The Most Striking Films of the Last Decade

I have to be honest; I don’t really understand how to make lists. I get why it's attractive; Trying to justify what you like the most, and then putting it into a stiff binary order is like another way of defining yourself. This is my list, and there will be none quite like it. It's a timeless representation of what you were like back then. But tastes change, so maybe it isn’t timeless. But my problem is, I just can't see how one can justify the seemingly arbitrary choice of 'This film about a depressed sex addict is all-out better than a film about batman, even though they are not in any way comparable, and engage my mind in completely different ways'. Sometimes I want to watch a film that meditates on sex addiction, sometimes I want to see batman punch a guy.  Sure, there are different degrees of liking, but when a work of art reaches great to me, it becomes unquantifiable against the other 'great' works I have. Thus, I decided to list films from the last decade that may not be the 'best' but for my current mind-set, were the most impactful. I don't know who I'm writing this list for. Probably myself.

Synecdoche, New York -  Directed by Charlie Kaufman

The Triplets of Belleville - Directed by Sylvan Chomet

Ratatouille - Directed By Brad Bird

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind - Directed by Michele Gondry 

Where the Wild things are -Directed by Spike Jonze

Curious Case of Benjamin Button - Directed by David Fincher

A Serious Man- Directed by the Coen Brothers

The Departed - Directed by Martin Scorsese

Catch Me if You Can - Directed by Steven Spielberg

Public Enemies -Directed by Michael Mann

Moon - Directed by Duncan Jones

The Assassination of Jesse James By The Coward Robert Ford - Directed by Andrew Dominik

Sweeney Todd - Directed by Tim Burton

There Will be Blood - Directed by Paul Thomas Anderson

The Dark Knight - Directed by Christopher Nolan

Adaptation - Directed by Spike Jonze

Wall-E - Directed by Andrew Stanton

For Future Consultation

- Taha 

Rambling off the white page

I felt like writing some random, raw and naked creative prose, so i sat down and just went where my fingers took me. Thus I call whatever you are about to read 'I don't even  know' Why? Because I really don't know what the fuck I did. If I had been accused of having broken into a bank with the help of prostitues, all within the time it took me to write this, then I couldn't say you were wrong. I really don't know what happened. I don't even know.

And so Andrew Smith toppled out of his shabby hipster apartment in Rome, with the same dishevelled twenty-some -thingness of his loosely worn clothes and wavy hair, which was neither here nor there, just like the clothes abandoned around his room, punctuated with stacks of CDs, which blared out his twenty-somethingness taste in British and American rock music. Like a message of his exotic idiosyncrasy carried through hermetic sound-waves. The Italian neighbours did not notice any irregularity. But Andrew, prided on his quixotic heritage took every step with a brazen energy that seemed to think its swagger demanded attention. He was a bloody-bloomin brit, graduated in classics, who proudly walked the streets as if a magical archaeologist of all the unattainable wonders of Rome. A rollicking adventurer into the unknown, who talked to the Italian shop-keepers and tourists with a deliberately placed British inflection, in his otherwise perfect Italian accent. The Italian shop keepers and tourists noticed no irregularity. He made huge strides through crowds of young Italian girls, with a slight British smile, though his homemade pasty-white skin had been tanned since living in Rome for several years. But look at me! He thought. I’m a specimen from the land of tomorrow come to charm and tame the wild dames of this far off universe! The Italian girls noticed no irregularity, other than his peculiar swagger, which seemed to imply his legs had structural difficulty. Or just that his pants were full of crap. Those two things actually were noticeably British.

- Taha

P.S I'm not racist, being a brit myself. I do like other Brits. Most of them. Some of them.

How to Write Good fiction

Here’s the little secret on how to write good Fiction: there isn’t a secret

The truth is, there is no real way to teach writing. One of the best lectures on the matter was when a writer (Sinclair Lewis) walked on stage and simply told the hotly anticipating audience to ‘Go home and Write’

I am not qualified to give Writing advice, but if I was, it wouldn’t make this list more meaningful, as no one can ever be fully qualified to do this.

There are no rules. There are principles, but they are unique to each writer, and are constantly shifting, from story to story. With all the technical terms and expressions, you’d think there just might be a scientific way to do it. There isn’t. So in offering writing tips, all I can do is search the deepest parts of my mind and soul, and present a naked list of my raw and most importantly personal principles. This is November 2011. I’m saying that because these principles can easily change, and if I eventually grow out of them, I don’t want the spacemen of the future thinking that the elitist idiot 16-year old hubristic me represents the dashingly charming 26 year old me. Just Saying.

1)      Write not just because you want to write, but because you have to write. There are so many ways to express yourself, why choose writing fiction, something that is often a cryptic and layered affair? Because it allows you to express the otherwise inexpressible; your most personal, compulsive emotions and thoughts. This brings me to my next point…

2)      Smooth Segway strike 1! Usually write personally.

Unless you have a really earth-shatteringly Kubrickian reason to be impersonal, don’t be. Don’t think that being impersonal will make your work more accessible because it won’t. One of the most sublime oddities of storytelling is that the more personal the work is to the author, the more likely it is to be personal to others. Though being proudly and intimately infused with your work is not to say you shouldn’t ….

3)      …Be Subtle (Smooth Segway strike 2!)   

Hitting someone on the head with your ideas and feelings can often be lead to the reader/viewer/whatever feeling completely detached from the piece, with the heavy hand cutting through the natural connection between man/woman/whatever and page/screen/stage/whatever. Understating thoughts on the surface is a way of us slowly realizing the point. That sudden pang of realization is what makes the writers understatement an emotional or mental overstatement in our heart and mind. Don’t underestimate the audience’s intelligence, and don’t assume a lack of compassion either. This brings me onto my final point…. (It’s a smooth Segway hatrick!)               

4)      Feel deeper than you think.

Simply being clever is not enough to be a good writer. In fact, that’s the easy part. Intelligence is the bare minimum of a good writer. Who wants to knowingly experience something made by an idiot? Even if the story is a fun, fast, flowing action extravaganza, as opposed to a philosophical study, it should still be intelligently made. The Scott Pilgrim vs the world movie, for example, understands how to put together a film, and understands the balance of humour and drama. That’s because they people who made it are smart, they just don’t have to show it by making a needlessly complex plot. Being overtly complex for the sake of looking clever is like having an’ intellectual’ circle jerk. Except you’re not actually being intelligent, you’re just indulging in your own academic knowledge, which is not the same as being wise.

What sets you apart from all the other smartass philosophy/Literature majors, is your feelings. That you have something welling up inside you, an ineffable force of feeling that can’t be described literally, but must be shared. So you put the audience through the same state of mind as you feel. This requires a great attempt of introspection on your own feelings, and trying to present them in a way that is engaging and thought-provoking.

Often, we try to psychoanalyse the great artists. We try to come up with some logical reason as to why they resonated among us so much. And yet, this thinking is flawed, as they were great artists because they expressed something that could not be understood any other way. That is why a squarely congruent conclusion is rarely met. Like with the recent film ‘Nowhere Boy’, that tells the story of a young John Lennon. But what do we learn from his emotional strife? It’s an interesting story, with the wide palette of relationships, involving the sophisticated drollness of his aunt/guardian, and the strangely charged (and short lived) relationship with his ebullient mother, Julia. Not to mention the unconventional and freethinking edge of his youth. But what does that have to do with his music? Why was he so good? The film doesn’t reach any kind of point or explanation, much to the dismay of critics. But with the remarkably idiosyncratic combination of angst, melodrama, humour and wistfulness in Lennon’s early life, I was able to draw something from the film. Had I written a review of it, I would’ve ended simply on this: ‘John Lennon played good music because he felt so deeply’

This is not to say, that being a melodramatic sob will make you a good writer. God no. It’s more understanding your heart and the experiences that fuel it, and knowing when to employ it, and within what frame. Whether an elegiac tragedy, a farcical comedy, or an inspiring adventure.

Now go and Write!                                                                                                                                                 

                               

- Taha

Anonymous

You've heard this, right? The Oxfordian Theory? It's this crazy idea that Shakespeare didn't write his plays, on account of being a peasant, who are of course, all stupid. It was originally proposed by Delia Bacon in 1850, who said they were written by a committee led by her relative Sir Francis Bacon. Well she obviously isn't biased. She also died in an insane asylum without a shred of evidence. What a crazy theory, right? No wonder it's dead. Wait, what? It's not? haha. Good one. Oh you were being serious. Oh dear

It seems that since 1850 the theory has been constantly molded and contrived around different authors. Every time one gets shot down, the conspiracy theorists make another, until they finally realized that without solid evidence, it'll kept getting shot down. Thus they decided to pick one man; Edward De Vere, the 17th Earl of Oxford. He didn't publish his plays, apparently, because of his status being to high to mingle with lowbrow entertainment. That makes sense, I suppose.  I don't want this to be an angry rant against Roland Emmrich's 'Anonymous' which proposes the theory. I'd be  a hypocrite, If I denied 'Anonymous' the right to exist, and yet cited 'Amadeus' as one of my favourite movies. I'd also be a hypocrite for liking Shakespeare's plays, as he bent facts to create great character drama all the time. And I do see the appeal of Anonymous. The rich, lavish Victorian art design, and the Tarantino-esque joy of manically toying with historical and literary figures of such pomp reverence. 

My disdain for Anonymous (which I have not seen, though I do want to) is not that it speculates with preposterous ideas, but that I'm not sure Roland Emmrich maintains my view on 'why a crazy historically distorted movie could be fun' Apparently he does truly believe his film, which means everything is shot in and earnest light. Shakespeare himself is depicted (allegedly), as a cheating, backstabbing, whore mongering peasant, cause y'know, peasants suck. On the other hand Edward De Vere is shown ingratiatingly as 'the woeful Earl' who simply wants to write plays, but can't because of what's expected of him. Oh dear. I hope he has enough fancy Earl money to cry into. Such exaggerated, 'hollywoodized' portrayals in an earnestly made Shakespeare-was-stupid film doesn't sound like it will be compatible with my tastes. I would love to see a satirical view on figures like Shakespeare, like what we might see in Black Adder, or how Mozart was depicted in Amadeus. But to solemnly build such a meretriciously crude travesty of one of the most important figures in storytelling and culture is just silly, and partially insulting to the very craft Roland Emmrich works in.

There was no pretense that what was written in 'Macbeth' actually happened.
Furthermore,Amadeus may have shown Mozart as an unfaithful drunk, but it didn't deny him the right to his sublime music.

By  Shakespeare  Taha

Writing Within Restrictions Part 2: Character

If you haven't read part 1, then click here

As for Part 2:

Aphrodite in Greek literature has always appeared beautiful and elegant. These qualities most likely come from her heritage as a Goddess. Perhaps if she was born a mortal with the same qualities, she would not hold that elegance granted to her. She might be dirty and unappealing. Obviously aged, cheap attempts to enhance appearances, and very obviously having slept around.

Speech/mannerism Style:  Constantly under the façade of an elegant and well-spoken accent. It should be superficial and half obvious to the audience. As with all the God projections, she will be erratic, and whenever she is suddenly affected by some genuine emotion (a sudden lust for a character, for example Theseus who is new and young) she will break down into an unstructured mess of words, slang and constant inflections.  Her accent will break down to an unrefined state, and she her posture break down. When the character is acting, she holds a high head, forward thrust breasts and other model-like poses. When she breaks down her posture will change to a slanted and slightly crooked state, where she desperate for some sort of sexual gratification. Casually gazing eyes will in an instant turn wide-eyed and callow. 

Ares Projection

Unlike Athene, Ares does not so much inhabit the plotting and tactical parts of war as much he does the sadist pleasure in bloodlust. He seems swept up by the tumult bombast of it all, and this is because he can fight well. Unfortunately, this makes him seem somewhat arrogant, and also immature. He is a powerful warrior because he is a God, and as God acts oblivious to him quick temper or lack of thoughtfulness.  As a God, this is okay, as Gods believe themselves to be perfect, and dwell in the superficial. Ares thus can have a rambunctious affair with Aphrodite, and can justify himself as the ‘warrior’. However in real life he isn’t simply declared a top class fighter by his father, instead he has to practice and gain strength like anyone else. And being a good fighter may not be enough to hold his own in the real world. While Ares might not stupid, I would like to play on his temerarious and thoughtless nature, revealing a tender fraternity to his smart and more cultured brother (Apollo) that leads to an insecurity in which he seems to elevate himself as the leader, in his almost megalomaniacal complex of control and power.  His inability to socialize or understand his brothers/sister will be what distances him, and makes him think he is clear-headed and thus should take control.

Speech/Mannerisms:  He will walk with an authoritative swagger, and try to speak in way that demands respect and attention, He will overbearing, but despite his childish efforts, his team mostly refuses to take him seriously, often ignoring or shooing him. He then acts like a child who is not getting enough attention, spluttering vocally, turning red and stamping his feet. Aphrodite consistently seduces him for her own gratification; however he believes he is striving forward in his gruff masculinity.

 From the DCAU^

Artemis projection

Artemis is portrayed as woman who abstains from intercourse, keeping independent and proud. However she seems disdainful of men to the point of snobbery, and I wish to accustom to this aspect. Her misandry and cold, blasé sophistication is something I will turn into insecurity. The scorn she holds for men (and flirtatious women) will be due to trauma and/or her sheer chilling fear she has of social interaction, being manipulated and her inability to relate to another human being. Despite being the smartest in the group next to Apollo, she cannot lead the party. She tries to cover up her sorrow with her animals, and when she is alone with them, she begins to act naturally, as will be depicted.

Mannerisms/speech style: She will walk around with large, but precise steps to show intellectual worth, and also show her pride. She will have her head tilted upwards, looking down in conversation. Efficient in her words, but take a long time to speak them, as if her voice is worth listening to for as long as possible. However when alone with her animals, she will take more modest stances, and while still not a proverbial girly female, she will appear relaxed and at peace.

A problem that could be encountered with this character could be that; in spending so much type with animals, she could be detached from her siblings, and thus also lack humanity, believing animals to be better company.

Apollo projection

Apollo is significantly harder to flaw. He always seems far too relaxed in mythology. So for this reason, the point of this character will be more based around the idea that he is far too flippant and laid back to be a leader. He’s the most mature; however he will also be in a blasé state of elevating himself due to being cultured and artistic. Not snobbish or pretentious, just very self-indulgent. Since Theseus is an outside who breaks what the God projections expect from human behavior, he will face conflict when he finds out that Theseus is not intimidated by condescending artistic babble. 

That said, his flaw can inhabit a smaller part of the script than his partners, and can serve as somewhat of an anchor. After all, Theseus needs to initially see them as adventurers/travelers worth joining in the first place.

A problem in which he can encounter could involve his flippancy, and how when the rest of his team is left in ramshackle despair, he is not able to tie them together, as he is far too removed from them and their problems, never taking enough interest. 

And that's just about enough of me posting old coursework. I'll try to make some new blogs posts

-Taha

Writing and Me

Please read: I was in a woozy and ramshackle state when I wrote this, so I don’t really know what the intention was. Don’t be mean. I wrote this a while ago, but there's something so raw, so naked, that keeps bringing it back to my mind.

It’s hard to describe why exactly I like writing. Obviously I admire storytelling and artistry, but the actual process of writing is quite different to simply creating worlds and characters. It’s an odd sensation to say the least; ostensibly it involves having a good range of language, and knowing how to creatively apply it. But that’s not quite it. Actually Sitting down, on a keyboard is exhilarating, like a drug. There’s a sudden, sweeping feeling of elevation, as my fingers quickly click and clunk, working in what I can only describe as instinctual copasetic synergy. Such enervation. It’s like your fingers are connected to the world of Tron (Trontopia??). My mind does not register its fingers individual movements; instead it seems stuck in some abstract holy land of rhythms, ideas, and emotions,  desperately attempting to interweave them. I think it’s all in my mind, the stories I mean. Seriously, I think the whole goddamn works of Shakespeare number two are stuck in there; it just doesn’t transfer through my digitally seduced fingers.

- Taha 

Miss Gee by Auden: Analysis

'Let me tell you a little story
   About Miss Edith Gee;
 She lived in Clevedon Terrace
   At number 83.

 She'd a slight squint in her left eye,
   Her lips they were thin and small,
 She had narrow sloping shoulders
   And she had no bust at all.

 She'd a velvet hat with trimmings,
   And a dark grey serge costume;
 She lived in Clevedon Terrace
   In a small bed-sitting room.

 She'd a purple mac for wet days,
   A green umbrella too to take,
 She'd a bicycle with shopping basket
   And a harsh back-pedal break.

 The Church of Saint Aloysius
   Was not so very far;
 She did a lot of knitting,
   Knitting for the Church Bazaar.

 Miss Gee looked up at the starlight
   And said, 'Does anyone care
 That I live on Clevedon Terrace
   On one hundred pounds a year?'

 She dreamed a dream one evening
   That she was the Queen of France
 And the Vicar of Saint Aloysius
   Asked Her Majesty to dance.

 But a storm blew down the palace,
   She was biking through a field of corn,
 And a bull with the face of the Vicar
   Was charging with lowered horn.

 She could feel his hot breath behind her,
   He was going to overtake;
 And the bicycle went slower and slower
   Because of that back-pedal break.

 Summer made the trees a picture,
   Winter made them a wreck;
 She bicycled to the evening service
   With her clothes buttoned up to her neck.

 She passed by the loving couples,
   She turned her head away;
 She passed by the loving couples,
   And they didn't ask her to stay.

 Miss Gee sat in the side-aisle,
   She heard the organ play;
 And the choir sang so sweetly
   At the ending of the day,

 Miss Gee knelt down in the side-aisle,
   She knelt down on her knees;
 'Lead me not into temptation
   But make me a good girl, please.'

 The days and nights went by her
   Like waves round a Cornish wreck;
 She bicycled down to the doctor
   With her clothes buttoned up to her neck.

 She bicycled down to the doctor,
  And rang the surgery bell;
 'O, doctor, I've a pain inside me,
   And I don't feel very well.'

 Doctor Thomas looked her over,
   And then he looked some more;
 Walked over to his wash-basin,
  Said,'Why didn't you come before?'

 Doctor Thomas sat over his dinner,
   Though his wife was waiting to ring,
 Rolling his bread into pellets;
   Said, 'Cancer's a funny thing.

 'Nobody knows what the cause is,
   Though some pretend they do;
 It's like some hidden assassin
   Waiting to strike at you.

 'Childless women get it.
   And men when they retire;
 It's as if there had to be some outlet
   For their foiled creative fire.'

 His wife she rang for the servent,
   Said, 'Dont be so morbid, dear';
 He said: 'I saw Miss Gee this evening
   And she's a goner, I fear.'

 They took Miss Gee to the hospital,
   She lay there a total wreck,
 Lay in the ward for women
   With her bedclothes right up to her neck.

 They lay her on the table,
   The students began to laugh;
 And Mr. Rose the surgeon
   He cut Miss Gee in half.

 Mr. Rose he turned to his students,
   Said, 'Gentlemen if you please,
 We seldom see a sarcoma
   As far advanced as this.'

 They took her off the table,
   They wheeled away Miss Gee
 Down to another department
   Where they study Anatomy.

 They hung her from the ceiling
   Yes, they hung up Miss Gee;
 And a couple of Oxford Groupers
   Carefully dissected her knee.'

-- W H Auden

Two Stylistic forces seem to juxtapose each other within the words of ‘Miss Gee’. One is deliberately misleading; a tonal façade than hides what the poem is actually about like a cloak. The other ‘Stylistic force’ lies underneath that cloak, and crudely contrasts against the initial tone.

That initial tone is a strikingly light and whimsical one. The poem’s repetitive structure (4 lines a verse with an alternate rhyme scheme) is reminiscent of playful nursery rhymes, or even a limerick. That kind of evocation is further cemented by the immediate subject matter; and odd ball tale about a dainty old woman with a funny name.  Notice the seemingly arbitrary aspects of Ms Gee’s life that the poet focuses on at first. ‘She lived at Clevedon Terrace… at number 83….Her lips were thin and small, and she had not bust at all’ It’s as if a humorsome poet is simply having fun with his wordplay – Something a lot of children poems do; creating repetitively catchy rhymes/tunes modelled around off-beat and simple set-ups. Perhaps this kind of manipulation is present to make the later sections all the more shocking, with its innocuous disposition being misdirection to what is actually an emotionally dampening poem.

 As the poem escalated, it seems to be more cynical, nihilistic and even existential. The ostensibly ‘playful’ focus we initially saw on arbitrary aspects of Miss Gee’s life was perhaps a subtle way of showing us the entirety of her mundane life. As readers, we will feel more shocked and sympathetic if the drabness of Ms Gee’s life comes as a sudden realization later on, and not the writer telling us from the outset ‘Her life is boring and uneventful’. The innocence of the character makes the reader sympathize (She talks like a child ‘make me a good girl please’ and dreams fancifully like a little girl to) but the tone of the poet seems cold and distant, as if he doesn’t want us to simply feel empathy. This is what I find puzzling about Miss Gee. The detached and somewhat apathetic language makes me think this isn’t just about us feeling sorry for Miss. Gee, but something more. We end up with some gruesomely gratuitous moments following her death (from cancer) ‘They hung her from the ceiling, yes they hung up Miss Gee; And a couple of Oxford Groupers, Carefully dissected her knee’ Which brings to mind meat that hangs from the ceiling in the back of butchers/resteraunts, simply waiting to be consumed. What is the point? To show how life can be meaningless and dull, with apathetic human beings? Fair enough, but the whole ‘human’s sucks’ is echoed more than enough in fiction, and is often done by well-off westerners who’ve never even imagined living homeless in some eastern warzone. ‘Oh the woes of our civilized and comfortable western life!’ This may sound mocking of me, but I can get behind a story like that. But it has to have the writer inject some kind of unique voice of their own, which Auden doesn’t seem to do. He’s probably comparable to Miss Gee’s doctor who plainly states to his wife ‘Cancer’s a funny thing’ – Cold and detached. It isn’t spiteful, but not lamenting either.

I realize that not every work of art has to be joyous celebrations of its medium. I’ll quickly get behind some cultural deconstructionist, a tragedy writer, and even some playful Schadenfreude. Yet, Miss. Gee is none of those things. And in the same way Auden muses on Miss Gee’s depressingly tiresome existence, I similarly muse on his depressingly tiresome poem.

Miss Gee’s a funny thing


- Taha