sean's space

Oh. My. Shit.

This movie is amazing in so many ways. I can't even count. THIS is good fucking story-telling. Man, where to start? It's almost too good to pick apart.

I had no idea i was in for this amazing film when I rented the DVD. i watched it twice before returning it a week ago, and the story is still stuck in my head. This is the same thign that happened to me when I saw "Memento" alone in the theatre for the first time. And "The Matrix" for that matter. And "Fight Club". But i think that "Children of Men" certainly has more in common with "Memento", as well as another of my favs: "12 Monkeys".

 

 

The wonderful thing about these three films is that they don't pull any punches, and nothing is wasted or gratuitous. There is nothing superfluous, or inserted for the sole purpose of attracting a certain demographic.

 

Like, they say there should always be a love interest to attract women and sensitive guys. Well, "Children" has a love interest; but right when you think it's developing, with Clive Owen (at his sexiest) and Julianne Moore (finally impressing me) blowing a (CG???) ping pong ball back and forth between each other's mouths in a moving car (you have to see it, i can't properly explain it)- just when you're like, oh how sweet, and yet gross at the same time... then bang! Moore gets a lethal bullet in the neck.

 

Owen himself doesn't survive the adventure, but does make it pretty much to the end, before slumping over dead in a rowboat off the fog-begirt British coast while waiting for a mythical ship called the Tomorrow. This is much the same as the possibly insane (but not) protagonist in "12 Monkeys" played by Bruce Willis, who is shot down in an airport right before the eyes of his past self as a boy (the film, if you don't know, involves time travel- in, perhaps, its coolest dramatized manifestation). But in both cases, these heroes fulfill their quest, though they don't live to see it, and die without knowing what they've done. This is a tough call for a director and for a writer, to sacrifice the glory that comes after the win, to sacrifice the main character for the story. It takes guts. Even in Memento, although the hero isn't killed himself, he becomes a killer; and what's more he chooses to become a killer in order to liberate himself from his quixotic quest to avenge his (supposedly) murdered wife. So in a sense, he too die- the innocent man that he is dies to be replaced by a killer. Yet all three of these films have an uplifting note at the very end: a final, lingering vibration of hope.

 

Apart from these dramatic hits, the style of "Children" is wonderful: it is developed but subtle: though set in the future, the technology hasn't grown much, due to the decline of modern society. There are regular bombings, "illegal" immigrants trapped in cages at the train stations, mobs of angry, anonymous people throwing rocks at moving trains for no explained reason. And i think numerous piles of burning corpses in the fields throughout the countryside. The main theme of the film pervades it: there are no more children: all women are inexplicable barren. How? No one knows. For 18 years there have been no babies; and with that hope gone, the world rapidly turns to shit. Anger and fear and despair are everywhere.

 

The world of this story is finely built up. At the beginning of the film, we hear of "Baby Diego" who is a celebrity only by virtue of his being the youngest person alive- the last baby before the unexplained blight; we learn that "Baby Diego" has been stabbed by a disgruntled fan, and everyone in London, miles away, is in mourning. There are ads on the tv for a government-sponsored suicide drug called "Quietus" which shows a man drinking disolved capsules, then falling asleep in his chair; moments later he stands and walks off smiling into a blinding light. And you're not sure what this is at first- they have the good sense not to tell you right out what it is. They assume their audience has some intelligence. Also, there are other ads on the tv screens on the train which Owen, jaded and desponded, rides: these ads show all the major cities in the world in riotous collapse, and ends with the propagandic slogan: "Only Britain Soldiers On." When Moore and Owen's characters- estranged ex-spouses- meet again after years of no contact, they exchange these lines (I paraphrase):

"Heard about your mother."

"Were your parents in New York that day?"

"Yeah."

"Sorry."

"Well, that's just the world we live in now, isn't it?"

Never is it explained what happened. Nor do we need to know.

These subtle touches really make the feel of it real and authentic and layered.

 

I felt like i was watching a William Gibson novel brought to life. This is exactly the dark kind of futurist world he would lead us into, and Owen was just like Rydell or Case being sucked into a conspiracy which unfolded in a crazed adventure that ends in a sequestered Refugee Camp made out of a converted British coastal town, Bexhill. Owen never lays his hand on a gun throughout the film, never kills anyone consciously, only tries to get away, to push through. He's not even really that heroic- we get the sense that he just wants to get back to his life and comfort. But of course that becomes impossible. The touch of Owen never having his shoes was wonderful- and while it did remind me of "Die Hard" it occured to me that this was much less gimmicky than the big Bruce Willis action flick, and it lended a lot to Owen's character, for he was extremely vulnerable throughout the film, losing everyone he loved along the way- his ex-wife, whom he was clearly still in love with, his only child (who died years ago, before the opening of the film, and whose death was the cause of his marriage collapsing), his friend played brilliantly by Michael Caine, and Caine's catatonic wife. All of these people sacrifice themselves because they have hope for the future- and that hope is manifest in the figure of Kee- a sassy African immigrant "fugee" who is miraculously impregnated, and who must flee to the ship called the Tomorrow. At the end of the film, Owen is shot and he succumbs to the wound only after he has succoured Kee- but it's okay for him to die, because he now has found his hope once more, too. He has faith again, fragile though it be, and beset by dangers and darkness. At the opening of the film he gives this exchange with Caine's character:

Caine: "What did you do on your birthday?"

Owen: "Nothing. Just another day: Woke up, felt like shit. Went to work, felt like shit."

(again, i paraphrase)

 

As if this weren't enough- the style of shooting employed for this film is raw, gritty, uncut documentary-style footage, with fake blood spattering the camera lens, and they still keep rolling. They have long, elaborate 20 minute takes, which you learn in the featurette on the DVD, took days to set up and shoot, getting the timing just right for these really intense action sequences. This is really an edge-of-your-seat kind of film, with graphic violence and unbelievable realism. This is film-making at its best. It's worth a million Oscars. Much more than "The Departed", which, i must say, was poo. My boy, who has seen the Hong Kong original upon which the Scorsese film was based, says as much as well, and says the original, "Infernal Affairs" i believe is far better.

 

Needless to say, this is exactly the kind of mood and story I appreciate and try to emulate. Anyone who's read my novel might attest to that. When my protagonist succeeds in the end, he is left alone, having lost all his loved ones, and feeling as if he has achieved nothing more than causing grief and destruction. He is powerful, and knighted, but he is now full of hate and loathing. Which, the novel intimates, he will have to overcome in due time, and only by delving into the solitude of the darkness of the path he's chosen. But there, too, there are notes of hope, which the keen reader will pick up on. Anyway, I'm happy to report that the hero of my first book, Alex, is the antagonist of the second book, insane and vengeful. I know many of you have been waiting for the rough draft to read. I am trying to finish it before the summer is out, or at least the main part of it. the main character's voice has given me so much trouble in the writing of it, but i believe i'm finally on the right track now. anyway, here's a couple of pictures to whet your appetite!

 

ciao4now

 

 

I have to say that I am not really cut out to be a teacher. I love the kids, and we have a lot of fun, but I'm terribly disorganized. I can't keep track of my papers. I lose tests and papers that students hand in which I am meant to mark, and then never do. And I really detest bringing my work home with me. As any teacher for my school can attest to, the workload with marking and grading and writing reports every two weeks is pretty heavy- heavier than any other bushiban (cram school) in Taipei. But we do get the benefit of working for one of the most pretigious schools in Taipei (although the pay is the same as other schools), an annual company trip, and the feeling like we are really educating kids as part of a team that cares about its employees and young students. It's not just a machine.

 

Although more and more teachers are becoming disgruntled. It's amazing how people find things to complain about, even when they are being treated as celebrities, in a way. And I hate to say it, but I too have joined the league of gripers. My branch, actually, is Gripe Central. Which might have something to do with the fact that our manager quit in October and hasn't yet been sufficiently replaced with an efficient and sensible person; all of us working there are pretty much new, save a couple of the Chinese staff; and the program we are using is entirely new, and one which is a compromise invented to get through a loophole in the government's crackdown on kindergarten's hiring foreign teachers in Taiwan. Why can't they? No one really knows. I believe it's a scam to charge these schools more fines if they catch them with foreign teachers, the WaiGuoRen (literally: OutCountryPeople) who then get immediately deported. But don't worry- all my papers are in order.

 

However, I think I may be in line for deporting myself very soon. As many of you know, I have overstayed my original Taiwanese plan by over two years, and I haven't been back to my homeland of Canada since. I miss it more and more, especially this year, which has been really tough. I've grown tired of not being able to communicate with anyone who doesn't know English, and being dependent on people who can speak Chinese and English to help me manage simple tasks.

 

Such simple tasks, for example, as hiring an electrician and a plumber to come and repair the electrical circuits in my home and the drip in the ceiling of the bathroom. For the past several weeks we've been unable to use the sockets along one wall, running from the living room into the kitchen without kicking the breakers downstairs. Very annoying when my mom is boiling a kettle of water for coffee and the power in the whole apartment kicks off while i'm in the middle of designing graphic art on my computer, which is only half-done, and partially saved. Very annoying indeed. But it's all good now. My boy worked hard playing phone tag with the workers and the landlady, organizing the times for the repairs to be done- just this past Saturday everything was put to rights. Hooray.

 

And as if this wasn't enough apartment hassle- I've been informed that my subleased apartment in Montreal has been evacuated due to a fire! I called the landlord (ironically, a Chinese man) and while i wanted news of the fire and subsequent repairs, he only berated me for never allowing rent increases in the past and threatened to rent out my place to others should i not accept a rental increase upon my return. After some wheedling I did manage to ascertain that there was not much damage done, as the fire was outside, and on the ground, behind the pizza place which my apartment is directly above. However, my sublessees are still not in the apartment, as electrical wiring needs to be repaired, so they are staying with friends of theirs.

 

Currently, I am romancing my lovely new VIAO which my boy got me for Xmas, transferring files into its greedy hard drives via my new external hard drive. I just bought this little device in order to back up my files. I feared that, with all the power cut-outs, my desktop might be suffering, and i feared losing my precious art and writing files. Only days after backing up these files, my computer seems to have suffered some kind of internal hemorrhaging and now won't boot up, despite my booting it several time with my foot.

 

So. I think that it is time to pack it in and return to Canada. If only because this is what i've been telling everyone, landlords included, i'm going to do, come August when my contract is through with my school. I'm encouraging my boy to accompany me, as he is eager to emigrate somewhere, get out of Taiwan, as so many young men and women here seem keen to do. It's wholly ironic that they seem to feel there's no future for them here in their home country and that they can only expect a better life abroad while we foreigners come here and live fat lives teaching them English so that they CAN emigrate. We come to their country to make big bucks, and they leave to make it big. Weird.

 

Anyway, many people are expressing concern about the fact that while I feel it is time for me to go, my mother will be staying behind to continue teaching in Taiwan. This is one of the reasons why I feel maybe my choice is not the right one. I have moved around quite a lot in my life, and it's never been that hard to leave one place to move on to another. in fact, a part of me lives for it, and i love packing it up, and moving on. i'm a member of Coupland's "Poverty Jet Set" and have been since the age of 16. (Speaking of Coupland, i just picked up his latest Jpod, which i'm really pumped about! People have called it the sequel to his Microserfs- oddly enough the ONLY book i own which makes me cry EVERY time at the end. Anyway, both novels have pictures of Lego people on the covers, and cover similar territory. not reading it yet. i'm waiting for the right time. right now i'm working my way through THREE Henry Miller books simultaneously: "The Air Conditioned Nightmare"; "Tropic of Capricorn" and; "Sexus". Loving it, his style and his insights. I can see how he must have inspired the late Hunter S. Thompson! It's doing wonders for my own writing, which is going excellently) So back to my staying or going... well, I've gotta say that I have really grown to appreciate Taipei, and Taiwan, although it was a loathsome, baneful place when i first arrived. The weather is of course atrocious, and I dread the coming summer. The only thing that makes it tolerable, i have to say, is the idea of escaping it in the worst, sweltering armpit of a month: August, and returning home where summers are actually enjoyable. I especially like my neighbourhood, which is a wealthy, cultural and hip area. There are numerous coffee shops i frequent which are just around the corner. Everyone at these places knows me and what i want: Peppermint tea with honey; tuna sandwich with osmanthus milk tea; et cetera. And to be honest, I try to think of such places within the same proximity of my apartment in Montreal, and I can't really come up with the equivalent.

 

Here's the thing: I am leading a sort of upper crust existence here. I'm making a lot of money. Of course, I'm spending most of it and not saving a penny, but that's just me. I might not be the upper layer of the upper crust, maybe just the lower segment, the underbelly of the upper crust, if you will- but still, I'm in the money. My neighbourhood and apartment spaces are enviable, and I am able to treat myself regularly to some nice meals. I eat out every day practically, without any thought about the money. And what i'm really worried about now is going back to Montreal where i am guaranteed to be making about half of what i make now. Can i take that huge compromise, the big step backwards? i definitely want less responsibility with my work- i don't like having my mental space invaded to this degree, and i find that my writing and peace of mind suffer for it. i'm much more uptight now than i ever was before, and that's not so cool. i need some breathing space. and while i may be happier in montreal, and more productive artistically i might be going back to the somewhat bohemian lifestyle that i was leading there. of course, Henry Miller's books are a great help to inspire me to return: he is all about living one's life as a work of art and sacrificing everything for that. he slaved away in America for years before going to Paris to bum around for a decade, writing and whoring and having adventures.

 

My plan thus far i think is to learn bartending. now that all bars in Montreal are non-smoking i can tolerate the idea of working regularly in a bar. so i want to a) brush up on my French and b) learn bar flair, that Tom Cruise bottle spinning in the movie "Cocktail" and become a wonderfully popular landmark bartender in the nightlife of Montreal. so: it seems i'm an underbelly kind of guy, no matter where i am. that's cool. i like the underbelly. it's soft. and warm. and furry.

 

Well, Chinese New Year has come and gone, and so has my vacation in the Philippines, but not to the over-developed Boracay, which we visited last year as part of our sojourn. This time we opted for Palawan, the western-most isle, which is long and skinny, shaped more or less like a lower case "i". The capital, Puerto Princesa, is defined in the Lonely Planet as "an overgrown country town". To the north is the lovely little town of El Nido, which welcomes tourists, and has scuba diving, mountain climbing, guided tours, and island hopping- but without what most wish to escape while on vacation- scads of tourists! Palawan is meant to be one of the last more-or-less pristine islands, or at least the development here hasn't become fullblown.

 

Our trip began flying into Manila, which takes 1.5 hours approximately. And although it's really just south of the tropic of capricorn, it's bloody HOT there! we took a cab to another airport where we played Scrabble in a very luxurious lounge while waiting for our connecting flight to Palawan. This was with Island Transvoyager Inc. (ITI) which exists only to service the guests of the posh El Nido resorts. As we were not staying at either of these resorts, we could only get on the flight if there was room for us. Luckily, there was.

 

Flying another hour over the Archipelago of the Filipino isles, we arrived in El Nido, touching down on the unpaved runway. There we were greeted by five women in lovely dresses singing in front of an ox-cart. This was a lovely, though staged, reception. Feeling a bit like impostors, my boy and I then separated from the genuine resort guests and took a "trike" or "tricycle" into town- which is basically a small motorbike with a two-seater car welded onto it. Very, very common form of transportation.

 

After staying one night in El Nido town, we went out the following day to our resort, Las Cabanas, which was spectacular. With large, well-tended grounds all alive with caged parroty-type birds and lovely flower arrangements, Las Cabanas really has found the best spot in all of El Nido. It's right at the confluence of two beaches that run together and come to a point: one that runs in along the bay, and the other that faces the outer, isle-beleaguered stretch of the South China sea. At this point there's a little hump of an island that connects to the beach by a rocky isthmus. This is what we could see from our cottage.

 

The place is run by a French Canadian man, Dan, whom we never met, and his Filipina wife, Bhing, whom we did meet. On several occasions. She was quite a character, as they say. She'd share with us all her gossip, and tell us her stories about working as a nanny in Hong Kong for ten years. She took good care of her guests, even if she was somewhat disorganized, and she'd drink with us in the evenings, getting what she called a little "tipsy-tipsy".

 

They only have three cottages, so the demand is high to get in. There was some contention over this. They're a new resort, and so they're not well organized. When we arrived, at 3:00 p.m., Bhing informed us that she'd sort of promised anther guest our cottage because she wasn't sure if we were coming or not. They seem to have problems with people not showing up for confirmed bookings, and others who wish to extend their stays. So we had to sit and talk it out, but she assured us we had dibs, as we had a confirmed reservation in her book. At first, I thought this would not bode well for the rest of our stay, but in the end, my misgivings were unnecessary. They took very good care of us, feeding us well every day (meals are included) and taking us out island hopping- an adventurous day in which we swam in a blue-green, mountain-begirt lagoon, wandered down a snakish sandbar, and clambered into a cave which had been eroded from the inside out.

 

Another day we took out their double kayak, which had glass bottom holes for viewing fishies. We tried to paddle against the rather strong headwind towards a huge spiring fist of a mountain jutting out of the sea, not too far out from the beach, but the going was too rough. So we turned around and went with the wind (much easier) to a beach called Commando 7 beach, where we ate the excellent sandwiches Bhing had packed in a picnic basket for us, and I attacked the bottle of Tanduay Rhum she'd given us. The sun blazed down on the crystal clear waters, and on the white sand beach. I hadn't put on enough sunblock. I got drunk. We then proceeded to do a little photo shoot in the water and on the beach, in which my boy posed for me in several different ways and venues. Then we made love.

 

Subsequently, I got a hideous sunburn, which now has simmered down to a decent tan, despite the peeling which i've just managed to get over. We went back into El Nido town after five days at Las Cabanas, and stayed at The Alternative Center, which was an awesome place. It was all made up of twisted and shaped pieces of wood, very organic looking. This was a health-oriented, mostly veggie place with massages offered. One side of it was all open to the sea. Resto on the second floor, and room below. The rooms were weird, they were mostly divided by bamboo and curtains. Our door had no lock. Actually, we really had no door. That's how alternative this place was. They also had this one area with what looked like four crow's nests all connected by planks, quite secure, although at first you feel a little unsure, in which you can relax on cushions and listen to the sea while drinking herbal tea.

 

Despite the big rainbow painted on this place, we decided in the end it wasn't the place for us to stay. This was mainly due to the  fact that, it not really having walls, the sounds of early morning- the sea, roosters galore, trikes motoring up the laneways, people waking up, etc- all invaded too nearly and prevented us from relaxing in the mornings. So we relocated to anther place up the beach which wasn't so close to the hubbub.

 

The adventures we had in El Nido are as follows:

 

We tried renting mountain bikes from the famous Art Cafe to take to the hot springs and the waterfall about 20km out of town. The bikes sucked, and they couldn't even take us up the first hill out of town. So we exchanged them for a motorbike. Now, I am no experienced motorcyclist. All the experience I have comes from a combination of bicycle instincts (which are highly developed after biking in cities like a madman for years) and a handful of experiences driving a scooter in thailand and taiwan. Anyway, what the hell, we thought. Off we went!

 

Not far out of town the road isn't paved, and it becomes a dusty, bumpy, rock-strewn challenging motherfucker of a road. Yes, indeedy-do! But we braved it and managed to get to the little town of Pasadena, where the Nagkalik-kalik waterfalls are meant to be...somewhere. We asked around, and the locals seemed to know what we were talking about, but they didn't know how to direct us. There were no signs. Tourism development was at a low here. Finally we asked two ten year old boys who were playing in a farm yard and they, without saying anything more than "palls?" (meaning "falls?"- they often mix the "p" and "f" sounds, which means you get words like "pamily" instead of "family" and "fart" instead of "part"; i think the word "platform" sounded something like "flatporm" but i could be wrong!) the two boys managed to lead us...across farmsteads, over streams, past pigs, cows, roosters, along a path with many forks, all the way. About an hour later we saw the "palls" which weren't really spectacular, but it was worth the adventure and the cute little crayfish in the pool at the base of the falls which nibbled at us when we swam. It was nice, but hard to be romantic together as the two boys just squatted and oogled us the whole time.

Only when we got back to town did we realize the waterfall/hot springs trip is meant to be organized as a guided tour from the Art Cafe!!! Well, maybe for the regular tourists, but not for us, fearless and bold adventurers that we are!

 

Apart from this, we went on a wonderful and sweaty hike on Cadlao Island, which is a mountainous isle just across from El Nido. We went with a guide (no choice this time) and an Austrian flight attendant named Theresa who'd also signed up for it. We saw a muddy inland lagoon, three cute little monkeys up in the trees, wild mangroves with crawling, worming root systems, and sharp underwater corals upon which I and the boy both cut our feet!

 

After this came the last adventure: leaving! We were unable to book a flight back to Manila with ITI as we'd come in, so the only flight we could get was from the capital, Puerto Princesa, which was eight hours away by bus! And when I saw bus, I don't mean some high-horse, air-conditioned tourist bus with television and reclining seats. Oh no. This was the bus the locals took. It was crammed full, with all the luggage thrown onto the roof by the three or four attendants who'd also ride up there. I barely had any leg room at all. And the road, as I've mentioned previously, was one dusty devil of a road. I knew we were in for it when I saw all the locals shrouding themselves with scarves and t-shirts- anything to keep the dust out of their eyes and hair. They knew; we did not. Seeing as how the bus left at 6:00 a.m. the boy and I slept for the first few cramped hours. At the first stop in a little town called Taytay a lot of the passengers got off, and there was more room. Halfway to Puerto, at Roxas, the road became paved. All the shrouds came off, the locals dusted themselves off, and on we went in more comfort than before. When we got to Puerto around 2:00 I was immediately approached by numerous "trike" drivers by virtue of my white face, and off we went to the pick up our tickets and to the most luxurious hotel we could find: the Liberty Park Pension House. The ironic part is that the trike driver, clearly in line for a commission, kept pushing us to go there, but I wanted to get a second opinion from the travel agent first, so I had to argue with him that we didn't want to go there. And when I asked the agent where we should go, she handed us the same flyer the trike driver had been pushing on me.

 

We were happy to be back in civilization. Warm showers! Hurray! Pizza at a VERY westernized chain resto called (of all things) "Shakey's"! Hurray! Watching Jay Leno and Conan O'Brian on late night tv (a first for the boy)! Hurray!

 

The next day we had to go to the airport in the morning. Our flight to Manila was at 10:00 a.m. and when we arrived, we had about an hour to get from the domestic airport to the international airport, check in, go through immigration and security and get to the waiting lounge. The boy was a little anxious- and so was I, admittedly. But I pulled out all the stops. In an airport like in Manila, it's something of a battle to get your way through. So as soon as we got out of the taxi there was a line up JUST TO GET IN. I approached a security guard and explained that we were running late, so he let us in a side entrance. No line at the check in counter (we were undoubtedly some of the last to check in). At immigration I tried the trick with the security guard again (different guard) but it didn't work. So instead I found a line with two middle-aged American tourists who were right at the head of the line, and I rushed up to them and asked them in as apologetically and winsomely Canadian way as I could if I could cut in line. Then I had to explain that it wasn't just me, but my friend also. They let us go, but they weren't too happy about it. Through security (twice- they give you the double whammy of security in a country where banks and malls have big shotgun-toting guards that'll check everyone's bag) and then into the waiting lounge. With about 30 minutes to spare.

 

As for the rest, there's not much to say. We're back now, and back to work. Hurray?

 

The Illusionist

a review

 

 

 

 

            Yet another film that should be a wonderful story which ends up being no real story at all, but a mere two hour prelude to a revelatory twist. It might have been really good. It should have been, given the detailed setting and script, not to mention the truly wonderful performances by the main actors.

           As I write this I am sitting in New York Bagels, one of Taipei’s hippest places, open 24/7, serving good western food. My boy is here, ruminating over the film we just saw. He sums it up, paraphrasing a line from the film: “a stunning performance which is almost an art.” But it is not art; its only value lies in the performances.

            Rufus Sewell and Paul Giamatti in particular impressed me in this film with their performances, more than the main actors. Giamatti, whom I just saw recently in the overly twisty The Lady in the Water, always seems to play a weak character, despicable at times, and so at this juncture it was really refreshing to see him playing a smart, sensitive and powerful character. Sewell’s “crown prince” was more than convincing: he played the part of an ambitious, arrogant and somewhat delusional prince excellently.

            Edward Norton, playing the hero, Eisenheim, had some good moments, but these were mostly in reaction to the stronger performances about him. As a stage magician he lacked any real arrogance of his own, any real authority. He had the mild seeming of a man who really wants to show people how magic works, and why people should want to watch it. There was not the usual air of consciously hiding something from his audience, playfully showing off his many tricks; instead, he had the manner of a man who wishes to reveal his secrets, to be loved. Throughout the film he displayed no real passion for magic- as if he had been born with a gift that he himself did not truly want or understand, and wished only to share it with others, so that the gap between him and them might be bridged.

            As such, his performance as a regular stage magician is inauthentic; and this is fine, as long as we know what he truly wants. If he is special, unlike or above regular magicians, then what does he want? The answer is simple: the girl.

            Separated in their adolescence, Ed Norton and Jessica Biel have been harbouring a secret love for one another for fifteen years. He was a peasant, and she a duchess. Yet even then, Eisenheim, when finally he meets her again, is taken by surprise. This was not part of his plan. He is outside of his own trick. Why then did he become such a powerful and gifted magician, if not to win her? When she comes up as volunteer for one of his tricks (of course) he looks shocked; wouldn’t it be better if he looked satisfied, as if here he saw his destiny and hard work coming to fruition; or better yet, inspired to the challenge of trying to win her hand now that he is popular and powerful?

            What he does appear to feel is a slight surprise, and then a small, bitter resignation to her engagement, which he learns of later, to the crown prince. After coming so far, he hardly seems interested in trying to win her. In fact the only thing he really seems interested in actively pursuing is making a fool of the prince.

            His motives are unclear throughout. This is very different from the other magician movie that came out, The Prestige, whose characters are obsessed with magic and who go to extremes to learn, study and discover the tricks of other magicians. One cannot just happen upon the art, and the skill and the audience- a magician must work for these things. But Eisenheim himself does literally happen upon the art magic. Before this he is a cabinet maker, working with his father, and he seems to have just as much passion and skill for this art as he does for magic. One has the impression that should he be forced to give up performing he would feel little grief going back to the carpenter’s bench.

            Yet his magic is spectacular, inexplicable, and unique. Clearly, he has worked hard and traveled far to become different and remarkably talented. From the beginning of his putting on shows in Vienna, he receives fame and fortune. This is at odds with his seeming lack of ambition.

            Only when the duchess goes to him and says that she wants to run off with him does he spring into action. And even then it is not a direct action, but is subtle, illusory and complex: a clockworks full of wheels turning and springs unwinding. This is the whole story, the plot: how the two lovers will run off together.

            The duchess warns him that they will be hunted and killed by the prince should they just take off; believing this, Eisenheim designs and sets into motion a whole elaborate ruse in which his reputation is ruined and the sweet little duchess stages her own death. All to throw the prince off their tracks.

            This is the twist. At the end, when you see the lovers reunited, you’re supposed to say, Oh, it was all just an ILLUSION! How clever! But this is not how I felt. I felt extreme disappointment.

            Here we go again. The twist.

            From The Sixth Sense to The DaVinci Code we’re being force-fed these plot twists which are large and chunky. It’s like drinking your yummy milk tea and whop!- you are suddenly choking on one of the pearls that got sucked up the straw.

            Plot twists are not always necessary. A good example is Minority Report. This is a really solid sci-fi action flick in which Tom Cruise does what he does best: runs around, throws some punches, does some acrobatics, and looks generally hard-edged and sexy. But then at the end, there’s the twist. I always stop the movie right before the twist, convincing myself that I’ve just watched a really dark and sincere movie about a man who believes in justice and his system of justice so strongly that it compels him to murder his son’s killer. All the way he’s trying to prove his innocence, even though his future crime has already been computed by the precognitive prophets; and what a beautiful and dark journey for him to finally come to the end and realize that, sometimes, justice means murder. That he has broken out of the system he was the flag-holder for, and is now about to become a victim of it- but his son is avenged, and he has his catharsis; he is healed, and he has a self-realization. The hero’s journey is complete. At the end of the movie, whether he chooses to murder his son’s killer or not is irrelevant- what matters is that he has his journey, and his awakening. Just like in Vanilla Sky.

            But no: there’s the twist. He’s been set up. It’s all a conspiracy. Now he has to go after his friend and mentor. Barf-stink!

            In Vanilla Sky, the twist works beautifully: it brings him to his journey. In Minority Report, it devalues the hero’s journey. In Fight Club the twist carries the story to higher levels. In The Illusionist, it makes the hero into a selfish creep. Poor Ed Norton: first he was pitted against Brat Pitt, and now he is being undermined by his own characters!

            We are lead to believe that Eisenheim is growing, that he’s learning. At the beginning of the film, we are shown that he loses his love, and then goes to become a powerful magician. Now he loses his love again (apparently) and begins the next stage of his journey: learning to understand what to use his powers for. We see him grieve, and then he begins, after a hiatus, to put on much darker spectacles on stage where he simply sits in a chair and, with no gadgetry, seems to summon up spirits with his mind (and his hand). He even summons up the spirit of his lost love, the supposedly murdered duchess. We think, there must be some purpose to this. There must be some growth that he's undergoing.

            And all of this is devalued, stripped of all its power, by the twist. It’s all a farce. There’s no growth for our hero. He learns nothing, struggles not a bit. There’s no journey, and hence there is no story.

            What’s more is that this trick, this illusion, causes other characters to suffer and die. The prince takes his own life as the soldiers come to arrest him after being framed for the murder by Eisenheim’s trickery. The chief detective, a man whom Eisenheim was pushing to become nobler and less corrupt, apparently loses his job, all future prospects; and what’s worse is that once he finally chooses to take Eisenheim’s advice to become a man of moral worth we discover that he is really just being used by Eisenheim; before he was corrupt, but aware, and now he is just a pawn, duped and unaware.

            And why? What does Eisenheim want? After staging the duchess’ death, couldn’t he have just walked away, gone off to join his lover after she was carted away? Why work toward bringing the prince to ruin? For his country? To expose the prince’s ambition to overthrow the current emperor? No- Eisenheim never once expresses any political sentiment, nor any interest in stopping the prince’s plan. All he seems to want to do is antagonize the prince for his arrogance. This is not a bad plot point, but if it is what we are to believe in, then it was grossly under-developed.

            What better film this would have made if she really had been killed before Eisenheim could have saved her. How true that might have been. What dark road he would have had to tread then? He would have been forced to confront the prince and- what? Maybe he could have tried to humble him, strip him of his arrogance, forcefully educated him, in the spirit of Seven’s antagonist. Or else gone and really tried to find some real magic to resurrect his lost love.

            This is the territory of real stories, stories which do not compromise themselves for the sake of a simple (and, in this case, obvious) plot twist. Such films as 12 Monkeys and Memento exist in this realm. These films bring their heroes to dark places where they must face themselves, and make the all-important choice to grow.

            In The Illusionist, all Eisenheim chooses to do is to steal, to take, to trick. He is only a thief, thinking not of the grief and trouble that he will cause others; he only thinks of himself, and so he grows not at all.

            It is too bad, because this film was put together very well. But, founded on the twist, it is ultimately found to be top-heavy; and so it falls over: a ruined trick. It is the woman sawed in half whose innards and viscera are then exposed, falling out onto the stage. The dove that flies out of the magician’s hat and shits on your head.

It is nothing more than an illusion spoiled.

           

So lately...

 

I've been trying to relax more. Since my birthday, I've been thinking. Well, the situation is this: I never planned to stay in Taiwan this long. I thought I was going to return long before this. I'm going on three years now. Well, there's nothing wrong with that in and of itself, but I guess if I'd known this, I would have stuck with the Chinese lessons I started with and then dropped. Not being able to talk to people wears you down after a while: simple tasks become daunting, complicated.

 

And there's also something to be said about living your life as if you're going to pack up and move on in the summer. But then you decide to sign another contract and the summer comes and goes...

There's a different lifestyle when you know you won't be settling down in the place you find yourself in. You pass everything through that filter: you don't try to make this place your home because you are essentially trying to get back to the place you consider home.

 

But now, inevitably, I find myself putting down some roots here and finding myself connected to this place. I was warned this would happen. Sarah- that picnic we had in Da-an park after our Chinese class, when you told me that Taipei would grow on me- well, you were right. Having my mom here, and my boy as well, and cats. It's as if I am in for a long haul.

 

In my attempt to relax I've been trying to stop thinking so much about leaving, and with these efforts, I've been able to appreciate Taipei more, especially my neighbourhood. It really is lovely, the loveliest neighbourhood in the area, I think. There are several restaurants, parks, shops and cafes to visit. I've heard it said that it's the wealthiest and most cultural area in central Taipei, and I believe it. And actually I've come to realize that my neighbourhood here is superior to the one in which my Montreal apartment is located- the gritty cusp between the Quartier Latin and the Gay Village. Within ten minutes' walk I can get from my flat here to at least four different health/natural food stores.

 

So what exactly has been my aversion lately? Why have I been telling myself over and over again that I'm just tired of being here, tired of doing this? My duties, my assumed responsibilities, the language barrier, the new position at work, the WEATHER- all these things have been stressing me out, increasingly, especially since the beginning of the semester, in September.

 

I wrote a poem today in Yong Kang park. Two, actually. I've started wondering if my poetry has just been self-indulgent and childish wanking. I've started wondering if maybe I should make more literary poems, whatever that means. For some reason the word "incumbent" snuck into both poems, but given the nature of the word, I felt safe to presume that it was already there, in both, from the start.

 

Here they be:

 

 

Caterpillar

 

you are rescued from the street

and the demise it had for you.

you’re uncertain; the torn

cardboard wedge before you

seems unstable, shifty.

 

I goad you on, nudging your fuzzy rump

and then carry you

out of the routine traffic

just as the mailman turns the corner

in his green uniform and heavy boots,

riding his scooter down the laneway.

 

in the park, among the trees,

spin your dryadic thread,

climb the ochre finger of your body

into the chrysalis

and wait, incumbent,

like a letter in the post,

about to be delivered.

 

 

 

 

 

Yong Kang Street

 

It’s been a few weeks now

since the hired butchers came

and sawed off nearly all the boughs,

the upper limbs of the trees.

This was before Christmas;

I walked up to the edge

of Yong Kang park

and found the way barred,

an arm of yellow tape.

 

The danger here is that China

will invade at any moment,

should they wish to. A lightning strike,

an earthquake, unpredictable.

Some say it will not happen,

but history says it will.

Thousands of indoctrinated soldiers

will land to reclaim this Isla Formosa.

 

I think now often of my duties:

to carry the weight of others,

a bus driver who worries for his passengers,

who fears hard rain on the high road.

Gina Bo-Bina, Maggalagalie, Tony-Ony:

can I somehow forewarn them,

breed some kind of understanding

while I coach them on grammar points?

 

Repeat after me:

Destroy:

I destroy

You destroy

He destroys

She destroys

 

For days they did not let us in,

the park inaccessible to children,

the old, the homeless. We all watched

as the sanctioned workers bunched the wreckage

into green piles. In the park, the smell of sap,

the arrogant whine of chainsaws.

The severed arms still holding out

their green hands for that last useless

gasp of sunlight.

 

Months ago thousands of protestors

gathered here, from all over the country.

They came in the rain wearing slickers

to demand justice, to overthrow the President,

to force him to step down. His family now on trial

for corruption and the stealthy acquisition

of ill-gotten gains, Chen-Shui Bian sits

incumbent, unremoved, crownless king.

 

Am I grooming the first line of defense?

Hippopo-Thomas, little Roberto, Walson the Walrus:

will they be felled by the conquering attack,

cut down in their prime? When the state

directs them to serve, what words

can I teach them to stop the bullets?

 

Repeat after me:

We destroy

You destroy

It destroys

Who destroys?

 

Now the sky stumbles and falls,

straight down into the park. There are fewer insects.

The sunlight skins its knees, missing a step.

I look at the slender faces of my neighbours:

the florist, the fair trade vendor, the women

who sell me milk tea, and I wonder if they accept

this new ugliness, this cosmetic surgery

that has left atrocious scars on the city.

 

In class today Tom-Tom cried

because he wanted all of the green blocks

to build his tower. I held him as my own son

as he weakly fought me, trying to express

his need to own himself. Amanda Panda,

his playtime nemesis, continued

her own labours, back turned to us.

 

Repeat after me:

They destroy

They destroy

They destroy

They destroy

 

 

 

 "The whole process of making this film is equivalent to building a tower," says my cute boyfriend, as he stands by his closet in his CK underwear, hanging his clothes.

 

 

 

I think this film is awesome. I've only seen parts of "21 grams" so i can't really claim to be familiar with the director's work. Now that i've seen "Babel" i think i'll make a point to see the other two of this so-called "trilogy".

 

First, i'd like to say that i'm very glad that this is NOT a Brad Pitt movie. i like the fact that his screen time is limited, and that when he is onscreen, he's not trying to win us over. We all know he's a handsome devil, and a charming actor- but this is not the time or place for it.

 

 

 

The theme of this film, of course, is obfuscation of living in a world peopled by those of such various cultures and languages. An inability to connect, to be understood. The tag line for the film is, "If you want to be understood, listen". And this is presented in a way that, thankfully, is not too heavy-handed. There are no actually real language barriers in this film. The idea is that we are already divided, we are already sundered from one another, and that our task now is not to keep building towers, but to try to understand one another. One has to wonder, after all, why God should have become angry, in the Biblical story; why should He become so irate by the men united with the goal of becoming more powerful? Surely, He wasn't fearful; perhaps He simply thought that the efforts of men were being wasted in this effort, and that they should instead be directed toward learning to connect with each other. Learning to love one another. Hence the cataclysmic "infocalypse" as Neal Stephenson puts it.

 

In the film the first scene in which we see the stars Cate Blanchett and Brad Pitt they are marooned in Morocco. There is a huge gulf between them, and they are trying to repair this breach in their marriage. They're both speaking English, but they're not connecting. She cautions him not to drink the ice, and she angrily throws it away when he shrugs off her concerns. "Why can't you relax?" he asks her.

And she says that he is the reason why she can't relax. The failure to connect. The isolation. This is the true theme of the film: being alone. They even say it in that same scene. Cate looks around, and while they're surrounded by other tourists, she says, "Why are we here?" and Brad's reply is, "To be alone."

 

The theme is most apparent in the Japanese thread, which concerns a deaf-mute Tokyo school girl, who, already living in a repressive society, feels like a monster whom nobody will love. We're let into her head as she goes to a dance club and can't get into the dancing, although she tries to have a good time. My boy tells me that all the filming they did in the streets of Tokyo was illegal, as the Japanese gov't doesn't really let much filming to take place in Tokyo.

 

Also, there is the Mexican caretaker who needs to cross the American-Mexican border in order to reconnect with her family, for a wedding. After sixteen years of working illegally in San Diego, raising the white children of her employers, she is caught and deported. The last scene of her shows her being picked up by her newly-wedded son at the border, embracing him after spending years in solitude in California. Here again, we have the same message: that family and love are more important (if that's the right word) than prosperity and success. That we will be turned away from ambition toward humanity. That the borders that divide us are there to be crossed.

 

Isolation is everywhere in this film. In Morocco there are isolated towns and homes. In Tokyo, the girl is isolated. Cate and Brad are abandoned in a town, cut off from the American embassy which is having trouble reaching them.

 

My boy pointed out two things he noted: that the air rescue helicopter which descends from the sky to deliver Cate to a hospital appears as a mighty cross descending from the sky. As it does, the people shield their eyes from the dust and wind; he equated this with the power of God descending upon the workers of Babel. I wonder, though, if a cross would be the best emblem to be used for God, as this film is not focusing much at all on Christian themes, and is, by definition, inclusive of more than that singular religion. He also pointed out that the final shot, the beautiful pull-away from the Tokyo condo, shows a tower, complete, and surrounded by a man-made metropolis: ambition and prosperity made manifest, where people can't easily connect. It's a beautiful scene, in all respects: visually, thematically, and as part of the story.

 

My boy also said that "Babel" will not win an Oscar for Best Film because it is not pro-America enough, and actually casts a disparaging light on America's tendency to throw the word "terrorism" around far too eagerly. I agree with him.

 

I only have one small problem with this film: the family formed by Cate and Brad are already suffering when the film opens. And then they suffer MORE: this is necessary, because it will initiate the healing process. This is the main thread of the film: how Cate gets shot. For the evolution of the story, and for these characters, it is needful for them to go through this crisis. It brings them closer in the end. But what I  really don't like is how the children are also made to suffer.

 

In the thread which involves the Mexican caretaker the two white kids are brought into Mexico, and at one point, as they try to recross into America, they are left in the scalding Californian desert. The fact that we don't see the kids after they're rescued tells us that it's not their story; this thread is clearly only meant to concern the caretaker, Amelia, who is forced to return to Mexico, to her son, and to the widower whom she kissed at her son's wedding.

 

But consider this: once Brad and Cate finally return home from Morocco, wounded but on the mend, they discover that their children, which they entrusted to Amelia, were taken to Mexico without their knowing it, by Amelia, who knew already that the family was undergoing a crisis. The parents, weakened already, but with a newfound love, will be sorely shaken when they learn that their kids were picked up in the desert by the border patrol and that their caretaker is gone. This will undermine the lessons they learned. It block their ability to mend.

 

I can see how these two threads work together to carry the theme of the film, but this one point is an important snag. Any time a character or a group of characters (such as a family) has more than one series of tragic events take place in the space of one film, then you approach the comedic. Think of the National Lampoon movies, with Chevy Chase, or "Madhouse" or "Home Alone"- where, of course, one bad thing follows another which follows another. That's the flavour of this type of comedy: what makes it funny, is how ridiculous it is.

 

But for "Babel" to partially negate the growth of its main characters by adding too much suspense is a bit unfortunate. Cate says to Brad that he'd better not run off again, as he apparently did following the death of their infant son. The idea is that they're drawing closer together, and at the end of the film, you wish to believe that this'll be so. But when they do get home and they learn of the near Home Alone-esque capers of their children, well this will, if realistically considered, cause them to be driven even further apart.

 

The media would pick up on it immediately, adding stress to their lives. "American tourists attacked in Morocco return home to find children kidnapped by mad Mexican nanny!"

 

Maybe i'm reading too much into it. But as a writer, i consider these things. and i know it's a subtle point, but i feel it should have been (and could have been) corrected.

 

other than that, i loved it. i'll certainly see it again.

 

There's a lot of suspense in this film, and it's mostly handled quite well.

 

So it's my birthday. Currently, it's 5a.m. i really like a.m./p.m. time, because of the use of the terms "ante-meridian" and "post-meridian". They seem old-fashioned and poetic. Anyway, we are now, in this Oriental hemisphere, beyond the meridian dividing the new year from the old. It's now 2007, and i have just turned 27 years of age. i am approaching thirty, and i'm still not published.

 

i think i've been pushing myself too hard. It seems i've forgotten important lessons which i thought i'd already learned; but it's really in the practiced application of one's wisdom that makes one wise, not just being able to recognize the truth and speak of it to others. i seemed to really learn in very intense ways, back in Montreal, the value of letting go. Of giving up. Of surrendering. Because that's when you get what you were hoping for: when you stop wanting it.

 

i've just been getting panicky. Lately, i have been stressing out, mostly about work. i actually cried in class, in front of my students. and i yelled at the air conditioner; but it deserved it. being a teacher can be really trying, especially when it comes to kindy kids. this new job i've got is really demanding, and i keep going in to work, feeling like i don't know what i'm doing. this, after two years of teaching here. the program and the material we're given isn't all that, so it requires A LOT of creative energy on my part. which means that i don't have much left for my personal creative projects.

 

on top of this, my adopted cat has a bladder infection, so is peeing everywhere, and revenu quebec is hounding me for taxes i didn't file before leaving canada. the stress-o-meter is in the red, let me tell you.

 

for christmas, my boy bought me a Sony VA10 laptop computer. amazing. he really...yeah, this is just...the words...they're just not there... in return, i bought him Mr. Potato Head. but this was a special gift, with special personal significance and...and i had to buy TWO potato heads actually, and combine them, and then buy other items to make the whole effect just right (okay, it's too hard to explain- just watch the Out-takes from Toy Story 2 and you'll know!)

 

 

my mom had a good christmas here. she decorated my apartment with a passion that bordered on crazed obsession. i gave her a cordless drill so she wouldn't have to break any more hammers trying to pound nails into the concrete walls.

 

for my birthday i went to Yi Cafe, an all-you can eat extravaganza, in the opulent Far Eastern Hotel. Only one word for this place: A. MAZ. ING. Anyplace with a (i have to compose myself before i can say it) CHOCOLATE FOUNTAIN has got to be pretty damn close to Heaven. it's so sinful, and yet so divine...

 

Here's a pic:

 

With me on this venture were my good friends, neighbours and roommates: Neil, Maureen, Lisa, Ethan, Lawrence, Ting and Kristina. Thank you all for showing me a good time.

 

After dinner, Ethan, Lisa, Kristina and I retired to our pad on YongKang street and watched Hoops and Yoyo. These are two simple animated characters that were created by Hallmark cards, and which are featured in a range of different e-cards. You can log on to their website and watch the previews of all the cards if you like- but beware, they're addictive! Informed by South Park in visual style, these short animations are, of course, clean and cute, but their charm lies in the enthusiasm of the characters and the unpolished wit of the voice actors. My favourites include:

 

How I Feel Today

The Making of Your Birthday Card

It's Monday

Nice Scream (melting- HIL. AR. IOUS)

Coffee Jitters (brilliant)

Crazy Day

Your Birthday is Today-O (which Ethan sent me, and we watched it

                                      together several times, singing along: FasTER!) 

No Ordinary "Hi" (it's all in the eyes!)

What Friends Say

 

 

Tonight my mom made dinner for us, and we had a nice family soiree. Then she got drunk on red wine and passed out. Ethan and i went out to Da-an Park, where we watched 3 million NT dollars worth of fireworks exploding off the Taipei 101, the tallest building in the world. the first round went off, and everything after that was just coloured smoke. The whole thing gives me an eerie feeling, like the building is being bombed.

 

 

For those of you that don't know, there was an earthquake. 7ish on the Richter scale, on the 26th of December. This was on the two year anniversary of the devastating tsunami which, thankfully, didn't affect Taiwan, but which ravaged other countries in South-East Asia, such as Thailand and Indonesia. This more recent earthquake caused at least two deaths in the southern part of Taiwan, where it was apparently quite strong. In Taipei, far to the north, all we felt were gentle tremors. This freaky coincidence is a sobering reminder of some of the drastic changes happening all over the world right now. It makes me sad to think that in my lifetime i've already seen extreme changes in Canadian climate: the winters now are nothing like what they used to be, and maybe we won't be getting that much snow for that much longer.