Come now, why so grumpy?
Monday, January 31, 2011
Hope you like prison food... and penis.
Screen Actors Guild Awards last night, but I'm just watching now.
I guess January Jones got the memo about her Golden Globes dress...
I guess January Jones got the memo about her Golden Globes dress...
Sunday, January 30, 2011
True crit
Something I posted in response to the reponses to Neal Gabler’s piece in yesterday’s Observer about whether the interwebs killed the critical star.
It didn’t get much of a response there, possibly because of the absence of come-hither pictures of Helen Mirren or Charlotte Rampling (or Anita Pallenberg or Princess Margaret or Yootha Joyce or whoever). Anyway, pretty soon after I’d posted it, I discovered a site called Poptimal, which in an apparent effort to distinguish itself from the cultural elite (which according to Gabler may no longer be an elite – do try to keep up at the back, there’ll be an exam later) claims to offer “Pop Culture Reviews From People Like You”. Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but neither is it by definition an entirely good thing either. What do you think? (Respondents must identify three distinct criteria in which they are People Like Me.)
And then I learned that the composer and mathematician Milton Babbitt had died over the weekend. It was Babbitt who wrote the notorious 1958 article “Who Cares If You Listen?” Although he claimed the provocative title was the work of an editor, it pretty much summed up his argument that if music was to progress, it would have to get difficult, demanding a level of commitment that not everyone might be able to muster. And with a few tweaks, the question applies to those who contribute to Poptimal, and those who chipped in to comment on Gabler’s article, and with a nod to the Tim Radford piece I mentioned in my previous post: Who Cares If You Write?
The democratisation of critical opinion has forced us all to make use of our own critical faculties, applying them not just to cultural product – books, movies, music, restaurants, etc – but to criticism itself. We might see 20 or 2,000 different opinions on the same work, so we have to ask ourselves who the most convincing, persuasive arguers are. Do they seem to have a modicum of knowledge about the subject? Do they understand the cultural/political context in which the work was created? Do they put together a coherent argument (why a poem or record or souffle is good or bad) or do they just say that they loved or hated it? Can they spell?
Critics employed by mainstream media are perfectly capable of competing in this bearpit, but they have to understand that they will be judged on their own merits. The vicarious self-branding that comes from being on the books of The New York Times, the BBC, The Observer etc no longer carries so much weight. You have to convince us how good you are, just as authors and film-makers and musicians and chefs have to convince you.
It didn’t get much of a response there, possibly because of the absence of come-hither pictures of Helen Mirren or Charlotte Rampling (or Anita Pallenberg or Princess Margaret or Yootha Joyce or whoever). Anyway, pretty soon after I’d posted it, I discovered a site called Poptimal, which in an apparent effort to distinguish itself from the cultural elite (which according to Gabler may no longer be an elite – do try to keep up at the back, there’ll be an exam later) claims to offer “Pop Culture Reviews From People Like You”. Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but neither is it by definition an entirely good thing either. What do you think? (Respondents must identify three distinct criteria in which they are People Like Me.)And then I learned that the composer and mathematician Milton Babbitt had died over the weekend. It was Babbitt who wrote the notorious 1958 article “Who Cares If You Listen?” Although he claimed the provocative title was the work of an editor, it pretty much summed up his argument that if music was to progress, it would have to get difficult, demanding a level of commitment that not everyone might be able to muster. And with a few tweaks, the question applies to those who contribute to Poptimal, and those who chipped in to comment on Gabler’s article, and with a nod to the Tim Radford piece I mentioned in my previous post: Who Cares If You Write?
We found your stolen Prius, it was voting for Ralph Nader.
God willing, Nicole is back! :D
So obviously there was this really big gap in her career lately where, I dunno, she was consulting her Magic 8 Ball when it came to her acting choices. (Or she was busy being a mom, whatevs.) But wow, I loved Rabbit Hole. And yes, it was totally one of those brilliant and depressing things I love when done well, not unlike Revolutionary Road.
But don't be dissuaded! Here is the thing about Rabbit Hole--and it's really important, especially when you start that argument about which makes you want to cut yourself more, this or Blue Valentine: Rabbit Hole may deal with a very difficult topic, but it is also very optimistic.
D and I saw it with my good friend L and her bf A. I also really like A, and we have very similar tastes. (More on that in a minute.) And Rabbit, though it may not seem so at first, is not just Kidman's character's story, but also her husband's, played (where is this man's effusive praise by the way? He rocked the shit out of this!) by Aaron Eckhart. And the film does a really beautiful job of telling two stories while appearing to tell only one; you can see the point at which the film becomes two different stories and I think that's sort of essential to the whole point of the movie, really.
(And look! Sandra Oh! She was also very good, and I mention this so Alex may consider a viewing.... ;))
But the neat thing was that once it was over and we were talking about it, my good friend L and my husband D both really thought Aaron Eckhart's story was more compelling and saw it as his story, but A and I vehemently disagreed that it was clearly Kidman's story. So that right there really makes an impression on me that it was a very effective film.
But I really enjoyed this film and how it was told. I get that it's a little fucked up to say I "enjoyed" it, perhaps "appreciated" is a better word? It was very well done, and the teenage kid--Miles Teller--was really a standout.
So that was my Oscar theater pic of the week. I also rented the new Jean-Pierre Jeunet film, Micmacs, not up for any Oscars, but a 2010 film (for us here in the USA, anyway). As with all his films, it was very creative. I didn't find it to be positively bursting at the seams with cute, clever and creative, like so many of his others, but it was still quite pleasant.
And I did not find the contortionist, Julie Ferrier, as cute as I'm sure I was supposed to, and she even reminded me a tiny bit of Giulietta Masina, Fellin's real-life wife and the impossibly cute face of La Strada.
But you should still watch it. After all, a somewhat less-than-impressive Jeunet film is still like "acceptable" caviar, you know? And it's always so refreshing to see someone pay attention to the details.
But oh, there were crappy movies, too, fear not. I finally watched The Other Guys.
This was really pretty awful, but I liked Will Ferrell in it. (And I'm not a Will Ferrell fan, but I don't DISlike him, if that makes sense. I think he very good at what he does, I just don't belong to that mass band-wagon of people who would readily give him their first-born.)
I have also come to the conclusion that I would probably watch Mark Wahlberg in just about anything. (Maybe it's rooted in the fact that Boogie Nights remains in my top five (a top five often characterized by seven films, I admit), but I also personally adore him in The Departed, that role never fails to crack me up. And I must think he's a solid actor, I mean, jesus, it's fucking "Marky Mark," right? Normally I wouldn't be caught dead selling this shit.) In this case, I don't know...I could appreciate the facial expression he seemed to somehow maintain for the whole film, a nice mix of mouth-breather and rage.
Aside from its two main actors, though, the only thing The Other Guys had going for it was the element of randomness, probably more accurately chalked up to a horribly inconsistent and directionless script. Otherwise, it was predictable (duh), the jokes often got old really fast, and it was just really weak overall.
But if you want some stupid/funny action, this is a solid one-time guilty pleasure, so go for it. And don't let the beginning fool you--it's very much tongue-in-cheek, which becomes readily apparent, but to me was initially quite worrisome.
Oh, totally not related to anything? I went to the dentist last week and.....NO CAVITIES!!!!!!!!!!!!!! :O
1 1/2 years since my last dentist appointment. I landed a dentist assistant with a fantastic personality 5 minutes from my place. She did a panoramic scan of my teeth; I always get nervous when the dentist has bad-ass new technology and they act as if it has been standard for the past five years--WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?! It makes me nervous. Luckily, it was all good.
So I'd like to take this moment to thank my parents and the wonders of genetics that I just have AWESOME TEETH.
Because based on my horrendous--however well-intentioned--up-keep, I should have had about eight root canals by now.
So obviously there was this really big gap in her career lately where, I dunno, she was consulting her Magic 8 Ball when it came to her acting choices. (Or she was busy being a mom, whatevs.) But wow, I loved Rabbit Hole. And yes, it was totally one of those brilliant and depressing things I love when done well, not unlike Revolutionary Road.
But don't be dissuaded! Here is the thing about Rabbit Hole--and it's really important, especially when you start that argument about which makes you want to cut yourself more, this or Blue Valentine: Rabbit Hole may deal with a very difficult topic, but it is also very optimistic.
D and I saw it with my good friend L and her bf A. I also really like A, and we have very similar tastes. (More on that in a minute.) And Rabbit, though it may not seem so at first, is not just Kidman's character's story, but also her husband's, played (where is this man's effusive praise by the way? He rocked the shit out of this!) by Aaron Eckhart. And the film does a really beautiful job of telling two stories while appearing to tell only one; you can see the point at which the film becomes two different stories and I think that's sort of essential to the whole point of the movie, really.
(And look! Sandra Oh! She was also very good, and I mention this so Alex may consider a viewing.... ;))
But the neat thing was that once it was over and we were talking about it, my good friend L and my husband D both really thought Aaron Eckhart's story was more compelling and saw it as his story, but A and I vehemently disagreed that it was clearly Kidman's story. So that right there really makes an impression on me that it was a very effective film.
But I really enjoyed this film and how it was told. I get that it's a little fucked up to say I "enjoyed" it, perhaps "appreciated" is a better word? It was very well done, and the teenage kid--Miles Teller--was really a standout.
So that was my Oscar theater pic of the week. I also rented the new Jean-Pierre Jeunet film, Micmacs, not up for any Oscars, but a 2010 film (for us here in the USA, anyway). As with all his films, it was very creative. I didn't find it to be positively bursting at the seams with cute, clever and creative, like so many of his others, but it was still quite pleasant.
And I did not find the contortionist, Julie Ferrier, as cute as I'm sure I was supposed to, and she even reminded me a tiny bit of Giulietta Masina, Fellin's real-life wife and the impossibly cute face of La Strada.
But you should still watch it. After all, a somewhat less-than-impressive Jeunet film is still like "acceptable" caviar, you know? And it's always so refreshing to see someone pay attention to the details.
But oh, there were crappy movies, too, fear not. I finally watched The Other Guys.
This was really pretty awful, but I liked Will Ferrell in it. (And I'm not a Will Ferrell fan, but I don't DISlike him, if that makes sense. I think he very good at what he does, I just don't belong to that mass band-wagon of people who would readily give him their first-born.)
I have also come to the conclusion that I would probably watch Mark Wahlberg in just about anything. (Maybe it's rooted in the fact that Boogie Nights remains in my top five (a top five often characterized by seven films, I admit), but I also personally adore him in The Departed, that role never fails to crack me up. And I must think he's a solid actor, I mean, jesus, it's fucking "Marky Mark," right? Normally I wouldn't be caught dead selling this shit.) In this case, I don't know...I could appreciate the facial expression he seemed to somehow maintain for the whole film, a nice mix of mouth-breather and rage.
Aside from its two main actors, though, the only thing The Other Guys had going for it was the element of randomness, probably more accurately chalked up to a horribly inconsistent and directionless script. Otherwise, it was predictable (duh), the jokes often got old really fast, and it was just really weak overall.
But if you want some stupid/funny action, this is a solid one-time guilty pleasure, so go for it. And don't let the beginning fool you--it's very much tongue-in-cheek, which becomes readily apparent, but to me was initially quite worrisome.
Oh, totally not related to anything? I went to the dentist last week and.....NO CAVITIES!!!!!!!!!!!!!! :O
1 1/2 years since my last dentist appointment. I landed a dentist assistant with a fantastic personality 5 minutes from my place. She did a panoramic scan of my teeth; I always get nervous when the dentist has bad-ass new technology and they act as if it has been standard for the past five years--WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?! It makes me nervous. Luckily, it was all good.
So I'd like to take this moment to thank my parents and the wonders of genetics that I just have AWESOME TEETH.
Because based on my horrendous--however well-intentioned--up-keep, I should have had about eight root canals by now.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Revenge Of The Inappropriate Ringtone
Well, I had such a time writing the last installment that of course there had to be more. No doubt this may become an ongoing feature.
Some days ago I heard the trilling ringtone of a cell phone, with an abomination as the person's preferred ring tone. It was, unfortunately, this infestation.
That song, ladies and gentlemen, is one of the most irritating songs of the last fifty years. And now that you've clicked on it, it's stuck in your heads for the next few hours.
So, let's continue on with the theme of inappropriate ringtones that we left off with yesterday.
Let's say you're a defendant in a trial (innocent until proven guilty, except in Texas). Or, for that matter, you're a lawyer or judge. Either way, this tune might not be a good choice for your ringtone.
For that matter, if you're a straight woman or gay man, and securely comfortable in your preferences, you might want to avoid using Katy Perry's breakthrough as your personal ringtone. Your guy might look at you strangely.
Visiting someone whose family member was killed by the Manson gang? Don't have helter skelter as your ringtone.
Going back to my notion of bad ring tones for therapists from yesterday, there's this classic that ought to be avoided. Your patients will thank you for not having that start to sound when they're on the couch in your office. They don't need to hear about maniacs, thank you very much.
What if your therapy is directed towards a group of people with fear of flying? Obviously, this Chantal Kreviazuk tune is not an option for your personal ringtone. Neither is Tom Petty's opus. The title alone will get them thinking about falling out of planes. And forget this one too.
Are you a white guy? Forget using rap for your ringtone. Just forget it. You look supremely silly. If you do, well, I'm gonna knock you out.
Let's say you're the head of the DEA. Or a politician known for being strictly anti-drugs. There's no excuse for using Hendrix or this stoner classic for your ringtone. It'll send all the wrong messages.
In Alcoholics Anonymous? Well, as infectious and fun as this song is, you can't use it for your ringtone.
Attending your mother in law's funeral? Delete this song from your ringtone. That's the last thing you want interrupting the funeral. Your spouse will want to kill you.
Let's say you're in the military. Well, you might like John Lennon, but these sentiments might not go over well at work, so avoid using it as a ringtone.
On trial for arson? Got a taste for being a firebug? Well, you don't want to incriminate yourself, so this is out of the question. So is this.
Attending the Louvre? Want to make an impression that you're impressed by the culture and the history? Want to avoid being seen as a heathen? You might want to avoid having Shania saying she's not impressed as your ringtone while standing in front of the Mona Lisa. The French will not like you for it.
Are you a bomb squad member? You might want to avoid using this Britney Spears song as your personal ringtone. After all, Oops is a word that we don't like hearing coming from a bomb squad technician, so....
In fact, if you use any of her music as a ringtone, I'm sending the hounds after you.
Live in Vancouver? London? No doubt you're used to the rain. Well, veryone else lives with it too. And they hate it. So, for your own sake, avoid using this Amanda Marshall song for your ringtone. You might get slugged by someone sick and tired of rain for the twentieth straight day.
Let's say that you're a Bond Girl. You've managed to survive until the end of the film. Well, after James ditches you, you really ought to refrain from using this Carly Simon classic as your ringtone. Unless your future boyfriend or husband is a spy, it's going to get to him. He'll always know that the best sex you ever had was with that suave British agent you spent a couple weeks with, running around the world in exotic places and battling supervillains, Tea Party leaders, and Alaskan mama bears (yes, they're all the same person) in hollowed out volcanoes.
Canadian troops occupy every state capital. The Canadian Prime Minister (yours truly, by the way) sits smugly at her desk in the Oval Office, victory in his grasp. She wonders how a country with a population tenth the size of her own could defeat her military so soundly. Now she must sign a negotiated peace, signing over Alaska, the Pacific Northwest, and New England to become Canadian territory. Her Republican arch rival, Senator Bristol Palin, is somewhere cackling with glee.
Right about now would be a really bad time for her cell phone to go off. Even worse if her ringtone is Blame Canada.
Friday, January 28, 2011
Audience figures
Tim Radford, in The Guardian, offers his 25 commandments for journalists. The first:
A nice idea, but for many hacks there’s a third person in the marriage: the advertiser. And if you’ve already taken that into account, what about the person who only comes in search of gently fruity pictures of Charlotte Rampling? (Or for that matter Helen Mirren, Anita Pallenberg, Princess Margaret, Su Pollard...)
When you sit down to write, there is only one important person in your life. This is someone you will never meet, called a reader.
A nice idea, but for many hacks there’s a third person in the marriage: the advertiser. And if you’ve already taken that into account, what about the person who only comes in search of gently fruity pictures of Charlotte Rampling? (Or for that matter Helen Mirren, Anita Pallenberg, Princess Margaret, Su Pollard...)The Curse Of The Inappropriate Ringtone
During a Christmas holiday two or three years ago, I was back at the family homestead. One of my brothers and his family were up too. Around six in the morning, with darkness still looming outside, I woke up to a strange sound. Talking. I went downstairs, hearing this peculiar voice. It was slightly nasal, low pitched, and vaguely English, going on and on about waking up.
It was, in fact, Stewie.
I don't watch Family Guy, but I've seen enough clips to recognize the voice. It was barking in a condescending way, going on and on... and then I found the reason why this annoying evil voice had invaded my sanctum: it was the alarm clock function on my brother's cell phone.
Cell phones these days feature your own personal ringtone, of course. You can customize them to have different ringtones for different people. If you're a teenager, for example, this comes in very handy. For your girlfriend, boyfriend, secret crush, or stalkee, you might select their favourite song. For your dad, you might get him to ask "What do you mean you totalled the car?" and loop it over and over as his customized ringtone. For your mom, you can ask her to say the word nag, and loop that so that when she's calling you, you'll hear your phone chirp up, "Nag, nag, nag, nag, nag."
I don't have a cell phone. If I did, would I go with a ring tone? Hard to say. If I wanted it, what would it be?
Me being me, it would have to be something like this:
The Imperial March
or
Ave Satani
Norma and I got to talking about inappropriate ringtones. She mentioned a Sunday School teacher whose cell phone interrupted the service. The ringtone? Is this appropriate for church? I think not!
A marriage counsellor would have to be careful about their particular choice for that matter. Somehow an appreciation for this Sara Evans song might be the wrong choice when it goes off during a session with a couple whose marriage is on the rocks.
Funeral directors need to be mindful of this sort of thing too. This song might tend to upset mourners trying to grieve for loved ones if their cell phone buzzes during a visitation. Come to think of it, that song would probably annoy anyone with musical taste.
How about a high-end escort who prizes discretion with her clients? Well, as much as I love Old Blue Eyes singing it, The Lady Is A Tramp coming from her cell phone while Elliot Spitzer is accompanied by a lady of the evening just can't end well, can it?
Psychologists need to be mindful of this too. Yes, Doctor, you might love Cocoapuff cereal, but the Coocoo For Cocoapuffs jingle won't inspire your patients if they hear that from your cell phone during their therapy. Neither will this classic. Come to think of it, avoid using this one too. Not just because it's a Madonna song. That's reason enough, sure.
If you're a serial killer, you might want to avoid this one as your ringtone. It'll lead to no end of trouble, believe me.
And if you're an accountant who's a skinny, small sort of person who has a problem staying on your feet in a good stiff wind, well, I'm sorry, but this is off limits. Stop running up those steps to mimic Stallone too. It just looks silly.
Finally, here's one that's inappropriate in almost every setting. Unless you work in a shop catering to certain adult entertainment clientele:
Yes, Meg Ryan at her best.
Imagine being in church, the PTA meeting, court, or anywhere else, and hearing Meg Ryan faking an orgasm.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Wow, that dinner smells good. Let me guess... meat?
So apparently I spent the better part of lunch yesterday near the company of Emeril Lagasse. Woot.
As per usual, I am just that oblivious. Though to be fair, I'm not sure I could say for sure what the man looks like. I know I recognize him in context, i.e., cooking shows on TV, but on the street? Or even at a lunch spot doing interviews and having his film people shoot people eating? Apparently not even then, as it turns out.
After all the shenanigans were over (I just assumed it was a slow day with the local news, to be honest), some guy from the bar wandered over to my table.
Weird Random Dude: "Let me guess, you must be a LAW STUDENT."
Me: *beat*, *looks at heavily highlighted casebook in front of me* "What gave it away?"
WRD: "Well, you just look really sophisticated and you're drinking wine..."
M: "Really? Most of the law students I know drink the cheapest beer they can get their hands on!"
WRD: *indistinct mumblings* ... "...so how is that, I'm sitting there and there's Emeril!"
M: *totally lost* "?"
WRD: "That was Emeril just now!"
M: "Oh! Really? Neat."
WRD: "Emeril Lagasse, you know?"
M: *shrugs* "I'm more of a Bourdain fan myself."
WRD: *mumbles, wanders off*
This might be why I suck at networking, come to think of it.
Anyway. Emeril. Neat. Good for him. I actually don't mock him as much as I used to, he may not be the total celeb-whore I used to imagine him as. My friend L said the exact same thing--she ate at his restaurant in Vegas and says she just can't mock him anymore--the food was beyond nom.
We had another foot of snow last night, more in the vein I expect from Boston--blistery late night winds that pile the snow onto the balcony and dump at least a foot. Usually just unearthing the car from the snow is enough, but I think at this point we'd have to shovel the snow out from behind the car, too.
And in the interests of knocking out the last few Oscar noms I need, I will be trying to catch a late-night 127 Hours at the Landmark here in town. I have been here nearly 2 years and have yet to track down the Landmark. Long story with my love/hate for Landmark, you probably know the story, but in any case, I just hope I can find the theater!
Tomorrow night it's a double date with L and her bf A for a nice upbeat show of Rabbit Hole, aka Nicole Gets Her Awesomeness Back on Track.
Un-Oscar-related, I am mad curious to check out Somewhere, the new Sophia Coppola. I adore SC, and my film critic friend in Austin adores her even more--and HE was disappointed. So I'm going in with lesser expectations. :( But I still wish I could smuggle in a batch of homemade truffles and red wine. Her films tend to be quite slow, arty (in a good way!) and I would just love to savor the whole thing properly.
Anyway, that's at the Landmark, too, as is Mike Leigh's Another Year, which I've heard great praise for. I may be popping over there a bit in the next few weeks, let's hope I can find it!
As per usual, I am just that oblivious. Though to be fair, I'm not sure I could say for sure what the man looks like. I know I recognize him in context, i.e., cooking shows on TV, but on the street? Or even at a lunch spot doing interviews and having his film people shoot people eating? Apparently not even then, as it turns out.
After all the shenanigans were over (I just assumed it was a slow day with the local news, to be honest), some guy from the bar wandered over to my table.
Weird Random Dude: "Let me guess, you must be a LAW STUDENT."
Me: *beat*, *looks at heavily highlighted casebook in front of me* "What gave it away?"
WRD: "Well, you just look really sophisticated and you're drinking wine..."
M: "Really? Most of the law students I know drink the cheapest beer they can get their hands on!"
WRD: *indistinct mumblings* ... "...so how is that, I'm sitting there and there's Emeril!"
M: *totally lost* "?"
WRD: "That was Emeril just now!"
M: "Oh! Really? Neat."
WRD: "Emeril Lagasse, you know?"
M: *shrugs* "I'm more of a Bourdain fan myself."
WRD: *mumbles, wanders off*
This might be why I suck at networking, come to think of it.
Anyway. Emeril. Neat. Good for him. I actually don't mock him as much as I used to, he may not be the total celeb-whore I used to imagine him as. My friend L said the exact same thing--she ate at his restaurant in Vegas and says she just can't mock him anymore--the food was beyond nom.
We had another foot of snow last night, more in the vein I expect from Boston--blistery late night winds that pile the snow onto the balcony and dump at least a foot. Usually just unearthing the car from the snow is enough, but I think at this point we'd have to shovel the snow out from behind the car, too.
And in the interests of knocking out the last few Oscar noms I need, I will be trying to catch a late-night 127 Hours at the Landmark here in town. I have been here nearly 2 years and have yet to track down the Landmark. Long story with my love/hate for Landmark, you probably know the story, but in any case, I just hope I can find the theater!
Tomorrow night it's a double date with L and her bf A for a nice upbeat show of Rabbit Hole, aka Nicole Gets Her Awesomeness Back on Track.
Un-Oscar-related, I am mad curious to check out Somewhere, the new Sophia Coppola. I adore SC, and my film critic friend in Austin adores her even more--and HE was disappointed. So I'm going in with lesser expectations. :( But I still wish I could smuggle in a batch of homemade truffles and red wine. Her films tend to be quite slow, arty (in a good way!) and I would just love to savor the whole thing properly.
Anyway, that's at the Landmark, too, as is Mike Leigh's Another Year, which I've heard great praise for. I may be popping over there a bit in the next few weeks, let's hope I can find it!
In Character: Shadi Tarif
Duty.
It's the founding principle I live by.
I'm a sergeant major in the IDF. I've been a soldier now for nearly twenty years, and I'm in for life. I believe in my country and in my fellow soldiers.
I'm also a Druze. Our people are spread out through parts of Israel, Lebanon, and Syria. We're Muslim, though a fair amount of mainstream Muslims might object to the idea of that. We're fiercely loyal to the land we live in. Which is why it's not out of the question for Druze to serve in the Israeli military, as I do. It's an honorable profession, and I've gotten good at it.
They've offered me the chance to become an officer in the past, but I've passed on the promotions. I'm a fighter. I belong with my men. Besides, while it's the generals who give the commands, everyone knows it's the sergeants who really hold things together and get the business of an army done. I'm right where I should be.
I've been seconded to protection detail for the last few months. The man I'm assigned to is a Palestinian politician named Sayid Nahas. He sits in the Knesset, which to an outsider might seem odd, but there are, in fact, Palestinians sitting in the Israeli Parliament. What makes him stand out is that he genuinely wants peace. It makes him a bridge between two worlds, between two peoples. And he means it.
I decided awhile ago that he and his wife are the sort of people worth taking a bullet for. That's high praise coming from someone in the protection detail. There are plenty of politicians who, frankly, aren't worth the bullet. Fortunately, I'm not charged with their protection. I protect a man that I can respect, and trust.
Today they tried to kill him.
A terrorist group called the Covenant claimed responsibility for a car bombing. My partner was killed, and the only reason we're alive is that he went ahead to fetch the car. Otherwise we'd be dead too.
They tried and failed to kill one good man today. They managed to kill another good man. Will they try again?
I could see this character in either Oded Fehr (The Mummy) or Pierfrancesco Favino (Prince Caspian)...
It's the founding principle I live by.
I'm a sergeant major in the IDF. I've been a soldier now for nearly twenty years, and I'm in for life. I believe in my country and in my fellow soldiers.
I'm also a Druze. Our people are spread out through parts of Israel, Lebanon, and Syria. We're Muslim, though a fair amount of mainstream Muslims might object to the idea of that. We're fiercely loyal to the land we live in. Which is why it's not out of the question for Druze to serve in the Israeli military, as I do. It's an honorable profession, and I've gotten good at it.
They've offered me the chance to become an officer in the past, but I've passed on the promotions. I'm a fighter. I belong with my men. Besides, while it's the generals who give the commands, everyone knows it's the sergeants who really hold things together and get the business of an army done. I'm right where I should be.
I've been seconded to protection detail for the last few months. The man I'm assigned to is a Palestinian politician named Sayid Nahas. He sits in the Knesset, which to an outsider might seem odd, but there are, in fact, Palestinians sitting in the Israeli Parliament. What makes him stand out is that he genuinely wants peace. It makes him a bridge between two worlds, between two peoples. And he means it.
I decided awhile ago that he and his wife are the sort of people worth taking a bullet for. That's high praise coming from someone in the protection detail. There are plenty of politicians who, frankly, aren't worth the bullet. Fortunately, I'm not charged with their protection. I protect a man that I can respect, and trust.
Today they tried to kill him.
A terrorist group called the Covenant claimed responsibility for a car bombing. My partner was killed, and the only reason we're alive is that he went ahead to fetch the car. Otherwise we'd be dead too.
They tried and failed to kill one good man today. They managed to kill another good man. Will they try again?
I could see this character in either Oded Fehr (The Mummy) or Pierfrancesco Favino (Prince Caspian)...
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
In Character: Sabra Cohen
I'm a soldier for my country, fighting a war in the shadows.
I'm what's called a Katsa. We're the backbone of Mossad, the field officers who work the cases, managing intelligence assets abroad. When needed, we're also the sort of officers who do what needs to be done.
Israel has been a country under siege from the start of its modern incarnation. We've always had at least one enemy calling for our destruction. Fortunately we've trained well, we've got tough people on the frontline... and we're better prepared then the enemy. Sure, we get along reasonably well with the Egyptians and Jordanians these days, but there's still the Iranians and their Syrian puppets rattling the sabre. Hezbollah and Hamas are messing around with Gaza and Lebanon and making life difficult for us. And last but definitely not least, terrorists keep sending suicide bombers into market places and wherever else they see an opportunity. Our people die. And if Palestinians happen to be in the way, well, in the eyes of the terrorists, that's acceptable.
As I said, we're under siege, and that's not likely to change anytime soon. It's been general policy at Mossad that we can only really rely on ourselves for our own survival... and yet katsas like me spend time abroad, working with other intelligence agencies on matters of mutual concern.
Now I'm on my way to England, on orders from the boss. The President of the Palestinian Authority has been murdered.
For the first time in a long time, there was hope. President Touqan wasn't looking for trouble. He genuinely wanted peace with Israel, a chance for our peoples to finally find a fair solution. Even in the cynical world I live in, we wondered if it might be possible. That's a tall order for a Mossad agent, let alone our fellow agencies.
Instead, he's been gunned down. God knows what's to come. Rioting and unrest? All too likely.
In an ideal world, there wouldn't be a need for people like me, the spies and operatives who constantly lurk in the shadows, waging a silent war against our enemies. We don't live in an ideal world. We live in this one. And people like me are all that stands between keeping the peace and the obliteration of our nation.
I'm what's called a Katsa. We're the backbone of Mossad, the field officers who work the cases, managing intelligence assets abroad. When needed, we're also the sort of officers who do what needs to be done.
Israel has been a country under siege from the start of its modern incarnation. We've always had at least one enemy calling for our destruction. Fortunately we've trained well, we've got tough people on the frontline... and we're better prepared then the enemy. Sure, we get along reasonably well with the Egyptians and Jordanians these days, but there's still the Iranians and their Syrian puppets rattling the sabre. Hezbollah and Hamas are messing around with Gaza and Lebanon and making life difficult for us. And last but definitely not least, terrorists keep sending suicide bombers into market places and wherever else they see an opportunity. Our people die. And if Palestinians happen to be in the way, well, in the eyes of the terrorists, that's acceptable.
As I said, we're under siege, and that's not likely to change anytime soon. It's been general policy at Mossad that we can only really rely on ourselves for our own survival... and yet katsas like me spend time abroad, working with other intelligence agencies on matters of mutual concern.
Now I'm on my way to England, on orders from the boss. The President of the Palestinian Authority has been murdered.
For the first time in a long time, there was hope. President Touqan wasn't looking for trouble. He genuinely wanted peace with Israel, a chance for our peoples to finally find a fair solution. Even in the cynical world I live in, we wondered if it might be possible. That's a tall order for a Mossad agent, let alone our fellow agencies.
Instead, he's been gunned down. God knows what's to come. Rioting and unrest? All too likely.
In an ideal world, there wouldn't be a need for people like me, the spies and operatives who constantly lurk in the shadows, waging a silent war against our enemies. We don't live in an ideal world. We live in this one. And people like me are all that stands between keeping the peace and the obliteration of our nation.
The Israeli actress Ayelet Zurer (Angels & Demons) reminds me of Sabra....
Oliver
I had hoped that the thousandth post on this blog might have been a happier one, but not so. Farewell, you magnificent beast.
The garden of forking streams
Chilean author Eduardo Labarca has declared that pissing on the grave of Jorge Luis Borges (or at least pretending to) is “an artistic act”. Although it turns out that the act was motivated not by any disapproval of Borges’ writing, but as a response to his support for General Pinochet and other reactionary leaders in South America, which surely makes it a political act. Now, is that better, or worse, or at least less messy? And would I be able to justify vomiting on the mausoleum of Martin Amis (who isn’t dead, as far as I’m aware, but he hasn’t written anything this century that particularly excited me) on one or other or both grounds?
Feel free to add your own author-death-bodily function combo in the space below. Bloody hell, is this a new meme?
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
In Character: Cecilia Brennan
Living two lives can be trying. I live one life in the limelight of culture... and the other in the shadows, among death and violence... and with a cause.
There's my public face, if you will. I inherited my musical talents from my mother. Evelyn Brennan was a cellist, well loved and respected. Her home was with the Ulster Orchestra, but she played to great acclaim across the world. London, Paris, New York, you name the city, and she played there to thunderous applause. She took me with her, showed me the world, taught me to love music. Not just classical, but so much more. In time, I took up the violin, went to conservatories, learned the art, and fell in love with performing as part of an orchestra.
I think she also took me with her to keep me away from the other side of my family, from the darkness that she saw there. My father was a man named Peter Reilly, a member of the Ulster Volunteers. It wasn't some sort of grand romance or anything. He and my mother were together briefly, and I was the result. Mom knew the sort of man he was... always looking at another woman on the one hand, and part of a militant group on the other. She wanted better for me, so she raised me herself. She didn't want me to get mixed up into the Troubles. So, I stayed away from the bombs and the unrest and the fighting... and I spent my childhood seeing the world.
My father was murdered by a group of IRA men one night fifteen years ago. I was a child, barely knew the man. Still, he did leave behind two sons, Cain and Eamon. My brothers. And over time, my mother softened, allowed me to get to know them both. They were older, both of them already hip deep in the cause, so to speak. And getting to know them, they loved me fiercely. And I loved them back. How could I not?
I was already performing in university. I went abroad to America, attending conservatories, making a life for myself, playing the violin. The music world was already seeing me as a worthy heir to my mother, to her talent. I was being lauded even before my studies were at an end.
And then it happened. Eamon was murdered a year and a half ago.
I came home. I had to. He was my brother, and I loved him. They gunned him down in his bed. It was an enforcer with the Real IRA. We buried him, laid him to rest...
Cain found out who did it, and had his revenge. The bastard didn't just get two bullets in his skull, like he'd done to Eamon. Cain made him suffer. He deserved to suffer. And then we went to work.
That's my second life. Out of the public eye, and in the shadows. Cain had broken with the Ulster Volunteers when they made peace. He made up his own group, the Ulster Brigade. He offered me a place, and I took it. I had lost one brother to those Fenian bastards. I took my place by Cain.
I've become his intelligence chief. I run a network of sources, contacts who feed me information. Some of them do so willingly, others have no idea they're even spilling vital information to a spy. It's all in how I approach them. Sometimes it's money. Other times it's sex. And other times, it's ideology... such as that is.
Now I've got a good prospect in one hell of a position in London. The sort of prospect I can use for a long time to come... with all sorts of access to information. Recruiting that prospect is another matter altogether... but I know I can do it.
I live in two worlds. My public life, my growing renown as a musician... is useful for my private life. I can use it to the greatest advantages, to mingle with the powerful, to find what I need. Still, it's my private life, my mission with my brother... That's what I've committed myself to. That's the path that defines who I am.
There's my public face, if you will. I inherited my musical talents from my mother. Evelyn Brennan was a cellist, well loved and respected. Her home was with the Ulster Orchestra, but she played to great acclaim across the world. London, Paris, New York, you name the city, and she played there to thunderous applause. She took me with her, showed me the world, taught me to love music. Not just classical, but so much more. In time, I took up the violin, went to conservatories, learned the art, and fell in love with performing as part of an orchestra.
I think she also took me with her to keep me away from the other side of my family, from the darkness that she saw there. My father was a man named Peter Reilly, a member of the Ulster Volunteers. It wasn't some sort of grand romance or anything. He and my mother were together briefly, and I was the result. Mom knew the sort of man he was... always looking at another woman on the one hand, and part of a militant group on the other. She wanted better for me, so she raised me herself. She didn't want me to get mixed up into the Troubles. So, I stayed away from the bombs and the unrest and the fighting... and I spent my childhood seeing the world.
My father was murdered by a group of IRA men one night fifteen years ago. I was a child, barely knew the man. Still, he did leave behind two sons, Cain and Eamon. My brothers. And over time, my mother softened, allowed me to get to know them both. They were older, both of them already hip deep in the cause, so to speak. And getting to know them, they loved me fiercely. And I loved them back. How could I not?
I was already performing in university. I went abroad to America, attending conservatories, making a life for myself, playing the violin. The music world was already seeing me as a worthy heir to my mother, to her talent. I was being lauded even before my studies were at an end.
And then it happened. Eamon was murdered a year and a half ago.
I came home. I had to. He was my brother, and I loved him. They gunned him down in his bed. It was an enforcer with the Real IRA. We buried him, laid him to rest...
Cain found out who did it, and had his revenge. The bastard didn't just get two bullets in his skull, like he'd done to Eamon. Cain made him suffer. He deserved to suffer. And then we went to work.
That's my second life. Out of the public eye, and in the shadows. Cain had broken with the Ulster Volunteers when they made peace. He made up his own group, the Ulster Brigade. He offered me a place, and I took it. I had lost one brother to those Fenian bastards. I took my place by Cain.
I've become his intelligence chief. I run a network of sources, contacts who feed me information. Some of them do so willingly, others have no idea they're even spilling vital information to a spy. It's all in how I approach them. Sometimes it's money. Other times it's sex. And other times, it's ideology... such as that is.
Now I've got a good prospect in one hell of a position in London. The sort of prospect I can use for a long time to come... with all sorts of access to information. Recruiting that prospect is another matter altogether... but I know I can do it.
I live in two worlds. My public life, my growing renown as a musician... is useful for my private life. I can use it to the greatest advantages, to mingle with the powerful, to find what I need. Still, it's my private life, my mission with my brother... That's what I've committed myself to. That's the path that defines who I am.
I could see either Rachel McAdams or Kate Mara playing the part....
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