Fencing Idea

My two favorite sports in the Olympics that just finished were fencing and archery. I fence and have for several years. What I know about archery I learned from Errol Flynn’s “Robin Hood:” I’ve never pulled a bow in my life. These Olympics were by far the best in memory simply because of the diversity of sports available to watch. It was also interesting to learn that watching the events as they were streamed was much more immediate and compelling than the occasional truncated and theatrically commentated versions that showed up on one of the television stations later.

The simple reason was that the streamed versions usually had less comment provided by more focused and knowledgeable commentators. I found the streamed events more dramatic, more involving and they made me want to watch more.

The disparity in coverage set me to wondering what would make fencing more interesting to a general audience, a topic of obvious interest to the sport’s national and international governing bodies, the USFA and the FIE. Here’s a thought. Perhaps fencing needs some events liberated from the conventional strip. Modern sport fencing evolved from dueling. But swords were used in many other contexts and situations. Epee is the most obvious candidate for such an extension because it isn’t encumbered with the complexity of right of way.

Still, developing such a sport , whatever it would be, would be far from trivial. Nevertheless, it’s worth some formal experimentation. And it will need a fanatical champion whatever it is. But, there’s precedent: consider the relatively new diversity of biking and skiing events.

1895

When I was in graduate school I developed a method for solving particularly difficult mathematical problems of the kind that sometimes took days. The strategy was to keep the problem “lightly” in mind all the time. By lightly I mean, focusing continually on the problem and the pertinent details and related deductions while avoiding obsessing about any particular strategy for solving it. The longer I’d go, the more difficult it would become to preserve the state of willed obsession and yet the solution would finally come, often emerging spontaneously, proving that sometimes the deepest reasoning the mind does is subconscious.

January felt like that. I’ve been thinking about how to restructure my fencing training and competition in order to become a better fencer. As part of another project I’ve been reading some archaeological research, in particular Stein et al’s “Revisiting Downtown Chaco” and George Pepper’s 1905 paper “Ceremonial Objects and Ornaments from Pueblo Bonito.” As an adolescent I imagined that science and knowledge developed linearly. Later, I learned that even in something as rigorous as mathematics, the development of knowledge is much more like the development of a theme in musical composition. Important knowledge is reasoned, or discovered, then lost and rediscovered sometimes simultaneously. In the light of Lekson’s revolutionary history of the ancient southwest it might be a good time to review Pepper’s work chronicling the finds of the Hyde/Putnam excavations. If Lynn were reading this over my shoulder she’d no doubt bring up “The Glass Bead Game,” and rightly, too.

In January I also had a bout with the flu as has she. The flu sucks. In “Seven Pillars of Wisdom,” T.E. Lawrence describes how he developed his famous strategy for the Arab insurgency while suffering a severe illness. Unfortunately, I have to report that my own recent illness led to no such astonishing insights, at least that I’d recognize as such.

There was a compensation, however. We’ve just seen the BBC production “Sherlock Series 2,” the second installment of the modern day re-imagining of Sherlock Holmes by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. The first series of three feature length films was a perfect delight. And yet, the second series surpasses it. It was by far the best drama I’ve seen in the last year and notably puts to shame every American film we’ve seen since “Michael Clayton.” They are literate, witty and filled with original dramatic riffs built from modern technological culture.

They are also allusive. Dr. Watson’s blog happens to latch at 1895, which was also was the original Holmes’ annus mirabulis, the year of some of his greatest mysteries. I’m inclined to think that 2011, was Moffat and Gatiss’s 1895.

Christopher Hitchens (1949-2011)

So Christopher Hitchens is gone. He died in harness having just published feisty rebuttal to Nietzche aphorism that whatever doesn’t kill me makes me stronger. Like a lot of people, I often found I disagreed with him, particularly during the early years of the Bush administration. But I consistently admired his will to reason and particularly the way in which he bravely followed the consequences of his reasoning. He was a journalist with a philosopher’s aspiration to truth and honesty which is rare these days, even among philosophers.
Vanity Fair and the Guardian each have a fine memoriam and Vanity Fair has a nice collection of his rejoinders on video.

The Tolkien Mystery

I’ve been a mostly consistent reader of the New Yorker for more than forty years, since I discovered it, very improbably, in an elementary school library. I’ve read the magazine during the long sunset of William Shawn’s editorship, through Gotlieb’s, through Tina Brown’s revolution and have been delighted by David Remnick’s elevation of the magazine even as he’s broadened it to have a strong web presence and character. I’ve grown particularly fond of several of the staff such as Steve Coll, George Packer and Adam Gopnik. Gopnik’s recent personal essay, in particular, relating his experience as an art historian learning to draw was both delightful and revelatory as only the best personal essays can be. Somewhat to my surprise, I find myself reading the magazine cover to cover most weeks.

All of which is pertinent because I found Gopnik’s most recent article “The Dragon’s Egg” about fantasy literature so deeply disappointing and provocative at the same time. The subtitle of the article is “High Fantasy for Young Adults,” which gives a lot away. It was as if I’d stepped back in time to the 1970’s when there existed, more or less, a coherent literary establishment which pronounced judgment on fantasy as not serious and suitable only for young adults. Gopnik’s more than reductive set of examples includes Paolini, Tolkien, Stephanie Meyer with nods to Terry Brooks J. K. Rowling and T. H. White. Gopnik admit’s to a sneaking admiration for the intensity of emotion of Meyer’s characters but at best damns the rather curious collection of authors with faint praise while making time to suggest that for the most part fantasy fiction has the same plot that Tolkien revived from the Nibelungenlied.

I don’t read that much fantasy but even in my limited experience that criticism rings particularly hollow and ironic especially when George R. R. Martin’s highly sexed and discordant series has entered popular cultural via a very successful HBO mini-series.

I wouldn’t take time to comment except that Gopnik’s piece is provocative in an entirely different way. Midway through he attempts to identify what makes Tolkien’s fiction compelling. He writes,

"This is surely the most significant of the elements that Tolkien brought to fantasy. It’s true that his fantasies are uniquely “thought through”: every creature has its own origin story, script, or grammar; nothing is gratuitous. But even more compelling was his arranged marriage between the Elder Edda and “The Wind in the Willows”—big Icelandic romance and small-scale, cozy English children’s book. The story told by “The Lord of the Rings” is essentially what would happen if Mole and Ratty got drafted into the Nibelungenlied."

Now this is interesting. But it’s just a start, and the same start others have made, in trying to understand what makes Tolkien's fiction important, compelling and lasting. I recall a rather dismissive article the late John Gardner wrote in which he described rereading Tolkien and found so many reasons to dismiss it even as he himself was attempting to legitimize fantasy with his dark fictions such as Grendel. The truth is I’ve never read any criticism that provides anything like a comprehensive exegesis of the strength of Tolkien’s work. My sense is that that is still a mystery hidden in the plain sight of popular culture.

Dracula!

What of all things should remind me of East Coker, the second of T. S. Eliot’s Four Quartets on a Friday afternoon in October?

On a summer midnight, you can hear the music
Of the weak pipe and the little drum
And see them dancing around the bonfire
…
Mirth of those long since under earth
Nourishing the corn. Keeping time,
Keeping the rhythm in their dancing
As in their living in the living seasons
The time of the seasons and the constellations

Ballet West invited Lynn and I to watch a rehearsal this afternoon of their production of “Dracula” which opens on the 21st. Even though Lynn is recovering from a broken leg and complications we decided to go for many reasons, but primarily because we both are keenly interested in seeing sub-cultures, artistic, academic, ethnic up close. Also, although I’ve had a passing acquaintance with ballet since I was four when my grandmother first took me to the Nutcracker, (or as I prefer to think of it “The Lamentable Tragedy of the Mouse King” but that’s another story), it was only after I began fencing that I developed something like an appreciation for the particular athleticism and physical precision the pursuit requires. For me, that level, coupled with the artistic expression is what makes it interesting. It’s the bass clef to the to the treble clef of the dance itself. Both together are what give it depth, irony, beauty.

As for this imagining of Dracula, I had the sense that Ballet West has a hit on their hands. It’s melodramatic, structurally surprising, even to someone like me who knows so little about the art, witty and most importantly, deeply spooky at moments. The rehearsal was so strong and engaging it’s hard to imagine the formal performance itself could be more affecting. And it’s set to some of my favorite Liszt: Totentanz, the Faust Symphony and the Hungarian Rhapsodies. Wicked cool.

The surprising insight for me today, and the reason I was reminded of Eliot, was something that became apparent as I watched. I never knew how much a ballet company was a company, how they support and motivate each other. But it was apparent in the body language, the attentiveness of the dancers, their focus on their colleagues. Even though, it’s obviously very hard, delicate work, they all greatly enjoy it which is also wicked cool. In spite of the discipline, the sacrifice, the work, the art, they remained a group of people dancing together on a Friday afternoon.

Theatrical Competition

Last night Robert, Lynn and I reprised our viewing of the Globe’s production of Henry IV Part 2. We first saw both parts live last year and I wrote about it then, (Witches, Saag Gosht, Hal and Falstaff, Air Fencing, Castles, Cliff Walks). This time we saw the HD broadcast performance of the same production in a movie theater. Two weeks ago we saw the broadcast of part 1.

What an extraordinary and amazing thing the Globe has done. Of course, something like it has been done before. For example, the Burton/Gielgud Hamlet was broadcast back in the early nineteen sixties (in black and white at much lower quality and resolution of course) and earlier this year, the Royal National broadcast their award winning production of Frankenstein. But I’ve never seen anything to equal what the Globe has achieved. Their cinematographic direction captures a level of experience not possible in any other way. In particular, for all the apparent visual tradition and conservatism of the productions, they are in fact a very edgy company. A perfect example is Hal’s meeting with his brothers after his father’s death. Usually, Hal is quite naturally somber and abashed. In contrast, Jamie Parker’s Hal is almost manically cheerful, conveying a realistic response to grief that could be easily misunderstood. The cinematography, in particular, the adroit use of close-ups captures the complexity of his performance, something it’s difficult to appreciate even if you’re sitting in the ground level galleries as we were last year.

I hope and expect the productions will find their way to DVD later this year and of course we will want them in our library. They are among the great productions of what now, justifiably, are being called England’s national epic. I feel honored and incredibly lucky to have seen them.

In contrast, there’s the lavish production of five of Shakespeare’s plays that the RSC has brought to New York. Two are reviewed in this week’s New Yorker by Hilton Als who calls them “dated and musty.” There was a time when I would have taken issue with such a scathing dismissal but unfortunately it’s consistent with my experience of the RSC productions I’ve seen while Michael Boyd has been director. I felt much the same way about their production of Hamlet with Toby Stephens and the Romeo and Juliet performed in the same season. It’s particularly sad for me, as more than a few years ago, they mounted a production of Henry V with Alan Howard, a play I wasn’t greatly fond of at time, which was life changing.

The two companies are competitors, of course, though I’ve never seen any statement from either company acknowledging that obvious fact. For decades the RSC had no competition and now that they do they’ve yet to figure out how to respond gracefully and successfully. Worse, they are uniquely disadvantaged: though they enjoy exceptional public support, their home is in Stratford whereas the Globe is in London which is much more accessible to a broader audience. Further, there is the immense advantage of the recreated Glove theatre, an experience in itself.
So what can the RSC do? Do what hi-tech companies do: steal their competitors good ideas, elaborate them, and innovate themselves, dramatically. It’s what Apple did and does.

Formal fencing begins for us next week in earnest. Once more unto the breach, dear friends.

Irrelevant Details

A couple of nights ago, Lynn and I watched “Marathon Man,” which neither of us had seen for years. Of course, I remembered and expected to enjoy all the classic set pieces, Olivier’s Nazi war criminal as dentist, the wonderfully horrific attack on Dustin Hoffman’s character , Babe, while he’s soaking in the tub. The film is a classic demonstration of the power of the horror that can be derived from everyday experience, particularly everyday pain, everyday vulnerability.

But something else stood out for me this time: the tone and brilliance of the direction and cinematography. John Schlesinger, the director, and Conrad L. Hall, the cinematographer, had the wit to find the surprising, sometimes even obtuse detail or point of view and used them to impart suspense, or heightened reality, sometimes as a result of finding a gritty note of absurdity that is always present in daily life. For example, the plot is set off by an automotive battle between an aged death camp survivor and an old Nazi on the streets of New York. The concept is almost farcical, and there are moments that are played for simple black humor. But often, the camera chooses to find and dwell on the faces of the onlookers, real New Yorkers of various ages who look on the developing incident as it hurtles by them, with amazement, and even horror as the incident moves to its inevitable, catastrophic conclusion.

These days, the final explosion as the two cars collide with a fuel oil truck would be filmed with much more attention to detail and much greater expense, all for a very slight return on investment. But it’s everything that comes before, such as the startled look from an old woman in a faded floral dress as she stares at them from a tenement window, that really counts, that makes the drama compelling.

In part, it was a 1970’s thing. In many current films, the creation of suspense, which sometimes requires giving attention to an apparently irrelevant detail, is often neglected or managed in a very ham-fisted way. Sometimes that lack of apparent subtlety is rationalized as necessary as we now all live in a social networking age of necessarily immediate gratification. We just don’t have time for the clever or the subtle. I don’t believe it, of course, and I think the movie industry’s declining revenues, properly understood and analyzed, support that. The success of the Swedish version of “The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo,” which is molded from the clay of modern methods of communication, succeeded in part because of its ability to create suspense, often in very old-fashioned ways.

That use of the subtle detail, and teaching an audience to look for it, is socially healthy. Perspicacity and skepticism were never so useful as they are in a world as hyper-connected as ours is. As I’m writing this, the US House of Representatives and the US Senate are attempting to find a last minute compromise to raise the debt ceiling and avoid possibly catastrophic consequences in the global financial markets. I wonder what are the telling, possibly small, or apparently disconnected details that have brought our government to this pass. One might be that the Bush era tax cuts will expire at the end of the year unless the congress takes action and the Republicans lack the legislative strength to pass such legistlation. Are they not using perfunctory but critical legislation to blackmail the country into passing such ill advised legislation?