Clever.
One meaning, right?
when pushed for its meaning, people will usually respond with a bemused, 'who gives a shit' expression and then just repeat said word, usually accompanied with another name for it. 'You know-clever. smart'
'Yes, but what do you mean by smart. Street smart? Book smart? [to use two popular expressions?] Has been awarded educational privilege according to various factors of
1. race (white, natch)
2. age
3. social class
4. location
5. wealth?
Or, has street smarts owing to his privilege of
1. having an older brother in juvi
2. living in an area where 'how to make a car bomb' was the only adult education course available at the local village hall
3. being so poor that learning to pick a lock in under 30 sec was a necessary skill
If someone knows a lot aboput spectroscopy but can't open a tin of macaroni, are they intelligent or a fool? If someone can rewire a refrigerator but can't tell you the date of the second world war, is he a skilled craftsman or an ignorant twat?
You see?
Tuesday, 12 January 2010
Thursday, 7 January 2010
The Misanthrope
I braced myself against the chilly streets of London last night to see a theatre production about which I had - well - curiously enough, no assumptions at all.
The play is a modern adaptation of Molieres: one of his most regarded, yet possibly most unique works. Unusually for the playwright, Moliere dispenses with character nuance and trajectory, whilst almost entirely ignoring plot. Alceste, a writer who is by parts admirably honest and laughingly idealistic, abandons his moral high-horse when he meets Celimene, a beautiful young actress who jars with his ethical snobbery whilst bewitching him utterly. Try as he might to open her eyes to the shallowness of the world she immerself herself in, Celimene remains, to the end, refreshingly vain. As ghastly as her charcter can sometimes be, the pure acceptance of the reality of her situation gives her a commendable practicality that the idealist Alceste seems to lack.
The satire of French aristocrats is transformed by Martin Crimp into a expose of the hypocrisy of modern-day intelligentsia. Unlike most 'updates' of classics (any and every re-working of Romeo and Juliet springs to mind), this didn't set my teeth on edge. Voicemail messages in rhyming couplets combine the modern and ancient to humorous effect, and whilst references to modern-day are slightly overblown: think the RSC, LLoyd-Webber and David Cameron, the audience certainly seemed very happy. Fairly 'straight' parts of Alceste (Damian Lewis) and wingman John (Dominic Rowan) were played well, reciting their verse with a punch, yet avoiding overstatement. The more flamboyant characters of Julian (Chuck Iwuji) and Alexander (Nicolas Le Prevost) could, and did, allow themselves a lot more freedom, taking great delight in shaping and twisting the words.
The mise-en-scene, a hotel room conceived by Hildegard Betchler is suitably apt for Knightley's starlet 'Jennifer' (changed from Celimene), strewn with Chanel bags, silver pumps and thousands of Vogues. As Knightley is the current 'muse' of Chanel this is suitably apt, and the connections that the director continously alludes to between Jennifer's life and Knightley's own makes one wonder if the part was at all a stretch.
I'm usually the first to jump on the bitch bandwagon, taking an instant dislike to starlets for an outfit, a phrase taken out of context, a professed love for nuclear physics (see Lou Douillon and Milla Jovovich), and the always coy confession to the interviewer of their past life as an ugly duckling (I've seen Cameron Diazs' high-school photo, ok?! Come on, now.) However, despite the sometimes dubious acting chops of Knightley and her admission of looking in the mirror and seeing a 'funny face', I can't muster the strength to hate her. Strasbourg and ilk may consider great actors such as Olivier, Day-Lewis to have sprung up from a warm rock somewhere fully equipped to cry on queue, look interested in some very boring dialogue and pull off pantaloons with aplomb, but skeptics could argue that acting, like may other crafts can be learnt.
Whilst Knightley's talent in stinkers like 'The Hole' and 'Bend it Like Beckham' can be questioned, the effect of a good script and great voice coach cannot be argued. Her wasp-esque interpretation of Jennifer is a curious mix of naivete, knowing sexuality and childish manipulation, and she plays off well against Lewis' self-righteous indignation and curse of the left wing intelligentsia. Martin Crimp's updated version of Molière's play can sometimes feel overly referential: attacking LLoyd Webber, The RSC and even us the theatre goer, but the rhyming couplets and adaptation thereof are a triumph. Worth a look, especially if you are a fan of pretty chanel-strewn sets and fit gingers.
The play is a modern adaptation of Molieres: one of his most regarded, yet possibly most unique works. Unusually for the playwright, Moliere dispenses with character nuance and trajectory, whilst almost entirely ignoring plot. Alceste, a writer who is by parts admirably honest and laughingly idealistic, abandons his moral high-horse when he meets Celimene, a beautiful young actress who jars with his ethical snobbery whilst bewitching him utterly. Try as he might to open her eyes to the shallowness of the world she immerself herself in, Celimene remains, to the end, refreshingly vain. As ghastly as her charcter can sometimes be, the pure acceptance of the reality of her situation gives her a commendable practicality that the idealist Alceste seems to lack.
The satire of French aristocrats is transformed by Martin Crimp into a expose of the hypocrisy of modern-day intelligentsia. Unlike most 'updates' of classics (any and every re-working of Romeo and Juliet springs to mind), this didn't set my teeth on edge. Voicemail messages in rhyming couplets combine the modern and ancient to humorous effect, and whilst references to modern-day are slightly overblown: think the RSC, LLoyd-Webber and David Cameron, the audience certainly seemed very happy. Fairly 'straight' parts of Alceste (Damian Lewis) and wingman John (Dominic Rowan) were played well, reciting their verse with a punch, yet avoiding overstatement. The more flamboyant characters of Julian (Chuck Iwuji) and Alexander (Nicolas Le Prevost) could, and did, allow themselves a lot more freedom, taking great delight in shaping and twisting the words.
The mise-en-scene, a hotel room conceived by Hildegard Betchler is suitably apt for Knightley's starlet 'Jennifer' (changed from Celimene), strewn with Chanel bags, silver pumps and thousands of Vogues. As Knightley is the current 'muse' of Chanel this is suitably apt, and the connections that the director continously alludes to between Jennifer's life and Knightley's own makes one wonder if the part was at all a stretch.
I'm usually the first to jump on the bitch bandwagon, taking an instant dislike to starlets for an outfit, a phrase taken out of context, a professed love for nuclear physics (see Lou Douillon and Milla Jovovich), and the always coy confession to the interviewer of their past life as an ugly duckling (I've seen Cameron Diazs' high-school photo, ok?! Come on, now.) However, despite the sometimes dubious acting chops of Knightley and her admission of looking in the mirror and seeing a 'funny face', I can't muster the strength to hate her. Strasbourg and ilk may consider great actors such as Olivier, Day-Lewis to have sprung up from a warm rock somewhere fully equipped to cry on queue, look interested in some very boring dialogue and pull off pantaloons with aplomb, but skeptics could argue that acting, like may other crafts can be learnt.
Whilst Knightley's talent in stinkers like 'The Hole' and 'Bend it Like Beckham' can be questioned, the effect of a good script and great voice coach cannot be argued. Her wasp-esque interpretation of Jennifer is a curious mix of naivete, knowing sexuality and childish manipulation, and she plays off well against Lewis' self-righteous indignation and curse of the left wing intelligentsia. Martin Crimp's updated version of Molière's play can sometimes feel overly referential: attacking LLoyd Webber, The RSC and even us the theatre goer, but the rhyming couplets and adaptation thereof are a triumph. Worth a look, especially if you are a fan of pretty chanel-strewn sets and fit gingers.
Saturday, 2 January 2010
Amanda Knox
Hardly breaking news, but I have been, as usual, gripped by this agatha christie-esque murder. As an afficionado of gristle and gore (Killing Mum and Dad, anyone?)*, this murder has all the key components: a beautiful would-be killer (see Basic Instinct), an Italian lover (erm, can't remember any horror films with an Italian stallion but sure there are hundreds), the token ethnic minorities to pad out the story (Rudy Guede and Patrick Diya Lumumba) and an innocent student (kercher)
The media of course blew it up, seeming to swing surprisingly in favour of the black bar-owner's innocence. Of course there was no evidence to convict him or even bring them to trial, but obviously the word of a white girl was enough to arrest. Also, the lure of a 'sex game gone wrong' headline proved to difficult to resist, and despite Knox's parents' belief in her getting off, going so far as to buy her a ticket back home, it seems as though the sentence was given and Knox's head placed on the axe before the jury was out.
As hard as I have tried to come to some sort of decision, to take one side in friends' numerous arguments, I find it impossible to form a bias. This, however, has not proved so hard for a lot of the public and media. For a catholic Italy, Amanda's promiscuity seems to have ran her own death knoll.
* on a side note, my mum came in last night, innocently asked what I was watching and then made an incredibly distasteful joke about me 'not getting any ideas'. brrr, thanks mum.
The media of course blew it up, seeming to swing surprisingly in favour of the black bar-owner's innocence. Of course there was no evidence to convict him or even bring them to trial, but obviously the word of a white girl was enough to arrest. Also, the lure of a 'sex game gone wrong' headline proved to difficult to resist, and despite Knox's parents' belief in her getting off, going so far as to buy her a ticket back home, it seems as though the sentence was given and Knox's head placed on the axe before the jury was out.
As hard as I have tried to come to some sort of decision, to take one side in friends' numerous arguments, I find it impossible to form a bias. This, however, has not proved so hard for a lot of the public and media. For a catholic Italy, Amanda's promiscuity seems to have ran her own death knoll.
* on a side note, my mum came in last night, innocently asked what I was watching and then made an incredibly distasteful joke about me 'not getting any ideas'. brrr, thanks mum.
Thursday, 24 December 2009
Basic Instinct
Information
1992
Sharon Stone(Catherine Trammell). Michael Douglas (detective Nick Curran). Dir. Paul Verhoeven.
Notable quotes: 'her magna cum laude pussy just about gone done-a fried your brain'
Wednesday, 23 December 2009
Cabin Fever
Now, apart from this term being a film about a group of people stuck in a wintery cabin and struck with a flesh-eating virus*, I really had no idea what it meant.
After consulting Wikipedia (so naturally the following knowledge is perfectly true), I found that it is an idiomatic term first used in 1918 to describe 'a claustrophobic reaction that takes place when a person or group is isolated and/or shut in, in a small space, with nothing to do, for an extended period'
Following the snowfall that came on my 21st birthday (december 17th), I had, somewhat optimistically, foreseen frolicking walks with leaping dogs (our dog has been dead for over 2 years), snowball fights, sledging, warm fires and a rosy glow from being outdoors all day. However, the extended period of time with my immediate family has made me long for lanes that have been gritted, or a house not in the middle of nowhere.
Everyone has retreated into different rooms by way of coping - I am now in the attic, feverishly typing and trying to ignore my mum's constant commentary of 'well, now at least you can get some work done.' such is my stubborness that I am now going to spend the rest of this afternoon slumming around, resplendent in my unproductivity. Wishing everyone a pleasant few wintery weeks - hide the axe in case it all gets a bit too The Shining
x
*side note: I love how, ridiculously, Eli Roth was inspired to write this after he got a skin infection on holiday. Because, obviously, that's identical to your screenplay, and not at all lame. also, I could rant about the horrible exploitation-fests that are Hostel I and II, but maybe will save that for another post.
After consulting Wikipedia (so naturally the following knowledge is perfectly true), I found that it is an idiomatic term first used in 1918 to describe 'a claustrophobic reaction that takes place when a person or group is isolated and/or shut in, in a small space, with nothing to do, for an extended period'
Following the snowfall that came on my 21st birthday (december 17th), I had, somewhat optimistically, foreseen frolicking walks with leaping dogs (our dog has been dead for over 2 years), snowball fights, sledging, warm fires and a rosy glow from being outdoors all day. However, the extended period of time with my immediate family has made me long for lanes that have been gritted, or a house not in the middle of nowhere.
Everyone has retreated into different rooms by way of coping - I am now in the attic, feverishly typing and trying to ignore my mum's constant commentary of 'well, now at least you can get some work done.' such is my stubborness that I am now going to spend the rest of this afternoon slumming around, resplendent in my unproductivity. Wishing everyone a pleasant few wintery weeks - hide the axe in case it all gets a bit too The Shining
x
*side note: I love how, ridiculously, Eli Roth was inspired to write this after he got a skin infection on holiday. Because, obviously, that's identical to your screenplay, and not at all lame. also, I could rant about the horrible exploitation-fests that are Hostel I and II, but maybe will save that for another post.
Sunday, 20 December 2009
The Murphy
Obviously I realize that this will be covered in practically every gossip blog out there. However, I can't help but feel shocked at the actress Brittany Murphy's death at age 32 from (to quote justjared.buzznet.com) 'a cardiac arrest'. Apparently her mother found her unconscious in the shower, and she was taken to Cedars-Sinai Medical centre in Los Angeles but could not be revived.
For starters, I'm sure she earned her place in every teenage girl's heart with her lovable persona, created in large part from her character in 'Clueless', and further cemented by roles in light rom-coms such as 'Just Married.' She was the doe-eyed ditz that we identified with as the klutzy 'Tai', who tried to break out of her typecasting by her roles in Sin City and 8 Mile. It's interesting that, though Perez Hilton loves to chart in minutiae the lives of screw-ups such as Lindsay Lohan and Courtney Love, he left Murphy, for the most part, alone.
her husband, Simon Monjak seemed an atypical choice for Murphy; overweight and with a shady past, accused of conning women out of money. Hardly the perfect choice for a Hollywood screen star. TMZ is now reporting that he does not want an autopsy performed, an action that, for a woman accused of a drugs overdose, seems suspicious at the very least.
Perhaps Murphy's perceived naivete was really a truism, leading her down an unfortunate road with the wrong man. Perhaps she was in trouble from the very beginning, and managed to stop gossip blogs such as Hiltons' publicizing this by not giving them any evidence. Whatever the case, the death of a young woman is tragic and must be respcted whatever the circumstances; a nuance that TMZ et al. will surely not grasp in these upcoming days.
For starters, I'm sure she earned her place in every teenage girl's heart with her lovable persona, created in large part from her character in 'Clueless', and further cemented by roles in light rom-coms such as 'Just Married.' She was the doe-eyed ditz that we identified with as the klutzy 'Tai', who tried to break out of her typecasting by her roles in Sin City and 8 Mile. It's interesting that, though Perez Hilton loves to chart in minutiae the lives of screw-ups such as Lindsay Lohan and Courtney Love, he left Murphy, for the most part, alone.
her husband, Simon Monjak seemed an atypical choice for Murphy; overweight and with a shady past, accused of conning women out of money. Hardly the perfect choice for a Hollywood screen star. TMZ is now reporting that he does not want an autopsy performed, an action that, for a woman accused of a drugs overdose, seems suspicious at the very least.
Perhaps Murphy's perceived naivete was really a truism, leading her down an unfortunate road with the wrong man. Perhaps she was in trouble from the very beginning, and managed to stop gossip blogs such as Hiltons' publicizing this by not giving them any evidence. Whatever the case, the death of a young woman is tragic and must be respcted whatever the circumstances; a nuance that TMZ et al. will surely not grasp in these upcoming days.
Tuesday, 24 November 2009
Here comes the Anna
sigh.
As per usual, I have been back at university for nearly two months now, and any physical delights are being reduced to a bare minimum (apart from sex, of course) Riding and working outdoors in the steady drizzle has become but a fleeting memory, something to mull pathetically over while I am chained to my desk in the library.
I have become like Inga in 'Greenvoe', reducing myself to an intellengtsian, romanticized view of the outdoors, and probably pissing off the rain-soaked factory workers that I run by in doing so. My new favourite activity is to look out of the window, and as as soon as it starts to rain, I start to run. Through puddles and peaty paths, feeling the water come through my trainers as they make a pleasing 'slap' on the ground, feeling the rain soaking through my thin t-shirt and making me into a prime contender for a wet-tshirt contest (though I doubt other contenders would be wearing sports bras underneath)
I feel like Sillitoe's runner as he tears off the bark from a tree and devours it - at one with the elements, all-consuming, devouring mother nature. Pretentious as that may be (actually, pretentious as that is, it's the closest thing I can get to my work down South, mucking out stall after stall, and watching the steam rise from the manure in my wheelbarrow.
As per usual, I have been back at university for nearly two months now, and any physical delights are being reduced to a bare minimum (apart from sex, of course) Riding and working outdoors in the steady drizzle has become but a fleeting memory, something to mull pathetically over while I am chained to my desk in the library.
I have become like Inga in 'Greenvoe', reducing myself to an intellengtsian, romanticized view of the outdoors, and probably pissing off the rain-soaked factory workers that I run by in doing so. My new favourite activity is to look out of the window, and as as soon as it starts to rain, I start to run. Through puddles and peaty paths, feeling the water come through my trainers as they make a pleasing 'slap' on the ground, feeling the rain soaking through my thin t-shirt and making me into a prime contender for a wet-tshirt contest (though I doubt other contenders would be wearing sports bras underneath)
I feel like Sillitoe's runner as he tears off the bark from a tree and devours it - at one with the elements, all-consuming, devouring mother nature. Pretentious as that may be (actually, pretentious as that is, it's the closest thing I can get to my work down South, mucking out stall after stall, and watching the steam rise from the manure in my wheelbarrow.
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