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Nope, I'm not talking Camus.  I'm talking Tarsem.

Last night I went with a friend of mine to see The Fall, a movie done by Tarsem Singh, the maker of The Cell.  Now, I wasn't a huge fan of The Cell, beautiful movie but weird as hell, and I wasn't really all that good at analyzing movies at the time, so I didn't get much out of it.

For this movie though, I had high hopes.  Why?  It has the same sort of surreal and fantastical look to it, but the story is very straightforward and beautiful.  The real world half of the story may have been a little predictable, but I forgive that because of how emotional it was.  My friend complained of being hit over the head with the message, but I think it really worked.

The movie centers around a little immigrant girl named Alexandria who has fallen and broken her arm and is staying at a hospital.  The movie follows her, and everything is seen basically from her perspective.  By chance she meets a man at the hospital, Pushing Daisies' Lee Pace, who has also fallen and injured himself.  He starts telling her a story about five bandits who are out to kill the evil Governor Odius.  What she doesn't know is that he's using the story to manipulate her into helping him.

The problem is that what he wants to do is kill himself.  Obviously he doesn't tell her that, but all the adults know he is suicidal.  There is a lot of talk of suicide and that's why my friend felt like she was being hit over the head with it.  But the reason I think it worked was because we were supposed to be seeing things through Alexandria.  And when you are a child dealing with issues way to adult for you to comprehend, no amount of hearing about them is going to make you understand.  You're slightly aware of these words and feelings floating around in some space, but it doesn't make sense and you kind of just keep chugging along kind of blindly.

At least, that's how my childhood often felt.

If this had been merely a story of how the light of a child saves the life of a man in despair, it would have been boring.  But it's much more complex than that.  It's almost more about her than it is about him.  I think it was a brilliant movie and was worth going to see.  If you don't get this in time to catch it in theaters, make sure you get a hold of it when it comes out on DVD.

Not to mention, the movie was absolutely breathtakingly beautiful, especially the way it wove the real world into the imaginary one with incredible tact and beauty.

Science Friday Archives: The Happening

This is one of only two NPR programs I listen to regularly, and while I occasionally find it a little "soft on science" it is generally well produced and presented.

That's why the recent segment allowing Mr. Shyamalan to flog his new movie "The Happening" was surprisingly bad. Evidently Mr. Shyamalan believes we must stop expecting Science to save the day, embrace our ignorance, and find God in all his many and multifarious disasters.

From bees to storms, Mr. Shyamalan blithely rattled off some failings of modern Science (as he sees them) and then reminded Mr. Flatow that Einstein started out life as a non-believer, but was a wholly religious man toward the end of his life.

Unfortunately, Mr. Flatow only corrected his most baldly false assertion, but was unable or unwilling to engage him on his larger agenda. The anti-science pro-Jeebus lobbies are indeed poisoning the well, infiltrating public schools, and, of course, getting prime airtime to flog unreleased films on NPR's Science Friday. 

I pray for America's brain.

RNA is the center of the biological paradigm. Since systems that thrive on complexity are sustained via regulatory mechanisms it seems pragmatic for the cells control center to exist within a sensitive web of interactions that governs the interaction between the two poles, DNA and protein.

As far a disease goes, treating it is like sitting in the middle of the ocean on a dingy with golf ball size hole in the bottom, and trying to use a small pail to remove the inflowing water; I would much rather plug the hole. RNA seems to be that hole. 

As a lay person it seems practical to believe the body is a stagnant mass of cells. Since we do not regularly encounter the cells that we are losing so frequently, but why should we assume that evolution is limited to the confines of inter-organism interactions. What if, our body is evolving at the same rate as a bacterium. If the most simple organisms can evolve at the most rapid rates from a physical standpoint, maybe complex organisms are undergoing an equally rapid evolution; one whose manifestation is only visible over a larger span of time. Plants that have complexity analogous to that of humans are able to use the same tools in a different way, one that maintains control and implements it's effects more efficiently. Direct methylation in the absence of dosha complexes seems pragmatic for organisms that don’t have two way movement and closed circulatory systems.

This is still on oversimplification, based on the assumption that there is uniformity amongst organisms. Traditional science has been prefaced by a very Newtonian view on the world. A world where physical phenomena can be quantified analyzed and reproduced in very elegant mathematical functions. Biology, however, proved to be the anomaly to this physics based view. Or is it? In the world of science, practicality and extrapolation beyond the obvious is the trump card that has yet to be played. While mathematical simplicity has been abandoned for non-linear methods of analysis – the most basic suppositions have prevailed. Logic, as opposed to randomness has been the cornerstone of scientific analysis. For, without logic how would one go about producing the experimental setups and ultimately “fact based” deductions from said experiments? We make sense of the world based on one fundamental assumption – observation is fact. We mustn’t forget this assumption as we move to abandon the world of simplicity in search of truth. Truth, in my experience is multifaceted yet uniform in its variability. This statement is trite yet true. For truth is the epitome of multifarious. If truth were on object with a multitude of sides ,of equal size its variability would be so profound that it would appear to be a circle because truth itself is so multifaceted that time is only one of those many "faces" or contortions. When we limit ourselves to reason, we must remember to use it – uniformly; as truth is the final sum obtained by the integration of all variables in the function (this is no partial derivative.)

The recent film trilogy Cube , Cube 2: Hypercube and Cube Zero were evidently remakes of an old television play called (trapped in a) Cube.

The original TV Cube is on YouTube, 53 low fidelity minutes, worth every one.

The first Cube film was quite gripping and high tech and makes good use of math as a plot element. Cube 2: Hypercube went a bit far in the thriller/horror sense, but you'll want to see it if you liked Cube. I haven't seen Cube Zero.

Other films featuring higher math and physics as part of the plot are Primer and Aronofsky's Pi.

My Mom forwarded me an email about how most consumers will spend their rebate checks on goods made in and profiting the foreign economies. I believe it said the only ways to keep it in the US Economy was to spend it on gambling, cigarettes, or prostitution. But, there are in fact many ways we can consciously spend this money and assist in stimulating our Own Economy. Who else is going to do it? Not one man or one woman....All of Us will have to do our part in order for the stimulus package to accomplish the goal of actually Stimulating the US Economy. I wouldn't have minded a brief note from the Government on how they thought the money would best be utilized....I'm left on my own to figure it out.

Here's what I've got so far, feel free to comment with more ideas:

- Pay off bills/debts with government/municipalites: this would be parking tickets, electric bills, property taxes, estimated tax payments, etc. Money that helps the cities, states and country that we live in Function.

- Take a vacation on the Amtrak trains: my favorite memories of my childhood are of me and my Mom taking the train from Chicago to Seattle, L. A., Las Vegas (Mom refused to fly) and having the times of My Life! I made pen pals (remember those?) and saw the landscapes of our Beautiful Country. Aside from putting some money into our very own local transportation systems it eliminates the need to buy your own gasoline (at these astronomical prices) or fret over the Krazy Airlines. (sidenote: May 10th is National Train Day, google it or go to Amtrak.com

- Donate (some of) it to a Museum. Preferably one that houses the history of your own ancestry or of your passion (art, music, science, history) They are often very under funded and if You don't do it, who will??

- Go to a farmer's market...or if you can, go to a Real Farm Market (those little storefronts on the edge of Lush Acerage!): Buy their produce, milk, juice, eggs, plants, seedlings, whatever they've got! They need our help and We Need Our Farmers.

- Get a MakeOver: Beauty and Nails Salons, staples of the US Small Businesses buy and spend operational dollars locally. And we could all use a fresh face after such a torturously long winter, dontcha think?

While you mull that over...grab a couple o' hookers, a carton of Marlboro's and hop the next plane to Vegas Baby!!! Yeah!

This brilliant video mashup is an old favorite of mine.
The unforgettable Wickersham Brothers song is a little less than half way through.

Here's the ZenFilms link to play it online.

SYNOPSIS - Using the voices of George W. Bush, Powell, Rumsfeld and Howard Beal (from the 1976 film, “Network”) this modern adaptation seamlessly weaves Suess’ whimsical characters with sound bytes from current events.

The existing political themes of voter apathy in the original cartoon are echoed strongly by the film “Network” - where Howard Beal rants, “I’m as mad as hell and I’m not going to take it anymore!” In Horton Hears a Human, the Professor attempts to enlighten the masses that live on a speck of dust; thus convincing them that there is a much bigger world outside of their own lives.
....

She sits, as I would, uninterested.
When she is not careful,
Peals of laughter escape her,
Her eyes become bright,
And her teeth shine the color of milk.

She stares, as I would, ahead.
When she is sleeping,
Her eyes dance the tango,
Those lips of silk rest slightly parted,
And her fingers curl in sync with her dream.

She cries, as I would, shamefully. 
When she is sobbing,
Heaves of emotion pour from her,
Her arms hug each other,
And she curls into herself.

She loves, as I would, freely.
When in the throes,
Damp hair clings to her neck,
Her chant reaches God Banaitja,
And she rests on air.

She fights, as I would, valiantly.
When thrusting her sword,
Emphasis of honesty rings from the tower,
Her body bears bruises,
And she nearly faints from exhaustion.

She pretends, as I would, carefully.
When lying to herself,
Lines are drawn, plan are made,
Her heart begins to withdraw,
And her moat is built.

She is, as I am, Me.

At eighteen, too skinny for my parent's liking with bleach blond dreadlocks, I traveled to Armenia, the birth place of my mother, to meet my eldest brother who was writing a piece for the travel guide Lonely Planet.  Having recently graduated from high school, I had outgrown my life, and was tired of all the games kids my age were playing.  There was a world to see.  My boyfriend left me at the airport, with a kiss and a squeeze of the hand; the same hand that later bruised his cheek and crushed his heart.

After a week or so in Armenia, the high altitude got to me and I became calm and tranquil.  Svetlana, our hostess, bathed me in her maternal care, and I gladly wallowed in it.  Slowly I began eating again, and found myself smiling more and more, sitting by the side of this plump, round faced woman.  She would spend hours in the kitchen preparing dinner for the evening as I poured over my Russian-English dictionary, talking to her, telling her about myself in one word phrases.  The apartment building where we were staying was in the good part of Yerevan, where blackouts only occured once a week, and water shortages only every other day.  This was the good side of town.

I had arranged to go see a friend of the family's by calling a number my mother had given me for the Armenian Ambassador.  The line was faint as I sang into the phone our desire to meet this man, both my brother and I.  We took a taxi, and I dressed in the best clothes I could find in my pile of jeans and t-shirts.  I had pulled my dreadlocks back, and packed extra cigarettes to offer as gifts to these people whom I only knew through speaking with on the crackling phone line in broken English and Russian. 

Our  new friends had invited us for dinner, and by the time we arrived to the house in the suburbs, it was dusk.  A chill descended upon my shoulders like a shawl, and I saw that my brother was nervous, attempting not showing it.  The taxi stopped, and motioned for us to get out.  As we did, we saw the vast expanse of the dirt road, with no street lights shrouding it.  There was a tall man in a black trench coat waiting at the designated corner of the rendez-vous.  Were we safe?

We had no choice but to conquer our hesitation and approach the man.  The taxi had moved on, and the man's focus was on us.  He started walking toward us with a decided step.  We met him half way in the road, and he motioned with a jerk of his head for us to follow him as he mumbled something unintelligable in gruff Russian.  We trailed in his footsteps like skulking animals, following him up to the apartment where our hosts were waiting.

Walking into this home, we were overwhelmed by the sight of very bizarre looking people.  The diplomat sat in the high chair in the living room as a king would take to his throne, with his wife behind him, and his two daughters flanking his seat.  There were several men in the room, slouching against the faded flower-printed wall paper.  We were welcomed with forced smiles, exclamations, and hand shakes.  I was given premium Russian Malboro cigarettes, and in exchange I offered them my American equivalent.  We sat, drank, and smoked in semi-silence until it was time to be seated at the large table that was burdened with the weight of several cakes, large dishes full of Eastern European delights, salads, and pyramids of bread.  A eight course meal all at once.  All this for 8 people.  So much food.

My brother and I ate whilst the others watched us.  It was eerie.  Finally, after we had been fed like livestock, out came the Cognac.  And it flowed.  Within half an hour of drinking, the akward silence broke; the large, intimidating men started smoking again, and the women looked less like abused children, and more like their former beautiful selves.  The men, I deciphered, were sons of the diplomat.  The younger one was burly like an ox, and did not stop staring at me, as though I were an alien from the farthest reaches of the world.  The couple sitting to my right were the son and daughter in law of the diplomat.  Her makeup looked as though she had applied it in the dark, preparing for a stage performance.  He was drunk.  He leaned over to me and whisphered something in bad English.  I could not understand.  I sought out my brother to translate.

"He asked if you smoke marajuana."  My brother said, his cheeks flushed from the liquor.

I turned my head and enthusiastically nodded, "Yes!"

"Come, then."  And off the couple and I trotted to their bedroom.  We opened the window, and leaned out, the three of us squeezing our torsos out to the fresh air like teenagers trying to avoid getting caught.  He lit a joint, and we started passing it back and forth.  

"KGB, I was KGB, now I get good stuff," he waved the joint in his hand, grinning ear to ear.  

"KGB?" I was floored.  The weed was good, I was stoned, and I was smoking up with a KGB agent.  I looked around to the dark night; I wanted to remember this for a very long time.

"My father get me job, KGB, I work, had gun.  Very good."  His wife was nodding, obviously very proud of her darling man.

I was so astonished.  I remember looking at his face and wondering what he had seen, and done, during those years of the Soviet realm.  The years of tyranny.  Had they been married when he was tearing the souls from his fellow country men?  Did he crawl into her bed at night, seeking her warmth and soft touch?  Did he have nightmares, did he cry? 

After our peace pipe, I understood that these two had been trying to have a child, yet she could not conceive. 

"Not good, no baby, not happy," she indicated to her in laws.  "Not happy."

Not happy.  How is that, not happy?  Be happy, my sweet lady.  You are not with child, your KGB husband will  not beat your child, her sulking uncles will not molest her as she blossoms, she will  not grow up in the sorrow of a former Soviet Republic, selling her wares for a scrap of  bread.  Weep instead, for the loss of the richest country in the Soviet Republic.  Armenia was the wealthiest country in the whole area, now it is reduced to black market trade and charity.  My heart is heavy with this loss; it is heavy for my heritage that has been creamated along with the spirit of the people. 

доброй ночи Армения.