Tag Archives: shakespeare

The American Tragedy

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If I were to have dinner with anyone living or dead, I would choose Jafar Panahi, the Iranian director of The White Balloon (1995), This is Not a Film (2011), Taxi (2015) and this year’s It Was Just An Accident. Even though Mr. Panahi speaks no English and I speak no Farsi, I believe there would understanding through his entrancingly beautiful films and the humility he shows in every interview I know.

Jafar Panahi silently aghast of the Shark Tank Guy

Mr. Panahi and I would talk about films and books, living in this chaotic world and the American Tragedy. Mr. Panahi understands that there is no such thing as the American Dream, no success story of rising to the top of the capitalistic ladder, that there is only tragedy, a sacrificing of everything for personal greed.

Daniel Day Lewis’ portrayal of the American Tragedy

This tragic tale has been told throughout Western history – from Aeschylus’ Agamemnon slaughtered by his wife, Clytemnestra, through Scotland’s Macbeth beheaded by Duncan to the American’s Daniel Plainview sitting in blood and piss – each furiously violent stories of how the attainment of power leaves you desolate and dead.

Yes, Macbeth, those trees are moving coming for you.

The fates of Gates, Zuckerberg and Musk are not hard to determine; like Trump, the bitter and ignominious final chapter is coming fast. None of us will be sad. Mr. Panahi and I would laugh and nod about that and then talk about better things, films to come and maybe even of one day living in a tolerant and empathetic world 

Hoping There’s Nothing Behind the Curtain

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How noble in reason, How infinite in faculty…In apprehension, how like a god, The paragon of animals. As much as Hamlet’s self reflection glows at the outset, it slumps in the end. What is this quintessence of dust? No, man delights me not; no, nor woman neither.

Everyone, each and every one of us, disappoints in the end, not just our government lying and hoarding, but our family and friends not there, our nearest and dearest terribly sorry that they forgot, or worst of all, me and you, looking back at each other cow-eyed.

This isn’t so much the big things – the state-sponsored murders and collapse of world order – but more the moments that we hold tight, that made us realize the essential sham, for me, the Mad Hatter themed birthday party I went to when I was ten, the promise of food-fighting madness turning out to be being yelled at as our Redi-Whip sodden plates flopped to the ground, or visiting the CHUM radio station for my contest prize and being directed to pick out an LP from a discard box in the corner. This was victory.

Disappointments continue unabated not because I am a failing writer nor my failures in relationships nor even my success at getting fired but because of what this is, a demanding vortex that surrenders nothing but more days to witness everything go to hell. The good news is that, like the song says, The first cut is the deepest. More of the same is on the way. I would only say that it’s best to keep the curtain closed; if there’s anything back there, it’s a pestilent old man, and he wants to rape you.

Ode to Iverson: “We’re talking about practice.”

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It’s not often an athlete waxes any eloquence, more rarely so as Shakespearean in their use of repetition as Allen Iverson was some 10 years ago. “We’re talking about practice. Not a game, not a game, not a game. We’re talking about practice.” Ode to Iverson: "We're talking about practice."“Not a game, not the game that I go out there and die for and play every game like it’s my last. Not the game. We’re talking about practice, man.”

The Eternal Complainers

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It’s one thing to be self-reflective – what a fine and therapeutic thing that is! – but entirely another to brood and whine so exhaustively that no one is willing to suffer your lamentations nor even bear your presence. That said, it is a great vehicle for a story. Truly, many of our most oft-quoted heroes are little more than bitter complainers who just need to be heard. (Note that they are all men.)

5. Ivanov (Anton Chekov, Ivanov) An overly dramatic fellow who really is a jerk to everyone around him, but he doesn’t know why and he really does seem to care, so much so that he takes it out on himself in the end.      ivanovIf an intelligent, educated, and healthy man begins to complain of his lot and go down-hill, there is nothing for him to do but to go on down until he reaches the bottom–there is no hope for him.

4. Josef K (Franz Kafka, The Trial) There is no doubt that Josef K has reason to complain – horribly treated by everyone around him, resulting in his inevitable abandonment and death – but what a depressing collection of thoughts! josef kYes, that’s the conspiracy: to persuade us all that the whole world is crazy, formless, meaningless, absurd. That’s the dirty game. So I’ve lost my case. What of it? You, you’re losing too. It’s all lost, lost. So what? Does that sentence the entire universe to lunacy?

3. Alvy SInger (Woody Allen, Annie Hall) A very funny neurotic to be sure, but it’s not hard to understand why Annie finally moved across the country to get away from him. alvyI’m obsessed with uh, with death, I think. Big – big subject with me, yeah. I have a very pessimistic view of life. You should know this about me if we’re gonna go out. You know, I – I feel that life is – is divided up into the horrible and the miserable.

2. Holden Caulfield (J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye) A spoiled, selfish know-it-all who somehow holds the key to decent society. Kill all of the phonies. Indeed. holdenIt was that kind of a crazy afternoon, terrifically cold, and no sun out or anything, and you felt like you were disappearing every time you crossed a road.

1. Hamlet (Willy Shakespeare, Hamlet) A most moody fellow, profound in thought and discourse, not so great on doing anything – except for royally fucking everything up. hamletWhat a piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and admirable, in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god! the beauty of the world, the paragon of animals—and yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust?

Are We Worth It?

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In the film I’m Still Here (see yesterday’s blog), Joaquin Phoenix presents himself as a vile, cruel and vindictive drunk.  It doesn’t come across as a joke, but a dark challenge to humanity, asking the chilling question: How bad can we be?

If There Is I Haven’t Found It Yet, a recently opened Off-Broadway play by Nick Payne, examines this question as well. The fatherly academic George underlines his dim view of a species that willfully destroys its own world by directly asking, “Are we worth it?” The audience is left empty and doubtful too after witnessing the characters, including Jake Gyllenhaal’s most profane Terry, drift around in their sad isolation, as the stage floods from our suicidal global warming — depressing stuff indeed.

This isn’t anything new. Our storytellers have gone at our damaged and demented psyche from the beginning – including Aeschylus’ The Oresteia and Shakespeare’s  The Merchant of Venice – right through to this not-so-sunny day. The message is always the same: we’re just not that great.A similar malaise permeates my novel, My Bad Side. No matter how much we have – and that’s the goal, isn’t it? – we’re still stuck with the knowledge that we’re just not worth that much. As Crystal states: I drink too much. I have a problem with it. But so fucking what? Everyone’s got something. Everyone’s dragged down by something. There isn’t much of anything in this life but pain and tears. The Greeks said it. Shakespeare said it. Salinger said it. Fucking everyone. That’s just what we have in this life, Anne-Lynn, a few moments of happiness and the rest is suffering and death. That’s life.

Uh…yeah, well, maybe we should just forget all of that for now.  Everything’s cool., right? And it’s Friday! Time to party.