On the revelation of the Ostmark Bell

Apparently, it wasn't just hyperbole:

The bishops...will be followed--with measured tread, as they say--by the Gauleiters, the SS officers, and the members of the Blood Order. And these will be followed by the National Socialist Catholic population, I thought. And the music will be played by our National Socialist Catholic band. The National Socialist salvos will be fired, and the National Socialist bells will toll. And if we're in luck, our National Socialist sun will shine throughout the ceremony, and if we're out of luck we'll be drenched by the National Socialist rain.

[From Thomas Bernhard's, Extinction, trans. by David McLintock, after the narrator Franz-Josef Murau sees the guest list for the funeral of his parents--who were Nazi supporters through the aftermath of World War II--and brother, at the family estate of Wolfsegg, in Austria.]

The Hans piece, part one

I'm still in the throes of revising, but here's the first section. Because I'm angry, because I have things to prove, I might post more. But it won't be complete, and I would really like readers for when it's done. Drop me a line.


This is the running joke--i.e., the Hans Story--that has existed between Sophie and me for quite a few months. It exists after the break, and it's coming to a close (and p.s, enjoy):

Sketches, May 9 - In the tone of Bernhard

On the 14th of August, already suffering from a pulmonary infection that the doctor had said might not be remediable, I joined my ex-mentor for a trip along the Dardanelles, by sea, in fact, against my doctor's wishes and much too soon for any such engagement or activity, but keeping this in mind although weakened from the same infection I joined him at a disregard for any spreading, for he had required my attention and had required such attention immediately on the 14th with no wavering. It had been too long, he had told me with a stern coolness, asking if I had been keeping up with my reading of Kant, and as much as I wished to lie I had felt invigorated too much to be in his presence and told him I had not, and without any disappointment over the fact of my neglect he had instead set a table inside the sailing vessel we were about to embark on. I had steeled myself for this discussion of Kant, for his disappointment over my not having kept up with Kant, as my ex-mentor had on his last lesson been preparing me for his discussion on Kant, on Kant's sublime and how it relates to the overall full fleshing of Kant's very specific aesthetics, of how the sublime was at the heart of his aesthetics, and thus at the heart of all aesthetics after him, how the sensation of  beauty either mechanistic or awesome was at the base the starting point for a discussion of all learned discussions on the subject of beauty after Kant, but instead he asked me where I was now living, and as I coughed once, for the sea air tickled too harshly the base of the infection, I realized instead that his scorn was about to be placed elsewhere.

Sketches, May 8 - In the tone of Markson

They showed up on a boat, as I have said, a rowboat--or maybe a dinghy--as I recall the method of conveyance was not nearly as important as its conveyees, the boy hamfisted, the girl peeling from a sun-induced rosacea, as the spinnaker flapped useless against a feckless breeze.

She was 12, he was her brother and thus older.

As it was, I had lost track of the days, or weeks, I had been adrift, and the wind stayed quiet in the channel.

Or maybe it wasn't a channel, and maybe I'd simply lost my own sense of location through the grand mush of days, undefined.

Do you have water? he asked first and I said no, Can we come aboard? he asked next, and they boarded my yacht anyway.

I say my only because, by that point, I couldn't remember if the vessel was mine, or if I was simply renting, which is to say that in the grand mush (why do I pick that phrase?), it had long been forgotten the general pretense under which the money changing hands had entirely meant.

The man I handed the wad to--friend, foe, countryman?--smelled of cigarettes and coppertone, but he was lean, and would probably live longer than I, I recalled.

Which is to say that only my bad luck would keep me from not living much longer. Bad luck being my code for pessimism and an overawareness of my physical predicament.

Our house burnt down, the boy said, or maybe he said it was their houseboat, the boy said they had been adrift for days, although they were close to land, and although the fire had not completely destroyed their previous vessel, only scarred it. It's an inevitability, the boy said, that a fire on a vessel surrounded by water would not last too long, what with the air being saturated as it is, the boy added.

The girl, who now seemed less pre-pubescent but at least 17 but gawky, clung to his shirt sleeve like a cloved pineapple, although she did not in fact touch him, although in fact she maintained a wary distance from the two of us the entire time.

Suffice it to say I did not even understand their dynamic, nor did I understand why I let them on the boat, at least while they were still dripping.

Why had I not mentioned they were still dripping, that they boarded the sailing yacht by in fact swimming over, that they hooked over the side like a pair of pirates, that the side was in fact tilted not from the wind but for the own incompetence at ballast.

We did not exchange names. Or we did, and their names were Aguirre and Finn.

Where are you going? the boy asked. About that water, the boy asked. Do you have any food? the boy asked. Do you have any pot, water, beer? the boy asked. I reminded them I had none of the above as a nonsensical matter of fact, the truth of which we both acknowledged simultaneously.

Had I mentioned I'd lost the land myself? That when I had seen it, it seemed to only exist as patches of swamp grass and crowded woods and horseflies, although every bit of that seems to be nonsensical as well, although it's the truth.

There were hikers and runners, although I watched them only as silhouettes, as I lay under the harsh sun, grilling.

Which would account for the lost time, the mush, me being sundrenched , not in my best mental element while I attempted to keep track.

I'm floating, I would have responded, as the boy rummaged through my coolers to find nothing but pooled melted ice. There's a mountain of gold at the end of this channel, the boy said, or if not of gold, then at the very least enlightenment, the boy said.

The girl, as they say, was nary a peep, only for show, not for interaction.

I set sail on a moonless lark, I said, as I waited for the end of days, I said, as I fidgeted for the end to come, I said, as I became entranced by your same-said legend, I said. Which is to say I know about the mountain of Gold, which is to say I'm searching for it. Which is to say you're adrift, he said, I would not say you're incorrect, I added.

He had exhausted his last tick, he had found the beer and opened half. A man at the end of his rope, he said. To excuse the metaphor, although you're not particularly useful, he added. One can rage against the wind, he added, but it doesn't change the fact that it's the wind, he said.

[end of sketch, time to work]

And so we punk

[Ed. note: The following was written for the NPR project Three Minute Fiction after research uncovered that the winner of this installment would receive publication in The Paris Review as well as being read on All Things Considered. Essentially an experiment in microfiction, the task was to create something that could be read in three minutes, about 600 words, on a topic of the guest judge's choosing. This time, a President, any, fictional or otherwise. After the cut is my offering, already submitted but with no real chance of consideration as it will undoubtedly fail the earnestness test that seems a prerequisite for an audience with NPR. It is also a borderline story, more akin to the non-fictions of Donald Barthelme. The piece is called "The President Takes a Sick Day. Enjoy.]

Experiments in Film Reductionism

It's a dirty secret that the most frequently visited posts on this blog are the ones that feature my thoughts on film: White Ribbon, Tree of Life, Drive. Which is sad, because I've realized that I'm not a very good film reviewer. Either those thoughts are slight, in passing, or just a one-off that essentially means nothing to anyone anywhere. As a nascent cinephile, I find this disheartening.

So I attempted to remedy this via exercise. The film: Trollhunter.

The clip:

The text:

When we’re first introduced to our hero – the character Hans and the troll hunter of the film’s title – he is unloading hunting supplies from the back of his SUV. As played by Otto Jespersen, he appears world-weary, serious. He brushes off the three film students’ attempt to interview him and, blandly picking up a hand-axe that seems vaguely medieval, closes the door to his dilapidated trailer. It isn’t until the students follow him to a remote forest – in the middle of a hunt, no less – that Hans opens up to them.

By all accounts, the 2010 Norwegian film Troll Hunter should not work. Centering on the trio and their attempted documentary on bear hunting, they end up on the trail of a mysterious poacher (Hans), only to discover it’s not bears he’s hunting. Shot in the vérité style of found footage from the students’ hard drives, the production stinks of the low budget trappings of The Blair Witch Project. What’s more, it is more interested in the crags and rocks of Norway’s fjords and mountains than the shocks and horrors of its mythical, titular beast. Even when the trolls are on the screen, the action tends to the procedural rather than the dark fantasy one would associate with killing them.

But thinking about it this way is to miss the point. First off, with its emphasis on the character at its center and its focus on the ins-and-outs of day-to-day troll extermination, the film is more akin to another example of the mockumentary/found-footage genre: Man Bites Dog. And like that film, it is a remarkable character study and dark comedy, with bureaucracy and the murky world of beast population control replacing the ennui and debilitating hubris of the 1992 Belgian cult classic.

This is in no small part thanks to Jespersen. With his gut puffed out and scraggly, unkempt beard framing his graven face, he carries himself through the film with a plodding deliberateness. His trailer is draped with pelts of trolls, and he keeps a UV light because he “can’t sleep in the dark.” Behind vacant, cobalt eyes, he evinces a moral and mental anguish. He is a man defeated, who is attempting to retain some shred of his humanity. If there is one thing that holds the general absurdity of this film together – and make no mistake, grand swaths of this film can seem the stuff of pulp juvenilia – it is the gravity of the naturalistic performance he puts forth.
As for the rest of the film, several trolls appear, animals and people die. Which is to say this film could have collapsed into far-fetched inanity. But the direction of André Øvredal never allows it, instead managing a tone that is at times naturalistic, at times frenetic, at times deadpan comedic, but never out of step with the action happening on screen.

Is Troll Hunter a better film than either of those mentioned? I’ve always felt the initial shock and immediacy of the Blair Witch presentation saved it being completely superficial. Troll Hunter has at its core something much more genuine and far-reaching. However, it doesn’t hit the levels of subversion of Man Bites Dog, although it does make a stab at it. But even if not as successful, it’s strong performance and assured direction make Troll Hunter a delight to watch and a worthy consideration for cult movie aficionados.

The verdict: This would need an extra set of eyes and an editor. If this weren't something of an experiment, I'd have included more examples from the other two respective films, maybe some more specific discussion of especially why Man Bites Dog is both so subversive, and, at least in my sophomoric recalling of it, effective. But I also don't own either film. So forgive me for not expanding.

Greatly Exaggerated

The problem with spending this much time away from posting is that it is, much like a distant, lapsed friendship, always difficult to find the point to start. Do we talk photo shoots, Stanley Cups, Arthur Danto? Or maybe the TV show Werewolf, finding the right lump charcoal, replacing the turntable I left back in SF? And what exactly is it with my obsession over learning Hungarian anyway?

Life, as they say, gets in the way. Between moving, co-habitating, the supreme exhaustion in working a graveyard schedule and trying to still find time to write my own stuff, not to mention the resulting despondency from having two teams lose in their respective championship games on the same day, these all matter. And they have gotten in the way, as it were. But this is not to say I have not been either missing you or forgotten you, faithful readers. It is to say that more posts will be forthcoming.

I'm planning a photo dump of some of the material I've shot in the interim months. And I'll post up one or two pieces I wrote for no reason whatsoever other than I wanted to write them. And the full breakdown of Werewolf (I was not kidding) and why it desperately needs to be rebooted, BSG-style. Also a few book reviews, maybe another film when it's been shot/edited. These will all come.


But for now, I'll have to tide you over with a pair of podcasts I've become absolutely enamored with: The Partially Examined Life and Bookfight.

As some of you may be aware, I enjoy philosophy. I'm terrible at it, but a good conversation about metaphysics, ethics, aesthetics, these all exhaust me. Inspire me, but exhaust me nonetheless. This is where TPEL fits. Four former philosophy graduate students basically do a book club format of a different reading per month, and the conversations can tend to the long (I believe they have had only one that's been less than one hour), but tonally, they nail it with a mix of humor, insight, and a lot of rage at the text.

As for Bookfight, it seems to be weekly, with two editors from the lit mag Barrelhouse breaking down a different book in a nearly weekly discussion. The nice thing: they rage as well. They hold nothing back, they let their joys or their disappointments or their resentments out, and meanwhile have one of the better discussions about craft I've heard in a podcast.

But really, they rage. When appropriate. And that's a good thing.

Anyway, I'm saluting all the readers who have maxed out their allotment of patience waiting for installments. Stay tuned.