Caring

I struggled to finish Foucault's Madness and Civilisation, feeling by the end that despite its many moments of illumination I was falling short of all the book had to offer (which was plenty.) I think I grasped the central thesis, though, which was illuminating in itself. The problem for me lay in some of the detail inherent at the conceptual level, which was demanding and strangely abundant for what is, after all, quite a short work.

Having said all that, the idea that the pride that we might feel over what we consider the more humane treatment of the 'mad' (whatever that means, and Foucault is mind-bendingly good regarding whatever that means) in contrast to how they were treated in a less 'enlightened' age is entirely delusional, comes through loud and clear and painfully provocatively.

But it cannot match the pain engendered through watching Trapped In Care, a documentary aired this evening by Sky News. I caught a 15-minute snippet just now, focusing on the treatment of the intellectually disabled and autistic in various 'care facilities' in the UK. Initially I was struck by the odd coincidence of viewing this just after reading Foucault, though I hasten to add that the poor souls featured in the documentary are not mad in any reasonable sense of the word. (If there is a reasonable sense. (See M. Foucault.))

When pain in the abstract becomes pain in real human beings, it becomes more than food for thought.

Getting Radical

It's rare I feel any sort of keenness to watch a movie, but I'd love a chance to watch Mike Leigh's Peterloo. Mind you, any Mike Leigh movie is more than acceptable in this household. (Surprisingly the Missus loved Secrets and Lies, a sign of her unerring good taste.) I doubt very much the great director's account of the massacre that happened in the city of my birth will make it to these shores, but his brilliant account of Turner's life turned up on one of the Starhub channels to which we have access, so there's some hope there.

The Peterloo massacre mildly haunted my teenage years - I used to hang out in the Central Library near the site - and has, if anything, grown in significance in my mind. I'm firmly on the side of the tradition of Radical Dissent in historical terms and recent events in the nation of my birth have confirmed this essential sympathy all the more. There's a well-argued opinion piece in everyone's favourite sort-of-left-of-centre publication on-line going by the unwieldy but worthy title: Peterloo shaped modern Britain, as much as any king or queen did that pretty much says it all for me. Nice to see the great E.P. Thompson getting name-checked in there. Hope he's still read in the academies. He should be.

The Basics

We have a new improved system for booking venues at work on-line. So it's now a lot more difficult than it used to be. Case in point: I spent several hours sorting out classrooms for a course yesterday and today when previously it took me five minutes to sort out the rooms by sending a single email.

I've also been struggling to secure a venue for something dramatic we're planning for next year - in July actually. Given the fact that we have venues specifically designed for the performing arts this might seem odd, especially when I tell you that the problems have been caused by a key venue already having been booked for an 'event' that has nothing artistic about it whatsoever. Ironically it is booked during a period of time that has traditionally been set aside for drama, that being the case for the last twelve years at least, and possibly beyond that.

Anyway, there's no point in complaining, though it's fun to do so. The actual point of all this is to convey a simple truth about the kind of stuff you see on stage at all levels below that of the well-funded professional variety: it gets up there through sheer stubborn-headedness, not head-in-the-clouds-ness. The struggle comes with the territory; it's inherent in the experience; it's the very nature of the beast. The art lies in making it look easy.

Stirring Stuff

It's been a long time since we got ourselves to the concert hall. Fortunately it looks like our current engagements allow us the room to get there once again next Saturday when the SSO will be doing the business with a couple of Debussy favourites. I've had a couple of stirring encounters with La Mer live, as it were, but have never had the chance to listen to Jeux in that context, so it looks like I'll be able to set right that omission.

I've been even more inspired to make sure I attend by an excellent piece on The Velvet Revolution of Claude Debussy by Alex Ross in The New Yorker. When you hear people talk of the impossibility of writing about music in any meaningful way, direct them to anything by Mr Ross. In this particular article the bit about the first five bars of Prélude à l'aprés-midi d'un Faune nails that falsehood for good.

Lesson Learnt

Found myself being led round Mediacorps' big headquarters down the road yesterday on what is termed a 'learning journey' in these parts. Had quite a good time all in all, and learnt that those video helmet things, which they put on your head, complete with headphones, so that you're stuck in the immersive world created, are definitely not for me. I suspected such in advance but gave one a try for three minutes, which was three minutes too many.

It struck me that this might be related to the general difficulty I have in watching movies and the like. Part of me wants the freedom to put the world to one side now and again so that I don't get overly involved. You can do that with a novel easily, no matter how engrossing it is.

In Real Time

Just been watching the news out of the US and noticed an odd disconnect. A few minutes ago the big news channels were announcing the arrest of someone in connection with all those bombs that have been sent to various big cheeses. Sounds like the Feds have got their man. Good. Hope people over there are a bit more safe now.

But here's the odd thing. CNN announce the news from their reporter in the studio around 22.56. I switch over to Fox to see if they're saying the same thing, but they're showing a group of talking heads obviously not aware of any major development in the story being discussed. Fox then cut to some adverts ahead of their 23.00 news broadcast but as the voice is saying what they are going to continue with said voice, that of a lady, finishes with And CNN, oh - or something like that. I guess someone at Fox has been watching CNN and heard the news. I cut to CNN while Fox are running their ads and all sorts of stuff about the arrest, largely conjectural but sounding pretty well-informed is airing.

I cut back to Fox as their 23.00 broadcast begins, seemingly happily oblivious to the breaking story.  But I've got to say that their anchors look oddly stressed. Anyway, around 23.06 Fox suddenly announce the news, confirmed by the Department of Justice with the guys on screen sort of looking surprised, but not all that surprised, if you see what I mean.

Must say, I'm glad I'm not a reporter. It's all a bit too fast-moving for me. If the Fox guys were pretending not to know something that the rest of the US was well aware of,, and had been for a good 10 minutes or so, does that qualify as 'fake' news?

Not So Dramatic

Lots of young people live out their romantic dramas these days in the form of exchanged text messages. I know this because I've seen attempts to represent such dramatic exchanges in tv programmes, especially the Malay dramas that Noi watches. To be honest, I don't watch much else in the way of drama on the telly because I'm not much of a viewer, but I'm assuming that what goes on in the world of Malay tv drama reflects the kinds of programme watched in other parts of the world.

It's fascinating to watch dramatists and directors trying to solve the inherent problem of representing on screen a fundamentally un-dramatic activity - sitting down exchanging text messages - and somehow making it dramatic. The default solution is to cut between the characters in their different locations, showing the actual message floating mysteriously on screen as the messages arrive. (Which wonderfully, surrealistically breaks the standard verisimilitude of the 'realist' representation of life in process in the tv frame.) Music plays continuously, in the absence of the usual dialogue, and the characters emote like crazy in a kind of restrained dumb-show, sort of staying within the convention of reasonably naturalistic acting. In the moments of highest tension/emotion/revelation a character might expostulate to themselves in a kind of soliloquy, wholly inappropriate to the usual stylistic conventions of the on-going drama. I often think it would be handy to give them a cat or goldfish or something to address. The ladies might find a stuffed toy a viable audience.

I suppose the more folk become addicted to their ridiculous devices and live their lives through them, the more we're likely to be treated to attempts to improve on the standard model above. I must say, I'm looking forward to the possible developments. Who would have thought that handphones would end up provoking an entirely new dramatic sub-genre all of their very own?

Waxing Poetical

There are moments, quite a number actually, when I find myself wishing cyberspace had never been invented. (Was it invented, or just discovered? I don't even know the answer to that simple question.) But then I recall the pleasures afforded by being able to access particular websites, and my irritation fades. A bit.

Thank goodness for Carol Rumens's Poem of the Week page at The Grauniad on-line. The last three weeks have been particularly terrific. And the pages have the only Comments sections I know of that are actually edifying to read.

A Bit Crazy

Quick thought on a slow reading of Foucault's Madness and Civilisation: You don't have to be mad to understand Monsieur Foucault at his most perplexing - which is most of the time - but it helps. Hah!

Not Well

Actually I'm perfectly well health-wise, I'm happy to say, despite the misleading title of this post. But things have not exactly been going well, even though they've not been going badly, if you see what I mean. The last few days have not been a period of grace; they've been a time of things not quite working, not quite fitting, not flowing, as it were.

So what to do? Keep going. Lower expectations. Don't ask for too much. Indeed, don't ask. Accept. Count blessings. This too will pass. And will come again.