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Mother of Perpetual Help, to Thee we come imploring help.
Behold us here from far and near, to ask of Thee our help to be.
Perpetual Help we beg Thee, our souls from sin and sorrow free;
Direct our wand'ring feet a-right, and be Thy self our own true light.
And when this life is o'er for me, this last request I ask of Thee;
Obtain for me in Heaven this grace, to see my God there face to face.
1982's "Blade Runner" is a noir-ish, dystopian, science fiction film directed by Ridley Scott and starring Harrison Ford and Rutger Hauer. In 2019 powerful corporations have manufactured genetically engineered organic robots called replicants to do dangerous and menial work on off-world colonies. Replicants are almost indistinguishable from humans, but they are engineered to live short lives--a few years, max.
When some replicants rebel on one of the colonies, they are banned from Earth; any of them discovered back on Earth are hunted down and "retired" by special operatives known as Blade Runners. The film tells the story of a group of recently escaped replicants hiding in Los Angeles, and the veteran Blade Runner, Rick Deckard (Harrison Ford), hired to hunt them down.
The Tyrell Corporation is a major producer of replicants. Their slogan, "More Human Than
Human," encapsulates the philosophical, physiological, and moral dilemma posed by the film: What does it mean to be human?
The slogan "More Human Than
Human" doesn't merely pitch the advanced abilities
of the intelligent, physically gifted replicants. It
seems to differentiate and dehumanize replicants. It focuses on their otherness, and encapsulates it in the word more. But is there a difference? Can one human be more human than another?
Roy, played by Rutger Hauer, represents the newest, most advanced model of replicant. As the film's action rises, Roy breaks into the the penthouse occupied by the CEO of the Tyrell Corporation and demands more life from his maker. His manner is sinister, but his needs are all too human. At the end of the film, as his life runs out, Roy, resigned to his inevitable death, delivers a monologue regretting how his memories are about to be lost forever.
The film leads us to conclude that our protagonist, Deckard, is nothing more than a murderer. Does he share this view of himself? In the version of the film with voice-overs, he only refers to himself as a killer.
Notes:
- The screenplay is loosely based on a Philip K. Dick novel.
- Drawing distinctions between peoples helps justify killing.
In Believing Is Seeing, Errol Morris investigates our relationship with photos--how we view them and what they mean to us. He uses several well-known photographs to flesh out some solid insights. One of the first insights is that we tend to look for motivations in a picture. What was the photographer trying to say? What is the guilt or innocence of the person in the picture? But Morris dismisses such attempts to infer anything beyond what the picture shows. Photos, he says, merely record data. But because we privilege
vision, we imagine that photos provide a door to the
truth. And in our imagining, we make false inferences and draw hasty, faulty conclusions.
Morris also questions and ultimately dismisses the idea that posed photos cannot serve as documentation and are inauthentic; the fact that something is always excluded from view (intentionally or not) while other things are included means that all pictures are posed to some degree. (This vein of discussion mirrors parts of modern rhetorical theory.)
Most of Believing Is Seeing is a super interesting read. My only complaint is that Morris strayed too far into the weeds in the last section when he forensically examines a set of documentary photos and their related documentation from public works projects of the Depression.
Note:
The book's full title is Believing Is Seeing: Observations On the Mysteries of Photography.
Maybe you heard that the Sandy Hook Elementary School shooting sparked a national conversation on gun ownership. Or maybe you heard that George Zimmerman's jury trial for killing Trayvon Martin prompted a national conversation on race. Or, with young Americans Bradley Manning and Edward Snowden being accused of espionage, perhaps you heard that we're conversating nationally about privacy and surveillance, or about freedom and safety. Amid any controversy now, pundits and the public readily declare or call for a national conversation about the issue.
What's more, these "national conversations" are often fueled by "competing narratives" of rhetors who, in the public debate, project certain "optics". We hear this kind of language in political news coverage more and more--language that implies open questions with no shared sense of answers, truths, or appeals to objectivity. This talk signals a shift or further slide in our worldview toward a wider, freer recognition of relativism and subjectivity as opposed to a shared sense of culture and identity. The news has never been totally neutral as it is vulnerable to a number of institutional biases (visual bias, narrative bias, fairness bias, etc.), but now it seems to be inching even further away from its attempt to describe one reality.
The declaration that we're having a national conversation waylays news coverage of polarizing issues. Having a national conversation about an issue defuses and mutes the controversy by invoking the illusion of thoughtful, productive dialog held around America's dinner tables and water coolers. The declaration that we're engaged in conversation substitutes for real dialog or conflict resolution. We talk about problems; we do not solve them. We air grievances and arguments, but all for naught because the discussion and coverage of it simply exhaust themselves, and we're left with nothing but the next thing to talk about.
Using the word narratives invokes the idea of a story,
a version of events. This is obviously wholly different from the truth. The reader can decide to accept it or reject it. There are
dominant narratives and prevailing narratives, but no truth.
Another new term in political news coverage is the word optics. Optics refers to the perspective of the viewer, how things look, and the first surface-level impression a given issue or person(s) makes on the news consumer. A check for patterns is basic first-level analysis. This is something people with a even a passing interest in a given object do anyway, without the help of experts. At best, what is seen is equal parts wall and window, a distraction and glimpse inside. Here, the truth is traded for appearances. The truth or reality is a nonconcern. The impression is stated, and its ephemerality and inconclusiveness is informally recognized and sanctioned.
If this argument is valid, and if it signals anything, it would signal the further disintegration of shared sense of culture and identity.
Notes:
Or maybe this has always been the case.
Update:
Some historians say that, in the Progressive Era, journalism could unite public opinion which would push Congress to pass legislation fixing some problem. This is precisely what a national conversation prevents.
I Wear the Black Hat bounces around the topic of villainy with a collection of deftly written essays by American writer and essayist Chuck Klosterman. The reading flies by thanks to Klosterman's fresh prose. He's at his best when musing over the finer points of individuals and pop culture references; one of the best passages in I Wear the Black Hat finds Klosterman articulating the nuances of his (and many others') intolerance for the classic rock band The Eagles.
But, unfortunately, Klosterman too easily gives in to the temptation to sound profound, and the result is a handful of hasty generalizations; a prime example from this book is when he attempts to extrapolate a larger cultural lesson from the decline of 1980's flash-in-the-pan comedian Andrew Dice Clay.* This kind of fallacy is pervasive in the pop culture-centric variety of writing commonly found in sources like The New Yorker, Gawker, and Deadspin among others. Nevertheless, I Wear the Black Hat is an overall agreeable read by an astute observer and talented writer.
Notes:
* There have been so, so many Andrew Dice Clays--performers and artists who seem to suddenly appear but then disappear--that putting any single one of them under a microscope should attract a good measure of skepticism. In the case of the "Diceman," maybe interest in him waned simply because he only had one joke.
