Today I read:
Monthly Archives: June 2013
Today I read:
The truth is she who was milk-white is redrawn by the man she lives with. Newfangled machinery prickles glyphs nightly into her skin. She is quilled, traced, re-lined. He hovers over the device with reverence. The machine touches her with mechanical science. Pictures unfurl, snug as a ribbon tied around her throat. The machine’s dreams of the jungle are writ into her skin; sometimes, the lion roars. The contortions of her body bares the hidden sides of her limbs. The soft white underside of her arm. The deep of her thighs. The hollow at the back of her knees, the crook of her elbows, the inside of her eyelids. Sometimes, the hummingbird pierces fruit with its bill while the horse gallops, gallops, gallops.
Sometimes my “writing” for the day amounts to changing a word and then changing it back.
Sometimes, when I’m feeling very prolific, I change it back and forth a few more times.
I’m trying to gather my thoughts about The East, but I’m failing. I may try again in a day or two, but right now, all I can say is: this is what I want to be when I grow up.
No, not an eco-terrorist or a double agent. I want to write the kind of subtle, human genre stories Brit Marling so excels at. The Sound of My Voice and Another Earth (both of which Marling was involved in writing, and the latter of which she also directed) both take on science fictional themes with an intensely intimate, indie sensibility, and The East gives undercover intrigue the same treatment. What is so incredible about her work is that she takes genre subjects seriously, paring away all the overwrought trappings of bigger-budget genre films and telling speculative stories with an almost hyperrealist sensitivity and nuance. Because, as much as I love genre writing (be it SF or mystery or whatever else), and as much as I reject the distinction between “literature” and “genre writing,” the fact remains that genre stories that are about people instead of ideas is still relatively rare, in my experience. These are stories not just about neat concepts, or unique worlds, but about the human consequences of new technologies and outlandish events.
And that — that is exactly what I have been trying to do in my own writing. I don’t know how often I succeed, but it’s reassuring to know that it can be done, and done well.
If, like me, you weren’t able to make it to Amy Culter’s exhibit ‘Time, the deer, is in the wood of Hallaig’ earlier this month, you’re in luck, because she’s put up an online catalogue of all the amazing work that was on display. There are some truly stunning art and artifacts in this collection, and I am both humbled and pleased to have been included in such marvelous company.
It seems appropriate, in a way, that Haywire sat on my proverbial shelf for so long. It’s the kind of film that sneaks up on you. It’s understated, almost small, despite being a continent-hopping spy thriller.
Gina Carano stars as Mallory Kane, a spy-for-hire who is burned by her employers and sets out to find out who betrayed her. Carano doesn’t exactly have superstar verve, but she’s capable and charming and handles herself beautifully in the elaborate fight sequences.
As far as the violence in this film is concerned, it’s pretty intense. It’s not graphic, exactly, but the fights are inventive and complex and they just don’t stop. The choreography is not your average jab-jab-hook; nobody is downed with a single expedient blow. Interestingly, though, Soderbergh is fairly unsentimental about these sequences, documenting the carnage extensively without sensationalizing it too much. It was sort of refreshing to see a woman kicking ass without being overtly sexualized in exchange (with the obvious exception of a scene where Mallory chokes an opponent between her thighs). Carano’s career as an MMA fighter means that she performs her on-screen bouts in a workmanlike way — with exquisite agility, but also with total comfort, as if this is something she does as a matter of course. Which is true, both for Carano and her character Mallory.
In fact, it’s this workmanlike quality that appealed to me most about Haywire. It’s a very stylish film — in many ways, it’s very much an homage to classic ’70s espionage thrillers (a fact that is particularly evident in David Holmes’s gorgeous, brassy score) — but it’s also devoid of the showboating of some of Soderbergh’s other films. This doesn’t have the flashy charm Ocean’s 11, nor is it the high camp of Behind the Candelabra. Haywire is pared down. It gets right to business. There’s not much fussing about backstory or psychological explication. Very little time is even spent explicating the twists and turns of the plot. It treats the events of the film in much the same way Mallory herself does, as ordinary occurrences.
You might expect this to undercut the suspense in the film. After all, if Mallory trusts can handle herself, how can we ever really feel a true sense of risk in all the conflicts she endures? Well, we don’t, really. There’s never any doubt that Mallory can handle herself in a fight, or even that she’ll come out on top. But the film isn’t without tension. That tension, though, arises not from the will-she-or-won’t-she anxiety of the fight, but rather from the acute attention to detail, the way the film forces us to linger in the moment with Mallory. This is especially true of a couple of long chase sequences, one where Mallory is running down a suspect and another where she is fleeing her attackers. These scenes refuse to gloss over the action, giving us little respite: for what feels like ages, we watch Mallory run (and run and run) after her quarry; later, she walks down a sidewalk while a man tails her, and we wait and wait for the moment she will be able to break away, and it seems that moment will never come — until, finally, it does. Where another, slicker film might cut straight to the firefight, fast-forwarding to the “good bits,” so to speak, Haywire holds us in place and refuses to let us look anywhere else.
Haywire may lack some of the explosive panache of bigger studio action films, but I think that works to its advantage. This film is unassuming and subtle, but nothing short of capable. They say that’s the mark of true confidence, after all: someone who’s really skilled has no need of bravado or showing off, because their skills will speak for themselves.
Haywire (2011), dir. Steven Soderbergh. Starring Gina Carano, Channing Tatum, Ewan McGregor, Michael Fassbender, Michael Douglas, and Anthony Banderas. Currently available on Netflix Instant.
One of the consequences of a gender disparity like the one Holmes is describing is that stories about women simply aren’t readily available. It’s easy to a man to find a movie about someone (more or less) like himself, but it’s much more difficult for a woman to do. (We’ll say nothing of whether that movie, once found, is any good.) In other words, men have to, to borrow Holmes’s turn of phrase, “go out of their way to see any kind of film that’s about people other than themselves”.
In other words, the experiences (and emotions and agency and personhood) of half of the population are all too easy to ignore. Men don’t even have to work to get the impression that women aren’t real people. Hell, if the movies are to be believed, only about 30% of women are even capable of speech. As far as most mainstream viewers are concerned, women exist only as as wives and girlfriends, as props, as window-dressing.
Meanwhile, women pretty much have to do the work of empathy, if they want to watch a movie (or read a book or watch a TV show, etc). A woman might luck out and come across a story about someone a lot like her, but chances are when she sits down in front of the screen, she’ll be asked to identify with someone with whom she has next to nothing in common.
Is it any wonder, then, that studies suggest that women tend to have higher emotional intelligence than men? How could we not, when we’re required to exercise it in a way men simply aren’t by the mainstream media. This isn’t some nonsense about women’s intuition. Women are trained to empathize — not only by our elders and peers, but by the stories we consume, from the very first — while men, largely, are not.