Outside Saffron Park

STUDIO A: New Episodes

2011-11-23T20:10:00.000-08:00

We Electronic Media Production students at Fresno State are still working on Studio A, a Fresno-area arts/music showcase. I direct and Garrett Horn produces. Why not check out our YouTube channel?

Our latest show features LEGO artist Carl Merriam and music by Eve's Burden. Here's Part 1:

Photograpy, Resumed

2011-07-08T20:04:00.001-07:00

1) Dusk, looking west across Millerton Lake.

2) Nearby, this time with a view of the hills that slope down to the water.

3) Along North Fork Road, in Friant.

4) Sunset on Road 145, northwest of the lake.

5) Same location, wider lens.

Get Reel!

2011-05-19T23:29:00.000-07:00

The pun is all but obligatory.

Here is my latest resume reel, featuring work spanning two semesters in the Mass Communication and Journalism Department at Fresno State.

I direct, I light, I shoot, I edit. It's fun.

STUDIO A: Season 1 Finale

2011-05-19T23:16:00.000-07:00

Two weeks ago today I directed the season finale of STUDIO A, an arts variety show broadcast locally from Fresno State. The show was created by myself and producer Garrett Horn, and is produced entirely by students in the MCJ 119 Broadcast Media Projects course.

The show featured:

Andrew Hoover and Lisa Talley -- from the student film "9-Ball"
Jason Herrera -- from the Centennial Symphonic Dance Project documentary
Musical performances by country-rock group Chaparral.

All four acts are embedded below. Enjoy!

And please visit the show's YouTube channel. Comment! Rate! Subscribe!

Act 1

Act 2

Act 3

Act 4

"Studio A" - The Experience

2011-03-28T19:58:00.000-07:00

I'm currently directing a TV/Web show called "Studio A" at Fresno State. It's a variety program featuring local musicians and artists. Last week's episode featured Fresno jazz group The Experience.

We taped a five-camera line cut as the band performed live in our studio. Postproduction was minimal - cutting in a single iso as needed and adding the lower-third graphics.

Here are their four performances from the show:

The Paquete Habana, or, the Old Men and the Sea

2011-02-27T22:48:00.000-08:00

A recent paper of mine on an oft-overlooked yet interesting U.S. Supreme Court case...

To many Americans’ elation, war was inevitable once McKinley’s ultimatum that Spain withdraw from Cuba “or be put out” reached Madrid in April 1898. On the 21st, Spain cut off diplomatic relations with the United States even as ships of the U.S. Navy descended on Cuba in blockade. But news was slow to reach those at sea in those days before radio. The sloop Paquete Habana, a Cuban fishing ‘smack’, had no notion of any war, having sailed from Havana on March 25 to fish off Cape San Antonio. Nor did the schooner Lola, which had departed Havana on April 11 to fish in Campeche Sound, off the Yucatan Peninsula.

After twenty-five days at sea, her tanks laden with live fish, the Paquete Habana began her return journey to Havana. On April 25, only eleven miles from her home port, she was captured by USS Castine, one of the Navy’s newfangled modern gunboats. The Paquete Habana’s master, a Cuban with a fishing license from the Spanish government, and his two crew members (also Cuban) were taken as prisoners of war.

The next day, the Lola, also homebound with a full cargo, was stopped by the cruiser USS Cincinnati, who warned her that she would not be allowed to enter Havana. Instead, the Lola was directed to Bahia Honda, a port forty-three miles west of Havana. But on the 26th, she was captured by the gunboat USS Dolphin. The Lola’s master, who had no license, commission, or any other paperwork, was taken prisoner, along with his crew of five other Cubans.

Both the Paquete Habana and the Lola were taken to Key West, Florida as prizes, where, according to the practice of the time, they were condemned and sold at auction. The Paquete Habana’s master and owner filed claims in protest. But the Florida court in which the case was originally heard declared itself unsatisfied “that as a matter of law, without any ordinance, treaty, or proclamation, fishing vessels of this class are exempt from seizure.” The Cubans’ appeals would eventually reach the U.S. Supreme Court, in the case of Paquete Habana v. United States.

The capture of the two vessels and their crews’ imprisonment was contrary to a long-held international custom, codified in many forms by many governments, that “in time of war the freedom of fishing is respected by belligerents; fishing boats are considered as neutral; in law, as in principle, they are not subject either to capture or to confiscation.” The practice dated at least as far back as 1403, when Henry IV made an agreement with Charles VI that England and France would protect each other’s fishing fleets. With very few exceptions, it had been observed by all ‘civilized nations’ since that time. “Fishing is so peaceful an industry,” explained Portuguese naval captain and professor Carlos Testa in 1886, “and is generally carried on by so poor and so hardworking a class of men,” that very few would contest this exception to normal maritime prize law.

As it happened, the American officer in charge of the Cuban blockade was one of those few. Rear Admiral William Sampson, commanding the North Atlantic Squadron, did not share Testa’s sympathetic view of fishermen. He pointed out that both the Paquete Habana and the Lola were manned by prime seamen, all of whom belonged to the (conscripted) Spanish naval reserve in Cuba. To allow them to return home would have been to give back the enemy nine experienced mariners who might later have fought against American forces. After the two vessels’ capture, Sampson requested that Navy Secretary John Davis Long allow continued operations against Cuban fishing vessels for this very reason. But Long would only permit the capture of those vessels attempting to run the blockade or that were “considered likely to aid the enemy”.

When the Paquete Habana case reached the U.S. Supreme Court in November 1899, this was a decisive point. Justice Horace Gray, writing the Court’s majority opinion, contended that neither the Paquete Habana nor the Lola fit Long’s criteria. Neither vessel was armed, and neither had more than a couple of crew members. Moreover, neither vessel had any knowledge of either the war or the blockade until the actual time of capture: they could not truly be guilty of blockade-running, particularly since neither resisted detainment. Therefore, on January 8, 1900, the Court declared the capture unlawful, ruling that the proceeds of the vessels’ sale and cargo be restored to their original owners.

Three justices dissented, Chief Justice Melville Fuller among them. He disagreed that any preexisting international law prohibited the taking of fishing vessels as prizes. He refused to concede that Rear Admiral Sampson would have so blatantly ignored such a law had it existed. Instead, Fuller contended that “the exemption of fishing craft is essentially an act of grace, and not a matter of right.” He saw the case as a question of comity (reciprocity between nations), not one of “legal decision” proper.

It is the question of the application of international precedent that makes Paquete Habana v. United States so significant. In 1900, the United States was at the cusp of becoming a modern world power, gradually eschewing its previous isolationism in favor of an active role in international affairs. This transition raised an interesting and important question: would the U.S. submit to the international law and custom of Europe and elsewhere? And, more broadly, could customary international law unite such diverse, far-flung nations – particularly those with an indomitably fierce sense of independence? The Supreme Court’s decision suggested that it could. Justice Gray could have hardly been clearer when he wrote that “International law is part of our law,” words that probably would have been anathema to Americans of forty, fifty, sixty years before. But in 1900, this seemed more reasonable now that America was coming into its own on the international stage.

There is an additional subtext to the Paquete Habana case, one that concerns the issue of imperialism. When we say that the Supreme Court affirmed the rule of international custom by exempting two Cuban vessels from capture, we are in a way saying that it affirmed the rule of imperialist custom. The precedents exempting fishing vessels from wartime capture were all set by powers with long imperialist traditions: Britain, France, Portugal, and the like. The Paquete Habana and the Lola were captured at a time in history when many Americans of the time clamored for overseas expansion, believing it to be the only route to both continued political efficacy and national longevity. The Court’s decision was, even if only in a small way, a step in that direction.

To so directly adopt the legal precedents of foreign imperialist powers was a clear acknowledgment that the United States no longer meant to confine its activities, martial and political, to its own shores. Whether or not the Court’s decision can be connected with what many American anti-imperialists would have considered the dangerously entangling foreign ties of later years is arguable. But the fact remains that the Paquete Habana case was a prime indicator that the America envisioned by Washington and Jefferson was quickly fading into the America envisioned by Roosevelt and Wilson. A country that for the last forty years and more had been concerned almost solely with domestic matters was suddenly realizing (and, indeed, engineering) a future fraught with problems, influence, and responsibilities far beyond its own borders.

Sources:

Paquete Habana v. United States, 175 U.S. 677 (1900)

“Ultimatum to Spain,” The New York Times, April 20, 1898, in nytimes.com

Observations on a Day Trip

2011-01-17T01:30:00.000-08:00

When I pulled my car into the station parking lot, it was still dark, though dawn was about to break over the horizon, just behind some old brick warehouses and the freeway. I shoved my hands in my pockets and walked quickly into the station. A fair number of passengers waiting inside, but there was nobody in the ticket line. I went up to the window where the station agent sat. He wore an old company jacket and no expression whatsoever.

“I have a reservation under this number,” I said, sliding a scrap of paper across the counter.

He looked at it somewhat disdainfully (admittedly, a torn-off piece of yellow-green note paper has little inherent charm) before tapping the code into his computer. “Where are you going today?” he asked. It was less a question than the recitation of a catechism.

“Oakland.” I wondered why this wasn't apparent from his computer screen.

“Can I see your ID?”

I fumbled for my wallet. It had sunk deep into my coat’s inside pocket and the corner was caught on the fabric lining. This has never happened before or since. I struggled with it, becoming increasingly conscious not only that I was taking far too long to do something so simple, but also that people (materializing out of nowhere) were starting to form a line behind me. The agent stared. I walked out some minutes later, ticket in hand, feeling humbler than when I went in.

I stood alone at one end of the platform in the last minutes before the train’s arrival, planning to board as far away from the crowd of other passengers as possible. This was less misanthropy than a simple desire to avoid the inevitable crush of people all scrambling to find empty seats in the car nearest the station building. I heard a whistle in the distance, the sound ricocheting off vacant industrial buildings. It caused me to tense up for no reason; it always does at the start of a trip. I think it may be because the sound confirms the trip’s reality: this vague thing that has been planned in advance and which you never think is actually going to happen suddenly becomes quite real and immediate.

The track curves away to the southeast from the station so that when a northbound train approaches, you know it first by the whistle, then by the headlights, which glare pale yellow against old brick and sheet metal walls, and only after that by the appearance of the train itself, which, until it is almost upon you, looks like nothing but a blinding circle of light with a black tail, blotting out the sky. There is one final road crossing before the station, Ventura Street, but there is no whistle for it; the city has declared the downtown area a ‘quiet zone’ in which no train whistle may be sounded. Someday I foresee the country’s entire railroad network as one vast ‘quiet zone’, and if that happens, one of the few sounds that can be chiefly identified as American will have disappeared forever.

As soon as the train hit the platform, it was a rush of squealing brakes, fast-moving passengers and baggage carts, and a curiously irregular electronic beeping guiding the blind to each of the train’s doors. My little gambit succeeded most admirably; I climbed to the rear coach’s upper level and plopped right down into the first available pair of seats. Easy. I could see the less-strategic seat-finders wandering hopelessly to and fro down the aisle in the next car. No one asked to sit next to me; indeed, there were very few other people in my car at all, and there was no sound but the air vents. My few companions were a weary-looking bunch, several of them asleep. The girl a row in front of me, wearing an absurd animal-shaped cap and hood was quite dead to the world, her arms forming a pillow on the table in front of her. The weight of this atmosphere obliged me not disturb the silence.

I glanced out the window to find that we were moving, gliding out of the station with a smoothness that passenger engineers have striven for since the days when the Golden Gate and San Francisco Chief streamliners ran over these very tracks. There was a clattering of keys on the stairs behind me, and a conductor appeared in the aisle: a round, jolly sort of fellow who had probably put in more than a few years on the railroad.

“Good morning!” he cried in a voice far louder than one would have expected, especially considering the car’s sleepy atmosphere.

“Good morning.” I handed him my ticket. He struggled with the little folder as I had struggled with my wallet. After several seconds he handed the whole thing back to me.

“Can you help me out?” He sounded a bit sheepish. “I can feel there’s two there, but I can’t get them apart. I have this thing,” and he stuck out his hand. The middle finger was encased in a splint and foam padding.

“Sure.” I separated the tickets for him.

“Thanks.” He put my seat tag in its slot and continued down the car. Now as I write this I’m wondering how he hurt his finger. Should have asked.

Some train crews genuinely enjoy what they do. They are ‘people’ people, engaging passengers, making enthusiastic announcements, and generally creating a warm, friendly atmosphere. Others say as little as possible and are more or less invisible once tickets have been collected. The conductor with the splint belonged to the former group, a fact most evident when he – frequently – got hold of the PA system.

“Folks we are about to make our Modesto station stop! Modesto!” he would cry gleefully. “Please check around your seats and make your way downstairs if this is your stop. Oh look, we're here! Hoo-hoo!”

In the latter group you have the conductor of my return train. In a brutally terse tone he would announce (at the last possible moment), “Now arriving in Stockton. Be ready.” It didn’t help that all of the speakers in my car were set at a terrible, piercing volume that woke every sleeper and caused one irritated passenger to try and block the thing with his hand.

“You have a booming voice over that loudspeaker,” commented a man across the aisle to the conductor as he walked by later.

“Yes,” a nearby old woman chimed in.

The subtle hint was lost, or perhaps not. “That’s good,” the conductor replied, scarcely looking over his shoulder as he went by. “They need to hear me loud and clear.” The man across the aisle just shrugged.

It seems that one’s car-mates on every trip fall into a variety of predictable archetypes. I think here of the bleary-eyed businessman with rumpled clothes and a days’ worth of blue-gray beard who spent three hours staring at his laptop. Or, further down the aisle, three rows ahead, the young single mother with a extraordinarily energetic toddler. Nothing but the sight of a passing Amtrak could stop that little guy in his tracks – the whoosh and blur of silver-blue left his mouth agape and his tiny finger pointing in amazement. The noise our young friend made had no effect on the girl across the aisle, though. She hunkered down for 315 miles of refuge within a set of headphones that occasionally emitted the tinny sound of some hip-hop beat. I need say little of the seedy-looking student types who passed their iPods back and forth, nor of the crusty old fellow with a baseball cap who spent his trip buried in the USA Today. I will admit to being rather amused, when I first took my seat, to see a bespectacled, tweed-jacketed man very earnestly paging his way through Harry Potter.

But I think the most entertaining of them all was a fellow with a goatee and the inevitable lurid t-shirt. He passed his time with more activity than the rest, constantly shuttling back and forth between his seat and the lounge car, each time returning with a bottle of Corona. On the fifth trip, he came back empty-handed (those lounge car attendants are a wily bunch) and had to content himself with smoking a cigarette at every station stop. Board any train and you will find your own versions of these people. I think every train is required to have at least one in each category. Businessman? Check. Single mother? Check. Alcoholic? Check.

As the train hurried along Sharon siding, paralleling the appropriately-named Santa Fe Avenue, I reflected on the marked differences between the two styles of road. The twin steel rails seemed so much more permanent, indestructible, than the cracked, faded pavement alongside. Yet it is a false impression, asphalt having clearly supplanted steel as our favored mode of transportation, whether by historical chance or some great, scheming design. If by chance, will we come out the better or worse for it? If by design, has it proved – will it prove – to have been so very wise?

It’s a little funny to notice the extent to which a passing train is ignored by people around it. As with any technological development, the train has ceased to be some unnatural terror and is now simply part of the environment, no more notable than a tree or a streetlamp. In a round trip of over 400 miles, I counted only three people who stopped to watch our train go by. One, a denim-clad man with a blank stare and a bicycle, sat beneath a concrete wall and watched us pull east out of Merced. A utility repairman very deliberately – and satirically – turned toward us and delivered a full salute. A teenage boy, walking in the opposite direction of the train, gave us a contorted expression and pumped his fist. The train’s clatter and whistle failed to attract even the attention of a Little League game which we passed by. If a pack of little boys can remain blasé about a passing ‘iron horse’, then why shouldn’t everyone else?

When my stop finally came and I was standing at the door, I noted in myself an unreasonable, habitual disdain for taking the very sensible measure of holding on to a handrail as the train pulls into stations. It was on a point of pathetic pride that I leaned with perfect casualness against the wall below the stairs, my hands shoved rakishly in my jeans' pockets and my coat trailing out behind me, as we made our arrival. Physics have a way of humbling a person, however, and when we hit the last sharp curve before the platform, my left foot jerked in a reflexive re-balancing that forced me to reconsider this vanity. The fellow standing next to me, who had planted his feet placed squarely on the floor and braced his hand against the wall, made no comment, but I think he was probably amused. I would have been, certainly.

VIDEO: Vira Avenue -- "Fear and Faith"

2010-12-08T22:45:00.000-08:00

This is a music video I co-directed for a final project in the same class I mentioned in the post below. The band is Vira Avenue, from Visalia, CA -- a talented group worthy of attention.

Lighting design and camera blocking were hugely influenced by the work of director Hamish Hamilton and DP Al Gurdon on the U2 concert film Elevation 2001.

Be sure to watch this one in all its 1080p glory!

VIDEO: "Cynics' Song"

2010-10-05T22:48:00.000-07:00

I did this video for a field production class. My credits include writer, producer, director, director of photography, camera operator, sound, editor, grip, gaffer, and co-star. God help me if I had to pay union dues.

The assignment was to create a short opening sequence for a feature-length film. My inspiration while writing the script was the the Beatles' 1965 film Help! -- hence the text on screen and characters addressing the audience.

The music is from Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini, Op. 2 by Rachmaninoff.

Enjoy.

VIDEO: Yes, It's Reel

2010-08-09T22:15:00.000-07:00

I love directing live music, and here is a reel of some of my better work doing just that.

If you are a Hollywood producer and would like to hire me to direct the Tonight Show, the Academy Awards, or the latest acclaimed episode of "Chickpea Farmer: Western Idaho", please do not hesitate to contact me.

First Rays of the New Rising Sun

2010-06-26T11:01:00.001-07:00

1) Predawn in rural Madera County.

2) Fence and a grid-like cloud.

3) A view of Road 145 as the sun appears.

4) O'Neal's Road and the Sierra foothills.

5) The alchemic effect of dawn.

6) Trees diffusing the early sunlight.

Signs and Lines

2010-06-20T22:39:00.000-07:00

I've a new lens on the way - the Canon EF 28mm f/1.8. I'm really looking forward to putting it to work. In the meantime, have a look at these:

1) Plenty of cabling here; miles and miles of it seen just after sunset.

2) Similar, but some minutes earlier.

3) Close on a decaying gas station billboard.

4) Top of the same billboard.

Out at Predawn, and Later

2010-06-14T10:36:00.000-07:00

1) Northbound freight train on a cloudy morning.

2) Stratification between valley, hills, and mountains.

3) The new style of windmill - or is it an airplane propeller, without the airplane, on a giant pole? We'll never know.

4) Looks perhaps overly desolate. This field is unplanted and dead, yes, but there was a flourishing vineyard to my right.

New Photos + 1 Year Blog Anniversary

2010-05-31T14:17:00.001-07:00

Well, well, it seems that today is Outside Saffron Park's 1st anniversary, after 365 days online and 44 posts -- two of them quite good.

A few photos to commemorate this momentous non-occasion:

1) Looking from one river bank to the other at the beginnings of a storm moving in to subsume the setting sun.

2) Office building at dusk.

3) Hmm, not sure about this one. I look at it and like it; look again and am disappointed with it. It's a string of old AT&SF Railway codeline, probably dating from the 1950s or 60s, used to transmit signal indications and switch positions to railroad dispatchers. Rendered obsolete by modern control systems, codelines like this one are gradually deteriorating or being removed outright.

4) Wild-grasses with burrs that loved my shoelaces.

Gold and Rust

2010-05-17T09:57:00.000-07:00

1) Approaching sunset on a Friday evening.

2) Detail on the same fence as above.

3) This might have been a homestead at some point. The grove of trees (more of them out of frame to the left) and windmill seem deliberately placed. Taken near the former settlement of Collins, California.

4) Wild grasses.

5) Cliched? Maybe, but I still like it.

Some Older, Some Newer

2010-05-15T21:18:00.000-07:00

1) He (she?) stands out nicely against the February gloom.

2) Old Quonset hut along the BNSF at Kismet.

3) At the same location as No. 2; a crane used to load trucks and freight cars.

4) Detail for the sake of it.

5) But for the telephone poles, this might have been the cover of a Steinbeck novel.

6) Where the BNSF crosses Highway 145 in Madera. Surprisingly, the "Santa Fe" placard, which is probably as old as this bridge (note the 1949 completion date), has survived to this day without graffiti.

El Prado, California

2010-05-03T20:52:00.001-07:00

This place used to be called El Prado. It was a railroad junction, connecting the San Joaquin & Eastern shortline and the Clovis Branch of the Southern Pacific Railroad. I imagine some interesting characters once passed through here: local farmers; miners and loggers going to and from the mountains; absconding bandits, pursuing lawmen; tourists from the East.

The San Joaquin & Eastern ran from El Prado up into the Sierra Nevada foothills to a settlement called Big Creek, near Huntington Lake. It was called "the crookedest railroad in the world" -- though I don't know if that was because of its many sharp, hilly curves or its business practices. The Depression forced the line's closure and abandonment in 1933.

The Clovis Branch ran south into Clovis and thus to the Southern Pacific mainline at Fresno. It was constructed in the 1890s by the old San Joaquin Valley Railroad -- a local business trying to break the Southern Pacific's stranglehold on California freight transportation. The effort failed and the branch was eventually bought by the Southern Pacific, which ran trains over it until 1971. A new San Joaquin Valley Railroad took over operation sometime after that, but it too abandoned the branch in the early 1990s. Today there is little or no trace of either railroad in this area, though in Clovis proper, a bicycle trail has replaced the old roadbed.

The old mailboxes in the photo are not likely to last much longer. The future of El Prado is the country club marked by the trees in the background and the suburban housing subdivisions that will soon cover the surrounding fields.

The Weather

2010-04-29T15:26:00.000-07:00

It's funny how people are almost never satisfied with the weather. Isn’t it? The last week has been rather moodily overcast and rainy, and when you pass by enough people in the course of a day, you’ll hear at least few complaining about it – probably the same ones who complain about the summer heat when it comes, as if it were unexpected.

This valley is a ripe target for such people because the climate swings from one extreme to the other from June to December and back again. I can’t pretend that I don’t gripe. Throughout July and August, I think warmly of my wool and corduroy hanging far back in the closet. Come February, the thought of a day without needing a jacket to go outside begins to sound particularly attractive.

No one who thinks California is sunny all the time actually lives in this state. We in the valley know the winters by the cold, yes, but more so by the tule fog, rain, frost, and the occasional hail. We are proud of the tule fog because it is our own little local weather phenomenon, and a deadly one at that. There is no pleasure in driving old Highway 99 on a January night, the headlights reflecting but never penetrating the wispy silver-grey. Yet tule fog is not always unwelcome; it is nice, on Christmas Morning, for example, to sit at home with nowhere to go and not be able to see across the street to the next house. I used to think that’s what England must be like, sometimes.

It is summer that is far more trying; a season unusual and laudable if the thermometer does not exceed one hundred degrees on several consecutive days. When it is summer in the valley and the really intense heat beams down on an August afternoon, everything is quiet and still. One wakes perspiring, goes about the day perspiring, and retires perspiring. The heat is a soup, always closing in, hateful. The humidity is negligible, there is little wind, and the river slows to a shallow trickle with a painful noon glare.

What motion does occur is entirely man-made in nature, and by that I mean automobiles. Searing engines, choking hot exhaust, drivers secure in the air conditioning (the lucky ones, or just the richer ones). The season seems to take offense at this rude violation of the stillness, punishing us by making the pavement hotter than anywhere else. Heat waves rise from the cracked asphalt. Exhaust pipes pour forth a haze that clouds the morning and evening skies, causing one to wonder what exactly he is breathing even as he reflects upon the resulting bold oranges, reds, and pinks of dusk or dawn.

I wish it wasn’t so windy right now.

It's Tough to Think of Titles for These Photo Posts

2010-02-10T20:23:00.000-08:00

Dusk was particularly spectacular yesterday as the sun clashed with the heavy clouds of a passing rainstorm. On my way home from class, I made a snap decision to grab my camera and head back out. Let it not be said that I waste good light!

I ended up by the San Joaquin River once again, mostly because it was the most open place I could get to in a short amount of time. It was a cold, still afternoon, and my hands were numb by the time I left, but was it ever worth it.

1) This little blossom caught my eye as I was setting up. Spring is nigh, you might say.

2) Here I was less interested in the subject than in the vividity of the colors, which were not retouched in postprocessing. For about ten minutes, the grass really was that green; the sky really that blue.

3) A couple of freight trains rumbled overhead while I was walking around - a good sign for the economy, I guess.

4) This sky was the reason to be outside. The tiny speck in the upper left is a helicopter.

5) Sort of a grab shot while I was driving home. We're at the very busy intersection of Palm and Herndon, stopped at a slow-changing turn signal. No, my car was not in motion when I took this shot, though I probably looked a little crazy sitting at the wheel with a camera in hand.

Photo of the Day (pretend this is a regular feature)

2010-01-29T21:48:00.000-08:00

In keeping with the railroad theme of the previous post, I offer this view of an Amtrak train crossing the San Joaquin River in Fresno, CA.

The Sound of the Railroad

2010-01-22T22:48:00.000-08:00

Perhaps I am in the minority when I say that I think the best part of traveling by train is the sound of the experience, a range of mechanical noises unlike anything else. Many people dislike trains for exactly that reason – they think them too noisy; an irritant, a bother, something to be tuned out. I cannot understand such people.

I don’t often take the train, but when I do, I like to sit in the car nearest the locomotive, enduring the acrid sting of diesel exhaust in order to better hear where I am going. As the train accelerates, there is a gradual transformation of the engine’s sound, from the dull roar of idling to the quick chuffing as momentum builds and finally the steady, unfailing chop-chop-chop-chop of the train at full speed.

Below, a host of other sounds is being created at the point of contact between steel wheel and rail. Most noticeable is the high ringing of wheel flanges meeting the resistance of a piece of curved track. And when one track meets others, there is an impossible high-pitched chunk as wheels pass over switch points, more pronounced at higher speeds, the sound and the accompanying rattling at times causing one to wonder if the train will keep to the track at all. Later, perhaps, the brakes are applied, an intensifying hiss of pressurized air in the pipes culminating in the squeal-click of release.

Of course the most recognizable sound of the train is its whistle, third on George Bailey’s list of the most exciting sounds in the world. In the days of the steam engine it was something of a throaty roar, but today it strikes me as more of a dry wail – the contrast between a steam whistle and the less-soulful modern air horn. But it makes little difference; whether in 1910 or 2010, the distant nighttime moan of a single train whistle is surely one of the most beautiful sounds in the world. Can any other call to mind such a vast range of thoughts; of our history, of travel, of anguished departure and joyful homecoming – boyhood weekends spent at grandmother’s house; rainy afternoons flying past river deltas and tiny farming villages and the unending fields of the San Joaquin valley in winter?

The day will come, even if it is years from now, when they finally replace the last diesel engine with a shining, silent, scientific, soulless vehicle that they will call a train. They will power it with electricity and it will stand wholly representative of the sterile industrialization they say is inevitable. They will elevate the tracks, or seal them off from all public access so that there will no longer be any use for the old-fashioned, archaic, obsolete, noisy train whistle. But even when the mournful wail of a northbound at some lonely rural crossing has been silenced, some will remember a time when the sound of a train meant something as important as it was intangible.

VIDEO: 2009 - The Year in Retrospect

2009-12-24T10:53:00.000-08:00

Merry Christmas everyone! In a Yuletide celebration of self-indulgence*, I put together this highlight reel containing some of the best of my directorial, editorial, and camera work from the last year. Tell me what you think...and be sure to watch in high quality.

*For those disinclined toward sarcasm, this statement is actually a joke.

The Greatest Story and Its Many Tellings

2009-12-18T00:01:00.000-08:00

For the last few months, I have been studying the New Testament far more closely than I really ever have before. What I have learned has at times been surprising, at others, reassuring, but always instructive. One particular area of interest is the process by which the four canonical Gospels were compiled, edited, and published, particularly in the case of the Synoptics – Matthew, Mark, and Luke. You may have heard of the Two-Source hypothesis, which argues that Mark was the first of the Synoptics, and that it, along with a hypothetical document “Q” (a collection of Jesus’ sayings), influenced the writing of Matthew and Luke.

The Two-Source hypothesis is an attempt by scholars to solve the “Synoptic Problem”: what is the exact nature of the relationship between the first three gospels? Matthew, Mark, and Luke are too similar to each other for coincidence to be an adequate explanation. There are also many differences between them: in chronology, characterization (of Jesus, the disciples, and others), and more.

Let’s look at Mark and Matthew. Extraneous details – descriptive passages and even whole characters – in several Markan stories were excised by Matthew. Other characters were altered; for example, Matthew's Jesus displays less human emotion than Mark's. In Mark, he is occasionally unable to perform miracles (6:5) while Matthew says that he is unwilling to do so

The disciples in Mark rarely understand Jesus and are really quite dull; this is not the case in Matthew (e.g. Mark 8:14-21 vs. Matthew 16:5-12).

The teacher of the law in Mark 12:28-34 who asks Jesus about the greatest commandment and responds to him approvingly becomes a rhetorical opponent in Matthew 22:35.

…and so on. If Matthew indeed used Mark as a major source, it is clear that he did his share of editorial work.

For those who grew up in church, it is easy to carelessly view the gospels as one contiguous document (it is for me at least). The four books tend to blend together, differences between them becoming less clear, overlooked, or even deliberately ignored. With that as my background, I studied the changes made from gospel to gospel with great interest and at least some surprise.

As far as many Christians are concerned, the Bible is inerrant. They believe that every word in the book is absolutely correct; that history itself must change if it contradicts a single verse. I don’t deny that it's a comforting and inspiring philosophy. How amazing would a book dictated word for word by God Himself be!

Perhaps unfortunately for me, I can only respond to the concept with incredulity. I'm afraid that the Bible has the unavoidable taint of humanity upon it. Its authors seem to have introduced their own characteristic imperfections. How else could one explain inconsistencies between the gospels – arguably the most important books in the Bible? Would an inerrant author receiving divine dictation mistake high priest Abiathar for Ahimelech, as Mark did? Or incorrectly identify Herod as a king rather than a tetrarch (the terms are not synonymous)?

Blake said something about the need for the cleansing of the “doors of perception,” and it certainly seems applicable here. I think that the apostle Paul was correct; that we now see “through a glass, darkly” (what a great line) and will perhaps only in the hereafter really know what God and Christ are all about.For now, the glass will have to suffice.

Whether I am right or wrong, this issue needn’t weaken anyone’s faith in Christ. Think for a moment about how amazing it is that we have the Bible at all. The gospels were written by an oppressed minority in a nearly-dead language thousands of years ago in a distant land in a culture we do not fully understand. When I reflect on how far in time and space the words on the pages of my Bible have traveled to reach me, I am all the more convinced of God’s wisdom and eternality.

Workplace Photos

2009-10-04T15:43:00.000-07:00

Here be some photos from my place of employment, many of which have been or will be used in future video projects:

1) One of our cameras and a piano.

2) The fountain outside looks pretty cool at night:

3) Detail on the monitor mixing board backstage.

4) A coworker and I built this "talk show" set for a recent video. Think no-budget. Think Wayne's World.

5) The place I spend most of my time at work. Here we see the video switcher along with my camera notes from several weeks ago. I usually serve as both director and technical director.

The Woeful Tale of Bobby Brown

2009-09-27T22:36:00.000-07:00

Bobby Brown was a boy
Never felt his mother’s joy
Sleeping
Or weeping

On the corner of the street
To every gentleman he meets
A paper
For vapor

To hear the news, a shiny coin
‘Thank you, guv,’ and now go join
The others
Their druthers
They will have

A wispy man, his monocle
A fop among the concrete jungle
What a find!
A hunched-over decrepit uncle
I’m quite sure that soon you’ll
Know the kind
Know the kind

A taxicab is passing by
Sheets of mud, you must stay dry –
Or sickness,
Relentless

The beggars and the vagabonds
Will try to take what you have won
So, careful
When they’re full
Of shillings bright

The Underground above you roars
What once was grass and lovely moor
Is paved o’er
And Christmas cheer is coming soon
So whistle up a jolly tune –
And make it fast
Make it fast

Bobby Brown is older now
The paper that he tried to found
Has failed
Curtailed

And here’s the reason for the curse
That befell our pint-sized Hearst
– Give a shiver –
His readers, all,
Were on Twitter

Recent Photographs

2009-08-20T15:53:00.000-07:00

1) A farm truck and the Sierra foothills at dusk.

2) In a vineyard; a common sight around here.

3) A man walking down Bridgeway Blvd. in Sausalito.

4) Railroad tracks and distant signal lights.

5) An expansive tree and fenceline.

6) The last light of the day.

Resume Reels

2009-08-07T17:24:00.001-07:00

Recently I cut two new resume reels featuring some of my latest and greatest directorial and camera work. You can watch them on YouTube.

My director reel:

During the second clip ("People Get Ready"), you'll hear the director's audio track - that's my voice, talking to the camera operators.

And here is the camera reel:

A Short Sea-Story, Part IV

2009-08-07T17:17:00.000-07:00

“Phoenix acknowledges, sir.” Williams was proud at not having had to use the reference book. “'Am engaging frigates.'”

“Thank you, Mr. Williams.”

Wood splintered and crashed above his head; rope was parting. A shot from Amélie's bow-chaser had found its mark in the mainmast. “Mr. Campbell!” – this to the bosun – “get a party to clear away that wreckage!”

More shots from the bow-chaser. Splinters were flying, and the decks were cluttered with wreckage. Welles had sprung out of his introspection and was calling orders to the first lieutenant, to the bosun, to the master, exhorting the men. He fought down the feeling that a dull knife was scraping against his vocal cords. Then he turned to look astern once more, and felt a hollow pull at his stomach. Amélie was turning, had put her helm over like Welles knew she must, was firing each gun in turn, eighteen shots, nearly all of them true, raking Remonstrative from stem to stern. The best French gunnery he had ever witnessed. The maintopgallant had fallen away, spars floating in pieces in the sea. The mainmast itself was splintered, torn, about to go by the board. A roaring of guns, screams from the wounded, the thunder, the howling wind in the ragged rigging. All was lost, Welles knew, and now there was more fire, canister, breaking the men where they stood. He must strike. He must.

“Mr. Duncan, clew up,” he said with forced calm. His hands clasped and unclasped behind his back. “Mr. Andrews! We shall strike our – ”

That was when the second Frenchman fired her broadside. The horizon went white and Welles heard no more. The world was crumbling around him. The sloop shook terribly, unnaturally, as her stern was shattered. Her mainmast gave a loud crack and fell into the sea, carrying much of the remaining rigging with it. She was heeling badly now, and a wave washed over deck. The larboard chains were already submerged. The carpenter, had he still been alive, would long ago have given up hope of patching all the shot-holes. His Majesty's Sloop Remonstrative was doomed.

Welles was dimly aware of this fact from where he lay on the quarter-deck. He was, absurdly, waxing philosophic – a wretched run of luck, no hope of further command now, probably be drummed out of the service – as the life ran out of him from a deep splinter wound below his left shoulder. Dark red stained his blue coat a sickly brown and tarnishing his precious golden epaulette. Welles opened his eyes halfway, saw the deck tilting, the dead all around him – Duncan and his mates, the quartermaster, others. Terrible to see this perfectly-ordered wooden world in such a confused state. He saw Phoenix far off to windward; she could do nothing for them now but report the sloop’s loss. A frigate running before the wind was a very beautiful thing, Welles thought. He should have liked to have commanded one someday.

The despatches! For one last awful moment, his sworn duty came rushing back into the forefront of his thoughts. God – they were still in the cabin! Welles tried to speak, to stand up, to call for the steward, but could not. His peajacket and boots felt as if they had been weighted with lead. The words caught in his throat, and, as his muscles relaxed and he gave a quiet groan, he reflected on how strange it was that he could not move his arms. Was it evening so soon? Had the chase taken an entire day? The sky was growing darker, and all seemed very quiet and still.

Rain fell from the skies above the Channel and began to wash clean the sloop’s stained deck.

A Short Sea-Story, Part III

2009-08-06T23:14:00.000-07:00

Welles sensed the crew's resentment at being shot at and not being able to respond, and he shared their frustration. He briefly considered setting up a stern-chaser. It would deal little damage, but it might bolster morale. Then again, at this point in the chase, the guns would serve Remonstrative much better once they were no longer encumbering her. The sloop would never outfight her opponents. She might still outrun them.

“Mr. Andrews, throw the guns over the side.”

The lieutenant swallowed hard. “Aye, aye, sir.”

And still the Frenchmen gained ground. Welles was aghast at Remonstrative; she ought to have had no problem running this close to the wind. The jury-rig alone could not account for this horrible sluggishness. It was as if God Himself was pushing the sloop back into range of the French guns.

“Deck there!” It was Sedgwick, screaming from the maintop. “Sail ho!”

“Where away?” Welles roared, glass instantly to his eye, but Sedgwick was already flying down the shrouds. His shoes slid on the slick deck, and, one hand holding his absurd little round hat to his head, he struggled to find balance.

“Sir, three points off – ”

“Step forward and salute properly, you wretched young gentleman!” Welles snapped. “This is a King's ship, not a damned Thames collier!”

“Aye, aye, sir. Begging your pardon, sir,” said the youth, eyes downcast until he found the courage to meet Welles' glare. “Sail in sight, hull-down, three points off the larboard bow, bearing southwest, if you please, sir. A frigate, sir, I’m sure of it.”

He had Andrews confirm the report. Another frigate. Please God may she be English. If, by some incredible stroke of ill fortune she was another Frenchman, there was no possible escape for Remonstrative. She would be pinned in the middle of a triangle formed by three hungry enemies, eager to take an English vessel after so many bitter defeats at sea. This poor little sloop...

Amélie was still firing at long range, and despite the increasingly heavy sea, her shots were coming closer to Remonstrative's stern. She would be in range in minutes, perhaps less. He peered through his glass at the new sail on the horizon. She was nearly hull-up – there she was. God be praised. She was undoubtedly English, the Phoenix, perhaps. Thirty-six guns. Might they survive the day after all?

But really, Welles thought critically, the odds were hardly improved. There was no chance of victory for a single frigate and an unarmed sloop against two French frigates; only the barest hope that the English frigate might delay the Frenchmen long enough for Remonstrative to escape with the despatches. The sound of gunfire would attract other ships of the Channel Fleet, he knew, but would they come in time? Would Phoenix be close enough to prevent the Frenchmen from dismasting Remonstrative and carrying her (and the despatches) into Brest? Single shots from a long nine might deal plenty of damage to the sloop's sails, but it would be nothing compared to the fiery death sure to come when Amélie put her helm over and presented her full broadside.

Time passed agonizingly slowly as the sloop struggled against the wind while the Frenchmen seemed to glide along, unhurried, untroubled by the Channel weather. Welles heard Andrews, Duncan, and the master's mates muttering amongst one another, discussing their chances of escape, no doubt. He would have normally silenced them with a single look, but so lost was he in his thoughts that their words were little more than a droning in the background.

The English frigate was drawing nearer; by now she must have sighted Remonstrative and her pursuers. Welles was certain by now that she was indeed the Phoenix.

“Mr. Williams, signal Phoenix,” he said. “'Am pursued by enemy frigates. Am bearing despatches for Portsmouth.'”

“Aye, sir.” The flags went up and snapped sharply in the wind.

A pause, a terribly long pause – Amélie was closer than ever – then finally the response.

Healthcare

2009-08-04T23:25:00.000-07:00

I have astonishingly little to add to the debate over the proposed national healthcare system. My opinion, unlearned as it is, will have no effect on whatever may transpire. I will only say this much: it was a sad day for humanity indeed when someone figured out how to make money from people in need of healing.

A Short Sea-Story, Part II

2009-08-02T22:28:00.000-07:00

“Mr. Sedgwick.” Welles shut his glass.

“Sir?” A very young midshipman – thirteen? fourteen? He could not remember – stepped forward, stupidly bright with the prospect of pitched battle and the glory sure to follow. Sedgwick had never been to sea before Remonstrative had left England five months ago, and had never experienced the horror of ship-to-ship action.

“Run aloft with your glass. Call me at once if you should see any sail other than the Frenchmen. What, you haven't a glass?” Exasperation. “A black mark against you. Borrow Mr. Williams'.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” and young Sedgwick was tearing up the ratlines, nearly dropping Williams' glass over the side in his embarrassed hurry.

Here was Andrews to report that the stores had been heaved and the water casks emptied overboard. Then Duncan, the talkative sailing master, was at his elbow. “Sir,” he began, almost conspiratorially, “I don't like this at all. We carry far too much sail. We shall certainly lose a mast and the Frenchmen'll have us for certain.”

Eight weeks of the master’s near-insubordination had taken a toll on Welles. “Perhaps, Mr. Duncan,” he said coldly, “you would have us heave to and surrender directly. Can you suggest any possible alternative to the measures I have taken? Then do not question my judgment, sir.”

Duncan wilted under Welles' glare, and shambled away to the far side of the quarterdeck. Welles was unhappy with himself. Rebuking Duncan in front of the men might have the dangerous effect of undermining the officers' authority. But the thing was done. At least the master would remember his place. The captain – even a captain only by courtesy, like Welles, who wore his epaulette on the left shoulder – was not to be disputed, ever.

No word yet from young Sedgwick, high above in the maintop. Where in God’s name was the Channel Fleet? Two enemy ships loose in what should have been English-controlled waters – an outrage. Welles fumed at the Inshore Squadron's complete failure to detect and stop the frigates long before they became a threat to English shipping, as was their duty. The week's storms had been bad, but not so severe as to drive the entire squadron off the coast, not for this long. An outrage.

Remonstrative tacked, and Welles watched the Frenchmen do the same. He considered his options. If the sloop could maintain her lead for a few more hours, perhaps he might fetch Plymouth. The delay in the delivery of his despatches would mean a rap on the knuckles from his Lords of the Admiralty, but surely even they must admit that late despatches were better than despatches at the bottom of the Channel, or worse, on some French admiral's desk. Locked in Welles' cabin were two large envelopes from the commander-in-chief of the West Indies station, secret information which must not fall into French hands. The old man had taken pains to emphasize that point, pressing a two-pound shot into Welles' hand, steel in his milky eyes. The envelopes were to be dropped overside, weighted with iron, should Remonstrative be threatened with capture.

And that was certainly the case now. He went below and placed the envelopes inside a canvas sack, along with the shot, tying it shut. He would wait until the last possible moment. Another thought occurred to him. He opened his trunk and put on his best coat and breeches, and, taking it down from where it hung on the bulkhead, buckled his sword around his waist. To be taken prisoner in anything less than his finest would be most ignominious.

On deck, Welles hailed his young lookout. “Mr. Sedgwick! Any sail in sight?”

“No – no, sir!” the midshipman cried, struggling against the rain, the distance, and his own unreliable teenaged voice. “Nothing, sir!”

There was a flash of orange in the grey astern and a distant pop. The nearer Frenchman – Amélie, if he had identified her correctly – was close enough now to try for a lucky shot with her nine-pounder bow-chasers. A column of foam rose from the sea in Remonstrative's wake; the range was too great even for the French long nines.

A Short Sea-Story, Part I

2009-08-01T10:36:00.000-07:00

The sea was rising, and the coastal boatmen were very sensibly putting ashore. A storm in the offing, undoubtedly, more of the same rough weather that had made the Channel ever more dangerous these last three days. The skies above were dark and moody, and the boom of distant thunder rolled in from over the horizon. And below the violence of the heavens, the fox ran before the hounds.

Four leagues off Brest, His Majesty's Sloop Remonstrative was close-hauled, beating her way up-Channel over the vast expanse of grey and white foam. At a distance, her chequered hull and spread of billowing canvas might have been called pretty, but a closer look revealed a vessel so wracked by the eight weeks' passage from Jamaica that any first lieutenant would wince at the very sight of her. Much of her running rigging was jury-rigged, and the foretopmast was a hastily improvised replacement for the original, carried away in a tremendous Atlantic gale only days before.

Remonstrative had sighted but one sail during her passage – an English West India packet – until five bells in the morning watch. And by now, four bells in the forenoon, it was quite clear to all but the dullest aboard that they were in imminent danger of being taken or sunk by either of the two French frigates in plain sight some distance astern.

In the waist, John McNeil, ordinary seaman, was trying to explain the situation to a landsman, dull indeed through years of drink and the gaol. "You see the sail astern of us, mate, right? Them's Frenchies, no question, an' unless we can gain a few knots more, they'll be up with us in – ”

“Silence in the waist!” roared a voice from the quarterdeck. “You there, McNeil keep your eyes on your work!”

Captain Richard Welles turned back to Andrews, the long-faced first lieutenant. “Seven miles, would you say?” he asked. The two stood at the taffrail, their glasses fixed on the pursuing Frenchmen.

“Yes, sir. Perhaps eight – but no more.”

Welles knew Remonstrative should have long ago outstripped the Frenchmen had it not been for this wretched jury-rig and the fact that after eight weeks of near-constant squall, gale, and hurricane, his crew was in far less than prime condition. Weary and sullen, they went about their duties faithfully, but they lacked the light-heartedness and good humour with which they had left Kingston. It was well, he knew, that they were not far from Portsmouth now, for the possibility of mutiny was becoming less and less fanciful. Welles privately damned that fellow Higgins, the cook's mate, a law clerk in a previous life before being swept up by the press, whose quick tongue so easily sowed seeds of discord in the younger hands. He would certainly have to be dealt with.

Welles returned his attentions to the frigates. “They make nearly two miles to our every one.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Put the stores and the water overboard.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Andrews touched his hat and left the quarterdeck.

Welles dared not set any more sail; Remonstrative was riding more heavily than usual over the rough water, and occasionally he wondered if she would recover from a particularly worrisome roll. But how to gain speed? Lightening the sloop by casting off the stores of food and water would increase her lead over the frigates for a moment. Then he might have to begin throwing the guns over the side. Welles chuckled grimly. The guns were no great loss at this point. It was not as if the sloop's fourteen pitiful four-pounders could possibly answer the Frenchmen's combined sixty-four gun broadside – hundreds of tons of iron which would certainly send Remonstrative to the bottom if they came to blows.

No. If the Frenchmen caught Remonstrative, there would be no battle. He would not give the orders that would mean the instant deaths of all eighty-five men under his command. He should certainly have to strike his colors. He would wait for peace in the squalor of a French, or worse, a Spanish, prison. Three years? Five? Ten years – a decade as a helpless captive?

The Frenchmen maintained their steady pursuit. If he could not outrun them, there was one last hope: that he should be so fortunate as to sight one of the Channel Fleet – a ship of the line; perhaps two or three – that could sweep down before the wind and force the Frenchmen to give battle. They would take the frigates, and there might even be prize money for Remonstrative's crew, should they be in sight of the action. Was it even realistic to imagine it?

Just Like an Addled Mind's Blues

2009-07-25T12:29:00.000-07:00

When you're in that town and the fog and the rains have come,
And the radio's playing some song that you once had sung,
With the children running toward a ladder lacking any rungs
Then a man tries to speak, but the words are a syrup in his lungs

Father John tried to fight, but the bishop said he could not win
On number fourteen, the smug golfer went to lift the pin
Birds fell from the sky, and the women shouted to their men
And the postman said that next Tuesday all my troubles could end

The wherrymen'll tell you that this has all been done before
They'll say they've heard enough, but come tomorrow, they'll just ask for more
A train'll leave the station, wheels groan, and the smoke will pour
She'll point you to a window, but the shutters show it's really the door

They call this bad, but they know that there'll be harder stuff
Wilson tried to meet them, but those melodies were much too tough
And their hands will blister on the antithesis of rough,
But I'll be back before next week, 'cause their worst efforts aren't bad enough

All credit to R.Z.

The Gallery Expands

2009-07-21T11:27:00.000-07:00

1) Sunflowers, field, and fenceline in north Clovis.

2) A humble memorial silhouetted by the setting sun.

3) Detail on blades of grass and a fallen leaf.

4) My family's well-loved dog, Murphy, catching her breath in the shade on a warm evening.

The "Tonight Show" Control Room

2009-07-19T23:05:00.000-07:00

Here's a neat video I found today. The camera goes inside the "Tonight Show" control room during a taping, affording a rare chance to see how the show is cut together live from the director's perspective. The sound could use some work, but alas...

Conrad's "The Secret Agent"

2009-07-18T00:13:00.000-07:00

I recently finished The Secret Agent by Joseph Conrad. For those unfamiliar, it is a novel about the vaguely socialistic 'anarchists' so hated in turn-of-the-20th-century Europe and America, and the efforts of police to stop them. It is 1886, and Mr. Verloc, an English anarchist on the payroll of the Russian embassy in London, is commissioned by his employer to plant a bomb at the Royal Observatory at Greenwich. Verloc's friends, a motley bunch of radical philosophers and self-proclaimed 'terrorists' (they 'talk the talk' but never 'walk the walk', if you will), are introduced one by one, particularly Comrade Ossipon, a failed medical student, and the Professor, the nameless embodiment of the pure anarchist. Verloc's family – wife Winnie, her younger brother Stevie, and their mother – are also prominent, at first seeming only as background noise to Verloc's constant ruminations. Conrad also takes care in characterizing the London police officers – Inspector Heat and his superior, the (unnamed) Assistant Commissioner – as they attempt to crack the anarchists' nest and bring them to justice.

Conrad here is no respecter of linearity, as the novel constantly shifts between different points in time in order to better convey characters' reactions to the events surrounding them. Often the reader knows more about what is going on than the characters do. To explain further would give away vital plot details, but suffice it to say that this unorthodox portrayal of time (for a novel written in 1907) in no way detracts from the story; rather, it enhances it. The same is true with the novel's frequently shifting point-of-view, allowing the reader to understand from multiple perspectives the impact of the events which transpire. There are no faceless enemies in The Secret Agent; every character has his or her own motivations and philosophy, all of which Conrad takes time to examine.

That two prominent characters are known only by their titles (Professor and Assistant Commissioner) interests me. I suppose this is Conrad's way of laying emphasis on the fact that these two are icons of philosophical polar opposites. The Professor knows only misanthropy, and by extension, anarchical destruction. The Assistant Commissioner is an honorable servant of the government and the people; he truly seeks justice, not content to pin blame on a convenient scapegoat when one is offered. It is a stark contrast, isn't it?

The Secret Agent is often cited as being a book about terrorism, perhaps more relevant now than it has ever been since the heyday of anarchism. Superficial differences between today's religious fanatics and Conrad's atheists aside, The Secret Agent takes care in detailing the motives of those whose utter contempt for human society most of us find frightening and incomprehensible. Conrad's characterizations lead the reader to question: Are these agents of destruction purely cold-blooded killers, or is it just possible that some of them may be fearful, mortal family men acting in desperation under terrible circumstances?

We also see in the course of the novel the dilemma faced by government when combating terrorism: how to maintain both civil liberties and public safety. Conrad's police are frustrated by their inability to arrest known anarchists without charge or direct evidence. This produces a certain possibility of ruthless disregard for the law, as when Inspector Heat remarks to the Professor, “It may yet be necessary to make people believe that some of you [anarchists] ought to be shot on sight like mad dogs.” It need not be mentioned that, if things ever came to such a state, whether in 1886 or in 2009, there would be little distinction between terrorist and terrorized.

Conrad's prose takes some getting used to. English was not his first language, and some passages took me multiple re-reads to understand exactly what he was getting at (this is particularly noticeable in some of the more esoteric discussions of law and political philosophy). The dialogue, at least, flows well; I wish people still spoke as eloquently as Victorians apparently did. One critic called The Secret Agent a “great city novel,” and I must agree. The reader really does get the sense of being in a sprawling London on the cusp of modernity, hemmed in by fog and rain, with shabby tweed-suited men walking down alleyways with bombs in their pockets.

The Secret Agent: well worth my while, I would say.

Magic Hour

2009-07-07T22:46:00.000-07:00

Sunset, the most picturesque forty-five minutes of a summer's day:

1) Are these horses fighting? An argument over gambling debt, perhaps? And what about that indolent bystander to the right? Has he not the decency to stop this violence?!

2) A neat wooden bridge over an irrigation canal on Behymer Avenue.

3) The sun begins its last descent above this prickly little thing.

4) My favorite from the evening:

A Tea Clipper Sets Sail

2009-07-06T15:23:00.000-07:00

The morning, even in these last predawn moments, was becoming warm, and my skin crawled under layers of wool and linen. Collins and I walked in step along the waterfront, neither of us speaking. There was a light mist low on the water, only now burning off, so that the hulls of the many ships in the harbor were obscured into dark outlines, only their masts clearly visible in the distance. Light plumes of smoke from the funnels of the harbor’s sidewheel tugs floated above the mist. The scene might have taken place in any port from Baltimore to Melbourne, except for the curious juxtaposition of these Western vessels and the ancient styling of Chinese junks – three I could see at anchor and another under sail at that moment – and the innumerable sampans that clawed their way through and between everything else. The contrast was startling; two worlds in a forcible coexistence that, in this city, had not lasted a half-century.

“A fine sight, that,” said Collins, breaking the silence and pointing out across the water.

A tea clipper was under weigh not a quarter mile from where we stood. She had sail set, glistening and shining in the emerging light, but we could see that a tug was towing her out to sea.

“Thermopylae,” my companion continued, “Captain Robert Kemball. I wager she’ll make London in under a hundred days this time.”

Each year, hundreds of thousands of pounds of tea leaves made their way down the Min River in sampans to Foochow, where we now stood. Chinese labourers, urged on by overeager and sometimes brutal European ships’ companies, loaded the precious cargo aboard clippers like the one passing before us. Then it was a race to cross the South China Sea, through the Sunda Strait into the Indian Ocean, around the Cape to the Atlantic, north up the coast of Africa, and finally into the Channel and a berth at Gravesend, with premium prices to be paid for the first cargo to reach London. Tea harvested by a Chinese peasant in April could find itself on the other side of the world in the cup of an English lord by September – truly a marvel of this modern age.

I think that Collins, professional sailor that he was, appreciated the sight of that clipper more than I, who had never been more than a passenger in one. But I had to admit that there was some beauty in Thermopylae’s long, low, sharp hull, and the perfect right angles formed by her masts and yards, the outlines of topmen going about their work in the shrouds on the cross-trees. More figures were visible on deck, and I could imagine Kemball pacing about, impatient for the tug – her ungainly utilitarian shape clashing wildly with the graceful lines of the clipper – to finish her inglorious duty.

There was no sound but the tug’s constant chug-chug-chug and the cries of a nearby seabird. We stood still for a long time, watching the clipper’s gentle exit from the harbor. A light northerly breeze rustled her sails, and grey foam broke before her bows, this thoroughbred yearning to leave the starting-gate. Then she was out of viewing range, with enigmatic China behind her and three months’ worth of open sea ahead.

The "Thermopylae" Leaving Foochow by Montague Dawson

Textures 'N Things

2009-06-30T20:40:00.000-07:00

1) A gate and fence trailing off into the distance, the Sierra foothills in the background.

2) A closed strawberry stand at the intersection of Clovis and Shepherd Avenues.

3) A packet of cigarettes tossed to the pavement.

4) A fencepost, with some "additions."

5) Grass grows around the barbed wire.

6) Wood and wire guard against trespassers. Oh, those mischievous trespassers!

Eric Clapton & Steve Winwood Live in Arizona

2009-06-27T15:41:00.000-07:00

Update: An abridged version of this review may be found at the "Where's Eric" Clapton fan website. Scroll down toward the bottom till you see my name.

The review:

I had the great privilege of seeing rock legends Clapton and Winwood in concert together last night at the Jobing.com Area in Glendale, Arizona. What a thrill to see these musicians, both at the top of their game, in a live performance. The setlist was fantastic, boasting a number of Traffic cuts, plenty of sublime blues jams, and four songs from the album Blind Faith.

The show started at approximately 8:30 pm. Clapton and Winwood appeared to the roar of the crowd and dived straight into the opening riff of "Had To Cry Today." Their twin Stratocasters were roaring; the guitarists' virtuosity matched by Abe Laboriel, Jr.'s drums, Willie Weeks' bass, and Chris Stainton's fantastic keyboard and organ. "After Midight" segued directly into another Blind Faith selection, "Presence of the Lord," in a very pleasing turnaround. Then more blues, a few more rock numbers (including Buddy Holly's "Well All Right"), and then the band sat down to play several acoustic tracks ("Driftin' Blues" and "Layla" among them). The set drew to a close with a long jam on "Voodoo Chile." Of course, an encore was in the cards, and the crowd's heroes reappeared to play J.J. Cale's "Cocaine" (extraordinarily similar, I then realized, to "Cocaine Blues" by the Rev. Gary Davis) and Winwood's "Dear Mr. Fantasy." As the final chords of that song's crescendo of an ending rang out in the arena, the audience roared its approval, applauded as the band quietly left the stage, and fell from hope to disappointment as the lights seemed for one brief moment to suggest a second encore.

Clapton, after a long dalliance with pop music, has returned in full force to his blues and rock roots (ever since From the Cradle, I think). He plays loud and heavy, even without the Les Paul and SG that made him famous. I think we were seeing a more mature, but no less musically exciting, version of the man who embodied 1960s British blues. There was more than a little dollop of Cream in his playing last night. Winwood, too, is an admirable guitarist, and I think that side of him is overshadowed by his legendary skill at piano and organ.

In his typical fashion, Clapton said nothing to the audience beyond a "Good evening's" and a few "Thank you's." With respect to concert banter, Clapton is the polar opposite of Neil Young and Pete Townshend. I have no complaints; I was there to hear music, not oratory. Winwood briefly thanked the audience before his solo performance of "Georgia on My Mind," seeming a bit confused as to which city he was actually in (one man near my seat yelled, "Smoke another one, Stevie!").

The arena was set up for IMAG, with one EFP-style camera on sticks behind the front-of-house mixing desk, two ENG cameras on sticks below the front of the stage, and several (at least five) remote-controlled box-type cameras on stage getting closeups of the support musicians. The screens were professionally directed; clearly this crew travels with the band, for the director was familiar with all of the songs. The concert lighting was quite well-done, though the lights aimed at the audience were a bit overwhelming at times. The soud was fantastic, a wall of wailing guitars that even the blithest of listeners could not fail to appreciate.

I am ever so thankful I was able to see two of my favorite musicians in concert. If this isn't their prime, I really can't say what is.

1st Electric Set:
Had To Cry Today
Low Down
After Midnight
Presence of The Lord
Sleeping in the Ground
Glad
Well Alright
Tough Luck Blues
Pearly Queen
There's A River
Forever Man
Georgia On My Mind (Steve Winwood solo)
Acoustic Set:
Driftin' Blues
How Long Blues
Layla
Can't Find My Way Home
2nd Electric Set:
Split Decision
Voodoo Chile
Encore:
Cocaine
Dear Mr. Fantasy

From Universal Studios in Hollywood! - The "Tonight Show" In Person

2009-06-25T22:56:00.000-07:00

I was in attendance at the taping of The Tonight Show With Conan O'Brien this afternoon, June 25. I'm a great fan of the old Late Night, and the new Tonight Show is growing on me, but I can't say I was too impressed by the show I attended in person today.

Arrived at Gate Three, Universal Studios, well before the 3:30 pm requirement and stood in a long queue for about an hour and twenty minutes before entering the actual Universal lot, and walking to the studio. The entrance to Studio One is quite sudden if you're unfamiliar with the area: across a small parking lot, up a few steps, through the doors and metal detector, and you're suddenly on the stage floor. The studio cameras were stored off to one side as I entered. I counted only three traditional pedestal cameras, these augmented by two ENG-style cameras mounted on smaller pedestals, a jib-camera, and two more handheld ENGs.

I had a good view of the entire studio floor from my seat, able to see all the way from Andy Richter's podium (at audience left) to the Tonight Show Band (audience right). It was only a few minutes before warm-up comedian Jimmy Pardo came out to go over the rules and poke fun at a few random audience members (though he was not hostile). He then introduced Andy Richter, who said a few brief words, and then the band came out to play an opening number. The horn players (esp. Messrs. Pender and La Bamba!) filtered through the crowd getting people to clap and sing along. The band was quite loud, especially in the confined studio space. I noticed a very long 'snake' (audio cabling) below Max Weinberg's drum riser, thinking that it was a bit excessive for the studio...it's actual purpose would be revealed later.

The camera operators came out on the floor and started moving their charges into position. They were soon followed by executive producer Jeff Ross and head writer Mike Sweeney. A crewman poured Diet Coke into Conan's mug at the desk (who knew?). Final preparations were made, and then, all of a sudden, stage manager Steve Hollander was counting down ten seconds to the opening titles. The band smashed into the show's theme song, the titles rolled on the video monitors, and the show began. The jib camera swung down from a high-angle shot of the band over to the curtains – they parted – and there was Conan O'Brien on the flesh, a red-and-white orb on top of a yard stake, or so he looked from my seat.

The monologue was good, but certainly not Conan's best. For some reason, his lapel mic was far too quiet to be heard properly; at times, you could not hear him over the sound of the crowd. I thought this was a bit strange; I wonder if it is related to echo problems in the large studio.

Max Weinberg's sudden departure (drum riser and all) from the studio to catch a plane and join Bruce Springsteen on tour was entirely unexpected and quite funny. The long snake proved its purpose as the drum riser was piloted out of the studio (with Max still playing) onto the Universal backlot, followed by a handheld camera crew. Periodically in the show they would cut to pre-taped video of Max making his way to the airport while drumming – stopping for a hamburger, getting pulled over by police, and finally being tossed bodily into a private jet – driving the joke into the ground with the tongue-in-cheek self-awareness for which Conan is known. It was a fine bit of absurdist comedy.

As the science fair remote piece played, Conan hovered a few inches from his monologue floor mark, watching the piece play back on his video monitor. I was surprised to see him actually laugh out loud with some of the jokes. It was a good video after all – classic awkward Conan humor, just like on Late Night.

I was primarily interested in the actual production of the show, and I was not disappointed by what I saw. The Tonight Show camera crew is sharp, covering a wide range of shots from many different camera positions, all the while making it look effortless. I took a quick peek at on of the camera shot lists as I exited the studio, noting that 1) as I suspected, each shot is scripted in advance and referred to by a sequential number, and 2) the camera operators write their own shot lists. For a production nut like me, details as mundane as these are, believe it or not, quite interesting. Allan Kartun's directing, as always, was just about flawless. It was a tight show, running right on time, and it looked good.

I have not yet mentioned the show's guests tonight. I was rather disappointed with the Tonight Show in this respect. Sacha Baron Cohen's portrayal of a flamboyantly homosexual 'Austrian fashion reporter' is far more childish than funny, while the Cirque de Soleil 'Zumanity' act felt downright seedy. The episode is available online; watch and decide for yourself. For my part, I say that the Tonight Show is a classic franchise with a distinguished history, and I think it's really a shame to degrade that image with low-class guests such as these. Perhaps I am too straitlaced. Or not. Hm. If only I had been able to go on Wednesday and see Wilco in person – that would have been a show to remember. Ah well.

I enjoyed seeing the Tonight Show production in person. I have tremendous respect for its director, producers, writers, and crew. For tonight's guests? Not so much.

The Ship "Balclutha"

2009-06-18T23:25:00.000-07:00

Moored at the Hyde Street Pier in San Francisco is a steel-hulled full-rigged ship called the Balclutha, a relic of the last days of commercial sail in the late 19th century. According to the National Park Service, she carried coal between Wales, Australia, and the Western United States. Two photos of this ship follow from a visit last year:

A full shot of Balclutha. At right is the steam tug Eppleton Hall; behind Eppleton Hall is the ferry Eureka.

The bow of Balclutha, Eppleton Hall, and the city beyond.

From What Remains of Rural Clovis

2009-06-18T20:45:00.000-07:00

A few photographs from a brief ride through the (very pretty) countryside just outside Clovis, CA. No doubt many passing drivers thought me crazy as I stared back and forth between my camera and a stand of wildflowers.

Sunflowers along Copper Avenue.

The entrance to Big Tree Ranch.

Looking west at the hot afternoon sun from the eastern end of Copper Avenue.

Rusted padlock and chain, with grasshopper hiding in one of the links.

DeWolf Avenue, trailing off across the grasses into the hills.

About forty-five degrees to the right of the previous photo; looking out upon a single tree and the mountains miles beyond. The highest peaks are hidden by the haze hanging over this valley.

Plymouth, February 1803: A Vignette

2009-06-17T22:44:00.000-07:00

All of Plymouth was shrouded in fog as our boat slipped past the shadowy outlines of the great ships of the line and frigates, their bells ringing out the half-hour in a low chorus. The quiet of the harbor and the city beyond seemed at once reverential and mournful for its glorious Fleet, now stagnant in this wretched peacetime. We felt like brazen intruders, the last evening’s worries wholly trivial in this grim world of black and yellow, wool and oilskin, oak and oakum; bored sailors without leave, desperate officers without ships.

The boatmen went silently about their work; what was this journey, made a hundred times before, to these aging veterans of the First of June, Cape St. Vincent, and the Nile? We three landsmen and one seaman huddled close in the sternsheets, gazing up at the mammoth wooden fortresses towering above. Off our starboard bow, the fog broke in one place to reveal a smaller vessel, a ship-rigged sloop of fourteen guns lying at anchor. We passed her astern and could read the bold letters of her name, IRREPRESSIBLE. A water-hoy and two boats laden with stores bobbed against her larboard rail, while to starboard we could see the meager, yet proud ceremony of pipe, drum, and raised hats as the sloop’s captain – a commander of no more than twenty-five, wrapped in a shabby cloak, hat athwartships – descended the ladder into a waiting gig. Was he on the cusp of some mission promising gold and promotion – or were these his final moments of nautical life before a cruel descent into half-pay poverty? Then the grey enveloped us again, and there was no longer any sound but the distant mumble of the dockyard and the steady lapping of the water against our boat.

My thanks to Messrs. Forester and Conrad.

Phoenix on "Saturday Night Live"

2009-06-15T00:26:00.000-07:00

This is several weeks old, but it is still a good little clip. I had never heard of Phoenix before seeing them on SNL, but I really enjoyed the performance.

Don Roy King, the director of SNL, takes a lot of flak on the Web for his style of directing live music. While I agree that SNL's music sequences haven't looked their best since the departure of former director Beth McCarthy-Miller, I think King did a good job with this song.

As a TV/video production nerd, I like how we can see the handheld camera operator in the background of several shots, checking his shot list every time King cuts away from his camera.

Christianity and Intellectualism Incompatible?

2009-06-15T00:16:00.000-07:00

I have noticed and wondered lately about a rather disturbing trend in the sermons of a particular pastor – the unfortunate tendency to urge congregants to essentially ignore all forms of theological study or Christian scholarship. This pastor instead holds the Bible to be the sole source of wisdom, guidance, and teaching for the Christian, claiming not only that most scholarly Christian works are useless, but also that any churchgoer can interpret Scripture just as effectively and correctly as a Biblical scholar. This pastor’s church in general frowns upon ‘intellectuals’ with great severity. I say this is a narrow-minded view that is probably hurting congregants more than helping them.

By no means do I mean to denigrate the importance of Scripture; far from it. Indeed, I believe quite strongly that the Bible is the absolute foundation for the lifestyle and philosophy which comprise Christianity. There is great wisdom to be found in its pages, and it is undeniably the source for the life-changing faith of literally billions of believers past and present. But can we so casually dismiss the works of some of the Christian faith’s most brilliant thinkers, philosophers, and advocates as bunk?

If a man became an expert on Aristotle, devoting a lifetime to interpreting his body of work, considering its original language and meaning, its cultural background, historical context, relationship to contemporary society, and so on, we would naturally consider him to be more knowledgeable on the subject of Aristotle than the average citizen. Why is this not the case with Christian scholars and theologians? Why do some pastors breezily insist that the lay congregant – who in too many cases reads the Bible only when verses are displayed on the church’s jumbo projection screens – can know just as much about a given passage of Scripture as an expert after a simple read-through or two? Is this not the arrogant folly of the man who thumbs his nose at the educated, taking pride in ignorance?

The Bible gives wisdom to the believer; that is unquestionable. But there is also wisdom to be found in the works of those for whom the study of Christianity and the Bible may well be a divine calling. We cannot claim to know as much as the experts; we may have much to learn from them when it comes to things spiritual. When we refuse to consider the works of those far more studied than us, we close ourselves off from vast branches of knowledge and wisdom that may guide us in our developing faith.

Now, problems will arise when people trust more in non-Biblical works for spiritual guidance than they do in the Word itself. But to ignore those works altogether? Can we honestly claim that none of them have anything meaningful to say? People ought to read the Bible, and read it often. But they also ought to seriously examine the works of some of Christianity’s most brilliant followers. Augustine, Aquinas, and the rest work best in conjunction with the Word of God. They need not supplant it.

Books To Be Read

2009-06-13T22:07:00.000-07:00

As I am between semesters at the moment, I find myself with plenty of time on my hands. Reading is one way by which I plan to pass this time. I'm in a bit of a dilemma right now; I have two books by Joseph Conrad before me, and I cannot decide which I should tackle first: Heart of Darkness or The Secret Agent. I think I need someone to simply tell me which one to start with, as I am hopelessly indecisive on such matters. I have read Heart of Darkness once before, but that was quite a while ago, and I'm afraid that I'll lose interest in it if I start The Secret Agent first.

As if that weren't enough trouble, I have a shipment of more new books coming in soon, all of which I am looking forward to:

The Four Loves - C.S.Lewis
Orthodoxy, Heretics, and The Everlasting Man - G.K. Chesterton
Unspoken Sermons - George MacDonald

I am sure we can expect to see more posts on all of these books in the conceivable future.

I ask myself at times why I don't simply visit the library and borrow the books I want to read. There is something, however, about going to a physical bookstore, selecting and paying for some work or other, and having it on one's shelf, a valued piece of property. I can't quite identify it, but there is some greater satisfaction to be found in going and buying the book rather than borrowing it. I suppose I ought to be proud to support the estates of the (dead) authors I admire, though that doesn't quite encompass it all.

In any case, there are worse things I could be spending money on.

"The Ball and the Cross" - A Retrospective

2009-06-09T19:44:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I finally finished my first reading of The Ball and the Cross by G.K. Chesterton. Like all of Chesterton’s fiction that I have read so far, it is strange, comical, thoughtful. His mastery of the English language makes all of his prose a joy to read. Nowhere else have I found an author who so deftly combines a rollicking tale of adventure with such profound philosophical underpinnings.

The Ball and the Cross opens with a debate between an unassuming monk called Michael and his abductor, Professor Lucifer, in the rather fantastic setting of an air-ship piloted by the latter. We are treated right off the bat to a superb argument in which Chesterton duly ‘gives the Devil his due’ with a number of great lines. The debate hinges on the perceived conflict between Christianity and Rationalism (a favorite topic of Chesterton’s). The two opposing camps are symbolized by the ball and cross ornament atop St. Paul’s Cathedral in London, over which the air-ship hangs. Michael notes the problem of irreligious rationalism:

“You begin by breaking up the Cross; but you end by breaking up the habitable world...We leave you saying there is no such place as Eden. We find you saying that there is no such place as Ireland. You start by hating the irrational and you come to hate everything, for everything is irrational...”

Soon, we meet the novel’s protagonists, Evan MacIan, a fervent Catholic, and James Turnbull, editor of a newspaper called The Atheist. When MacIan perceives blasphemy against the Virgin Mary in one of Turnbull’s articles, he challenges him to a duel. Turnbull readily accepts. The pair tries to fight on several occasions, but is always foiled by a population confused and offended by people who take their convictions so seriously. The police become involved as the public begins to think of MacIan and Turnbull as dangerous lunatics. On the lam, the duelists run across England, sail to an island in the Channel, think that they have found themselves in America, and eventually end up (by mistake) in an English insane asylum. There we find that the facility’s Master is none other than Professor Lucifer from the book’s first chapter.

Barred from fighting with swords by circumstance, MacIan and Turnbull instead duel with words, as each tries to destroy the other’s philosophy. But while they are thus occupied (in conversation, flight, and later, prison), evil forces within England manage to take control of the country, forcing people to prove their sanity by their apathy toward religion and irreligion. Eventually, the ‘insane’ rebel against their masters and burn the insane asylum to the ground, with Lucifer escaping in his air-ship.

An interesting incident occurs during this escape: Quayle and Hutton, Lucifer’s assistants, fall from the air-ship to their deaths in the fire. As witnesses cry that the two are “lost,” MacIan comments:

“No, they are not lost. They are saved. He has taken away no souls with him, after all.”

This line caused me to think of George MacDonald, best known for his influence on C.S. Lewis. MacDonald posited that the purpose of Hell was to forcibly purify sinners of their iniquities when they would not willingly repent. Could this idea be realized in the deaths of Quayle and Hutton, cleansed by fire of the wrongs they had committed while working for Lucifer; their souls not lost to evil – for no one can snatch them out of the Creator's hand?

I was struck also by the character of Beatrice, the noble woman who helps MacIan and Turnbull escape the police in her automobile. She is not by any coincidence named for Dante's muse who figures prominently in The Divine Comedy and La Vita Nuova. As in Dante, Chesterton’s Beatrice is a force for good in MacIan’s mind. Dante, describing Beatrice in La Vita Nuova, wrote, “She has ineffable courtesy, is my beatitude, the destroyer of all vices and the queen of virtue…” Note the similarity with this line from Chesterton: “He [MacIan] could not disassociate anything this woman said or did or wore from an idea of spiritual rarity and virtue.”

For MacIan, Beatrice really is the “destroyer of all vices,” for before he met her under those bizarre circumstances, he was questioning whether or not to continue in his argument with the atheist Turnbull. It is only by her words and their effect on his thinking that MacIan is convinced to carry on fighting for the cause of Christianity. He sounds very like Dante indeed when he mournfully asks upon Beatrice’s departure, “Will they let me see her in heaven once in a thousand ages?”

The Ball and the Cross features a theme also prominent in Chesterton’s earlier novel The Man Who Was Thursday. In the latter, the protagonists fear that their foe, the anarchist called Sunday, has taken over Europe while they were busy fighting a duel in France. In the former, Lucifer takes control of England while MacIan and Turnbull are busy arguing and languishing in prison. The lesson is clear: “All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing.”

A second theme from The Man Who Was Thursday carries over to The Ball and the Cross. In both novels, we see Chesterton reminiscing about and longing for the simplicity of the quaint English countryside while expressing distaste for the modern scientific age. In The Man Who Was Thursday, peasant farmers and common laborers are thought of as virtuous, if not incorruptible. It is the rich and sophisticated who are guilty of evil deeds. Similarly, in The Ball and the Cross, great value is placed on the humble public house (tavern) and on folk like Pierre Durand, “a genius for saying the conventional thing on every conceivable subject.” Durand becomes a hero in the final chapter when, offended by Lucifer’s breaking of the “social contract,” he lights the insane asylum afire. In both books, the protagonists fear the “airless vacuum of science” (The Man Who Was Thursday) and “the horror of scientific imprisonment,” devoid of “natural corruption...and merciful decay” (The Ball and the Cross). Chesterton looked upon the utopian dreams of contemporaries like H.G. Wells with skepticism; he makes no attempt to hide this attitude in his fiction.

The Ball and the Cross is not your typical fiction, but it is classic Chestertonian prose. You really can't call yourself a fan of English literature until you have read and appreciated some of his work.

Music Video: The Patrick Contreras Band

2009-06-06T21:00:00.000-07:00

Here is a link to a music video for which I worked as handheld camera operator. We just shot it three days ago on the roof of Irene's restaurant in Fresno's Tower District. Enjoy!

Directed by Nebyou Berhe
Editor / 1st Camera Operator - Evan Christensen

Some Thoughts on "Calvin and Hobbes"

2009-06-04T12:41:00.000-07:00

I am a fan of newspaper cartoons. Unfortunately, these days, one must look high and low to find cartoons of any real quality or comedic value. That’s probably why Calvin and Hobbes is so missed by readers of “the funnies.” It’s been too long since we last joined the boy named for the great theologian and the tiger named for the contentious political philosopher for some adventure or other. Truly one of the foremost cartoons of the 20th century, Calvin and Hobbes is both silly and serious, whimsical and philosophical, juvenile and mature, simple and clever. It is still most certainly worth reading, even now, fourteen years after the last strip was published.

Perhaps the most noticeable feature of Calvin and Hobbes is the artwork, and here I refer especially to the Sunday strips. Once Bill Watterson (the series’ creator and sole cartoonist) was freed from traditional newspaper panel restrictions, he let loose a fantastic series of thoughtfully-designed, hand-drawn and –colored cartoons, the likes of which have not been seen in American newspapers since the so-called ‘golden age of comics.’ These creations gave full flight to Calvin’s ever-active imagination, and to the real world which seemed to ever close in on the strip’s protagonists. But Watterson was never over-the-top. His Sunday cartoons could stand without dialogue (and frequently did so). But they just as often provided a simple, clean background to the (usually absurdly serious) conversations between the six-year-old and his tiger best friend.

But for me, at least, it was always Calvin and Hobbes’ dialogue that made the cartoon so memorable. Watterson published his share of simple, juvenile jokes and gags; who would expect anything less from a strip whose main character is an American six-year-old? But Calvin and Hobbes was, I think, at its best when Watterson voiced his criticisms of such diverse topics as artistic pretension, public education, government, mass media, and popular culture. Not only are Watterson’s commentaries almost always spot-on, they are typically downright hilarious. When Calvin insists that modern consumers are sophisticated, independent, and free from advertising’s influences, and then pauses to inflate his basketball shoes, you know you’ve got a winner of a cartoon. Then there’s Calvin’s conclusion that “the purpose of writing is to inflate weak ideas, obscure poor reasoning, and inhibit clarity. With a little practice, writing can be an intimidating and impenetrable fog” (forget elementary school; with that attitude, Calvin is ready for the university!).

The genius of such criticisms is that Watterson was not overt; he did not tell readers his private opinions. Rather, he allowed Calvin to make the argument for him by unrepentantly displaying the opposite behavior or attitude. Hobbes, meanwhile, is the constant straight-man, a counterpoint to Calvin’s bombast with all the quiet wit and cynicism characteristic of a large cat.

But Calvin and Hobbes was not all biting sarcasm and dark humor. The cartoon’s centerpiece was undoubtedly the pure, ideal friendship between Calvin and Hobbes – something we all long for, but few actually enjoy. That Calvin could always escape the troubles of each schoolday when he tore off into the woods with Hobbes is, I think, symbolic of the fact that there is more to life than the drabness of the day-to-day. Calvin may be irresponsible, he may be a terrible student, he may be antisocial, but at least he is able to enjoy his childhood while it lasts.

Masterpiece of the comics page that it is, Calvin and Hobbes is not the omnipresent marketing force that it might have been. Bill Watterson has admirably avoided the spotlight in his retirement from cartooning, and has refused to make Calvin and Hobbes into what would surely be a highly successful multimedia franchise. How rare it is today to see someone actually refuse to make more money than he might. Join me and the purists in applauding Mr. Watterson.

Calvin and Hobbes may no longer be published in newspapers, but book collections can be found just about anywhere. I highly recommend them. Non-cartoon fans will be surprised at how this ‘children’s comic’ manages to be so incredibly literate and so refreshingly simple at once.

Image scanned from p. 95, There Treasure Everywhere: A Calvin and Hobbes Collection by Bill Watterson; Andrews and McNeel, 1996.

Premiere of the New "Tonight Show"

2009-06-02T15:10:00.000-07:00

Conan is back on the air! I literally had a big cheesy grin on my face throughout the entire cold open. I miss the old Late Night, but I think the new Tonight Show looks promising.

The direction was typically solid, thanks to Allan Kartun, veteran of Late Night and a host of other music and variety shows. I noticed a few on-air framing adjustments and one or two shots during Ferrell’s interview that I thought could have been framed a bit more carefully, but these are very minor complaints.

One major difference in the camera work was that the main camera on Conan during the monologue changed framings multiple times during that segment. On Late Night, that camera would never move at all, allowing the host to walk in and out of the frame at will (to humorous effect). I wonder if this is a thing of the past.

The camera sequence during Conan’s entrance struck me as an adaptation of the same shots used on Late Night, with slight changes made thanks to the larger studio. I did not like the high-angle ceiling camera that was used two or three times during the entrance and monologue. It felt like we were seeing a security camera feed rather than one of the studio cameras. More on the ceiling-camera later. I much prefer the ‘feel’ of the eye-level handheld camera that was used on Late Night to shoot a reverse angle past Conan into the studio audience during the entrance.

Speaking of handhelds, I was surprised to see that Andy was being covered by a handheld camera during the monologue. I didn’t try to count the number of cameras in the studio, but I would be surprised if they could not devote one pedestal camera to someone as important as Andy (though they finally did just that after the monologue). I would have liked to have seen Conan and Andy linked in a two-shot, but I suppose the distance between them precludes doing so.

We saw the ceiling-camera in action again during the musical segment (Pearl Jam), with an unchanging high-angle shot of the drummer. I did not like the shot, much preferring the drum close-ups in profile shot by the handheld camera stationed behind the band’s backline (a fortunate hold-over from Late Night).

There were many more head-to-toe and group shots and high-angles during the music than would have been used on Late Night, and I think this is again indicative of the larger studio size. Visually, the music segment was good, but nothing to write home about. I am sure Kartun and his camera crew will hit their stride soon enough. Kartun’s direction of the music on Late Night was, for me, the highlight of the show, and probably the finest such directing on television. I genuinely hope we can see that same level of artistry on the new Tonight Show.

I have the great privilege of going to see the show live at the end of June! Rest assured I will post a full review when the time comes.

Popular Music as Hymn?

2009-06-01T23:27:00.000-07:00

G.K. Chesterton, the great essayist, novelist, and poet, wrote an article in 1904 entitled “Christianity and Rationalism.” Published in an atheistic magazine of the time, the article is Chesterton’s response to some objections to Christianity by a Mr. Blatchford. No Christian who seeks to evangelize or engage in philosophical conversation with an agnostic or atheist should do so without first reading and understanding this piece. It’s that powerful, and it’s available for free here.

But I drift from my main point. Following is an excerpt from Chesterton:

“…Mr. Blatchford and his school point out that there are many myths parallel to the Christian story; that there were Pagan Christs, and Red Indian Incarnations, and Patagonian Crucifixions, for all I know or care. But does not Mr. Blatchford see the other side of this fact? If the Christian God really made the human race, would not the human race tend to rumours and perversions of the Christian God? If the center of our life is a certain fact, would not people far from the center have a muddled version of that fact? If we are so made that a Son of God must deliver us, is it odd that Patagonians should dream of a Son of God?

“The story of a Christ is very common in legend and literature. So is the story of two lovers parted by Fate. So is the story of two friends killing each other for a woman. But will it seriously be maintained that, because these two stories are common as legends, therefore not two friends were ever separated by love or no two lovers by circumstances? It is tolerably plain, surely, that these two stories are common because the situation is an intensely probable and human one, because our nature is so built as to make them almost inevitable.

“Thus, in this first instance, when learned skeptics come to me and say, ‘Are you aware that the Kaffirs have a story of Incarnation?’ I should reply: ‘Speaking as an unlearned person, I don't know. But speaking as a Christian, I should be very much astonished if they hadn't.’”

In other words, humanity has continually expressed a desire, or been at least faintly conscious of its need, for a Redeemer. A wide variety of far-flung cultures have hinted at or dimly reflected Christ in innumerable works of art and pagan religions. To Chesterton’s mind, these were precursors to actual knowledge of the true Messiah.

My argument is that this same phenomenon is today still at work in non-Christian artistic expression. I strongly believe that many artists – including popular songwriters that I will discuss – impart, perhaps subconsciously, Christian ideas or truths that, under the proper circumstances, may help soften unbelievers’ hearts toward the true faith.

Consider two verses of “Give Me Love (Give Me Peace on Earth)” from Living in the Material World (a Christian lament if there ever was one) by George Harrison.

Give me hope
Help me cope
With this heavy load
Trying to touch you, reach you
With heart and soul

My lord
Please take hold of my hand
That I might understand you
Won’t you please
Oh, won’t you

Do you see what I mean? Though originally written, no doubt, in the context of the Hare Krishna movement (one verse requests to be kept “free from birth,” presumably a reference to reincarnation), can the Christian not help but interpret the song as a prayer to the One whose burden is easy and whose yoke is light? Are we not as Christians instructed to be constant examples of love and peacefulness (here I think especially of the Sermon on the Mount and James 3:17-18)?

Take a second example: “I'm Free” from Tommy, by The Who.

I'm free!
I'm free!
And freedom tastes of reality
I'm free!
I'm free!
And I'm waiting for you to follow me

If I told what it takes to reach the highest high,
You'd laugh and say 'nothing's that simple'
But you've been told many times before,
Messiah's pointing to the door
And no one had the guts to leave the temple

Meaningless rock song from an unspiritual album, you ask? Certainly not! Was the Messiah not “pointing to the door” when he laid bare the Pharisees’ wrongs and gave His disciples the Great Commission? Is not the atoning sacrifice of our Lord the gateway to the ultimate freedom? “He who the Son sets free is free indeed,” wrote John (NIV, 8:36). Pete Townshend almost certainly did not have such things in mind when he wrote the song, but they are nonetheless present.

In both songs, we see evidence of Christian ideas that were no doubt far from the minds of their respective writers at the time. Like Chesterton's “Pagan Christs, and Red Indian Incarnations, and Patagonian Crucifixions,” an artist may have no knowledge of or belief in Christ – but He is present within them anyway, if only subconsciously. As J.R.R. Tolkien explained to C.S. Lewis during the latter’s conversion to Christianity, God speaks through poets’ minds. There is some part of our Creator within each of us, whether we choose to acknowledge it or not. These songs, and many others, express at least some grain of Truth even if that may not have been the writers’ intent.

Christians ought to caution themselves against dismissing work by non-Christians as unholy or declaring non-Christian art off-limits. We know not how God may work in the mind of the unbeliever, nor how he may intend for a work of art to surpass its original intent and speak to some greater, more spiritual good.

A Ramble (My Brain Hurts)

2009-05-31T20:04:00.000-07:00

Rather though Billy should have taken four of them and gone clear across the moor into what some call (not all of them, of course) the very final of the penultimate series querying far more than anyone could ever have guessed in that place long ago when barons of industry ran about on the highest of horses and sought to themselves the answer four of them you say?

Well, I am not certain said the rambling roustabout and sometime musician, or was it magician to he who shot right through the door into the wine cupboard left hanging open by those whose recalcitrance is only matched by their unutterable lack of anything remotely resembling in any language known to this man or to any other man extant upon the great green globe shining down from which we discovered that not all of them were possessed of these traits which we at times must force ourselves to recall and in some ways find ourselves reflecting upon a lucid time of derogatory and yet brilliantly illuminating remarks yes we we are all Catholics now.

But of course, we must allow for those whose peripatetic glibness is only ended whereupon we find ourselves back at the start, paying their cab fares with dryer lint and notches carved from old oaken sea-blocks given to them by aged men with beards called Erstwhile and Edgewise, emulsifying with incredible agility the store-room door of little shop down on the far end of the Strand which regulars sometimes hearken to a tale told over ale and the finest of swordsmanship but tell me, master of the Edwardian, was the word maudlin almost totally obscured?

The Guys Who Like to Eat: A Chance Association

2009-05-31T16:27:00.000-07:00

In February, my friend Evan Christensen requested my services as camera operator on a little Web series that he was directing called the "The Guys Who Like to Eat." I had never heard of it, but I am always looking for more production work (especially jobs promising free meals!), and so I went along for the shoot. I've been one of their regular camera operators ever since. Hosted by the estimable Deon Gonzales and Landon Weiszbrod, this program takes viewers through a variety of restaurants (mostly in Fresno, CA), interviewing owners and chefs, touring facilities, and throwing in more than a little zany humor.

Here is the most recent episode, shot at Hero's Sports Lounge in downtown Fresno, CA. I'm the one holding the camera.

And a another recent episode, this one shot at North India Bar & Grill in Clovis, CA. I was one of two camera operators. Be sure to check the Guys Who Like to Eat Youtube channel.

A Hum-Drum Post-Mortem

2009-05-31T16:05:00.000-07:00

I blew a slide big time in the 10:30 service this morning. This was during the most difficult part of the sermon, at least, from my standpoint as the IMAG director. In this case, there was a long passage of text from Romans: six PowerPoint slides' worth. The pastor reads the text aloud as people follow along on the screen. The trick is to anticipate the pastor's next move: will he pause from reading to make a comment, or will he go straight into the next slide? I have to give the computer operator the precise command when to change slides, so there is no room for error. Most (all?) eyes are on the screens at that point.

Genius of the cinematic arts that that I am, I absentmindedly tapped the 'Dissolve' button while waiting to give the cue to change slides. As the pastor read the text, it faded away and was replaced by the feed from Camera 2. I cut back to the computer feed immediately, as soon as I realized what happened, but the damage was done. Whether or not anyone noticed or cared is a mystery – but I am a perfectionist. However, though my (very observant) boss was in the audience with his family, I did not hear from him about it like I thought I would. I suppose that is a good sign.

Other than that, I would say the services today (Sunday – let's forget about Saturday, eh?) went fairly smoothly. There was a fun little sketch at the top of the service. We played an obnoxious ringtone from the control room and an actor in the audience jumped up to 'answer' a comically large mobile phone and run out of the room. 'Twas interesting to have to cue sound effects as well as cameras, graphics, and video. That's not something I'm normally responsible for.

A piece I directed this week made it into the live services: “Northside Update,” a thinly veiled theft of almost every style convention of Saturday Night Live's “Weekend Update.” The idea was to do church announcements in a new medium; this was the format decided on (not by me). I shot the piece with two cameras and created a title sequence in homage to Weekend Update's – quick montage of black-and-white photos, voiceover, and more than a few heavily-stylized transitions. Cheesy as it was, the project was highly enjoyable, and I think it was fairly well-received. I really enjoy shooting single-camera stuff during the week and putting it on the air while directing the weekend line cut. I was highly disappointed to find that the great Allan Kartun (lately of Late Night with Conan O'Brien) didn't direct that show's remote pieces, and that Don Roy King (of Saturday Night Live) doesn't direct the digital shorts and commercial parodies. Oh, reality!

As always, I find my creative faculties hampered by my cameras' immobility. I constantly emphasize movement, movement, movement to the camera operators, but there is only so much they can do with zooms and pans (and they are getting better all the time). If I had three cameras that could truck, dolly, and ped, I could do so much more when shooting music segments. I look at the musical segments on the late night shows and realize that I could do exactly what those directors do if I had the equipment. But, alas! I work for a humble church, not a broadcast network. And there is something to be said for that.

A Look at Live Video Direction

2009-05-31T15:57:00.000-07:00

“Twenty seconds. Stand by to lose key and dissolve Two,” I say to my technical director. He presses buttons on the video switcher before him.

At the precipice of nervousness and intense concentration that marks the beginning of the live video production I am directing, the control room in which I sit is silent. Under dimmed lights, I take a sip of water and adjust my headset microphone.

The house band counts in to the opening song. My eyes are locked on the video monitors in front of me. Then the sudden rush of commands: “Lose key. Dissolve Two. Key the lower. Ready cut Four. Take Four!” I snap my fingers to indicate the precise timing of the cut from Camera Two to Camera Four.

An eight-measure guitar intro leads into a big drum fill. “Three, tighten up on the drums. Ready Three. Take Three!” Snap.

We are off on an hour and a half flurry that will shift among the terseness, euphoria and occasional panic that are part of any live production.

Live multi-camera directing is, unfortunately, a craft that many video enthusiasts do not have the chance to experience. Going live is a stern test of the director’s ability to plan ahead, think on his or her feet and adapt to ever-changing circumstances. It is guaranteed to reveal any faults that re-shooting and editing might have hidden.

Plus, the skills required of the multi-camera director often carry over to other production styles. I don’t doubt that the experience I have in live directing has helped me become a far more efficient single-camera director and editor.

At the Central California church where I am employed as the staff video director, live productions are a weekly event. Video of every church service (one on Saturday, two on Sunday) is projected in the main house for image magnification, sent to a host of closed circuit TVs on the premises and recorded live to DVD. In the typical service, I direct the shooting of several songs, as well as talk-oriented segments like the fast-paced switching between camera feeds and sermon graphics during the pastor’s message.

Preproduction – The Director Prepares

My workweek begins when I arrive on Tuesday afternoon. This particular week, I have some foreknowledge of the songs that are to be played and a few ideas on how I want to shoot them. In our cluttered second-floor office, I confer with producer Ray Yap to learn how the music will fit into the rest of the service.

Then it’s downstairs to take a look at the stage. I pace the floor and mull over which camera shots will work best, and where the cameras will need to be placed in order to frame those shots. There are a few common factors in this decision.

“It’s all about coverage,” says Evan Christensen, the director who trained me. “When directing live events, the key is to have options, particularly if things are hectic or much of the directing must be done on-the-fly.” With only four cameras at my disposal – three of them immobile – this is often a tall order.

By Friday, weekend preparations are in full swing. A service planning meeting is held, during which pastors and my superiors meet to determine a running order for the various parts of the service. A production meeting follows, during which my producer describes to me, the lighting designer and other staff crew members the specific video and technical needs for the weekend.

The ideal working relationship between the director and the producer (or whoever has overall authority over the production) is, according to Christensen, “one of mutual trust.” This is certainly the case with Ray and me. I rely on him to provide the information, crew and ‘political’ support I need to direct effectively; he has faith that I am doing everything I can in the control room to make the production as creative and professional as possible.

The rest of Friday is a blur. I hurriedly type a rundown of the service, which describes in shorthand every song, speaker and video playback cue that I will need to anticipate during the production. I assemble each camera position and test the cameras to ensure full functionality. The afternoon is spent with the lighting designer to create lighting schemes that will both complement the on-stage activity and provide enough illumination for the cameras.

Saturday arrives and I head to the musicians’ rehearsal with pen and paper in hand. For two hours, I sit through the rehearsal, scribbling detailed notes on the beginnings and endings of songs, the order of instrumental and vocal solos and other pertinent information. I write a shot list for each camera, which tells the operator which areas of the stage to cover, and what kinds of shots I will be calling for during the production.

Preparation is absolutely essential for the live director, which is why I spend so much time at rehearsals. When preparation is inadequate, it is up to the director and camera operators to improvise – risky when the production is live.

Christensen recalls three consecutive years of a large-scale arena production when, “not once did the musical guest arrive in time for rehearsal…I had to direct 30-minute sets entirely on the fly.” He found that when preplanning is lacking, the quality of the production is entirely dependent on the crew’s skill.

At 5:30 p.m., the stage lights are dimmed. It is almost ’show time.’ I take my seat in the control room next to technical director Cean Howman, who is responsible for the actual switching between video sources that occurs on-screen according to my cues. I briefly describe my plans for the service, allowing him to prepare for any difficult sequences that may arise during shooting.

With minutes left before the service begins, I have playback operator Jacob Crough test tonight’s three video clips with sound engineer Rafael Carmany. Everything seems to be in order. These final few moments are an odd calm that separates the busy week spent in preproduction from the rush that characterizes the live shooting. I quietly brief the camera operators on what to expect during the service, repeating much of what they see on the shot lists now taped to each camera.

Then there is nothing left but to wait as the clock ticks off the final minutes to the start of the production. I run through the service in my head, making sure that I am ready to anticipate anything that might happen in the next 90 minutes.

Preshow Anxiety

It is during this time that the pressure the director feels is often at its highest. Howman, who recently began directing under my tutelage, commented that the toughest part of the job is “the nerves, trying to get comfortable with the pressure.” There is no escape from it save the relief that comes when the countdown hits zero.

Every director responds differently to these last preproduction moments. Jim Weaver, a fellow church director, claims to “be a bit over the top on keeping the control room at a professional climate. Typically, right before a show, I am kicking people out who do not belong there and reminding others of their responsibilities.”

Evan Christensen’s response depends on the setting. “In really big venues, it’s a mixture of anxiety and excitement,” he says. “It’s quite a rush, really. In a more routine setting, I generally feel confident of my abilities. In being professional, I try to be focused, but not to the point that I set everyone on edge.”

Calling the Shots

I lean back in my chair. “Dissolve Three, wide. Lose key. Dissolve PC.” The opening song has gone smoothly. I have to admire the camera operators’ patience. During the production, I am constantly talking at them, encouraging, suggesting, ordering. “Keep pushing in, Two. Nice, nice. Standby to lose left. Ready dissolve Three. Two, lose left. Dissolve Three. Perfect. One, widen that to the three-shot and then push in to that close-up. Start the move. Dissolve One.”

When directing cameras live, timing is everything. I strive to make cuts either between a speaker’s phrases, or on the beat of a song. The idea is that the transitions between cameras should look natural, not jarring or forced. This is a skill that video editors must learn as well. When I edit, the sense of timing I have developed as a live director makes editing decisions much easier, and results in better-flowing videos.

Not all directors make camera calls the same way. I tend to be very authoritarian; I have a specific vision in mind, and it irks me when the camera operators don’t follow my instructions. Jim Weaver, on the other hand, is a bit less strict.

“When I direct something like a live musical performance, I give the cameras zones, but [I] give them freedom in their shots,” he says. But there are times when Weaver must be more exacting. “If it is a play with actors who have lines, then I either have a shot list or task my cameras to zones,” he explains. “If they leave their zone, I give them a hard time.”

In many smaller-scale live productions, directors must have the patience to work with less-experienced crew members. It’s important to keep the crew’s skill level in mind, and make appropriate adjustments if necessary. A director who expects too much out of a green crew will only become frustrated, and the production will suffer. But with practice, even the most unlikely candidates can master the necessary skills.

Weaver recalls a stage play that he shot live with a camera crew consisting of “a man with little experience, a woman with marginal experience but no [knowledge of] terminology, a 12-year-old boy and a 13-year-old boy. By the time we completed two evenings of rehearsals and went live, all of the camera operators had a working vocabulary and we did not miss a shot.”

A Wrap

Back in the control room, the service passes in a blur without any major hitches. I note which sermon graphics were not used so that they do not distract me in the morning. The audience is long gone before I shut down the control room and head home for a few hours’ sleep. The next morning arrives all too soon, and we repeat the entire service twice. I try to best my previous effort each time.

And, as quickly as the week began, so it ends. The final service concludes, the production wraps, and I rise from my director's chair to collect the tapes from each camera and strike all of the video equipment. Tuesday will roll around in no time, and the process will start all over again.

There Will Be Blood and the Milkshake of Homeric Myth

2009-05-31T15:34:00.000-07:00

Following is a little piece I wrote for a Western humanities course:

Western storytelling owes much to the work of ancient poets and authors. Where would we be culturally had it not been for the momentous achievements of the Greeks, especially their mythological literature? To this day, Western storytelling continues to reflect themes, characters, and ideas first articulated and/or developed by the Greeks in myths like Homer’s. Though ‘storytelling’ once would have referred purely to written or oral works, it has come to include film as well. Cinema carries on the Western literary tradition of portraying themes which were originally Greek, yet still have relevance to modern audiences. Such is the case with the 2007 film There Will Be Blood, written and directed by Paul Thomas Anderson. Its protagonist, oilman Daniel Plainview, shares a number of marked similarities with Homer’s characterization of the hero Achilles in the Iliad, strong evidence that Greek myth is still a major influence on the way Westerners tell stories.

There Will Be Blood is less a narrative than a character study. It is an examination of one Daniel Plainview, his motivations, and philosophy. Plainview is a misanthropic oil prospector of the 1910s. After discovering oil in the desert of southeastern California, Plainview quickly buys up the surrounding land and begins drilling, becoming an influential figure in the fictional town of Little Boston. His conflict with charismatic preacher Eli Sunday becomes a recurring theme in the film, as the two compete for influence and power in the small town. In the final scene, a now-wealthy Plainview humiliates a financially ruined Sunday and beats him to death with a bowling pin.

Homer’s portrayal of Achilles was clearly an inspiration (at least subconsciously) for the character of Daniel Plainview. Their similarities are many, some superficial, some less so. Look, for instance, at the way each character is portrayed as both something approaching deity and something less than human. Aristotle wrote in the Politics that “he...who has no need [to live in society] because he is sufficient to himself, must be either a beast or a god…” (I:3:26-29). Both Achilles and Plainview fit the mold. Achilles, of course, can do without others; for most of the Iliad, he sits by and twiddles his thumbs while the rest of the Achaean army is nearly destroyed by the Trojans. Only the death of his closest friend, not the pleas of of his fellow soldiers, motivates him to fight. Fitting right in with Aristotle’s claim, both Homer and many fellow characters refer to Achilles as “godlike” or “like a god” (as in Iliad 22:330 and 22:158, respectively), paying tribute to the warrior’s heritage (the son of a nymph) and his mightiness on the field. Of course, it must not be forgotten that for all his magnificence as a warrior, his descent into blind rage, culminating in the desecration of Hector, makes Achilles seem more bestial than divine.

Daniel Plainview fits Aristotle’s description of the man without society perhaps even better than Achilles. Plainview, who may be even more self-sufficient than Achilles, has neither interest in nor need for any other person. This is most coldly shown in the way he uses his adopted son, H.W., solely as a ploy to garner sympathy during business transactions. Plainview hopes that the fortune he makes from oil prospecting and drilling will enable him to leave society altogether, for, as he declares in a rare moment of introspection, “I hate most people...There are times when I look at people and see nothing worth liking” (Anderson 73-74). In the end, Plainview gets his wish, living alone in a large mansion. The film’s final shot, with Plainview sitting alone next to Eli Sunday’s corpse, is indicative of the solitude which he was successful in finding, and the price he paid for it. Aristotle wrote that such a man must be “either a beast or a god”; for Plainview, there is no either-or. His incredible force of personality and complete control over every situation he finds himself in seems superhuman. And what could be more godlike than the way Plainview deals out judgment the way he sees fit? “I am the Third Revelation!” is his near-blasphemous cry as he savagely murders his rival Sunday. The scene is distinctly Homeric, with Plainview brutally exacting his own justice on Sunday the same way Achilles does to Hector in Book 22 of the Iliad. Ironically, in this scene of judgment, Plainview is as animalistic as ever. Like Achilles, he never occupies the middle ground between god and beast.

Throughout the Iliad, Achilles’ self-centeredness is evident. He thinks nothing of his fellow Achaeans and their suffering because of his absence from battle, but only of his own private grudge with King Agamemnon. Even the pleas of two of his closest comrades, Odysseus and Ajax, cannot spur Achilles to fight. He does not realize the impact his actions have on his mother, Thetis, and either fails to notice or ignores her selflessness which counterbalances his own behavior. Only when he has some personal interest in the war (avenging Patroclus and thus gaining “unfading glory”; Iliad 9:502-04), does Achilles become active in the campaign.

Daniel Plainview descends from that line of the selfish of which Achilles is a prominent member. As mentioned above, he is a genuine misanthrope, seeking total escape from other people. Plainview will not suffer rivalries or competition; he coldly murders a man claiming to be his brother, tells an adult H.W. that he is making a “misstep” by entering the oil business and becoming a competitor (Anderson 119), and beats Eli Sunday, who competed with Plainview for influence in Little Boston, to death. Plainview sees people as either means or obstacles to ends. All that matters to him are his private goals and schemes, as is the case with Achilles. Like Achilles, Plainview exerts influence over all other characters in the film. Cinematographer Robert Elswit aptly illustrates this self-centeredness with the camera. Careful viewers will notice the recurring visual motif wherein shots of Plainview and other characters are framed so that those around Plainview are behind him, out of focus, or only seen from behind. They are, to Plainview’s mind, unimportant members of a society in which he has no interest. It is Plainview who is always the center of attention. Note also the frequent use of dollying shots in which the camera is “constantly closing in, constantly narrowing the focus, continually excluding the outside world” (MacDowell), mirroring what must also be going on in Plainview’s mind. If a faithful film adaptation of the Iliad were made, this would seem an equally appropriate technique for shooting Achilles.

The third and final major similarity to be examined is in the antagonists which Achilles and Plainview must face. In the cases of both characters, their primary foes are almost, but not quite, their equals. Achilles, of course, is opposed by the Trojan warrior Hector who slew Patroclus. Though Hector’s reputation as a fighter is neither small nor unearned, he is no match for divinely-favored Achilles. Daniel Plainview’s antagonist is a much different figure: the preacher Eli Sunday. Both Hector and Sunday are guilty of pride. Hector refuses to retreat to the walls of Troy though he knows that Achilles has joined the battle. Sunday refuses to acknowledge that Plainview could possibly become more powerful and influential than he. It is ironic, then, that they are punished for this flaw by death at the hands of the equally prideful Achilles and Plainview.

Both Achilles and Plainview seek revenge on their antagonists, Achilles for Patroclus’ death, Plainview for Sunday’s failure to heal H.W.’s deafness. Incredibly, Plainview’s hatred for Sunday somehow runs at least as deep as Achilles' for Hector. For Achilles, Hector is simply a battlefield opponent responsible for the death of his best friend. Had Patroclus not been killed, Achilles would probably have had no quarrel with Hector. But to Plainview, Eli Sunday and his church are not only personally hateful, but also representative of much of what he loathes about humanity: stupidity, or more specifically, inability to think for oneself. Though Plainview immediately sees that Sunday is a power-hungry fraud, Sunday’s congregation truly believes that their leader is, as he claims, the “Third Revelation” of God (Anderson 52). This, coupled with Sunday’s humiliation of Plainview in a scene of forced public baptism, seals Sunday’s fate. There is little hope for an enemy of one so dogged as Plainview, as was certainly the case thousands of years before with Achilles. By the way, it is interesting to note that just as Achilles prevented Hector from reaching the afterlife by refusing him proper burial, Plainview damns Sunday by persuading him to recant his faith and call God a “superstition” (Anderson 127).

Hopefully, it is by now apparent how the character of Daniel Plainview is hugely influenced − consciously or not − by Homer’s portrayal of Achilles. This would indicate, then, an extent to which Greek mythological storytelling continues to shape and be reflected in modern Western storytelling, on film, in this case, but also in verse, prose, and music (few songs rock harder than Led Zeppelin’s “Achilles’ Last Stand”!). Solomon tells us that “there is no new thing under the sun” (KJV, Eccl. 1:9), and this seems to often be the case with literary characters. But it is important to remember that though modern works of art may show signs of significant influence (Greek, in this example), they are no less shaped by the times in which they are created. While there seems to be some hope of redemption for Achilles in his kind treatment of Priam and tears for his own father in Book 24, there is no equivalent scene for Daniel Plainview. As the film closes, Plainview is, in his own words, “finished” (Anderson 132); his life of ruthlessness has led once again to murder. This dark conclusion seems reflective of the grimness and cynicism which seem more and more common in the world today. In any case, it seems to this author a great testament to the skill of Homer and his ancient peers that their work is not only imitated by artists thousands of years later, but continues to inspire them to create anew. Will today’s art be so long-lived?

Works Cited
Anderson, Paul Thomas. There Will Be Blood. Paramount Vantage, 2006.

Aristotle. Politics. Trans. W.D. Ross. Chicago: Encyclopedia Britannica, Inc., 1987.

Holy Bible, The, King James Version. 2000. 4 December 2008.
<http://www.bartleby.com/108/21/1.html>

Homer. The Iliad. Trans. Robert Fitzgerald. New York: Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 2004.

MacDowell, James. “There Will Be Blood: An Extended Alternate Take.” Alternate Takes. 2008.
2 December 2008. <http://www.alternatetakes.co.uk/?2008,4,206>.