Darkstate

Throne of Blood

Akira Kurosawa's Throne of Blood, based on Macbeth, tells the story of the power hungry warlord Washizu Taketoki. If you don't know the story of Macbeth, be warned that I give away the entire plot in the next sentence.

As prophesied by a witch in the forest, Washizu rises to become the high lord of the realm by killing those who trust him, and then falls, handing the kingdom over to his hated enemy with whom his former friend's son has joined forces. Though Washizu commits evil deeds he is goaded to action by his wife who is the truly power-hungry member of the family.

The cinematography is beautiful, and the fear on the face of Washizu - as played by Toshirō Mifune - is palpable. The Wikipedia page linked above has fascinating tales of the production of the film including Washizu's death by archers which was filmed with real arrows shot by choreographed archers "to help Mifune produce realistic facial expressions of fear." I think I'd rather just act scared, than actually fear for my life.

The minimalism of the fortresses in which they live are in stark contrast to anything we would see on screen today. The only object in a room besides the actors might be a mat on which to sit, or worse, a wall splattered in blood. The fortresses were built on Mt. Fuji to achieve a barren landscape drenched in fog. It makes even a cheerful moment when riders come to announce success in battle creepy.

I know I was supposed to take the witch pronouncing the fate of Washizu seriously: Greek oracles, getting caught in one's own web, and all that. Alas, all I could bring to mind as she foretold that the trees of the forests would move before he would fall in battle was Sky Masterson's advice:

One of these days in your travels, a guy is going to show you a brand-new deck of cards... [and] offer to bet you that he can make the jack of spades jump out... and squirt cider in your ear. But, son, do not accept this bet, because as sure as you stand there, you're going to wind up with an ear full of cider.

If the witch tells you that the forests will walk before you are felled in battle, watch out for marching forests! Not that avoiding cider-spitting Jacks saved Laius, Jocasta and Oedipus, but Washizu does seem to stumble into fate rather too easily once he thinks only moving forest will fell him. Perhaps by this point the blood is too heavy upon his hands.

Shaolin Warriors

The Shaolin Warriors performed last night at the Orpheum under the auspices of World Music/Crash Arts. The Warriors perform stylized Kung Fu demonstrations which, as the Globe says are "a spectacular display" and "a great show."

When the performance flowed across the boundary between martial arts and ballet, it was beautiful. The Shaolin hovered in air one minute, and crawled along the ground the next. Two particularly narrative pieces resided at the heart of the show: a late summer afternoon on the surface of a pond complete with water striders, and insect fights, and a drunken brawl at the monastery.

When the show turned to the boundary between the fakir and the World Wrestling Federation, it grew a little tiring. They broke stones over their heads; they supported each other on spears; they broke stones over their heads; they sliced cabbage - at least it was Chinese cabbage - against their chests; they broke stones over their heads; they broke stones on their chests while resting on a bed of nails; oh, and they broke stones over their heads. While the first stone stunned the audience, the Warriors milked this for all it was worth and then some.

A prime component of the audience was young children. Channeling the eight year old inside me more strongly might have put me in the right mood for resting on a bed of nails. The performers were well aware of their audience and at one point brought all the young children on stage to perform with them. Some of the young ones upstaged the troupe with their antics and the slightly older ones were perhaps better able to follow the performers than the adult audience members who were brought up later in the show. While I would have preferred more ballet and less breaking of stones, the audience had a great time, even if some of them were up past their bedtimes.

No word for snow

"There were sparkles in the air. Tiny flickering rainbow-sparkling air sequins were all around my head... Every cubic inch of the cold air around me had tiny floating ice crystals in it... Finland... was showing off new forms of beauty. I had never seen precipitation of this kind before. I hate to admit it... but... it was a kind of snow I didn't have a word for."

Geoffrey Pullum at Language Log 

Lots of posts

I had built up a few images and quotes in my tumblr blog over the last month. I've copied them into typepad. Perhaps, after an almost five year quiescence, this blog will return to life. Don't stake dinner on it, though. 

The Dynamo of Academic Disaster

From Seven Sacred Words: An Open Letter to Steven Pinker, Bill Benzon: "Among others, the conference featured Georges Poulet, Tzvetan Todorov, Roland “death of the author” Barthes, Jacques Lacan the Obscure, and the Archdeacon of Deconstruction, the Dynamo of Academic Disaster, Jacques Derrida."

Updike

From the obituary of John Updike in the WSJ:  “Mr. Updike’s precise, elastic prose, its joy, its unexpectedly baroque adjectives yoked with the most banal objects and images”

I find myself mystified by "precise, elastic prose." I think I would understand "precise, yet elastic prose." While the former is more poetic, I don't understand its meaning.

MLK

"Certain conditions continue to exist in our society which must be condemned as vigorously as we condemn riots. But in the final analysis, a riot is the language of the unheard." Remembering Martin Luther King (again)

A little stronger language than I'm used to hearing MLK use.

The Broadmoor Audubon Center

The Broadmoor Audubon Center at a warmer time of year captured with my cell phone. (Can you tell I'm tired of snow.)

Bash Bish Falls

Bash Bish falls in the summer with lots of green. We've got a few months to go before it looks like this again.

A Little Cat

Carla drew this on a napkin at the Speckled Hen.