On Sleeper

You know, Woody Allen’s movie, Sleeper (1973), would be funny if it weren’t so profectic. Today we are obsessed with our smart phones, tablets, and laptops to the extent that we would be helpless to do anything if the power went out. Woody awakes in a future world to find giant cooperations taking over the world, technology has disconnected people from nature, and robots have a human form, but they all have the same face. The heart of his satire lies with the juxtaposition of his skinny anti-hero, who takes silly to greater heights, and an advanced civilization whose technology has long since outstripped its feeble ethics and morals. Governments have turned into mechanized oligarchies, and primitive revolutionary groups roam the countryside, spouting anarchy and non-conformity. Technology has triumphed over the human form, and physical love can only be done in a machine. Yet, his satire seems almost innocent. He riffs on the dangers of too much technology, the alienating nature of technology, and the absurd inventions that are supposed to make life better. He also riffs on government, control, oppression, revolution, science, religion, sex, and institutional corruption. The visuals, the dialogues, the jokes play on a well-established cinematic traditions, satirizing a series of films from the late sixties and early seventies that deal with apocalyptic end-of-civilization scenarios. The film only takes itself (half) seriously when the main characters plot to steal the “great” leader’s nose–all that is left of him. “We’re here to see the nose. We hear it’s running.” Sleeper also riffs on Kubrick’s 2001: a Space Odyssey, and Woody gives viewers a strange cautionary satire on the dangers of computers and how their interests are completely disconnected from humanity at all. The movie, in all its absurd silliness, seriously discusses the dehumanization of people as technology creeps in on all sides. This seems to be a common motif in the 21st century.

On Sleeper

You know, Woody Allen’s movie, Sleeper (1973), would be funny if it weren’t so profectic. Today we are obsessed with our smart phones, tablets, and laptops to the extent that we would be helpless to do anything if the power went out. Woody awakes in a future world to find giant cooperations taking over the world, technology has disconnected people from nature, and robots have a human form, but they all have the same face. The heart of his satire lies with the juxtaposition of his skinny anti-hero, who takes silly to greater heights, and an advanced civilization whose technology has long since outstripped its feeble ethics and morals. Governments have turned into mechanized oligarchies, and primitive revolutionary groups roam the countryside, spouting anarchy and non-conformity. Technology has triumphed over the human form, and physical love can only be done in a machine. Yet, his satire seems almost innocent. He riffs on the dangers of too much technology, the alienating nature of technology, and the absurd inventions that are supposed to make life better. He also riffs on government, control, oppression, revolution, science, religion, sex, and institutional corruption. The visuals, the dialogues, the jokes play on a well-established cinematic traditions, satirizing a series of films from the late sixties and early seventies that deal with apocalyptic end-of-civilization scenarios. The film only takes itself (half) seriously when the main characters plot to steal the “great” leader’s nose–all that is left of him. “We’re here to see the nose. We hear it’s running.” Sleeper also riffs on Kubrick’s 2001: a Space Odyssey, and Woody gives viewers a strange cautionary satire on the dangers of computers and how their interests are completely disconnected from humanity at all. The movie, in all its absurd silliness, seriously discusses the dehumanization of people as technology creeps in on all sides. This seems to be a common motif in the 21st century.

On the Borg

Normally, I have few problems separating fiction from fact, fantasy from reality, and unlike Don Quixote, I can tell the difference between a windmill and a giant. Nevertheless, the first time I met the Borg, a race of half-human, half-machine cybernetic drones, I knew I was watching a cautionary tale about the dangers of digital mechanization, the incorporation of technology into the human body, and the uncontrolled growth of technology industries. The Borg, first seen in Star Trek: Next Generation, are a race of biological robots who are controlled by a single “collective”, which is code for eradicating, once and for all, the individual. The actors wear a series of mechanical appliances which are supposed to enhance their biological processes–better eyes, better ears, better hands, whatever, the mechanical parts are better than the biological equivalents. Of course, by eradicating the individual, the social interaction between the drones is less than zero, having been reduced to the social behavior of a colony of bees. The actors playing the drones all look pretty much alike, and their skin is gray, and their amour is black, further erasing the last vestiges of their humanity. The Borg are a kind of cross between undead zombies and Frankenstein’s monster with no will of their own, no thoughts of their own, not really alive or dead—more like machines that have on/off switches. Certainly, there is no personal initiative or ethical or moral codes controlling their behavior. They follow the orders of the “hive” without questioning anything. They don’t even interact with one another, which means they have no emotions, can show no empathy, can show no mercy. They are ideal killers. They are the ultimate consumers of technology as they assimilate the others’ cultures with which they come in contact. The Borg has only one concern: assimilate as many races as possible, adding the uniqueness and technology of each race to their own advantage in search of some sort of ideal perfection. Every time they assimilate a race, they also eradicate the unique identity of each victim, a sort of ethnic cleansing, as it were, to insure the idea that perfection does not lie with the individual, but only with the fascistic collective. Perfection, then, is about eliminating all that is unique or different and bending all of those cultures to some ultra-creepy ideology that is concerned with the pursuit of perfection. Why should we, as a people, be concerned about the Borg? Beyond the fact that they are creepy and dark villains, they are also a metaphor for our own society of consumers who are ruled by the collective marketing strategies of the technology companies who are dedicated to rolling out more and better technology to capture the consumer dollar. One of the side-effects of this technology race is a total lack of concern of what technology does to the people who use it. Can we actually say that computers, cell phones, tablets, and laptops make our lives that much better? In some ways, they do enhance communication, especially for those people who are on the go and hard to get a hold of. I like to have a phone in the car in case of emergencies, but I worry about the time people invest in social media and what that takes away from their relationships. I worry that the technology crushes individuality and creativity, that smart phones and tablets eliminate real face to face communication, that technology isolates the individual, repressing or eliminating real communication. Is the Borg collective our society turned on its head and taken to its last apocalyptic logical conclusion? The day it is possible to have a smart phone implanted into your head so you don’t have to worry about carrying it around or making sure it’s charged is the day we all need to take a good long look at what we are doing, but then again, by then, it may be too late.

On the Borg

Normally, I have few problems separating fiction from fact, fantasy from reality, and unlike Don Quixote, I can tell the difference between a windmill and a giant. Nevertheless, the first time I met the Borg, a race of half-human, half-machine cybernetic drones, I knew I was watching a cautionary tale about the dangers of digital mechanization, the incorporation of technology into the human body, and the uncontrolled growth of technology industries. The Borg, first seen in Star Trek: Next Generation, are a race of biological robots who are controlled by a single “collective”, which is code for eradicating, once and for all, the individual. The actors wear a series of mechanical appliances which are supposed to enhance their biological processes–better eyes, better ears, better hands, whatever, the mechanical parts are better than the biological equivalents. Of course, by eradicating the individual, the social interaction between the drones is less than zero, having been reduced to the social behavior of a colony of bees. The actors playing the drones all look pretty much alike, and their skin is gray, and their amour is black, further erasing the last vestiges of their humanity. The Borg are a kind of cross between undead zombies and Frankenstein’s monster with no will of their own, no thoughts of their own, not really alive or dead—more like machines that have on/off switches. Certainly, there is no personal initiative or ethical or moral codes controlling their behavior. They follow the orders of the “hive” without questioning anything. They don’t even interact with one another, which means they have no emotions, can show no empathy, can show no mercy. They are ideal killers. They are the ultimate consumers of technology as they assimilate the others’ cultures with which they come in contact. The Borg has only one concern: assimilate as many races as possible, adding the uniqueness and technology of each race to their own advantage in search of some sort of ideal perfection. Every time they assimilate a race, they also eradicate the unique identity of each victim, a sort of ethnic cleansing, as it were, to insure the idea that perfection does not lie with the individual, but only with the fascistic collective. Perfection, then, is about eliminating all that is unique or different and bending all of those cultures to some ultra-creepy ideology that is concerned with the pursuit of perfection. Why should we, as a people, be concerned about the Borg? Beyond the fact that they are creepy and dark villains, they are also a metaphor for our own society of consumers who are ruled by the collective marketing strategies of the technology companies who are dedicated to rolling out more and better technology to capture the consumer dollar. One of the side-effects of this technology race is a total lack of concern of what technology does to the people who use it. Can we actually say that computers, cell phones, tablets, and laptops make our lives that much better? In some ways, they do enhance communication, especially for those people who are on the go and hard to get a hold of. I like to have a phone in the car in case of emergencies, but I worry about the time people invest in social media and what that takes away from their relationships. I worry that the technology crushes individuality and creativity, that smart phones and tablets eliminate real face to face communication, that technology isolates the individual, repressing or eliminating real communication. Is the Borg collective our society turned on its head and taken to its last apocalyptic logical conclusion? The day it is possible to have a smart phone implanted into your head so you don’t have to worry about carrying it around or making sure it’s charged is the day we all need to take a good long look at what we are doing, but then again, by then, it may be too late.

On "Lost in Translation"

I first saw this very strange movie by Sofia Coppola (2003) in a movie theater in Madrid. Like any really good film, it could just as easily be called a comedy as a tragedy. The entire script is played in a very low-key manner by the stars, Scarlet Johansson and Bill Murray, who form an extremely unlikely duo separated in age by twenty-five years, but this movie is about much more than just a May-December romance, or maybe that is exactly what it’s about. Yet there is nothing tawdry or maudlin about their relationship which develops within the environs of a five-star hotel in downtown Tokyo. Both are married, their spouses are absent, and they both find themselves adrift in a culture they don’t understand, unable to understand the people around them or the language they speak, adrift in their lives which seem to have no meaning–she doesn’t know what she wants in life, and he is an action hero at the end of his career, endorsing a Japanese whiskey which is paying him a lot of money. She’s beautiful, but lonely; he famous, but for all the wrong reasons. They share a piercing loneliness, a solitude which speaks to the outer limits of the human soul, leaving them both with a painful melancholy spirit. They meet in this hotel, a cold mausoleum full of marble, chrome, and glass. He’s drinking whiskey, she’s trying to participate in a banal conversation between her husband and a client. If this were a normal, slapstick, seen-it-already comedy, they would just hop into bed and get crazy, but that never happens. They talk, the eat together, they try to participate in Tokyo culture, but this just adds to their isolation, and they must turn to each other for answers. What is lost in translation is human communication, and these to will spend a few days in Tokyo trying to get back their humanity. The movie speaks to the great tragedy of the human being: being left alone (even in the middle of 15 million people, especially when you don’t speak their language and they really don’t speak yours in spite of their imitation of it. The movie is filled with images of video games and karaoke, Japanese people singing English language songs without understanding a word they are singing. The movie riffs on Japanese imitations of American culture, the most ironic being the whiskey which Murray is there to endorse. Charlotte (Johansson) is a twenty-something college graduate philosophy major who has yet to grow up; Murray’s worn-out movie star has banal and pointless phone calls with his wife, none of which is funny–pathetic would be a better word. Both are products of a consumer society which has little use for a philosopher or an old actor, neither of which has any value in a hyper-capitalistic society. They neither produce nor consume, so they drift, untethered to either meaning or value. If they have come to love each other by the end of the movie, it is because they are kindred spirits, damaged, alone, crying out to be understood or loved. A sexual relationship is not what either of them needs or wants, but they do need to be together in an uncomplicated way–just be together. For a lot of the movie-going public, this movie will be slow and unintelligible. The silences and quiet conversations pass equally between these two lonely people, but they do grow to appreciate and maybe love each other. They part in the end, and there is no happy ending, perhaps there is no ending at all.

On "Lost in Translation"

I first saw this very strange movie by Sofia Coppola (2003) in a movie theater in Madrid. Like any really good film, it could just as easily be called a comedy as a tragedy. The entire script is played in a very low-key manner by the stars, Scarlet Johansson and Bill Murray, who form an extremely unlikely duo separated in age by twenty-five years, but this movie is about much more than just a May-December romance, or maybe that is exactly what it’s about. Yet there is nothing tawdry or maudlin about their relationship which develops within the environs of a five-star hotel in downtown Tokyo. Both are married, their spouses are absent, and they both find themselves adrift in a culture they don’t understand, unable to understand the people around them or the language they speak, adrift in their lives which seem to have no meaning–she doesn’t know what she wants in life, and he is an action hero at the end of his career, endorsing a Japanese whiskey which is paying him a lot of money. She’s beautiful, but lonely; he famous, but for all the wrong reasons. They share a piercing loneliness, a solitude which speaks to the outer limits of the human soul, leaving them both with a painful melancholy spirit. They meet in this hotel, a cold mausoleum full of marble, chrome, and glass. He’s drinking whiskey, she’s trying to participate in a banal conversation between her husband and a client. If this were a normal, slapstick, seen-it-already comedy, they would just hop into bed and get crazy, but that never happens. They talk, the eat together, they try to participate in Tokyo culture, but this just adds to their isolation, and they must turn to each other for answers. What is lost in translation is human communication, and these to will spend a few days in Tokyo trying to get back their humanity. The movie speaks to the great tragedy of the human being: being left alone (even in the middle of 15 million people, especially when you don’t speak their language and they really don’t speak yours in spite of their imitation of it. The movie is filled with images of video games and karaoke, Japanese people singing English language songs without understanding a word they are singing. The movie riffs on Japanese imitations of American culture, the most ironic being the whiskey which Murray is there to endorse. Charlotte (Johansson) is a twenty-something college graduate philosophy major who has yet to grow up; Murray’s worn-out movie star has banal and pointless phone calls with his wife, none of which is funny–pathetic would be a better word. Both are products of a consumer society which has little use for a philosopher or an old actor, neither of which has any value in a hyper-capitalistic society. They neither produce nor consume, so they drift, untethered to either meaning or value. If they have come to love each other by the end of the movie, it is because they are kindred spirits, damaged, alone, crying out to be understood or loved. A sexual relationship is not what either of them needs or wants, but they do need to be together in an uncomplicated way–just be together. For a lot of the movie-going public, this movie will be slow and unintelligible. The silences and quiet conversations pass equally between these two lonely people, but they do grow to appreciate and maybe love each other. They part in the end, and there is no happy ending, perhaps there is no ending at all.

On complaining

I must admit a major failing in my character: I complain way too much. In an ideal world, all machines would work, everything would occur on time, there would always be an empty parking spot, the food would be hot and tasty, the drinks cold and refreshing. People would not text and drive. Drivers would pay attention to what they are doing, and waiters would always get their orders right. Yet, I don’t live in an ideal world: potholes are real, delays are common, waiting in line is the order of the day, so I complain. I complain about slow service, high prices, a lack of time. I complain about complainers. I got caught in a huge traffic jam on I-35 this afternoon through no fault of my own–seven cars had suffered a chain-reaction collision and the wreckage was blocking two lanes of the highway. My biggest complaint in life has to be a lack of time to do the things I really like to do, such as eat and sleep. Being both hungry and sleepy at the same time is depressing. I love to complain about the endless lines at check-outs in big box retailers, who don’t care at all about making me waist my time waiting to by a pizza. I have the same complaint about some doctor’s offices–not all are horrible, but some are just unbearable. We should be able to bill them for wasting our time. I endlessly complain about the weather. Bugs, enough said. Rude people everywhere. Students who cut class, don’t do their homework, fail exams, and then contact me because they are worried about their grade. I complain about the airlines, but I realize that airlines are complex and prone to scheduling disasters. I complain about the prices that certain professions charge: plumbers, mechanics, doctors, lawyers. Why should they have all the fun separating hard-working people from their cash? I complain about bumpy, pot-hole filled roads. I hate stoplights with a pure passion and have an endless series of complaints about how stupidly they are programmed–by people who never drive through them. All parking lots need to be complained about. I complain about how loud television commercials are, how stupid most of the ads are, how idiotic their arguments are for buying their products. Do the commercial makers think we are all cretins? Sometimes I complain about how fat the rest of the world seems to be getting, but that seems like a rather useless complaint when you look at all the food opportunities we have everyday. I hate the aggressive driving I encounter everywhere. Photocopiers are often the object of my ire. It bugs me when people cannot answer their cell phones. I complain about people talking and texting while they drive. I think it’s very thoughtless when a dog owner leaves the dog’s gifts where someone might step in them. I complain about politics, but no one wants to hear what I have to say. But does complaining actually help? I often complain without thinking about the pointless nature of my complaints, the fact that no one cares, that I am just making myself more unhappy by articulating, lustily, my disagreement with the world. I’m sure this is a short list–there are more things I can complain about–but by complaining, I can get my cares off of my chest, and maybe put some of it behind me. The problem is this: my complaints are often well-deserved but the wrong people are hearing them, which makes them irked and me sad. Yet, unless we complain will we ever change the world? Sometimes complaining can make a difference, and passive indifference will only make a bad problem, worse.

On complaining

I must admit a major failing in my character: I complain way too much. In an ideal world, all machines would work, everything would occur on time, there would always be an empty parking spot, the food would be hot and tasty, the drinks cold and refreshing. People would not text and drive. Drivers would pay attention to what they are doing, and waiters would always get their orders right. Yet, I don’t live in an ideal world: potholes are real, delays are common, waiting in line is the order of the day, so I complain. I complain about slow service, high prices, a lack of time. I complain about complainers. I got caught in a huge traffic jam on I-35 this afternoon through no fault of my own–seven cars had suffered a chain-reaction collision and the wreckage was blocking two lanes of the highway. My biggest complaint in life has to be a lack of time to do the things I really like to do, such as eat and sleep. Being both hungry and sleepy at the same time is depressing. I love to complain about the endless lines at check-outs in big box retailers, who don’t care at all about making me waist my time waiting to by a pizza. I have the same complaint about some doctor’s offices–not all are horrible, but some are just unbearable. We should be able to bill them for wasting our time. I endlessly complain about the weather. Bugs, enough said. Rude people everywhere. Students who cut class, don’t do their homework, fail exams, and then contact me because they are worried about their grade. I complain about the airlines, but I realize that airlines are complex and prone to scheduling disasters. I complain about the prices that certain professions charge: plumbers, mechanics, doctors, lawyers. Why should they have all the fun separating hard-working people from their cash? I complain about bumpy, pot-hole filled roads. I hate stoplights with a pure passion and have an endless series of complaints about how stupidly they are programmed–by people who never drive through them. All parking lots need to be complained about. I complain about how loud television commercials are, how stupid most of the ads are, how idiotic their arguments are for buying their products. Do the commercial makers think we are all cretins? Sometimes I complain about how fat the rest of the world seems to be getting, but that seems like a rather useless complaint when you look at all the food opportunities we have everyday. I hate the aggressive driving I encounter everywhere. Photocopiers are often the object of my ire. It bugs me when people cannot answer their cell phones. I complain about people talking and texting while they drive. I think it’s very thoughtless when a dog owner leaves the dog’s gifts where someone might step in them. I complain about politics, but no one wants to hear what I have to say. But does complaining actually help? I often complain without thinking about the pointless nature of my complaints, the fact that no one cares, that I am just making myself more unhappy by articulating, lustily, my disagreement with the world. I’m sure this is a short list–there are more things I can complain about–but by complaining, I can get my cares off of my chest, and maybe put some of it behind me. The problem is this: my complaints are often well-deserved but the wrong people are hearing them, which makes them irked and me sad. Yet, unless we complain will we ever change the world? Sometimes complaining can make a difference, and passive indifference will only make a bad problem, worse.

On my cell phone and me

I spend way too much time with my cell phone. Yes, it is useful in almost any situation, but we still spend too much time together. The other day I walked out of the house without it, and I felt just a little naked, just a little uncomfortable, a bit out of sorts. It’s time for me to reconsider how hung up on my cell phone I really am. I lived most of my life using landlines, traveling the world without that little electronic crutch in my pocket, and I was fine, just fine. I don’t cry when I don’t have my cell phone with me, but I often check my cell phone, thinking that I have phantom phone calls. I don’t feel bad if it doesn’t ring. I find that the cell phone is most useful when it is getting me out of trouble in some out-of-the-way place–some two-lane highway in the middle of nowhere, for example. Cell phones are particularly useful for finding lost people, calling for tow trucks, ordering pizza, keeping track of the kids. Yet, I wonder. I grew up in a world with no cell phones, and we seemed to do just fine. I can probably identify a few moments in the past when a cell phone would have been very useful, but we still got by. When I watch people tallk to themselves in airports, or walking and talking on the street, I think they need to examine where their lives are headed, and I am particularly weary of drivers who are talking on their phones while driving. They could at least put down their coffee and steer with one hand. Really, who’s in charge, me or the phone? I worry about whether it has enough charge or not or should I plug it in? I carry my charger almost everywhere I go. Is this really something I need to do? Wouldn’t I be better off just turning the thing off? What I am wondering about is my mental health–am I too dependent on this mechanical device which is supposed to make my life easier? Is it really making my life more complicated than it needs to be? I have always preferred face-to-face conversations, and I think that my phone is going to get turned off for awhile and we’re going to try a trial seperation for awhile. I don’t think I’m obsessed, but this month of August might be a good time to try and live without it for awhile. Just turn it off, put it in a drawer, and walk away. And then I’ll reassess at some moment in the future, and maybe we can renew our relationship on a limited basis, but this cell phone thing has got to stop.

On my cell phone and me

I spend way too much time with my cell phone. Yes, it is useful in almost any situation, but we still spend too much time together. The other day I walked out of the house without it, and I felt just a little naked, just a little uncomfortable, a bit out of sorts. It’s time for me to reconsider how hung up on my cell phone I really am. I lived most of my life using landlines, traveling the world without that little electronic crutch in my pocket, and I was fine, just fine. I don’t cry when I don’t have my cell phone with me, but I often check my cell phone, thinking that I have phantom phone calls. I don’t feel bad if it doesn’t ring. I find that the cell phone is most useful when it is getting me out of trouble in some out-of-the-way place–some two-lane highway in the middle of nowhere, for example. Cell phones are particularly useful for finding lost people, calling for tow trucks, ordering pizza, keeping track of the kids. Yet, I wonder. I grew up in a world with no cell phones, and we seemed to do just fine. I can probably identify a few moments in the past when a cell phone would have been very useful, but we still got by. When I watch people tallk to themselves in airports, or walking and talking on the street, I think they need to examine where their lives are headed, and I am particularly weary of drivers who are talking on their phones while driving. They could at least put down their coffee and steer with one hand. Really, who’s in charge, me or the phone? I worry about whether it has enough charge or not or should I plug it in? I carry my charger almost everywhere I go. Is this really something I need to do? Wouldn’t I be better off just turning the thing off? What I am wondering about is my mental health–am I too dependent on this mechanical device which is supposed to make my life easier? Is it really making my life more complicated than it needs to be? I have always preferred face-to-face conversations, and I think that my phone is going to get turned off for awhile and we’re going to try a trial seperation for awhile. I don’t think I’m obsessed, but this month of August might be a good time to try and live without it for awhile. Just turn it off, put it in a drawer, and walk away. And then I’ll reassess at some moment in the future, and maybe we can renew our relationship on a limited basis, but this cell phone thing has got to stop.