Quantcast

Video of the Day

Masthead

Editor-in-Chief
Alex Carnevale
(e-mail/tumblr/twitter)

Features Editor
Mia Nguyen
(e-mail)

Reviews Editor
Ethan Peterson

This Recording

is dedicated to the enjoyment of audio and visual stimuli. Please visit our archives where we have uncovered the true importance of nearly everything. Should you want to reach us, e-mail alex dot carnevale at gmail dot com, but don't tell the spam robots. Consider contacting us if you wish to use This Recording in your classroom or club setting. We have given several talks at local Rotarys that we feel went really well.

Pretty used to being with Gwyneth

Regrets that her mother did not smoke

Frank in all directions

Jean Cocteau and Jean Marais

Simply cannot go back to them

Roll your eyes at Samuel Beckett

John Gregory Dunne and Joan Didion

Metaphors with eyes

Life of Mary MacLane

Circle what it is you want

Not really talking about women, just Diane

Felicity's disguise

Live and Active Affiliates
This area does not yet contain any content.
Friday
May312013

In Which All Morning Larks Must Die

They Start Singing

by LARA MILLS

The problem with staying up late in Jakarta is that Java doesn't follow a night owl's schedule: the mosques start singing around 4 a.m. as people begin their days often before I've ended mine. If you fall sleep at two and the morning prayer starts at the end of your first dream cycle, it will lift you out of sleep like being fished. You will curse and slam your phone when you check what terrible hour you were taken out of a dream, feeling tomorrow's morning preemptively destroyed by exhaustion. You go back to sleep to save tomorrow’s afternoon, but the afternoon is taken out too by the following prayer call at six which jolts you at another critical point of sleep. You fall back into dreaming, picturing masses of people waking up as if on cue, and this new dream compounds your powerlessness at getting the sleep your body needs more than water when your internal clock is hours different from everyone else in your immediate world.

Alarm goes off at eight.

I am jealous, jealous of morning birds. No one recognizes that the world accomodates early risers while the rest of us are too tired to notice. They affix the stigma of diet and sex to our night orientation and grant honor to being the first ones awake, yet never consider what it might take for them to sleep like us, to stay up until sunrise without substance or vice. I agree that everyone should experience the sun rise and reflect on the eternal passage of days, in the glorious moments of twilight when the sun and moon and stars are finally soft enough to meet each other, but I regret that only night owls get to experience how dawn is a daily moment which can be approached from two directions. 

My favorite city in the world is Jogjakarta, Indonesia, and my favorite place in Jogja is alone on a bridge over any of its rivulet valleys, listening to the call to prayer at either dawn or dusk. I feel this moment at sunset if I leave the city's main roads during my commute home and stop my motorbike on the bridge near my house, or I feel it at sunrise when I'm coming back from a friend’s house or a bar or club, and am trying to get home to sleep before the next day’s full sun becomes too disorienting. Especially at either side of sunrise, on my way home from wherever and inevitably alone, a rosier light than usual highlights the city's terracotta rooftops stretching up from the rivulets. When you’re still awake, the prayer calls layered over these beautiful sleepy rooftops will remind you that you're seeing a different end of the day than most people in your adopted city, and the moment becomes secret and exhilarating since you watched it begin and it belongs to you alone.

I feel guilty in Jogja though when I pass the traditional market near Tugu monument after morning prayer, seeing all the market workers shuffle to their stalls and talk together in quiet but gradually waking voices, rested and starting a day I'm still denying. I'm inevitably in my night clothes from the bar or the club and have probably just smoked a pack of clove cigarettes and condensed several beers into a few stretched hours of nongkrong hangouts that living in Indonesia is so amazing for. I pass the market on my motorbike and wonder how much my bare arms and shoulders or knees stick out at the next traffic light while stopped among a crowd of Indonesians wearing jackets and veils and gloves to protect themselves against the coming sun and the wind. I worry whether the cigarette stench off my nighttime clothes is leaving a trail for them to drive through in my wake, whether my hair will still smell like clove smoke when I go to work in a few hours, giving me away as the foreigner I am in any morning bird's world.

I live in Jakarta now and the infamous stranglehold of the city's traffic is in place every day from around 6-9am, and 4-7 p.m., the exact times of daily transition I was always free to revere in Jogja. Being productive at anything here takes twice as much effort and people often leave home at the 6 a.m. prayer to eat breakfast in the office kitchen rather than spend those same hours in rush hour traffic. Adjusting to this is proving impossible for me. I hate sleeping knowing that the purpose of nighttime hours here is simply to rest in order to fight traffic, which could be avoided just as easily by sleeping through rush hour instead of trying to stay ahead of it. I then feel guilty again for the luxury of my Jakarta life that I have a job I can do any time of day and can afford to live close enough to work to avoid a worse commute. I try to sleep and wake up at the same time as everyone else out of misguided solidarity, but my sleep in Jakarta is disturbed twice every morning by the prayers I used to rejoice at still being awake enough to hear. I arrive at work desperately sleep deprived yet at least three hours after everyone else has started their day, and when I enter my office through the side door, I am aware that keeping such a conventionally lazy schedule means that all my mornings appear to have started without a struggle.

 In Jakarta there is still one time of day when my schedule matches the attention demanded by the calls to prayer, at sunset if I'm home from work and have the time to sit on my rooftop and smoke the night’s first clove in peace. I hear the drone of sunset prayer rise up one by one from the neighborhood's dozen or so mosques and it calls me to my own prayer, the type treasured by the godless: silence to honor the passage of time, and gratitude for feeling sufficiently alive and happy to appreciate the calm of such a moment, to let it become my own transparent peace. The prayer at this time of day, maghrib, means to me that the day is finally passing into night which is my time to excel, my temporal home, feeling like the day itself by ceding to inevitable transition, but remembering always to honor its passage too.

Lara Mills is the senior contributor to This Recording. She is a writer living in Jakarta. You can find her website here. She last wrote in these pages about Ariel.

Photos and video by the author.

"Autumn Wake" - Early Day Miners (mp3)

Thursday
May302013

In Which We Are Still Abandoned On Alphanor

Lurulu

by ALEX CARNEVALE

We think of Milton blindly dictating his version of familiar events. Or Helen Keller, feeling through the pages of an autobiography she could never truly experience except through touch. It must have been more difficult for Jack Vance, the man who invented the genre of fantasy as we know it, to lose his own sight.

Vance is no longer among us. Before his passing this week, he was nearly completely blind. When he began his writing career, he could see. Vance served and saw the world as a member of the Merchant Marines, and his early works betray that sensibility, although the locations and places they describe resemble those of Earth only in their underlying approach.

 His first efforts in the genre were straightforward science fiction with an urbane, heroic protagonist and usually a romance along the way. Today writing a story that deals with any element of the fantastic merely involves rehashing some old theme and giving it a new twist. There is little true originality in the field. When Vance began his career, there existed no Dungeons & Dragons (much of what became the franchise was essentially taken from Vance's series The Dying Earth), there existed no Tolkien-esque template derived from an academic background in mythology. Fantasy writing had no hold or status even as part of a niche.

Science fiction too was merely in its infancy, still trodding through the now stale stories of Asimov and his predictable peers. For Vance to write such fantastic tales took a mind of almost unlimited imagination. His early books like The Five Gold Bands are mere imitations of the pages of such traditional science fiction magazines. To be successful as a writer (and you could survive writing for the magazines alone during this period) making your work saleable was the prime concern. Editors were steeped in a certain iteration of the genre not because they could not recognize good writing, but because they knew their audience.

Reading Vance's first efforts today shows only an inkling of what was to come. It was with his novella The Dragon Masters that Vance first showed his command of dialogue and setting, the two aspects of genre writing where he not only exceeded the work of his peers, but went beyond any of the fiction of the period. Finding a good satirist in a morbid and depressing time is incredibly difficult, but that is what makes it so essential.

Reading the massively entertaining tribute volume to Vance released in 2009, Songs of the Dying Earth, you can get a decent enough sense of the man's style. Vance is great fun to imitate. Many of our finest writers can boast of a prose style that approaches poetry, but Vance's vocabulary was almost unlimited in scope. It is only one of the ways in which he outdoes his spiritual progenitor, Jonathan Swift.

If Vance could not find the right word for something in English, he merely redefined it or invented it. Many of his most memorable concepts were both new to the world of science fiction and new to the universe at large. Yet is Vance's places which are the most sublime. Vance is better than an anthropologist; he describes cultures that never existed as if they were surviving and thriving. And the food! Who could ever forget chatowsies, ahagaree or pourrain?

Jack's characters were sometimes criticized for being too stale or formulaic. If that is true than I can't think of a reason why I remember them all individually, even think of some of their decisions or sayings whenever I close my own eyes. For Vance, character was all about what you did, but that also included what you said and whether you actually lived up to it. Plenty of people in Vance's worlds spoke of certain positive things, like ending poverty or disease, or freeing the enslaved, but he left serious redoubt as to whether or not these individuals (1) were telling the truth or (2) had the same idea of enslavement as you or me.

In what follows I will explain the importance of each of Vance's varied novels, but these past years I kept returning to his last novels, the two-book collection consisting of the masterful Ports of Call and Lurulu. Ostensibly comic novels set in space, like almost all of Vance's work they picaresque jaunts into a familiar universe.

It seemed crucial that Vance explore it one final time, in the guise of interplanetary traders looking for the coda containing their own peace and happiness, called lurulu. It was essential to the story that this kind of lifelong achievement was completely reflective of the individual, and all of the protagonists were allowed their own kind of happiness, in their own way.

I could not help but think of Vance himself then, as I am sure he intended. His novels are wholly unautobiographical, taking place as they do in worlds so unlike our own, but the idea of him finding his own bliss had never occurred to me, since I was only concerned about how his novels brought me closer to mine. We are all selfish, Vance tells us, but that's all right.

Alex Carnevale is the editor of This Recording. He is a writer living in Manhattan. His Reader's Guide to the Novels of Jack Vance appears below. You can find an archive of his writing on This Recording here. He last wrote in these pages about James Agee.


Reader's Guide to the Novels of Jack Vance (Don't Argue)

The Dying Earth

The early volumes of The Dying Earth are old now, and the style is quite ancient, even for Vance. Still, his typical humor is on display, particularly in the wizard novella Rhialto the Marvellous, the type of conventional fantasy subject matter he rarely focused on. For our modern purposes, he did not really get going until his classic Don Quixote sendup in three short novels: The Eyes of the Overworld, Cugel the Clever and Cugel's Saga. Although decades elapsed before his last story with his comic fop, Cugel's tales are not just comedies, because around the humor lives a merciless and unforgivingly familiar world. Gotta read these every year.

Maske: Thaery

It took me some time to warm up to this story, but once I was able to see it for what it really was - that is, one of the best secret agent novels in a field crammed with mediocre ones - I was able to enjoy it. Horrendous title though.

The Demon Princes

Penned in the mid-60s, The Demon Princes is basically a proto-Kill Bill that involves protagonist Kirth Gersen hunting the men who killed his family. The single-mindedness of the five short novels that comprise the series is what gives them their charm. Gersen's methods and travails are both funny and moving, and the consideration of karmic revenge at hand actually turns this kind of behavior into a genuinely interesting intellectual topic instead of simply a vacuum for explosions and violence. The best of the books, with its extended musings on one of Vance's favorite topics, social class, is clearly The Face, and anyone who argues is mad. Collected together, this is the most fun you can have without a vibrator.

The Cadwal Chronicles

Possibly my favorite of Vance's books, the Cadwal Chronicles — Araminta Station, Ecce and Old Earth, and Throy are definitely not for beginners either. They are quite pedantic and overlong in parts, but this is simply another aspect of their charm. Vance made a habit of taking up subjects that other authors would not touch. Here he considers the topic of preserving a planet's natural environment, and the complications that ensue when well-meaning people stifle the tide of progress. To turn that into a hilarious comedy is quite the feat indeed. The motivations at play are quite mature for Vance, and the love story is his very best.

The Languages of Pao

Vance obviously loved playing around with language, and he was deeply interested in how changing what something was called affected the surrounding culture. At first I was a little cold on this dystopic story, but I later appreciated the ideas in it a lot more. Unlike most of Vance's work, it has little to no romance in it, and a limited set of characters and situations. Still, it's a fascinating treatise.

Alastor

Vance's three novels set in the Alastor universe don't really connect in any obvious way. The second, Marune, is one of Vance's least compelling narratives, taking up as it does the familiar cliche of a character who does not remember his past. Trullion in contrast is regarded as one of Vance's most famous works. It is a brilliant mystery with many exciting revelations, and the culture it presents is both behind and ahead of its time. It is the source of Vance's famous fictional sport hussade, which I still need to play. The last novel in the series, Wyst, is basically Vance dabbling in the idea of a monoculture and it's a great adventure novel too.

Durdane

Vance's Durdane trilogy (The Anome, The Brave Free Men,  and The Asutra) is often overlooked. I don't want to say it is for good reason, since they are very good, but something was missing here. I think the problem is in the characters. It's hard to really identify with the heroes' struggle, and the surrounding world-building is a bit confusing at times. The aliens themselves are also not Vance's best. Still I've probably reread these books as much as anything except for The Eyes of the Overworld.

The Gray Prince

Vance disdained ideology. His attack on identity politics is contained in this slim novel, which concerns a world in which the status of a group of autochthons is very much in doubt. The Gray Prince was also his comment on the significance of national borders (and by extension the plight of Israel), and as such, deserves to be made a part of every single international relations course offered. It's also a thriller of sorts that considers ideas like racism and poverty in a way accessible to those who might not normally be intrigued by them.

Showboat World

Vance's comic novel of a world in which the only true life consists of stage shows traveling up and down rivers is a bit slight compared to his other works, but it's great fun nonetheless. His love for the theater pops up all over his oeuvre.

Planet of Adventure  

Very misunderstood. In the guise of an adventure novel Vance placed the story of Adam Reith, a strange from Earth who crash lands on a savage planet called Tschai, where four different alien races conflict with humans in various way. Planet of Adventure is first and foremost Vance's funniest novel, but within that comic stricture are overarching themes not really approached by other authors. The best of the four sections is of course, The Dirdir, which finds Reith and his compatriots murdering the lion-men Dirdir in their own hunting grounds in order to collect sequins from their evil victims. Not all of Vance's work is so clearly conducive to cinematic adaptation, but given all the other junk that is being adapted into film and television, you would have to think someone would take a serious look at this eventually. A masterpiece.

Lyonesse

Vance clearly labored on this extremely long fantasy saga, and the only text available contains a number of contradictions and errors. The three books — Suldrun's Garden, The Green Pearl, and Madouc — are sort of all over the place at times. They contain, however, the best of Vance's serious writing, and the unexpected shock death in the first novel basically ensured Ned Stark would die much much later on. The female characters here simply shine. Lyonnesse is definitely flawed and not for those new to Vance; however, its depiction of war, slavery and politics in the Elder Isles is so impressively detailed, with the characters so remarkably themselves, that is is worth coming back to once you get the hang of JV.

To Live Forever

One of Vance's early novels, the very idea of a character named Gavin Waylock is enough to recommend it. A dystopian novel that asks whether or not life extension is maybe not the best idea for a free society.

The Blue World

I guess they just stole Waterworld from this? Not sure how that works. The idea of a planet without land and what the people would do who lived on it is here not simply fodder for Dennis Hopper's coke-fueled monologues. A great adventure novel with a relentless and scintillating atmosphere that really deserves more attention.

Big Planet

It is seriously astonishing that this was written in the 1950s, because at this time nothing on its scope or theme had ever been accomplished in fiction. The atmosphere that surrounds the characters here is arguably more important the events or people themselves. In this way Vance posited one possible direction for fiction, in which the real events to take notice of occurred in the minds of the reader long after those described in the novel had finished. In short, a perpetual process of world-building.

Night Lamp

Vance's later novels were clearly hampered by the fact that they had to be dictated. At times, some of them seem a little distracted, and have trouble correctly revisiting themes or places in the same manner as the old Vance. Night Lamp suffers from this kind of inconsistency in character and plot, and its world is maybe not as impressively detailed as some of Vance's other novels in that vein. Still, no one ever gets tired of the war against slavery, and the cultural notes at play here generate an amazing travelogue.

The Many Worlds of Magnus Ridolph

The ideal introduction to Vance's satire comes in this slim volume of detective stories. In some ways, Ridolph's ungainly form is a loathsome sight for both his friends and adversaries; in others he is a conveyer of justice unlike any other. Here Vance is reduced to the simple mysteries he found in everything, and the work shines.

Thursday
May302013

In Which We're Stuck In A Childlike Priority

Pattern Recognition

by SHELBY SHAW

Frances Ha
dir. Noah Baumbach 
86 min

Noah Baumbach and leading lady Greta Gerwig just seem to revel best in the black and white of Frances Ha. It would seem too colloquial, too uncouth of the storyline to distract us with an image we already know in full color, of girls and of Girls in a city trying to make it in 2013. This may literally be noir for Baumbach, but it also blends the genre type in its cynical undertones of a sometimes spontaneous, sometimes mundane life. Frances Ha rides this millennial New Wave of the consistent attempts Frances makes to simply be settled in New York City, the black and white a sweet touch to soften the grime inherent in striving to make it as a relatively new adult.

Frances Ha first establishes roommates Frances and Sophie (Sting's daughter Mickey Sumner) through an assortment of scenes detailing their friendship, cut together in short clips. It seems more like a trailer than an opening montage. Getting only snippets of their conversations, phrases out of context raise the question as to how much was scripted versus improvised; Baumbach quickly shows us what a true friendship looks like, the girls' constant chatter and their comfort with whatever they decide to do next.

It’s a quick introduction that feels like a mirror of this Age of Information, like scrolling through a tumblr that’s been turned into a stage play, .gifs just waiting to loop the present strangeness of characters’ banter. Soon Frances is at the apartment of her boyfriend Dan (Michael Esper), trying to be open about her disapproval of his desire to buy two hairless cats. “I’ll give you $200 to get no cats,” she jokes, and it’s so unfunny, falling flat, that she moves on quickly as if suddenly remembering the next line.

While Frances Ha makes sure to give audiences what they need to make sense of the film (which is really more about making sense of its characters), it doesn’t try to make things glamorous, overly witty, or even wildly quirky. It’s a hybrid of real-life, delusions of grandeur that just happen to revolve around one particularly uncanny young woman. While Gerwig flawlessly pulls off Frances in her easily-excited and openly absurd mannerisms, the character is not a heroine in any sense of saving anyone’s day, being a role model, or even being an always-likable protagonist. Even though it’s admirable that Frances recognizes this about herself (which, of course, is not the easiest thing to admit), her apparent aloofness about such a recognition always seems to get in the way.

When she takes out new friend Lev (Adam Driver) to dinner on her tax rebate, she apologizes that “I’m not a real person yet” after the restaurant refuses to take her declined debit card. Is she aloof through sincerity (which her voice tries often to convey) or is she simply ignoring her failed attempts at being successfully together as an adult? Are they even really failed attempts or just unfortunate outcomes of genuine trials? Like a friend who apologizes profusely — such as pre-break-up with Dan, she repeatedly says “I feel bad” in eager sincerity to the point of annoyance — Frances is precocious in the way of a child. When we find out she’s 27 years old, it's kind of shocking.

There’s much about Frances that many can probably comfortably identify with: like joking about being “undateable” while single, or wanting to stay longer at Lev's apartment even though her “I should probably go” line is met with no-hesitation directions to the F train, or being told she comes off as a lot older than 27 because of her face. Her struggle to be a company dancer while being able to pay any sort of rent in New York is relevant to those couch-surfing and subletting wherever opportunities present themselves, even when it means needing to move upstate to be an RA at a Vassar summer camp.

Maybe this is why Frances is a tough one to love from an audience’s perspective. She still has her warm moments that make us root for her though, such as when she tries in a socially-unaware manner to make conversation with new roommate Rachel’s dinner party. The scene puts Frances on the cringe-worthy outside so much, even though she's seated at the table with everyone else.

When Sophie moves on with her boyfriend-turned-fiancé Patch (Patrick Heusinger), Frances just can't accept being sidelined as a friend and not a do-everything-together-best-friend. When Sophie and Frances do get together she whines about the situation and tries to convince Sophie to do anything — like start dating Lev — to restore the friendship the girls had before. Jealous of Sophie but still wanting the best for her, Frances hides her life whenever they talk, lying about being in the company Christmas show and keeping it a secret when she goes to Paris on a whim for a muddled weekend that ends up being more depressing than eventful.

Even though Frances and the rest of the cast are timed just right to crack some laughs, she isn’t quite so funny to her cohorts. She is seldom given the upper hand in a situation, and more often than not she has her embarrassments and her low-points. This is a great deal of what we see, leading one to believe this is a great deal of what her life is largely comprised of.

Perhaps it’s that everyone else doesn’t get Frances and not the other way around — maybe she’s just a good girl caught in a bad line-up of down-and-outs. Baumbach and Gerwig’s writing focuses on the challenges rather than the glitz and dreams of a Hollywood life. Frances Ha isn’t a film about being a happy twenty-something making it in the big city, it’s a film about hoping to do so regardless of each honest and sometimes sorrowful card dealt. Sometimes you’re the queen, sometimes you’re just a joker.

Shelby Shaw is the senior contributor to This Recording. She is a writer living in New York City. She last wrote in these pages about The Place Beyond the Pines. You can find her website here. She twitters here and tumbls here. You can find an archive of her writing for This Recording here.

"I'll Follow You" - Shinedown (mp3)

"I Feel The Earth Move (Carole King cover)" - Shinedown (mp3)