The Phrenological Journal & Haunted Typebox Blog

Websites that you visit often know you. Or they know your cookie. And they recognize you. Like a good friend, they say, “hello.” But unlike a good friend, unless your friend is Rod Serling or David Byrne, they give you a curious option. My online bank, for instance, has a link that says: “I’m not Kent.”

I’m not exaggerating when I say that it sometimes sends me reeling, that it sometimes seems like either: a) a distinct possibility, or b), a viable option. It depends on my optimism, but the feeling is the same. And so are the roots. It’s a little postmodern and a little nouveau vague, a little depression and a little bit of 21st century alienation. It’s born of a lot of things, not the least of which being a life that’s increasingly mediated through technology. There are other things too: a lost job, artistic ennui, the pressure-sensitive door at the supermarket not opening for me. In short: oh, godless universe, who am I?

I’ve long known that identity is a thing that’s built of component parts, just as I’ve felt that there is no plan, no order, no meaning. It’s just that there wasn’t always a feeling of fear and even doubt that came along with it (a contradiction, sure). But hey, I’m almost 33—and I still don’t know whom I want to be.

There are stories where an ordinary man becomes a man without a past, a plebeian turned assassin*, an amnesiac, a prisoner who dreams his execution anew every time he dies**, any of a number of narratives—many of them violent—about the arbitrary nature of identity. Yes, too, there are narratives where old men think they’re Knights (but that’s another story).

If “I’m not Kent” is a condition, I’m  not sure what will become of me. And if it’s an option and I click it, I may scream as loud as I can: “My God, what have I done!”

*Manchette’s 3 To Kill

**The Twilight Zone: Shadow Play

I saw ‘Watchmen’ today, and if I were to boil it down to one quip, it would be thus: Not that good, not that bad, not that necessary. That sounds reductive and flip, but there’s some real insight there. It’s not to say that ‘Watchmen’ is a bad film, or not even worth the time. To be honest, I feel like I had a dream about the graphic novel: some of it is vivid and spot on, and other parts are sparse and ham-handed. A film version of the massive graphic novel poses two questions: one, is it enough for fans, and two, is it enough for those that have never read the book.

I’ve read the book a few a times. The movie is hit and miss. But where it hits, I think it really does. The early part of the film deftly juggles the multiple threads, multiple flashbacks, the voice-over, and a vast array of characters. In terms of the adaptation, it’s hard to point to any place that it goes really wrong (film criticisms later). But even if it was the best damn movie ever, what would it have to offer to the hardcore comic fan? What could we ever want from a film that the graphic novel doesn’t possess? In a sense we’re asking for a trial, not a film. A challenge, not cinema.

So, as a film? As a stand-alone entertainment, does it work? There are some bad choices in the film, the use of pop music chief among them. And while some performances are excellent, such as former Bad News Bear, Jackie Earle Haley, as Rorschach, some are not. Malin Akerman’s line readings as Laurie are really just line readings. It’s too bad because because she’s every inch the sexy super-heroine, but a lot of the plot pivots on her, so it’s too bad she’s not a better actress.  The violence is gruesome, but the fighting comes strait from the ‘Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon’ school of fight choreography, a tired vernacular of slow-mo running kicks and body-flipping punches that makes the film (set in the mid 80s) feel  anachronistic at times. Yet the whole thing feels a little flat by the end. Then again, I feel that way about the graphic novel too.*

At its best, the film provides fluid quotes from the graphic novel, tableaus that are formed into the simultaneously dense and sprawling storyline. The storyline is what makes ‘Watchmen’ problematic and unlike the other superhero movies. While the creators of the Batman, Superman, Spiderman, Hulk, Iron Man (who am I missing?) films have the luxury of picking and choosing from the mythos to make their narrative, ‘Watchmen’ is about recreating a storyline. These are not the alternative adventures of the Watchmen. Because of that the film probably falls flat for fans of the comic (it’s too reductive), and probably also fails those who haven’t read it (it’s too complex, somehow too niche-y).

*There’s something about the ending which I’ve always found disappointing, perhaps because the book’s main strength is the way it deals with the personal. The ending is suddenly universal, more theory than the dark secrets of the faded super hero.

Lest there be any doubt that I am watching ‘American Idol’ here is the proof. And not just watching, not some detached analyses about the spectacle where I remain aloof about the results, but actually participating! These are the notes my wife and I have been keeping. And not that ‘Idol’ is  some kind of judgement on the viewers—no! it’s about the contestants—our favorites have been making it through. Last night’s wild card round did us right: pop cutie Megan made it in and, in a last-minute, heart-lifting expansion of the final group from twelve to thirteen (not since Mackie was pardoned by the Queen was a last-minute judgement so inspiring), so did Anoop.

As the Ingenious Knight Don Quixote makes his way across Spain, the Idol hopefuls continue to sing their way into the hearts of Americans. I don’t know that this is really a parallel relationship. But it is an introduction to a discussion of last night’s Idol proceedings. For the first two-thirds of the evening, it was pretty hard to pluck out a winner. We had perfectly affable performers doing capable renditions of songs, but nothing stellar. Predictably, the stand-out performance came at the end (if this aint fixed, it’s at least programmed) with Lil Rounds ’slaying’ some modern pop song (Keyes? Blidge?). It really was good. I guess that’s how I judge Idol: If someone can impress me in a genre I despise.

Still, and I know this is completely politically incorrect, last night’s Idol was ’special.’ By which I mean, you had the gay guy, the Spanish-speaking guy, and the blind guy. The last two are shoe-ins, both for the aforementioned characteristics, and their performances (and for Jorge’s tears and Spanish-speaking appeal to the voting public). It’s gonna be Lil, Jorge, and Scott. 

And what of the Knight of Rueful Countenance the Sorrowful Face? Quixote confronts a troupe of costumed actors and—surprisingly—takes them for a troupe of costumed actors. For Quixote, everything is transmogrified into an element of his fiction, except this element of honest  illusion (actually this brings to my count two things which are seen as they are, the other being the fulling hammers).

And now Quixote has met his mirror…

Having just begun the Second Volume, I’ve a bit of a nag. In the First, Quixote returns home with Sancho, the Barber, and the Curate. At the beginning of the Second Volume, we are informed that the Barber and Curate leave Don Quixote to convalesce for a month. So far, so good. But, in that time the first volume is published and subsequently read widely by the people of Spain. And we know that there was translation of the First Volume from arabic. That’s quite an accelerated schedule!

There are a few possibilities:

One, I’m completely wrong. I missed some marker of time passing.

Two, the explanation is still to come, and it owes to some distortion on the part of Sanson.

Three, that all of Volume One is nothing but a creation of a Volume Two, that the Quixote of V. 2, has just now sprung into being. That Volume One is a pure fiction, in the “real” narrative of Volume Two.

Four, it’s an oversight of the author or printer (like the theft of Sancho’s donkey), yet it’s not noted by either Smollet or Grossman. This, I find improbable.

Five, Cervantes is having it both ways: since some fifteen years elapsed between writing Volumes One and Two for the author, but only one month for the characters (of course the history which forms Volume II would not be “written” until later by the book’s “author.”)

Six, see item “one” above.