In Which We Pick Up Where Everything Else Left Off

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The Most Boring Cultural Relativism

by ETHAN PETERSON

Star Trek Discovery
creators Bryan Fuller & Alex Kurtzman
CBS

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“My people were hunted, farmed,” explains a science officer of the Federation somewhere in the painful two hour premiere of Star Trek Discovery. His face looks like a waffle. Everyone looks on sympathetically.

The plan for this resurrection of the Star Trek franchise was as follows. Here is what people enjoy about this moribund intellectual property: Klingons and Vulcans! Nevermind that we spent the last thirty years minimizing them and expanding the diegesis of Star Trek to include you know, actual other races and peoples. There are really only three, and who cares if they are boring and simplistic exaggerations of a peaceful and war-making race? It is going to be like Star Trek meets Orange is the New Black. We’ll get Bryan Fuller to come up with story ideas — who else but the man who made cannibalism unexciting?

While Star Trek: The Next Generation was great until Brannon Braga took over, the original Star Trek series was utterly miserable to watch at the time. It only succeeded because the other only thing on television was Walter Cronkite suffering through his monthly period. A return to that era is equally distressing, a problem Bryan Fuller solves in Star Trek Discovery by showing us ten minute long scenes of the Klingons communicating with each other in subtitles about how afraid they are of the men who come in peace.

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Who can save this utter trainwreck of a television production? How about the soft, loving relationship of first officer Michael Burnham (Sonequa Martin-Green) and captain Philippa Georgiou (Michelle Yeoh)? Well, no, since Star Trek Discovery is one of those shows that pretends to be risky with its casting but then delivers on the most conventional set of characters imaginable.

That’s why making this a prequel is so fucking dumb — you are married to this weird 1960s version of reality, and by 1960s I don’t mean free love, I mean the people who were sick of reading about free love and seeing it on television, so they changed the channel.

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Martin-Green’s stupendous acting is the only thing that makes Star Trek Discovery even halfway palatable. She never mugs for the camera or any other dumb shit like that. She could easily fall into such bad habits, because god knows everyone else on this scattershot cast makes faces whenever they can. Bryan Fuller cast Jason Isaacs as the white captain who has faith in the woman who started the Klingon-Federation War, and the two of them are so subdued throughout Star Trek Discovery that I began to slip into a deep sleep.

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I guess they couldn’t get Michelle Yeoh for the full series, since they kill her off rather quickly. It’s a shame since the relationship she has with Martin-Green’s first officer is the only interesting narrative aspect of the show’s pilot.

There are other positive aspects to Star Trek Discovery. The show’s budget does not appear to be catastrophic, but they put it into the right touches. Fuller is a genius of set design and aesthetics, if not actual storytelling, and boy is this the genre for his skills in the field. This is by far the best Star Trek has ever looked, and that includes the J.J. Abrams version, which wasn’t half-bad visually and had the advantage of spending a substantially larger sum of money.

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The show’s mix of sleek retro design and excitement over the standard technology makes Star Trek Discovery a joy to watch on mute. For some reason, screenwriter Akiva Goldsman was brought onto this project to contribute the most wooden dialogue imaginable. Star Trek Discovery is such a chore to listen to. You almost can’t reconcile both of your senses watching it: it looks so good and sounds so completely bad.

For all the show’s diversity in its cast (and it really is not actually much outside of the choice of an African-American lead), the commentary on contemporary race relations has all the nuance you would expect from the white men writing the show. Putting Martin-Green’s character in jail was a good idea, but the show never actually does much with that, and since you know she will not be there for long, you don’t feel for her.

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Bringing an actual long-term plot and characterization to the Star Trek universe was long overdue, but outside of an exciting makeover for the Klingons costume-wise, all the mystery has long been sapped out of these concepts. We know, for example, that peace between the Klingons and the Federation will eventually last for centuries, and that the Klingons are not really much of an enemy.

I recently rewatched an episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation where Commander Riker was doing a semester abroad on a Klingon ship. He ate their food, which seemed vaguely Ukrainian. They seemed like a sincere, hearty people. “This isn’t about race,” Martin-Green says at one point. “It’s about culture.” Then it’s good you can choose your culture, since I never want to be a part of this one again.

Ethan Peterson is the reviews editor of This Recording.

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In Which We Lie Down Next To Those We Love

Leonard Cohen In India

by DAMIAN WEBER

After leaving Mt. Baldy Zen Center, Leonard Cohen went to Mumbai, India to hear Ramesh Balsekar talk.

Ramesh was a teacher of Advaita Vedanta Hinduism, who held a daily satsang at his apartment, answering questions. These sessions weren’t meant to convert and sometimes he would chide someone if they came too often. One of his main teachings was to get on with your life, to not be obsessive. “Don’t you have anything better to do? My main message to you is that God is everywhere, so you can’t just focus on religion, you don’t keep meditating your way to God.”

Ramesh was a general manager at the Bank of India until he was 60. After retiring he followed the sage, Sri Nisargadatta Maharaj, translating his works. Before Maharaj died, he instructed Ramesh to start giving his own talks. Ramesh’s talks were transcribed into books and one of those books, Consciousness Speaks: Conversations with Ramesh S. Balsekar, was given to Leonard when he was living on Mt. Baldy. It caused him (called him) to leave his best friend and love of his life, Roshi.

This branch of Hinduism taught a type of mysticism (please forgive me if I misunderstand) where we don’t seek to join with God because we are already joined with everything. In Consciousness Speaks, Ramesh said, “Before the final understanding arises, all sorts of concepts come into play. It is assumed that it is up to the individual to make efforts to join himself with God. At that level of subject and object, nirvana and samsara are treated as two. Therefore, they speak in terms of the sea of samsara, misery, which has to be crossed. The jiva has to cross it and it can do so only by doing sadhana of one kind or another. So the seeker goes through sadhana, the whole series. For years he practices. For years he watches what is happening, and finds himself in a state of pride and self-conceit. Ultimately, when he settles down in contemplation, he throws aside everything. As the Sufis say, there is a sort of ceremony, a burning of all that he has learned and all that he thinks he has achieved. So, in the third stage, it is realized that the world is both real and unreal. When that understanding arises, the knowledge settles down and in that organism where enlightenment has taken place there is no longer any active desire to tell the world about it, to change the world.”

Sounds like Roshi’s Buddhism.

Leonard wrote a note to Roshi that read, “Dear Roshi, I’m sorry that I cannot help you now, because I met this woman. Please forgive my selfishness. I send you birthday greetings, deep affection and respect. Jikan, the useless monk, bows his head.” Leonard made a drawing on the note of the Hindu temple dancer—a woman. But Leonard didn’t slip out with only a note—no he told him months in advance. And Roshi wasn’t the type to be heartbroken—he was Buddhist. (That note is in his book of poems, Book of Longing, which was written on Mt. Baldy by a Buddhist monk still getting beat by delicious desire.)

Leonard Cohen said of leaving Roshi, “We are very close friends, Roshi and I. We were the two oldest guys up there, even though there were many years separating us. I had been cooking for him and looking after him for some time. So when I asked his permission to leave … disappointment is not the right word. He was sad—just like you would be if a close friend went away. He asked me why I wanted to leave. I said, ‘I don’t know why.’ He said, ‘How long?’ I said, ‘I don’t know, Roshi.’ He said, ‘Don’t know. OK.’”

Roshi taught at Mt. Baldy Zen Center, 50 miles outside LA, a form of Japanese Buddhism called Rinzai. Leonard lived on Mt. Baldy for six years, acting as a cook for Roshi, a secretary, and travelling companion. Leonard thought the time was right because Roshi was almost 90 years-old—might be his last chance. Roshi lived to be 107.

“I went up to the monastery in 1993, after my last tour, with the feeling of, ‘If this works, I’ll stay.’ I didn’t put a limit on it, but I knew I was going to be there for a while. Also, I was there because I had the good fortune to study with Roshi. He’s the real thing, man. He is a hell-raiser—there’s not an ounce of piety about him. This guy is smart enough to be rich, and yet he lives in a little shack up there in the snow. He’s a very exalted figure.”

Also, the time was right because Leonard was reeling from the break up with actress Rebecca De Mornay—they were engaged to be married. But he would never have said that was the reason he was depressed.

“The truth is I went up there to address the relentless depression that I’d had all my life. I’d say that everything I’ve done—wine, women, song, religion, meditation—was involved in a struggle to somehow penetrate this depression, which was the background of all my activities. But by imperceptible degrees, something happened at Mount Baldy, and my depression lifted. It hasn’t come back for two and a half years. Roshi said something nice to me one time, he said that the older you get, the lonelier you become, and the deeper the love you need. Which means that this hero that you’re trying to maintain as the central figure in the drama of your life—this hero is not enjoying the life of a hero. You’re exerting a tremendous maintenance to keep this heroic stance available to you, and the hero is suffering defeat after defeat. And they’re not heroic defeats: they’re ignoble defeats. Finally, one day you say, ‘Let him die—I can’t invest any more in this heroic position.’ From there, you just live your life as if it’s real—as if you have to make decisions even though you have absolutely no guarantee of any of the consequences of your decisions.”

“You can read the life you’re living but you cannot change a word.”

Life on Mt. Baldy started early, before sunrise, to meditate and cook and clean and shovel snow. He lived in a little cabin with a bed, a desk, a pile of notebooks, and a keyboard (Technics KN 3000). He said that the monks were a social group, and that Roshi would always have a glass of cognac ready, to be hospitable, that his hospitality was impeccable. “There is no one here who is not, in a certain sense, broken down, who has not found that he doesn’t know how to deal with the things you have to face in ordinary life. So they come here. It’s not at all an isolated situation. In ordinary life down the mountain sometimes you finish your day’s work, you go home, you shut your door, you watch the TV … and you’re really alone. Here you’re never alone. There’s little private space, very little time to yourself. There’s a saying in Zen, like pebbles in a bag, they polish one another. We’re doing that all the time here. So one doesn’t have the sense of isolation here.”

“A monastery, of the kind Roshi runs in any case, it’s more like a hospital. And he’s the doctor. He cures the illusion that you’re sick. And he was successful in my case. He cured the illusion that I needed his teachings.”

But Leonard was still Jewish. “A lot of people who think that I’ve changed my religion look very suspiciously or even scornfully or even express great disappointment that I’ve abandoned my own culture, that I’ve abandoned Judaism. Well, I was never looking for a new religion. I have a very good religion, which is called Judaism. I have no interest in acquiring another religion.”

“My father and mother, of blessed memory, would have been disturbed by the description of me as a Buddhist. I am a Jew. For some time now I have been intrigued by the indecipherable ramblings of an old Zen monk. Not long ago he said to me, “Cohen, I have known you for 23 years and I never tried to give you my religion. I just poured you sake.” Saying that, he filled my cup with sake. I bowed my head and raised my cup to him crying out, ‘Rabbi, you are surely the light of the generation.”

He would read Jewish scriptures and light candles for Sabbath every Friday evening. “I was never interested in Buddhism. I had a perfectly good religion but I was interested in Roshi’s remarkable and unusual interest in other people because I didn’t feel I was at home anywhere. So I wanted to avail myself of that hospitality. If he’d been a professor of physics at Heidelberg, I would have learned German and studied in Heidelberg but he happened to be a Zen master so I put on the robes and I entered the monastery and I did what was necessary and appropriate to be able to enjoy his company.”

When Leonard was ordained, Roshi gave him the monk name of Jikan, which is Japanese for “silent one.” Leonard said, “Since his English is very poor, I never really found out what that means. It’s got something to do with silence, but normal silence, not special, holy, righteous, renunciated silence. Just ordinary silence. Or the silence out of which everything evolves, the silence at the center of things.”

“Since Roshi doesn’t speak English, it’s almost impossible to discern what he means.” Roshi spoke in a stilted English like a verbless koan. “As he said to me in one of our first personal encounters, ‘I not Japanese, you not Jewish.” So, Roshi not Zen master, and Leonard not Zen student.”

“If you have an appetite for that kind of simplification in your life, to hang out with a guy who doesn’t really speak good English, whom you like very much, is a good way to discipline your speech or writing. You’ve got to get very, very clear if you hang out and drink with somebody who doesn’t really speak English. So the conversation gets very intuitive and very clear. And to be able to write that way is a great goal.”

Roshi’s teisho were similar to Ramesh’s satsang, not only in style, but in content also. Leonard said, “Roshi doesn’t discuss. He’s not interested in perspective or talking. You either get it or you don’t. He doesn’t give you any astounding truths that we come to expect from spiritual teachers, because he’s a mechanic—he’s not talking about the philosophy of locomotion, he’s talking about repairing the motor. He’s mostly talking to a broken motor. Roshi is direct transmission.”

Ramesh too. Sylvie Simmons wrote in I’m Your Man: The Life of Leonard Cohen, “Ramesh was a straight-talker. He dealt with his satsang audience much as you might imagine he would his employees at the bank, imparting information and instructions in a direct, no-nonsense manner.”

In Ramesh’s Consciousness Speaks, he said, “Silence is what I needed with Maharaj. If I were alone with him, that’s what he would give me. Silence is the most powerful medium for transmission of this knowledge, for this knowledge to arrive intuitively. Silence is the most potent medium, but in many cases it is not enough. In the spiritual evolution a certain amount of guidance is necessary, and for those who needed this guidance Maharaj would use various concepts. Incidentally, silence doesn’t mean not talking. Silence is silence of the mind. Silence is absence of questions, absence of thinking, true meditation. That is the most potent medium for this understanding to take place. When the inquiring mind, intellectually creating problems, gradually comes to the understanding that the more problems it creates the more veils it creates between the Self and the understanding, then there is silence.”

Jikan, the silent one, stayed at a two-star hotel called Kemps Corner, in south Mumbai, with a bed, a chair, a desk, and a TV. He left in the morning to go to the satsang, which lasted two hours, and the rest of the day was his. He usually went swimming and then back to his room to read, meditate, and write. Usually books either written by Ramesh or recommended by him. He ate vegetarian. He visited the Keneseth Eliyahoo Synagogue. He didn’t sightsee.

The satsang were held at Ramesh’s apartment, where less than 40 people could fit. The question and answer session was in English and would begin with Ramesh asking a newcomer why they had come. Leonard spoke up the first few times but remained silent after. The sessions would end in song, followed by tea.

Leonard won’t say that it was India, or Hinduism, or Ramesh Balsekar that cured his depression. But he said, “by imperceptible degrees this background of anguish that had been with me my whole life began to dissolve. I said to myself, ‘This must be what it’s like to be relatively sane.’ You get up in the morning and it’s not like: Oh God, another day. How am I going to get through it? What am I going to do? Is there a drug? Is there a woman? Is there a religion? Is there a something to get me out of this? The background now is very peaceful.”

Before he left Mt. Baldy he had a revelation that he didn’t have a spiritual goal, that he was done being a seeker. “I found with a sense of relief that I had no gift for the spiritual life. I didn’t have to seek for anything. And with the search, the anxieties attendant on that search ended. I don’t know if happiness is the word to describe the feeling; maybe applied indifference.”

Leonard stayed in India for five months that first trip. After returning from India, he visited Roshi again, and lived on Mt. Baldy for a time. They drank cognac — Roshi’s hospitality was always impeccable. “When I came back he invited me up to the mountain and we had a formal dinner. All the senior monks were there. And after they left, he said to me, “Jikan, when you left, half of me died.” I just winked at him and he winked at me back. Because these are just words. Nothing really changed between us.”

They did not talk about India or Hinduism, nor did they talk about Zen Buddhism.

“My association with the community, of course, doesn’t end. I see Roshi a lot. In fact, he was down in Los Angeles. He wasn’t feeling well so I made him the chicken soup that he likes.”

Leonard went back to India several times over the next few years, and he visited Roshi also, but more and more he lived in L.A. He recorded a new album. He fell in love with Anjani Thomas. He lost a lot of money and made it back by going on tour. He didn’t even mind touring this time. His friends were amazed how happy, serene, he was. His friend Nancy Bacal said, “he was like a kid when he came back from Baldy—suddenly he could come and go as he pleased, do whatever he wanted. It took him a moment or two to figure that out, but when he did, it was a delight to see him so happy and so joyous. Baldy was wonderful for him. Now it was time to take the next step.”

“It’s lovely to sleep in past three o’clock in the morning. It’s a delicious feeling, although I often get up at three just out of habit. But that kind of discipline I never lacked. I was always disciplined in regard to my work. It was the wider sense of a life and I put on a pretty good show. My cover story was pretty good. It looked like my life was orderly because it revolved around writing and recording. But the interior sense I had was of deep disorder and that’s one of the reasons I went up to Mount Baldy and why for thirty years I would spend a part of each year up there, just to depend on the routine so that I could stop having to improvise. It was the improvisation of the life that finally got me. But we began to work almost immediately after I came down. So the days have been very, very structured.”

Back in L.A, Leonard went to the Jewish synagogue of Rabbi Mordecai Finley, who said that Leonard “grew up in an ambience of deep, serious, Jewish study. He was up-to-date, he knew who the great Jewish thinkers were and understood their arguments. There are obscure parts of Kabbalah that we actually differed on and sometimes we would be talking about one thing and come back to that thing, ‘Here we are again.’ He could be a great teacher of Judaism. If that were his thing, to be a rabbi, he had it in his power to have been one of the greatest of our generation.”

“Modern students of Kabbalah are very interested in Leonard’s work, because they see Leonard as not a professor of Kabbalah, not a theologian, but someone who really understands Kabbalah from within—the best poetry on the Kabbalah they’ve ever read. He gets the inner ethos of brokenness and healing and the tragedy of the human condition, in that we’re not particularly well suited for this life but you still have to find your way through.”

“He’s deeply well-read, very committed to understanding Kabbalah and—in a very similar way that I do—is using the Kabbalah not so much as a theology but as spiritual psychology and a way to mythically represent the Divine. If you understand that human consciousness is basically symbolic, then one has to find some kind of symbol system that most closely articulates one’s understanding of all the levels of reality.”

(Leonard is buried in Montreal at Shaar Hashomayim Cemetery next to his parents.)

Buddhism and Hinduism have many forms, many branches, but Leonard found two teachers who taught him what he needed—to be himself, to not meditate too much, to let go, and to be happy.

“Lighten up — that’s what enlightenment means — that you’ve lightened up.”

Damian Weber is the senior contributor to This Recording. You can find his website here. He last wrote in these pages about Dark Side of the Moon.

 

In Which We Return The Favor Almost Constantly

Hard to Say is This Recording’s weekly advice column. It will appear every Wednesday until the Earth perishes in a fiery blaze, or until North West turns 40. Get no-nonsense answers to all of your most pressing questions by writing to justhardtosay@gmail.com or by dropping us a note at our tumblr.

Hi,

I have never enjoyed performing oral sex due to a bad experience I had with a previous boyfriend.

It seems like a lot of guys expect this and if I’m not into it, they think I’m not into them. It’s just a personal preference, but I can’t seem to find a way to express my revulsion towards the act in a way that makes them feel accepted.

Can you advise?

Harley B.

Harley,

You may want to first consider the fact that people do not usually repeat experiences they do not find pleasurable. It is what entered you into this situation, and it can probably quite easily get you out of it.

Still, for some people even a bad kumquat is delicious, and we can only hope you have not met one of those.

An honest conversation, preferably one where you sob at length, is ideal for defusing this situation. If you need to make vague promises about getting comfortable and revisiting things down in the future, feel free. It sometimes takes people a substantial period of time before they learn to accept the fate life has bestowed upon them.

Hi,

Is there anyway to know if you should give up on an on-again, off-again relationship. It seems like we always find our way back to each other, but at the same time the instability is a bad sign, right?

Teresa P.

Dear Teresa,

No.

Wait, what was the question?

Yes. Instability is a terrible sign.

It’s just when I hear someone explaining away some defect in their relationship with a romantic notion they probably digested from a Jane Austen novel or Friends, I reflexively shout no. It is the same thing I do when someone tells me that they are really excited for Wisdom of the Crowd.

Illustrations by Mia Nguyen. Access This Recording’s mobile site at thisrecording.wordpress.com.


 

In Which We Find Eric Gill Among Some Old Books

The Antidote

by MARK ARTURO

As years go by, Eric Gill becomes more, not less, unsettling.

Fiona McCarthy

Art is not an aesthetic but a rhetorical activity.

– Ananda Coomaraswamy, epigraph to Eric Gill’s essay “Art”

The natural world is God’s present to himself.

Eric Gill, Last Essays

Eric Gill would fuck anything: family members, strangers, a dog. It might seem strange, then, that he wrote essays praising Christianity, specifically Catholicism. I don’t know that he even was admiring Christianity as much as he lived in wonderment at the pleasure of believing in something.

Eric Gill never worked a regular job — he spent most of his time working on sculptures. They became more and more erotic, since he was obsessed with the carnal pleasures of the body. But even so, he had the temerity to write an essay entitled “Work.” (Why is it the people who don’t work always have so much to say about the meaning of it?) He wrote:

We must return again and again to the simple doctrine: physical labour, manual work, is not in itself bad. It is the necessary basis of all human production and, in the most strict sense of the words, physical labour directed to the production of things needed for human life is both honorable and holy. And we must remember that there no exceptions.

What is man? Is he just an animal for whom earthly life is all? Or is he a child of God with eternal life in view?

I honestly don’t know which answer is worse.

Eric Gill kept a vial of poison in his workshop, just in case the mood struck him.

Quite naturally, Eric Gill made the act of creating art into a heavenly task. Perhaps he never imagined it would be democratized to a willing populace.

Eric Gill designed only one home in his long career. It was utterly normal-looking.

Eric Gill’s nudes in particular are disturbing, given the various harms he perpetrated on his daughters. He found no boundaries in life, and since he was good at one thing, he felt it justified his pursuit of many others. You can find a similar quality in public figures. Moreover, they never apologize for their behavior, and take every opportunity to continue doing what they enjoy.

Eric Gill writes, We are ourselves creators. Through us exist things which God Himself could not otherwise have made. Our works are His works, but they are also in a strict sense our own, and if we present them to him, they are our presents to Him and not simply His to Himself. They are free-will offerings.

Do you understand why this is not a good philosophy?

Let me give you an example. I once knew a writer who was completely paranoid others would steal his precious ideas. He had this idea — I can share it with you now, because I think he is a priest or something like it, and gave up writing — about a murder mystery that involved a chase across the Andes. I don’t know why he thought this was such an original concept, although it might have made for a nice story. When I tried to talk to him about it he put his fingers in his ears.

He also loved Eric Gill, and introduced Eric Gill to me. His name was Ben.

In a diary of his trip to Ireland, among other insulting things, Eric Gill writes, At Ballinasloe saw the first people either distinctly Irish or distinctly beautiful — two girls. Otherwise, all the people ugly as in England.

Do you understand why this is not a good philosophy?

The world of men lasted for quite a long time. It was a natural extension of a philosophy that there was a reason why some things were beautiful, and a reason why things were ugly. Because if you think at any length about this, it is more a trick of the mind than an actual perspective on events. Therefore, objectifying women was morally correct for such people, and Eric Gill.

By 1930, Eric Gill began to suffer from intermittent amnesia. Even in this forgetful state, he knew he had done awful things to people he should have cared for, even beyond how much he cared for and loved himself. Life had completely proved his view of things wrong, and the creeping sensation of this infected what remained of his existence, as well as his writing.

He wrote:

I believe in birth control by the man by means of:–

(1) Karetza.

(2) Abstinence from intercourse.

(3) Withdrawal before ejaculation.

(4) French letters.

I don’t think 3 and 4 are good. I don’t think abstinence from orgasm is necessarily a bad thing. It depends on the state of mind and states of mind can be cultivated. (Anyway there’s no point in ejaculating seed into a woman who doesn’t welcome it – they can jolly well go without, if they don’t want our spunk they needn’t have it.) Let us talk about Matriarchy next time.

In 1934, Eric Gill went to Jerusalem for the first time. He saw all the usual tourist sites, with the wonder of a child. He began wearing a long, black robe and a head cloth, in a demented parody of Jesus, a man he admired. He was so happy, and then God bestowed upon Eric Gill a painful toothache. I guess sometimes God gives himself a gift.

Mark Arturo is the senior contributor to This Recording. He is a writer living in Manhattan.

 

In Which We Sincerely Believe We Do Not Belong

Self-Mining

by ELEANOR MORROW

Tin Star
creator Rowand Joffe
Sky

v1.dDsyNjA5NTY7ajsxNzQ2MzsxMjAwOzc3MDsxMTU1.jpgIn Tin Star, Jim Worth (Tim Roth) is a London police officer who relocates to a mining town in British Columbia with his wife Angela (Genevieve O’Reilly), his daughter Anna (Abigail Lawrie) and his son Peter (Rupert Turnbull). At the conclusion of the show’s tumultuous first episode, an assassin approaches the family at a sinister Calgary gas station. He fires a bullet at Jim’s head from a distance of seven feet. Instinctively, Jim ducks, and the shell explodes his five year old son’s head. Fragments of the boy’s skull impact on his mother’s cranium, and she enters in a coma.

Jim is a recovering alcoholic, and it is not one night later that he finds himself in a bar. Tin Star creator Rowand Joffe gives us a hearty close-up of the heavenly whiskey that Sheriff Worth desires more than anything in his turgid little life. Everything in his world is categorically easier to abandon than alcohol – which is not to say he is not going to fail his family. Just that it will be hard.

Jim’s enemies do not really have sufficient reason to want him or his son dead. They are representatives of the oil concern which has infilfrated the town. The idea that oil companies would have to resort to murder to get their way when they can simply purchase everything in sight is somewhat implausible, but who cares? Tin Star is more a pure revenge fantasy, meant to bring Jekyll’s story into a Western forum. It has to be a fantasy – I mean, I can’t rationally believe in a rural Canadian town where everyone in it is a different type of asshole.

Christina Hendricks plays Elizabeth Bradshaw, a representative of that oil company. Hendricks grew up in the Pacific Northwest, although you would not really know it. I think her father was British, which makes sense with her coloring. She looks absolutely tiny in this, having eradicated any of the voluptuousness which might lend a sympathetic tint to this merciless character. She is not so much a villain as an embodiment of a lack of personal morality.

Jim’s daughter Anna is drawn to alcohol, and one of the most affecting scenes in the show’s opening episodes has her chugging down the various components of a motel mini-bar. “I want to be an archaeologist,” she tells her father, and this fortune-telling strikes us as wildly off-base. Jim himself has nothing in the way of hobbies or passions – that was what drinking was for. His job enables him to practice the only skill he has – the distribution of violence, and the proclivity to mete it out for somewhat rational reasons.

He is completely disconnected from modernity. It is what happens to those of us who, as we get older, neglect to manifest a regular discernment of what makes society itself. Such people often change their surroundings, since doing so gives them a reasonable excuse for feeling lost. There is no such get-out-of-jail free card when we are surrounded with those we know, and those who know us. It is better to be in the wilderness, where you can sincerely believe you do not belong. You will be right.

Eleanor Morrow is the senior contributor to This Recording.


 

In Which We Return Almost Completely To Ourselves

Death Became Them

by ETHAN PETERSON

Glitch
creators Louise Fox & Tony Ayres
Netflix

The worst thing I can ever imagine has happened to Australian police officer James Hayes (Patrick Brammell). After his perfect-looking blonde wife Kate (Emma Booth) dies of breast cancer, he remarries shortly thereafter, falling in love with an annoying brunette named Sarah (Emily Barclay). She becomes pregnant with his child, a blessing he could never achieve with his one true love.

What’s so bad about that, you’re saying to yourself as you wait for a burrito bowl to be prepared for you. One woman is great; a second pregnant one is usually better. I mean, there is a lot wrong in this scenario, but the downgrade is not worst part. The worst part is, your wife reemerges from her grave looking better than ever, shocked and appalled that you moved on so fast from the most important relationship of your life.

One of the most important aspects of Glitch is that you don’t have to worry about the central mystery of the show being that everyone is actually dead, since most of the cast is in fact deceased. Dr. McKellar (Genevieve O’Reilly) is a stringy blonde lesbian, also herself deceased, who woke up in a morgue determined to continue her important research in cellular regeneration. Although this is all her fault, she has little in the way of answers for these freshly alive corpses.

Some of the corpses hail from Australia’s stinky, racist path, resulting in lengthy flashbacks where we view the misdeeds of plantation owners and wayward civil servants. Australia is such a usual and unusual country, and although most of Glitch takes place in a small town to which this group of survivors is confined by a strange invisible boundary, we get a full sense of the place as both familiar home and overwhelming outpost on the edge of the wild.

Patrick Brammell is the main peace officer in this town of Yoorana in southeastern Australia. Brammell has the unpleasant job of merely reacting plausibly to everything that is spinning around him. He cannot really admit to anyone what has taken place, and yet he views himself as a paragon of ethics. In most scenes his most central task is to prevent his head from splitting open in frustration. We are constantly waiting for him to snap.

His new wife Sarah is a quivering wet rag. She is one of the most unlikeable people that has ever existed on television. She uses every moment as an excuse to tear apart something in herself in others, and she is completely careless with the things she loves.

The real centerpiece of Glitch is Emma Booth’s character Kate. In the first episodes of the show’s second season, which will be arriving on Netlfix for global audiences this fall, she is finally finding herself as a non-dead person. Part of her would love to leave Yoorana forever, but since she is not able to do that, she has to find escape wherever she can. She is still in love with her husband, but instead of leaving his wife for her, as any sane individual would do, he chooses to stay with his new baby. He and his wife name the beautiful child Nia.

Television concepts like The Returned have brought to life the reverse Time and Again experience, a mirror universe Outlander. But only Glitch has imagined that people from the past might actually bring a new energy to the world of the present, rather than simply feeling completely lost when out of their own time.

Glitch is a fantastic, intense, frequently violent experience. Giving up on the premise, even for a single scene, would dramatically reduce the stakes. A good soap never drops its pretense, even for a moment. Showrunner Tony Ayres (the original Aussie version of The Slap) never lets the tension let up, and Louise Fox’s scripts for this somewhat flimsy concept deftly explore every single aspect of what it means to be alive.

Ethan Peterson is the reviews editor of This Recording.

In Which We Received Something Before The Implosion

Burn Mark

by RENA LATIMER-CROSS

after Fanny Howe

George, a biographer of W.H. Auden, was the first one to introduce me to him. He gave me Ted’s book Climbing the Mythic and after I had finished it, he gave me Ted’s phone number so I could call him and tell him what I thought of it. I had never done anything like that. It was 2003, and I was twenty-two.

Ted answered the phone right away and for the next couple of years I would receive phone calls from him that were understanding and encouraging, if somewhat patriarchal. These phone calls changed the direction of my life.

Ted, who was said to be the originator of the idea that sequential logic was only one of many possible systems of literary thought, was not much of a writer unless you call relentless musings about a sex life that took place entirely in the past, memoir. I call Climbing the Mythic a novel only because I know how much of it was utter bullshit. Then again, the word novel is a term of respect in that context.

Ted left a burn mark on whomever he met; he branded his disciples and partners and then dropped them like his father, who had given him away to nuns until reclaiming him at the age of fifteen. His father informed Ted that they had both improved during their time apart, which Ted knew to be a lie.

He broke off with C.D. Wright over the importance of Marianne Moore, who Ted described as a “the old woman who lived in the shoe.” Moore was perhaps too close an influence.

Ted grew up in western Massachusetts, largely on his own. In order to get an idea of the man you must read lines like these, describing his first orphanage:

A god approaches his subjects with a maudlin gaze, sighing with disappointment like a deer rejected by the hunt. Everyone watches a boy-god until they can no linger see with any other eyes but those they have been given. I yearn to find those little ones.

Ted talked and wrote like this. Unlike C.D. Wright, who he had a crush on for the better part of a decade, Ted identified with the proletarian underground since the early 1990s. After writing Climbing the Mythic, he went into eight years of withdrawal in order to study such texts as he could procure. After he emerged from this dark period, much like his father, he renounced the man he was, along with everyone he knew.

In an e-mail written to me in December, 2006, he wrote,

Now you can’t admire Tolstoy along with Joyce, Jane Austen and Henry James. That’s the usual academic pother of the day. Should you have understood Tolstoy you won’t be able to read the famous rubbish of James, Joyce and Austen. You must learn how to expurge what is foolish, bad garbage; otherwise you’ll never find these values you long for and should possess.

We met at a particular bookstore in Providence where the proprietor, for some reason, let Ted borrow whatever he wanted. Sometimes we met at a restaurant. It was never the same place twice, and he always disliked whatever he ordered. I was proud to be with him, my secret teacher, and only George shared my interest, my desire to please him.

He sent me a list of writers I was instructed to read by July, 2009. This is that list, verbatim:

Osiris by Wallis Budge
Egypt by Maspero
The Book of Job by Morris Jastrow
The Song of Songs
The Gentle Cynic
The Voyage of the Beagle by Darwin
L’Amour by Stendhal
Physiology of Marriage by Balzac
Enquires Into Plants by Theophrastes
The History of Greece
Greek Poets by John Addington Symonss
Lives of the Greek Philosophers by Diogenes Laertius
Last Essays by Eric Gill
Prolegomena to the Study of Greek Religion by Jane Harrison
Amiel’s Journal
The Goncourt Journals
Imaginary Conversations by Landor

And later he handed me a further list:

Burton’s Anatomy of Melancholy
Sir Thomas Browne
Twelve Caesars by Suetonius
Animals and Birds by Buffon
Les Characteres by Lydell
Love of the Nymphs by Porphyry
Gil Blas by Le Sage

At that time Ted had no interest in religious thinking as we might conceive of it today. He was not an atheist whatsoever; he simply put god in the head of the men he most respected. These were scientists and also sociologists, who were to his mind as much inventors and adventurers as any. I managed most of the list, but concealed from him my other readings (Acker, Thalia Field, Cole Swensen, Armantrout, Fanny Howe). He would have been disgusted by my secret books. I loved misogynists. I debated them, even married them, but I never begged or let it go on too long.

My friendship with Ted ended sadly. He hated my then-husband, Rafi, and kicked out the man’s leg. He chased Rafi down the street screaming that he had no idea to what do with something as wonderful as myself. I felt, on one level, flattered. On another, deeply disturbed. My last e-mail from him was a critique of how much he hated Moby Dick and a confession of his true feelings for me. I couldn’t bear to write back.

What I got from Ted before his implosion was the sense of the writer always investigating the parameters of whatever world she had entered. You had to protect yourself from the politics of ideologues, and read what he called “ethical” writing. Ted told me to take a vow of poverty if I was serious about my work. This is his politics, he who is a proud supporter of Bernie Sanders, and to this day I wonder if he is right.

Going back to read Ted’s writing is no longer any fun for me, or anyone. We have surgically repaired everything he did to us. There is no use pretending the pain did not happen, or that the man understood his country or the people in it. It was not the time for Ted, but maybe in some other epoch.

I received an e-mail from George the other day. I was surprised the man even knew how to use a computer. He told me he didn’t get along with Ted much anymore either. “I suppose there is no use pretending we didn’t know him the best,” George wrote. Yeah.

Rena Latimer-Cross is a contributor to This Recording. She is a writer living in Illinois.