolize or abhor authors? When they idolize, abhor or have some more nuanced opinion, who or what is it that they have this opinion of?
Dienstag, Januar 30, 2007
illocutionary force is the way utterances do things
I've done a lot more reading since I last appeared. I would say my opinion of theory is becoming more nuanced. I am still struck by how some things that seem quite interesting and readable are considered on par with things that seem utterly awful and pointlessly convoluted. But I have also come to see that I am far from alone in my concerns, and am not joined in them only by the Neanderthals and paleoconservatives, if that's not redundant. I am beginning to feel that it might be possible to both detest some theory and be engaged seriously and vigorously with some other theory - that there may after all be a baby somewhere in this bathwater.
As I'm thinking about trying to get into a good school, I've been thinking about paper ideas as I've been reading. For those of you who might be able to follow this, my broad notion is to look at how one can apply speech act theory to fiction in such a way as to account for the undying popularity of the conviction that the author is not in fact dead - for the fact that many people develop strong affections or even stronger aversions for authors as much as, or more than, for their books. The idea is to look at how your average, unsophisticated reader might take a text to be a series of utterances by the author, utterances each with its own particular illocutionary force and therefore a personal act by the author. This illocutionary force would usually be indirect, I should think, and in blander sections might amount simply to, "I, the author of this text, assert that character A says: "You're the potato!" with, of course, "You're the potato!" being the printed text.
But I was thinking of the rather more interesting example of the use of the word "nigger" in Huckleberry Finn. Reams have been written about this from a moralizing perspective, but as far as I have seen so far, no one has "theorized" what exactly goes on when an unsophisicated reader reads one of the 203 passages with this word in it. I think few would dispute that it is something personal, and I would like to explore the ways in which it is experienced as a personal confrontation with Mark Twain or with "the author of Huckleberry Finn" or whatever.
Add to the mix, by the way, that most people in America have experienced this book as spoken language - given that it is generally read aloud in class. Indeed, it may be the most common experience of read-aloud literature in this country. I don't know if this is a welcome complication or not, given that, as I said, I'm trying to theorize the reader's experience, but as I say you must add it to the mix. When it is read aloud, is it experienced as the words and illocutionary acts of "the author," or of "the vocalizer," or as something else entirely?
By the way, speaking of the baby in the bathwater, I read Huckleberry Finn for the first time since childhood after reading a critical account of it, and was struck by two things. One, the common conviction that the critics missed the point, or perhaps rather that one cannot forget that the criticism of a text, however detailed or incisive, cannot in any way stand in for the text. The other, and this I should say became a developing feeling afterward as I read more criticism, was that while some were clearly off the mark, many on both sides had very good points, and being intellectually honest required admitting to that. I decided I in no way envy those who try to decide whether to teach this book to children, and left it at that.
As I'm thinking about trying to get into a good school, I've been thinking about paper ideas as I've been reading. For those of you who might be able to follow this, my broad notion is to look at how one can apply speech act theory to fiction in such a way as to account for the undying popularity of the conviction that the author is not in fact dead - for the fact that many people develop strong affections or even stronger aversions for authors as much as, or more than, for their books. The idea is to look at how your average, unsophisticated reader might take a text to be a series of utterances by the author, utterances each with its own particular illocutionary force and therefore a personal act by the author. This illocutionary force would usually be indirect, I should think, and in blander sections might amount simply to, "I, the author of this text, assert that character A says: "You're the potato!" with, of course, "You're the potato!" being the printed text.
But I was thinking of the rather more interesting example of the use of the word "nigger" in Huckleberry Finn. Reams have been written about this from a moralizing perspective, but as far as I have seen so far, no one has "theorized" what exactly goes on when an unsophisicated reader reads one of the 203 passages with this word in it. I think few would dispute that it is something personal, and I would like to explore the ways in which it is experienced as a personal confrontation with Mark Twain or with "the author of Huckleberry Finn" or whatever.
Add to the mix, by the way, that most people in America have experienced this book as spoken language - given that it is generally read aloud in class. Indeed, it may be the most common experience of read-aloud literature in this country. I don't know if this is a welcome complication or not, given that, as I said, I'm trying to theorize the reader's experience, but as I say you must add it to the mix. When it is read aloud, is it experienced as the words and illocutionary acts of "the author," or of "the vocalizer," or as something else entirely?
By the way, speaking of the baby in the bathwater, I read Huckleberry Finn for the first time since childhood after reading a critical account of it, and was struck by two things. One, the common conviction that the critics missed the point, or perhaps rather that one cannot forget that the criticism of a text, however detailed or incisive, cannot in any way stand in for the text. The other, and this I should say became a developing feeling afterward as I read more criticism, was that while some were clearly off the mark, many on both sides had very good points, and being intellectually honest required admitting to that. I decided I in no way envy those who try to decide whether to teach this book to children, and left it at that.
Montag, Januar 08, 2007
pix and panz!
Pick: the 2005 Pride & Prejudice, with Keira Knightley, Donald Sutherland, Brenda Blethyn, Matthew Macfadyen and Judi Dench.
I was in the mood for this kind of romantic thing, and it paid off, though not exactly in the way I expected. The piece was shot very artfully, capturing somewhat the capital R Romantic sense of sublimity. Macfayden as Mr. Darcy was ugly-handsome and utterly convincing as a man whose shyness makes him appear rude. Knightley I thought was actually quite good and committed to her character, which was made more impressive my the DVD-add-on interview that showed her to be quite unlike her character, particularly in the sense of being clearly painted with her own contemporaneity. And this was one of the strongest points of the film - that it was relatively short on anachronistic speech and manners (though there were a couple of moments). Other than the fact that we have all had it up to here with Dench and her fright-wig queen/member of nobility/M, nothing turned me off about this film. It made me happy and wistful.
Pan: the 2005 Syriana, with George Clooney, Christopher Plummer, Chris Cooper, Matt Damon, Amanda Peet, others.
Truly gawdawful. Embarrassing. One of the worst movies I've ever seen, and I've seen Booty Call. I don't know why we didn't hear more about the fact that this is not just an apologia for terrorism, but a pretty clear if juvenile support of terrorism. There seem to be no limits to oversimplification for this intended-to-be-smart movie. The thing is so heavy with conspiracy theories that the filmmakers decided a plot would be an extravagance. Rather than any real attempt at the characterization of people, we have unashamed puppet theatrics, with everyone playing symbolic roles a-la Pilgrim's Progress.
Some absolutely shameful attempts at developing character:
*Clooney's CIA character eats with his son, who says he lies for a living (we never see or hear about the son again, so we are left to wonder why he put half a thing of Thai hot sauce on his noodles and then walked out without even trying them or asking for a box)
*Token black man's father shows up drunk on his son's doorstep. He eyes his son meaningfully. He shows up on the doorstep again. He throws his son the finger. His son picks him up off the floor of the bar. More meaningful eye contact. (And that's it. Apparently drunk dad is the moral voice of an oppressed race, offended by son's unprincipled behavior.)
*Damon's son is electrocuted by faulty lights in a Saudi Prince's pool. This is apparently a plot device that explains his being radicalized into the good kind of radical, who dreams impossible dreams. At the end of the movie, he returns home to wife and other child, apparently unperturbed. (There is "more" to this, but one is largely left wondering what the fuck any of Damon's backstory has to do with him or the plot, though the wiser ones among (viz. my wife) stop hoping that any of this will make dramatic sense pretty early in the film.)
And that is the most sophisticated character development in the film. Imagine the less sophisticated stuff.
Talk about giving the Hollywood liberal a bad name. I have not seen Good Night and Good Luck, but if Clooney could make this one and critics could praise it, I can't imagine GNGL is anything but gagworthy.
Now you must understand, I am liberal. Really, really liberal. I'm quite sure oil companies and other richies exert tremendous power over our administration and therefore over the intelligence agencies and the military. I'm not saying there aren't any conspiracies. I'm saying that if you're not going to utterly demean the possibility that there are conspiracies, you simply must try harder than this.
And about the terrorism thing... yes, the movie does show the terrorists being brainwashed by a guy playing soccer with them and telling them they're all brothers, but the overall logic of the film, in so far as there is any, appears to prove that the suicide bomber's final act is rather noble. They destroy a new oil facility, run by the totally evil (I'm not making this name up) Connex-Killen (italics mine, although probably an unnecessary Mad Magazinish gesture). C-K is evil, the lawyers employed by C-K are corrupted by evil, the intelligence folks who help out C-K are evil, the military that is in cahoots with the intelligence folks is evil. Damon and Clooney try to do good but are thwarted by the greater powers that be. Only our precious terrorists really manage to do a positive good.
One other amusing thing: according to these versions of the conspiracy theories, the heads of the Arab oil countries are the dupes of the U.S.-centered multinationals and the U.S. government. And when I say dupes, I mean they are DUMB. Damon suggests to the Saudi prince that instead of shipping oil around the Arabian peninsula he pipe it across Iran (again, not kidding). The Saudi prince reacts not only by apparently thinking this is a fantastic idea but, more significantly, acting like he's never thought of this before. Note to movie makers: if your plot turns at all on someone coming up with a brilliant idea, realize that it's not okay for that idea to be incredibly obvious/stupid.
I was in the mood for this kind of romantic thing, and it paid off, though not exactly in the way I expected. The piece was shot very artfully, capturing somewhat the capital R Romantic sense of sublimity. Macfayden as Mr. Darcy was ugly-handsome and utterly convincing as a man whose shyness makes him appear rude. Knightley I thought was actually quite good and committed to her character, which was made more impressive my the DVD-add-on interview that showed her to be quite unlike her character, particularly in the sense of being clearly painted with her own contemporaneity. And this was one of the strongest points of the film - that it was relatively short on anachronistic speech and manners (though there were a couple of moments). Other than the fact that we have all had it up to here with Dench and her fright-wig queen/member of nobility/M, nothing turned me off about this film. It made me happy and wistful.
Pan: the 2005 Syriana, with George Clooney, Christopher Plummer, Chris Cooper, Matt Damon, Amanda Peet, others.
Truly gawdawful. Embarrassing. One of the worst movies I've ever seen, and I've seen Booty Call. I don't know why we didn't hear more about the fact that this is not just an apologia for terrorism, but a pretty clear if juvenile support of terrorism. There seem to be no limits to oversimplification for this intended-to-be-smart movie. The thing is so heavy with conspiracy theories that the filmmakers decided a plot would be an extravagance. Rather than any real attempt at the characterization of people, we have unashamed puppet theatrics, with everyone playing symbolic roles a-la Pilgrim's Progress.
Some absolutely shameful attempts at developing character:
*Clooney's CIA character eats with his son, who says he lies for a living (we never see or hear about the son again, so we are left to wonder why he put half a thing of Thai hot sauce on his noodles and then walked out without even trying them or asking for a box)
*Token black man's father shows up drunk on his son's doorstep. He eyes his son meaningfully. He shows up on the doorstep again. He throws his son the finger. His son picks him up off the floor of the bar. More meaningful eye contact. (And that's it. Apparently drunk dad is the moral voice of an oppressed race, offended by son's unprincipled behavior.)
*Damon's son is electrocuted by faulty lights in a Saudi Prince's pool. This is apparently a plot device that explains his being radicalized into the good kind of radical, who dreams impossible dreams. At the end of the movie, he returns home to wife and other child, apparently unperturbed. (There is "more" to this, but one is largely left wondering what the fuck any of Damon's backstory has to do with him or the plot, though the wiser ones among (viz. my wife) stop hoping that any of this will make dramatic sense pretty early in the film.)
And that is the most sophisticated character development in the film. Imagine the less sophisticated stuff.
Talk about giving the Hollywood liberal a bad name. I have not seen Good Night and Good Luck, but if Clooney could make this one and critics could praise it, I can't imagine GNGL is anything but gagworthy.
Now you must understand, I am liberal. Really, really liberal. I'm quite sure oil companies and other richies exert tremendous power over our administration and therefore over the intelligence agencies and the military. I'm not saying there aren't any conspiracies. I'm saying that if you're not going to utterly demean the possibility that there are conspiracies, you simply must try harder than this.
And about the terrorism thing... yes, the movie does show the terrorists being brainwashed by a guy playing soccer with them and telling them they're all brothers, but the overall logic of the film, in so far as there is any, appears to prove that the suicide bomber's final act is rather noble. They destroy a new oil facility, run by the totally evil (I'm not making this name up) Connex-Killen (italics mine, although probably an unnecessary Mad Magazinish gesture). C-K is evil, the lawyers employed by C-K are corrupted by evil, the intelligence folks who help out C-K are evil, the military that is in cahoots with the intelligence folks is evil. Damon and Clooney try to do good but are thwarted by the greater powers that be. Only our precious terrorists really manage to do a positive good.
One other amusing thing: according to these versions of the conspiracy theories, the heads of the Arab oil countries are the dupes of the U.S.-centered multinationals and the U.S. government. And when I say dupes, I mean they are DUMB. Damon suggests to the Saudi prince that instead of shipping oil around the Arabian peninsula he pipe it across Iran (again, not kidding). The Saudi prince reacts not only by apparently thinking this is a fantastic idea but, more significantly, acting like he's never thought of this before. Note to movie makers: if your plot turns at all on someone coming up with a brilliant idea, realize that it's not okay for that idea to be incredibly obvious/stupid.
Dienstag, Januar 02, 2007
Obscene pickles
In one of those odd coincidences, I was reminded by something I read last night that nihilism and aestheticism - the topics, in a way, of my last post - have often walked hand in hand. The obvious example is Matthew Arnold, who as we know saw art as the last best hope of those who had lost their faith in everything else. I have called myself an aesthete in the past based on similar reasoning, which I guess you can also find in Wallace Stevens.
I don't like to write these awfully lengthy posts, and I won't add another tonight. But there are definitely more points I'd like to make about theory. In particular, I'd like to ask myself how exactly one goes about writing criticism in the absence of theory. Looking back on my undergrad years, I remember I was actually quite troubled by questions about what's worth committing to paper. But more on that later.
I don't like to write these awfully lengthy posts, and I won't add another tonight. But there are definitely more points I'd like to make about theory. In particular, I'd like to ask myself how exactly one goes about writing criticism in the absence of theory. Looking back on my undergrad years, I remember I was actually quite troubled by questions about what's worth committing to paper. But more on that later.
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