TL;DR: Depression Sucks; Caring Acts are Better than Words

It's been years since my last post, and all I can say is, "Graduate school will do that." To say the least, the intended project I started with this blog has fallen short of my expectations. I just couldn't keep up. I have plenty of ideas to write about, but a lack of energy makes it difficult to put words to page. Even worse, any energy left after school, work, life, and everything is sapped by an ever-present monster in my life: Depression.

Yes, with a capital "D". For me, it's always a proper noun, an annoying, overbearing, hypercritical friend I can never quit, whose presence I just accept. But, see, even that metaphor isn't quite right. Even annoying, overbearing friends aren't a constant presence in my life. I can walk away from them, avoid their texts or phone calls. In short, with real people, I can escape.

Depression is more than that. It's a feeling of being trapped in a windowless, doorless room with that annoying, overbearing, hypercritical friend. No chance for escape. Not even the prospect of murder can help because it's an immortal friend you're stuck with. He will never die. Like a terrifying, yet comically perverse zombie, strike him down and he will rise from the dead to remind me how much I suck as a human being and that everyone I know hates me.

There's probably some deeper, subconscious meaning behind my imagining Depression as a man. I'm sure Freud and Lacan, those specters flitting around my mind, have something to say about the super-ego's voice being that of the Father (for those uninitiated in Freud and Lacan, they mean the dominant social voice that determines what's acceptable and unacceptable in society; in a patriarchal society, that voice is male, hence "Father"). But that discussion would be enough for another post. So, I'll save those ideas for another blog entry.

On a superficial level, I imagine Depression being male because I identify as male. In fact, for me, Depression is my negative self, reflected and enlarged, like a funhouse mirror, but without the fun. He's a constant critic in my life, always trying to convince me that I'm worthless and unloved. Of course, the practical and hopeful parts of my mind--the parts that reason pretty well, I think--have plenty of evidence and powerful logic behind their arguments. Depression's evidence is questionable, but that doesn't really matter; Depression doesn't use traditional logic. Through brute force and relentless screaming, he wears me down until I can do nothing but agree. His arguments aren't convincing, even at that point. I just want the screaming to stop.

Thing is, it doesn't. Never has, never will.

Even when others tell me how much I'm loved and wanted, he's there to shout them down. Worse still, I get to the point where I don't want to hear that I'm loved and wanted because his voice gets louder. Depression feeds on those statements, growing larger and larger. He fills up the room we're trapped in with his increasing rotundity. In depression's logic, the loving and encouraging statements from family and friends reinforce Depression's arguments that I'm unworthy of love. With each word, his argument is strengthened. And all I can say, weakly, is "Stop, stop, stop." He doesn't.

Depression uses a logic with its own set of self-serving rules. Well-intended statements like "You have so much to live for" are neutered in an argument with Depression. Through an impressive feat of rhetorical gymnastics, Depression convincingly says, "See how worthless and selfish you are? You can't even recognize how good you've got it. These 'friends' and 'loved ones' don't deserve you. Pathetic."

I don't think it's a coincidence that I imagine Depression torturing me. Though he's not physically tearing my body apart, he's attacking my mind, shredding my identity and everything I love until nothing remains. Who needs an outside torturer, when my mind does all the heavy-lifting? Elaine Scarry, in her wonderful book, The Body in Pain, provides an extensive analysis of torture and its relationship to political power. Scarry focuses on the logical structure of torture and how it informs and strengthens those in power. And so, at first, it may not appear that her analysis fits, or is even appropriate, for a discussion of depression, but I think that the two experiences resonate on similar frequencies:

In its basic outlines, torture is the inversion of a trial, a reversal of cause and effect. While the one studies evidence that may lead to a punishment, the other uses punishment to generate the evidence. (Scarry 41) 

"The inversion of a trial" and using "punishment to generate evidence" are fitting descriptions of depression's most insidious effects. Depression needs no trial because he already knows what he wants. All he needs to do is punish me enough to produce the desired results. With enough work, he can create the evidence needed for me to believe that he is right, that he has been right the whole time.

Although comparing depression to the horror of torture sounds like an exaggeration, it's not. Just a different form of horror. A horror inflicted on the self. Depression is a horror film I cannot escape, to use a different metaphor. The metaphors for depression are legion, after all. In my theater, like the locked room above, I'm trapped. There's no leaving when things get to be too much. Everywhere I go--work, school, home, to dinner and drinks with friends--Depression is there with me. Sometimes he's quiet, allowing me some space to breathe, think, enjoy life. Sometimes he's screaming so loud I can only stare into the distance, incapable of focusing on anything or anyone. Mine may not be the kind of depression that straps me down in bed for days on end, but my depression transforms me into the walking dead: functioning but not present.

Even with all the evidence to the contrary, Depression causes me to mistrust my own observations. Depression is so convincing that I've often found myself sitting amongst friends, having a good time, and yet still thinking, "They all look like they're waiting for me to leave so the real fun can start." He has buried seeds of doubt and nurtured them so well, that I rarely trust what I see and experience. Questions flood my mind, overcrowding and suppressing more rational logical thinking: Am I misreading the situation? Are they just humoring me because I arrived attached to someone that they like better? Depression says, "Yes," and I'm persuaded.

To bypass the energy-sucking experience of battling Depression's persuasive arguments, I avoid the situation, isolate myself from family and friends. Logically, this is a stupid move. According to every specialist, isolation only makes things worse. Even the most ascoial human being needs some form of companionship. But, again, Depression doesn't rely on logic. To him, the specialists have no authority. Depression's credibility is the only credibility that matters, and his arguments quickly strip down the specialists' well-researched, rational arguments. For him, it's easy. After all, he's had plenty of practice stripping down my own well-researched, rational arguments.

Depression forces me into isolation, but only so that he can break me down, force me into thinking that I don't exist. Against, Depression's onslaught, I am no match. Not without help, that is. I need to feel like I'm present, like I'm real. For me, nothing is more terrifying than questioning my own reality, my own physical presence. And that's exactly what Depression does to me. Give him enough time, and I'll start thinking I don't deserve to exist, that I don't exist.

The lyrics of the Tony-Award-wining musical, Dear Evan Hansen, capture these complex and conflicting emotions well, particularly in the songs that reflect my own experiences with depression: "For Forever" and "Words Fail."

In Dear Evan Hansen, Evan has recently broken his arm after falling out of a tree, and so he's wearing a cast at the start of the play. When the play starts, Evan is starting another year of school. Connor, one of Evan's fellow students, starts the same day. Unlike Evan, who retreats inside himself, Connor rebels against his family. At school, Evan and Connor bump into each other, which results in Connor pocketing a letter Evan had written to himself. The letter is part of Evan's therapy to overcome depression and social anxiety. Later, Connor commits suicide, and school officials find the letter. Because he doesn't want to hurt anyone's feelings, Evan lies and confirms the officials' conclusion that Evan and Connor had been best friends. The rest of the musical follows the consequences of Evan's lie.

I understand the desire to lie. I lie all the time, mostly to avoid conflict or to avoid stating uncomfortable truths that upset the clockwork machinery of the day.

Random person: "How're you today?"
Me: "Oh, I'm fine."

I'm rarely "fine," but saying "I'm fine" is better than launching into an hour-long explanation of how I'm feeling. Who wants to hear about all that? Most people don't. It's too much to process for me, so I lie to spare others the details of my sad life.

Moreover, I understand the desire to fall into fantasy. Part of Evan's motivation for lying is the desperate desire for friendship, to connect with others, which is something he and I find difficult to do. We just can't seem to find a comfortable spot to dive into other people's lives. Creating our own fantasy worlds--where communicating is effortless and seems rewarding--is easier than dealing with real people.

I cried the first time I'd heard "For Forever" because I recognized that yearning. At this point in the story, Evan is having dinner with Connor's family, and his mother asks about their friendship. Evan starts inventing on the spot, creating a friendship from nothing. And in that creation, he retells the story of how he broke his arm. In the new version, Evan is describing a carefree day with his best friend that culminates in both boys climbing a tree. Evan sings,

And I suddenly feel the branch give way
I'm on the ground
My arm goes numb
I look around
And I see him come to get me
He comes to get me
And everything's okay

Evan's recounting of the story is true except for one fact: He was alone when he broke his arm. No one came to get him. In truth, on that day, Evan had been suicidal. He wanted to die.

Retelling the story is Evan's opportunity to wipe away reality, to create a better version of the story, one where he wasn't broken and alone. Despite the fictional nature of the new memory, it does offer Evan the opportunity to feel something he didn't that day: connection. To feel that someone was there to lift him up when he was at his lowest. Because the fictional world can be better than the real one,  it's understandable that Evan would want to supplant reality with this fantasy. Is Evan's choice commendable or ethical? No. The real-world consequences are--though the musical doesn't explore this--devastating, and Evan's lies are motivated by selfish desires. Still, I get it.

The musical climaxes with the powerful song "Words Fail." Finally, the truth comes out, and Evan has to explain himself. He can't. Not really.

I guess I wanted to believe
'Cause if I just believe
Then I don't have to see what's really there 

No, I'd rather pretend I'm something better than
These broken parts
Pretend I'm something other than
This mess that I am
'Cause then I don't have to look at it
And no one gets to look at it
No, no one can really see 

'Cause I've learned to slam on the brake
Before I even turn the key
Before I make the mistake
Before I lead with the worst of me
I never let them see the worst of me  

'Cause what if everyone saw?
What if everyone knew?
Would they like what they saw?
Or would they hate it too?

Many times I've felt like I was pretending to be fun and gregarious because I was too afraid for people to see the real me, afraid that I'd be rejected.

The sad thing is, people like Evan and myself have been rejected. Not maybe in the sense that we've been completely ostracized in society, but in the fact that at some point we expressed our true selves only to be rejected in some way. For people like us, those moments have a powerful effect. One rejection means I probably won't open up like that again in front of that person. The risk of being rejected again is just too painful, so I shut down.

That's Depression talking again, making me think that people don't want to hear me, that they aren't interested enough in the real me hidden beneath layers upon layers of psychological shielding. In reality, the context was wrong, inappropriate. In reality, there's a reasonable explanation for the rejection. But, again, Depression's logic twists reality until all I see is the rejection.

Evan's recreated memory reveals the desire in my--and I suspect other's--experiences with depression. We need to feel connected, like we're being heard and understood, that someone cares enough to reach out and pick us up when we're broken and alone. The simple act of reaching out, even something as small as a "Hi. How're you?" can be powerful in combating depression. Acts like that make it harder for Depression to convince me that no one cares; it makes it more difficult for him to convince me that I don't exist. As such, in my experience, acts are more powerful opponents in the fight against Depression. More powerful than empty platitudes at any rate.

As a student of rhetoric and language, I know--and so does Depression--that language isn't always trustworthy. The words that spill out of people's mouths are unreliable. And so, they are easily swept aside, their meanings twisted into wildly inaccurate representations. Statements alone open the door for Depression to say, "They're lying. Where's the proof?" Acts are harder for him to shout against, harder for him to twist because they are visual proof of a connection, of care.

A few months ago, I ventured out to a local bar to meet friends. By myself. Which is a rare achievement because of the days/weeks of "building myself up" that have to occur before I can do something as simple as walk out my front door alone. On this occasion, I did venture out into the real world. I walked about a little over a block and met up with a good friend I knew would be there.

At first, we chatted. Then, as the night wore on, more and more friends arrived, and, as expected, the bar grew louder and louder. So loud, in fact, that I couldn't follow conversations. Slowly, because I was sitting on a stool--but still turned to face people, not away from them--these friends started grouping together, coalescing into conversational cliques. And I was left out.

This is not their fault. I'm a quiet person who doesn't forcefully insert myself into conversations very often, not unless I have something to add. Most of the time, I can't think of anything fast enough, so I remain quiet. Sometimes I'm very talkative, but those moments are rare, and they usually occur only when I know the topic well and have thought out what I want to say beforehand. If I haven't thought out a response beforehand, I won't say much.

And so, once again, I found myself outside of the conversation, looking at people's backs, unable to hear a word of what they were saying despite being crammed within the same five-foot circle of space. After some time passed, when I realized that I wouldn't be able to participate, I turned away from the laughing/talking groups and watched the music videos playing on the television screen in front of me.

Just when I was thinking of paying my tab and leaving--Why stick around if I'm going to be ignored?--a friend spoke to me. "You're feeling anxious, aren't you?"

First, I was surprised because this particular friend isn't known for his thoughtfulness, at least not from what I had observed up to that point (he can be quite harsh in his criticisms of others). He then chatted with me for a bit and tried to include me in on one of the conversations happening around me.

I never told him, but that was the kindest thing for him to do at that moment. As as a result, I stuck around the bar longer than I would've if he hadn't spoken up.

I've been moved most often by people who recognize my discomfort in a situation, who reach out to me and bring me into the conversation. It feels like I'm getting permission to feel included. Since it's difficult for me to press myself into a conversation, it's nice when someone takes a moment to include me. Even when my friend stepped away, that small gesture--a mere minute of conversation--sustained me for a couple more hours. It was kind. And I needed kindness in that moment. I won't forget it.

But placing the onus of lifting me from the suffocating pit of depression on my family and loved ones puts all the burden on them. I need to work harder to reach out, too. And that's probably the most difficult part, at least for me. Still, I must remind myself that maintaining a presence in the lives of my family and friends isn't burdening them, despite what Depression says. Pushing myself into people's lives isn't a sign of unwanted aggression--which is how Depression describes it. It's just the norm for building relationships.

In the end, just like I'm sure people reading this wish (that's Depression speaking through me), I just need to stop thinking and act. Acts are effective techniques to make a shy, depressed person feel included. They build relationships better than words. Caring acts are the weapons we need to fight depression, to fight the ever-growing thoughts of suicide that plague so many, myself included.

Defining Justice: Vacillating between Order and Chaos in "The Dark Knight"

Christopher Nolan's take on the Batman legend seems to present the protagonist, Bruce Wayne, as a figure dealing with competing definitions of how society should function. Within the framework of the first film, Batman Begins, Wayne finds himself redefining "true justice" as he works against corruption in Gotham City. The Dark Knight branches out from defining justice to answering a larger question: Can justice and morality survive in a battle against chaotic forces? Naturally, the two figures that draw the most intriguing focus are Batman and The Joker. In the context of The Dark Knight, the definition of justice, represented by Batman and established previously in Batman Begins, is challenged by The Joker. He tests the limits of Batman's and the justice system's sense of identity and its sense of morality. This might suggest that Nolan's film series would prefer one position over another, but that is not the case. Nolan, in The Dark Knight, argues for a flexible system of justice, one that embraces order and chaos.

Before discussing the flexible societal system within The Dark Knight, a brief outline of justice and how it is defined with the Nolan's conception of Batman, specifically within Batman Begins, will be helpful. Batman Begins, through the Bruce Wayne's exploits, defines justice and how it can work in a corrupt system. Wayne and his alter ego, Batman, reinstate a very American definition of justice, where criminals--those who break the governing codes of society--are arrested and tried. Nolan, then, advocates due process and the notion of "innocent until proven guilty."As Wayne himself states when confronted with an execution: "This man should be tried" (Batman Begins). According to Wayne, the burden of proving guilt lies upon the societal system that accuses a person of a crime. Of course, in a perfect system, this would be ideal, but Gotham is not perfect. In fact, systems of order--government, police--frequently fall under the influence of corruption. Henri Ducrad himself mentions this very phenomenon when he responds to Wayne's refusal: "By whom? Corrupt bureaucrats? Criminals mock society's laws. You know this better than most" (Batman Begins). In a way, Ducard is right to question society's ability to enact justice. Corruption keeps society from being able to function properly. However, Nolan rejects Ducard's philosophy that "a purging fire is inevitable and natural" (Batman Begins). Reducing Gotham to ashes in order to build anew is not a good solution; it is not even a moral one. In order to restore balance to the justice system in Gotham, Wayne finds himself breaking the law, transforming himself into the super-vigilante known as Batman. By the end of the film, order is on its way to being restored. Batman Begins is, as the title suggests, a beginning. However, the follow up complicates the system of order Batman and company attempt to instill. Order is disrupted by the introduction of chaos.

Order is important to the Gotham of Nolan's films. Even in a corrupt system, order is necessary for the functioning of society. The system is unbalanced in Gotham City, yes, but there is still an ordered system. Crime lords, like Carmine Falcone, in Batman Begins have rigged everything so that they benefit from the exploitation of others, yet order remains. That is, until The Joker challenges the logics of the system to prove his argument that an ordered system is unnatural and inherently corrupt. For The Joker, chaos is the only true system worth following: "Introduce a little anarchy in your life, and everything becomes chaos. Oh, and you know the thing about chaos? It's fair" (Dark Knight). Indeed, The Joker lives this his philosophy in every scene. Take, for instance, the two different stories he delivers to explain the scars on his face. Both stories involve mutilation, but both differ in the source of that mutilation. In the first version of the story, the child-Joker is cut by his father in a domestic dispute; and in the second version, The Joker mutilates his face to make his wife feel better about her own scars. Oddly enough, in a way, the sources of both come from a perversion of love, both of which result in the permanent physical and mental scarring of The Joker. Although both stories are different, the result is still the same. The Joker sees familial and romantic systems of order as destructive and unsustainable. This results in the birth of his own brand of social philosophy: individual choice, regardless of the consequences. Naturally, the societal systems in place within Gotham City cannot allow such a thing to happen. Chaos, after all, is not very efficient. And so, the city becomes the battleground between two forces: order and chaos.

A key victim in this battle is Harvey Dent, whose transformation reveals that a rigid system of order does not allow for a more complicated approach to the ordering of society. The Joker's opposition--those representing order--include Batman, Commissioner Jim Gordon, and Gotham City District Attorney Harvey Dent. All three figures are pushed to the limits in their efforts to instill order in Gotham City, and Dent discovers that enough of a push can cause a person to descend into the same line of thinking as The Joker; at film's end, Dent transforms into the villain Two-Face. As the representative of law and order within Gotham City, Dent faces the nearly insurmountable problem of ridding the city of crime and corruption. Even before Dent was elected as the District Attorney, he was an investigator at Internal Affairs, trying to route out corrupt cops. The tension between Dent's ideals and the realities of Gotham's corruption is present during an early scene when Dent and Gordon discuss the possibility of tracking the mob's money. Dent expresses reservations because he does not trust the cops in Gordon's special task force; "I don't like that you're working with cops I investigated at Internal Affairs"; to which Gordon replies, "If I didn't work with cops you investigated while at IA I'd be working alone. I don't get political points for idealism. I have to work with what I have" (Dark Knight). Dent is clearly uncomfortable working with corrupt cops, yet he has to go along with Gordon's line of thinking. Otherwise, nothing would be accomplished. Dent even goes along with Batman's assistance in establishing order, but the focus is always on bringing order back to Gotham City. At some point, Batman will have to atone for his crimes; "The Batman will answer for his crimes... to us" (Dark Knight). Dent's eventual goal is order, the rigid kind of order that must clean up the corruption within the system; and yes, even Batman is a symptom of the city's corruption, at least in Dent's eyes.

Dent's idealism shatters in the face of death, and the rigid system of order in which he places so much faith crashes around him, thus breaking his identity and replacing it with Two-Face. After the thrilling arrest of The Joker, Dent and Rachel Dawes--his girlfriend and Wayne's former love--are both kidnapped and placed in different warehouses filled with drums of gasoline rigged to explode. Despite the efforts of Gordon and Batman, Dawes is killed and half of Dent's face is burned away. The Joker uses this situation to push Dent into insanity, an insanity so powerful that Dent takes revenge against Gordon and Batman. Dent's insanity seeks fairness in chance, hence the two-sided coin Dent uses to determine his victims' fates, and blames Gordon and Batman for Dawes's death. The coin reflects the binary that dominated his thinking before the attack. Before he viewed reality as a binary: a choice was either right or wrong. Despite embracing The Joker's philosophy of chaos, Dent still sees the world through a binary, but one that embraces chance rather than morality. It is still a rigid system, regardless the application. Even the scene when Dent (before Two-Face) kidnaps one of The Joker's men, Dent exhibits what looks like psychotic tendencies, like he has the capacity to embrace a more fluid sense of justice. However, this scene instead reveals that Dent as an "on/off" switch when it comes to his application of justice. And as the focal point, the face, of the reformed justice system in Gotham City, Dent has to present a pure and clean face to the public. As Batman notes, "If anyone saw this, everything we have fought for would be lost" (Dark Knight). In Nolan's Gotham, justice must present a clean face to the public; in order to legitimately fight corruption and the mob, Dent must be free from corruption himself. Yet, the pressure of such a stance ends up breaking him, especially when he realizes corrupt cops had taken both him and Dawes, the same corrupt cops Dent had warned Gordon about. Dent's transformation is the result of following a binary system of justice, instead of protecting the public from criminals, he becomes one with just a little push.

So, if Dent falls because of his rigid philosophy, what kind of system is Nolan advocating in The Dark Knight? Through the characters that survive, Gordon and Batman, it is possible to detect the kind of system that works within Gotham City. Gordon and Batman together represent a fluid system of justice, a system that recognizes that judgments need to be based on context, using the law as a guide rather than dogma. Two scenes in particular bear out this idea. The first depicts Gordon's special task force in their search for Batman. On a board are all the pictures of possible "suspects." Abraham Lincoln and Bigfoot are the two most prominent figures. Obviously, Gordon's task force is not actively looking for Batman, but working with the vigilante in order to clean up the city. Dent is smart enough to recognize the duplicity of Gordon's unit, but he only uses their resources when the law fails--as it does in regard to extraditing Lau from China--and then he reverts back to the law when Lau is back in the United States. The second scene highlights highlights Batman's willingness to break principles of privacy when he asks Lucius Fox to spy on all the cell phones in Gotham in order to track down The Joker's location. Interestingly enough, this is the first and only time in the entire trilogy that Fox and Batman occupy the same space. Yes, Wayne and Fox spend quite a bit of time together, but the jarring nature of Batman's request is made even more powerful because Wayne appears as Batman. Wayne recognizes that his request is a violation of civil liberties, but the context of the situation demands a bending of moral principles. Fox recognizes the uniqueness and the dangerous potential of the situation; "I'll help you this one time. But consider this my resignation. As long as this machine is in Wayne Tower, I won't be" (Dark Knight).  During this final section of the film, Batman comes close to exhibiting tyrannical behavior--a theme touched on in The Dark Knight Rises, but never quite examined thoroughly. Batman's actions in the film's final act demonstrate his potential for villainy, but it also revels a moral response once the danger passes: the return to moral principles. Fox is rewarded in the final moments of the film when the machine is destroyed; Batman had never intended for the machine to used on a permanent basis. Both Gordon and Batman recognize that the fluidity of their system must, at some point, settle closer to order than chaos, but that moment proves elusive by the film's end.

The fluid movement from hero to villain, from order to chaos and back again, helps to illuminate the final moments of the film, which some critics find baffling. The film's final images are viewed under the rather poetic narration of Gordon: "He's the hero Gotham deserves, but not the one it needs right now" (Dark Knight). Like the narration suggests, both Gordon and Batman must exhibit a more fluid definition of justice. This definition must bend and break rules when the situation calls for it. However, the idea, the intention that grounds their definition is that the severe bending and breaking of moral principles must come to end, must give way once order is established. Of course, as the end of the film seems to suggest, such an ending may never be quite possible, at least not completely. The complete establishment of order is impossible due to the realities of civilization. Therefore, the final moment of the film is appropriate: The Dark Knight riding his mechanical horse, forever fighting, forever rising to the light, but never quite reaching it. He and the system he represents is the system that works best, at least for now, because reality is a blend of chaos and order, which means our definitions of justice must be adaptive.

Engaging in Public Discourse: Part 1

It's been a while since I've posted anything here. School, work, writing, reading, French studies. All seem to get in the way of posting stuff to this blog.

Well, here I am posting something I find fascinating.

Over the past two days, I have engaged in a dialogue with a friend of mine. He's Christian, I am agnostic. Therefore, we approach the subject of homosexuality from two different angles. Yesterday, he posted a blog that addressed the issue of homosexuality and how Christians should approach the issue, based on teachings found in the Bible.

This post has led to, I believe, a productive dialogue, highlighting the possibility that public discourse doesn't have to involve antagonistic rhetoric, like the kind found in public discussions of "hot-button" issues, like the kind found in modern American political discourse.

Therefore, I'm posting our dialogue for all of you to see because I found it intellectually stimulating, and I'm curious to know how others might view this discussion.

Scott and I consider each other friends, which means we see each other as human beings. And that, I think, is a great place to start.

*Fair warning, this post requires a bit of reading.*

Scott's original post can be found here.

Now, here's my response.

Scott:

Me: (This response required some research on my part.)

Scott responded to this comment on his blog: here.

I have yet to respond to Scott's most recent post. I plan to, but there are only so many hours in the day, and while I do find the subject fascinating, I will need more time to compose a response.

Nevertheless, I want to preserve this dialogue before it lost among the multitude of Facebook posts. I think we handled ourselves well. We may not have completely satisfied each other's aims, but I think we've come to a common ground. Despite what some may think, reaching a compromise is not so bad a thing. In fact, I think it only makes use stronger as a society.

Thoughts?

The Hobbit and a Desolation of Tension

 

You know, I think I'll start this review with an admission that will probably surprise no one: I love long movies. Think about it, movies today are expensive, and if you forgot to smuggle in drinks and snacks (or maybe you don't have anyone carrying a large bag or cargo pants), the whole movie-going experience can set you back quite a ways. And this is why I love long movies. Long movies make the expense worth it by giving you enough entertainment to sustain the kind of money spent. Of course, usually, longer movies tend to be better, at least in my eyes. They spend more time developing characters and worlds, thus making the whole experience more fulfilling, more enriching.

Of course, as some have pointed out to me in the past, long movies are an expense in time as well. And, finally, after three Lord of the Rings movies and one Hobbit, I believe Peter Jackson has tested my limits, which is a weird thing to write since I'm anxiously waiting for the final book in Robert Jordan's fourteen-book series to come out in paperback.

The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug has enough entertainment and spectacle in it that it's a fun outing, but it lacks something I so enjoyed about the first Hobbit and Lord of the Rings: purpose. Yes, I know, the purpose is the get to the Lonely Mountain and remove the fiery Smaug from the dwarf kingdom, but Desolation is so concerned with throwing the characters from one adventure to the next, that the characters have little time to discuss, well, much of anything.

Desolation starts with a rather unnecessary flashback. Gandalf (Ian McKellen) meets Thorin (Richard Armitage) in a familiar tavern fans of the first trilogy should recognize. Really, all we get from this scene is something which we could have inferred from previous events and character developments. We know Gandalf has a funny way of turning up when needed, a knack for pushing people to do things they would not have do otherwise, so this scene is pointless. As a point of comparison, take a look at the scene with Gandalf, Galadriel, Elrond, and Saurman in which they debate Thorin's purpose. It's a wonderful scene that is both informative and fun considering Gandalf is only there as distraction. The first scene of Desolation does not have any of that going for it.

From there, we flash forward to the merry gang of dwarves, one wizard, and Bilbo. They are still running from the pursuing orc gang and therefore hide in the home of Beorn (Mikael Persbrandt), who may or may not be a friend. He hates dwarves, see. But really, that doesn't matter because just a couple of scenes later and we're off again.

Next is one of three extraordinary set pieces. I'll only say that if you're scared of spiders, be prepared to spend the scene covering eyes and squirming in your seat. I know I was. But even this scene seemed to be over far too soon because just a couple of minutes later the dwarves are saved by Bilbo (Martin Freeman) and captured by the woodland elves, Legolas (Orlando Bloom... in case you didn't know) among them.

I'll stop there with the plot summary because from that moment on it's just more of the same, one adventure after another. Now, I'm not upset about this. The book pretty much does the same thing, but the book at least had the lyricism of Tolkien's writing to break it up. At least there was a steady build up of tension. This film lacks that kind of build up.

You may say that's because it's the middle chapter in a longer story. You'd be right. But even Two Towers had a steady build up, a growing momentum that concluded with two fantastic battles (three if you count Frodo's near capture at the end of that film, still one of my favorite visual images from the original trilogy). Even Empire Strikes Back built up to that famous final confrontation. Desolation is one confrontation after another, and while they are staged wonderfully, there's no build up, no tension.

In fact, the only amount of serious build up is near the end of the film, right before Bilbo descends into the mountain to face the dragon. That was the only point in the film when I had time to feel unease about the approaching moment. And boy does Jackson deliver.

Smaug (voiced with the delicious baritones of Benedict Cumberbatch) is the most impressive aspect of the film. For once the characters are allowed to have a conversation where the outcome could mean life or death. In addition, this was the only moment when I thought the use of a higher frame rate necessary. In 3D and HFR Smaug and that gold-horde of his come alive in a way I never thought possible.

The other scene I thought was quite memorable is the dwarves' escape from the woodland elves. Now that was a piece of filmic brilliance, where the absurdity of the situation threatens to be too much but it nevertheless delivers as a piece of visual storytelling. For some, I can imagine that it may go on for too long, but I thought it was quite brilliant. I was smiling during the whole sequence.

The other addition I thought was surprisingly effective is the potential romance between an elf of Jackson's own invention, Tauriel (Evangeline Lilly), and one of the younger dwarves, Kili (Aidan Turner). The chemistry between the two characters works, even if their storyline borders on the melodramatic in this film. I actually wished Legolas would disappear to allow the pairing a little more space to breathe. After all, his big romance is still to come in the Lord of the Rings trilogy (*wink, wink).

All in all, the film is entertaining. And for those who thought The Hobbit too long and boring, I guess this film is the antidote. However, I missed the playful language and witty banter of the first film. Too many films nowadays avoid that kind of lyricism, which is sad. Tolkien, among his many other talents, loved language. The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey reminded me of this fact; Desolation forgets.

P. S. Was anyone else bothered by the aesthetic design of Gandalf's magic? I thought it looked too much like a video game, as opposed to the wonderful displays in Fellowship and Return of the King. How can Jackson go from the beauty of Gandalf charging down the Nine or standing up against a balrog to this?

Tragedy and Random Thoughts

Today, I am furious. Sad and furious, really. But the anger and frustration outweigh the sadness.

In my life, I've never known anyone who suffered a violent death. Yes, I've known family members, friends, and coworkers who passed suddenly, unexpectedly, but never violently.

To be honest, I don't know what to say here. My mind is still trying to process all of this, searching and grasping for some logical foothold, but these things are rarely logical, are they?

Those of you who follow my blog are probably wondering what the hell I'm talking about and with good reason. I haven't provided the story yet, the reasoning behind my bewildering words. Well, the truth of the matter is I just don't know where to begin, so I started with my thoughts.

Yesterday, I received an email from my dean, informing all of us here at Mountain View College that the director of Writing Center--and soon to be official Instructional Support Leader--had died early Sunday morning. As these things go, there was very little information regarding exactly what had happened.

I thought, well, Kevin's too young to die so suddenly. It could have been an unknown health issue. Or maybe even a car accident. Yeah, a car accident. That's what it has to be. Nothing else makes sense.

However, I soon learned that like everyone, Kevin had more going on in his life than work.

I won't go into too many details. One, because I have very little. Two, because Kevin was a private individual and probably would not have wanted his private life spread across the Internet (not that I'm presumptuous enough to assume it will make it beyond my circle of friends). So I'll just say this: He died a victim of domestic violence.

Naturally, I feel sadness for the loss of such a wonderful coworker. Kevin worked tirelessly to improve the student experience here at Mountain View College, often working long hours. He accomplished so much in his year and a half tenure as Writing Center Director that it's actually quite astonishing. He constantly promoted the cohesion of all areas in instructional support and constantly reminded us that our first priority is developing students' potential.

A gaping void has been left in his wake here at MVC.

And now to the fury.

For today's class, we were discussing a chapter of Virginia Woolf's A Room of One's Own, specifically the part where she tells a hypothetical story involving the question, "What if Shakespeare had had a sister of equal talent?"

Basically, Woolf argues that women were incapable of reaching their full potential in Shakespeare's time because women were not allowed to cultivate their talents, and those women who had the talent to be artists of Shakespeare's caliber probably died without ever finding an avenue for their talents. It's a very good essay to remind students that education and opportunity are rather recent gifts.

In addition, it raises the question of women being treated like property, and I usually bring up the fact that even today women are not always treated with respect and dignity. Even today, violence against women is more than alarming, it's horrifying.

Yet, while in class, I couldn't help but think how violence plays such a large role throughout human society. And I'm not just talking about large acts of violence, those acts that grab most of the headlines, those acts of violence that spur gun owners to purchase bullets for protection against random acts of violence.

No, I'm more concerned with the alarming statistic that we are more likely to suffer violence at the hands of someone we love, someone close to us, than at the hands of some random stranger.

Just a couple of weeks ago, police officers were called to my apartment building because a couple had gotten into a fight and a guy had broken a mirror over his boyfriend's head. Thankfully, nothing more serious had happened, but still the incidence reminds me that domestic violence is not a problem for just one gender, but for anyone in a relationship. Violence is a human problem.

But I guess it angers me a bit more when it happens in the LGBT community. We face so many other obstacles in our lives that domestic violence seems to be forgotten, hidden, especially when coupled with the societal pressures that force us to remain hidden. Why must we hurt each other when there are plenty of people out there who are more than willing to hurt us?

Of course, this is not to diminish the violence women experience. To misquote Martin Luther King Jr., violence anywhere is an injustice everywhere. No relationship is worth taking a life. I don't care how "in love" you think you are. Obsession is not love, but merely a product of a human desire to possess.

Kevin was a kind and considerate individual. And while his slow manner sometimes frustrated my more squirrel-ish pace, his work as an educator and administrator is inspiring. He will be missed.