The Believer - An Evening With Hapa

Perhaps I was wrong (refer to Writing Style Experiment). My friend had a dream come true, to play with those who inspired the path he follows, Hapa. Each concert, every gig working toward a way of living, learning guitar, building two groups together, endless rehearsals, a degree, jam sessions, all with a belief in what Hapa stood for, what he felt they accomplished and brought to his life. For some an idol is essential inspiration, a starting point or ideal. It was ill of me not to acknowledge that a belief is more than just the walking vessel. My apologies. They were not my models, but I appreciated the escape they provided nonetheless.

The concert was sold out, fans of young and old filled our little university recital hall. Add in our music professors and cream pies and we got ourselves a party! We could shave their heads if they would prefer that.
Ha'ena, my friend's local cover band, were invited to open the show for their idols as guest performers. Let us know how it was guys to watch and chat with them backstage. Chicken skin was your phrase?

I cannot fathom that true bliss of exchanging words with my guiding light. For comparison, would you compare it to meeting God? Better make certain Hapa doesn't read this, may overwhelm their egos. Possible?

The performers themselves were not what I expected. Familiarized with the relaxed traditional Hawaiian music my friend's group Ha'ena plays, I was surprised when a Billy Joel impersonator walked on stage and began dancing with his guitar like he was a one man band (minus the bad accent, at least Barry admitted being howlie). But it was entertaining to see a rock star in action, and the musician in me still sat amazed at the way their hands glided over the strings. I sware it was an optical illusion (what is this supposed to be?); I heard the notes, but my eyes couldn't catch their strumming. But I sank at the warmth of Nathan's voice. To hear vibrato and warmth like his applied to traditional songs was an experience all in itself. Never have I been so aroused by a man's falsetto. Whew.

I always enjoy watching traditional hula as well. The grace and simplicity of the movement speaks of a strength found in feeling connected to something greater than any one person. It demonstrates an appreciation for the land and ocean, for family, and encourages respect for the female form rather than the overly sexualized generalization created by media.
Truly a pleasure to be a participant in a rich display of empowerment. I am so happy for you my friends. Chi-hoo Ha'ena!

Disclaimer: For personal reassurance, I maintain high consideration for those whose lives inspire my writings. It is never my purpose to tell another's story, only to theorize about myself and my environment based on observation. I am fascinated by the affect the slightest interaction has on my perception of the world. I aim to share my musings on the human experience while the inspiration is stirring. Thus my work is my interpretation of his behavior based on my own colored lens and filtered through my own experience.

The Beauty of Grief

For days my sister has been staying with me, as a zombie, forcing herself to move through each hour denying the corroding pain yet to be tended. Frustration. Sensitivity to criticism. I felt the stalking presence of a sorrow desperate to be unleashed, and for days I have been waiting.
Before I left my parents I decided to dismiss the burden of being caregiver and counselor to her. I would simply provide an environment of respect and freedom for her to do with as she pleases. If I created an atmosphere where she could feel safe, maybe whatever processing or knowledge she needed would be made clear without my tampering. I hoped the visit would at least supply her with a different perspective on how one can live (without constant yelling, away from the physical reminders that triggered her breakdown).
We came home from a visit with a friend. She mentioned having stomach pains and headed for the next room to hide. Noticing her desire to escape, I jumped at the opportunity to finally talk with her alone. I walked unexpectedly into a hug when I entered the doorway. I asked what was wrong. She described the pains in her stomach. Anxiety. The last time she had an attack around me she utilized distraction as her method of coping. Her attempts to push her feelings aside were vocalized by a distinct monotone moan that only proved her efforts were not amounting to any relief. The moment I heard those same moans begin during this incident, I defaulted to my grief training. I encouraged her to embrace those feelings rather than continue to suppress them.
Little by little, sobs echoed in my ear. Still locked in embrace, she acknowledged the feelings that were rising to the surface by name: frustration, anxiety, sadness. At last! I thought. She’s finally crying. I wasn’t necessarily waiting for her to cry, but rather to be honest with herself about what she was experiencing. In my experience supporting others, this was a major indication of progress (however that might be defined when referring to a process that tends to be cyclical).
I continued to encourage her to just allow the tears to flow, to try not to hold back as she rested on my shoulder. She explained how difficult it has been dealing with the overwhelming fear of “losing it.” A common symptom of panic disorder is a fear of losing control or subsequent attacks. For her, this fear was stifling her need to grieve. When I say grief, I mean a process in which the individual allows whatever they are feeling to be expressed freely for the purpose of releasing energy, sharing, arriving at any conclusions, coping with the loss, and questioning what causes the concerning behavior: the manifestations of the pain or fear that exists at the core of the problem. For her, guilt and betrayal weighed heavily on her conscious.
As we discussed her fears and hesitations about talking to others (particularly counselors or professionals), she unfolded the story that landed her in the hospital. She spoke about the pain of being betrayed by her most trusted support system. She spoke of desperation and shame about how the situation erupted out of her control. She spoke of isolation. Yet she didn’t know she would do anything differently, pitted against herself by her own understanding for those involved. Dying for justice.
All at once she exploded into a rage-induced sob, dropping to the floor by my feet. Droning wails spilled out, self-accepting humility. No holding back. She simply roared.
I caressed her back while she sat bowed against the floor in prayer pose to reassure her that it was okay to exist exactly as she was in that moment. But my heart crumbled for my little sister. Her cries of pain stung what I could imagine being my very soul. The tension aroused by my protective urges melted away to sheer empathy. I felt the betrayal and guilt familiarized by my own experiences and joined in her grief. It was a beautiful exchange. At long last, I had met my little sister.

Preparation (1)

I love my Jadzia. It pains me the thought of her suffering, something she has endured too much of it seems. From being left out in the cold, taking a leap of faith into my life from the cold rain. I ran so hard in hopes I found a lost kitten. I took her in and yet I still felt I had betrayed her. She stayed at my parents house, abused and neglected, trapped and tense. I didnt recognize her. Bringing her here was the right thing to do. She was fat and happy for a couple years. She seemed content at last. And now she is sick. Wasting away. Won't eat, barely drinks. Sleeps her life away more so than usual. She avoids the dog. Its as though she cant wait until I walk in to lay down. She wants to lay in my lap and be comforted so badly. I fear I will regret the many times when other things were prioritized. I want her healthy. It shouldnt be her time yet. Not like this. I was preparing for a few months now and I realize I just refuse to let her go in pain like Shante. Let her go peacefully, without suffering. I believe her lack of interest in food and loss of weight and bad breath are all related. Maybe tooth problems. If I can get her into the vet to check her mouth. I could. I suddenly have a feeling of emergency, if I dont do it asap she might die, even though she has been surviving for weeks now like this... God. Weeks like this. What torture. If she is in pain no wonder she has been sleeping more. Only way to cope now. Pretty soon it will be permanent though. Maybe she can get better and live a few more years. Maybe I can afford the work. I miss the days when she was healthy and sassy. Oh my baby girl. Mommy is here for you. I know youve been trying to tell me something. All these signs are pointing to problems and I am afraid they wont be able to tell me what is wrong and I again waste hundreds.
Please... just please. I dont even know what I am asking for. I dont want her to die yet. If I cant find what is wrong than I submit, but please let there be an easy and obvious problem and solution. My Jadzia.

Sleep as Preparation (2)

I must let go.
What will life be like? How could I possibly carry on with the daily routine? A hole will be dug. Menacing in the corner, reminding me of a beautiful relationship. Something will be missing.
Exhaustion. The both of us. End the suffering. Sleep is her escape, a hint. It is her wish, to sleep eternally. Dont force her to give up. She clings to life for you. Her love has lasted so long already. Return it now. Prove to her you love her enough to let her find peace. She is trapped to her body. A body that is deteriorated and weak. It can no longer sustain her.
She has lived a rough life. The last couple years have been good.
We exchanged a love I never fully appreciated until now. You were always be my side. You have been telling me your time is near for some time. You allowed ample time for me to prepare, to begin grieving, to say goodbye. I will release you. Thank you for all you have given me, for the time you held on even though you were in need of relief. I tried to ease your pain but have merely extended it. I will always love you. I brought you from the pouring rain, took you away from isolation and depression at my parents. We shared a couple wonderful years. You were fat and happy and I enjoyed knowing that. You got to live like a happy house cat for a while. Please forgive my ignorance, my blindness to your pain. You hide it so well. The epitomy of strength. You represent the sort of woman I have always wanted to be: strong, resilient, lovable, dependent and independent, spirited, patient, a quiet wisdom.
I am scared for this. Will you let me know clearly that you are ready to go before we insert the needle? Will you tell me goodbye somehow. Will you indicate you love me? Will you just go peacefully, relieved to be set free? Perhaps thirteen is enough for all you have endured. I remember so much. All the trials to make you safer, to ensure your happiness and now this final one.
I love you my baby girl.
My Jadzia.

When will I know you

As my maternal clock tempts me into rushing, I resist until I am certain the circumstances speak well to me. Until the doubt has receded, when I will not fear the abandonment, divorce, entrapment and despair that has befallen the women of my past, when my feminist ideals permit me to surrender pursuit of a career to the potential joy of a baby.
I think of you often. Who might you be? Will you love me? Will you talk to me about your problems, consult me for guidance but capable of finding your own answers? Will you adopt my principles and build upon them? Will you treasure my writings, my pondering about you? Will you be empathetic like me? Will you cry at the thought of an animal being mistreated? Will it anger you? Will you be bold enough to stand up for your beliefs, defend those unable to? Will you rise above the superficial, materialistic, judgmental and often insensitive influences of our culture? Will you be curious about other perspectives, about the questions of death and existence, or religion and not simply discard it as a weak or meaningless practice? What will you believe? Will you have faith in something despite your awareness of its potential to be false? Will you understand the power of your thoughts on your actions, those around you, the course of your life?
Can I possibly teach you all of this?
I yearn for the experience of holding you to my breast and looking into the eyes of a soul I have been waiting to meet.
Rather I should be asking, who will I be, what will I do as your parent. Hopefully, by monitoring my own choices in raising you, I will find that whoever you become is someone I will be proud to call my child.

Turning Point

This could be the turning point I have been expecting. A major source of frustration and pain for me has been not being there for my little sisters. They are in desperate (exemplifies my tendency to exaggerate a problem) need of someone who can guide them in the right direction. Both have been cut off from the high school, which was a major outlet of support for them. Both are depressed and feeling isolated and uncertain about where to go from there.
After speaking with Michelle and feeling like nothing I said was good enough for her, that nothing I could say was what she wanted to hear, I realized first that maybe what she needed was for me to actually be a sister, not a counselor. Just as I needed to figure out how to be a daughter to my mother. How to not take on the responsibility alone of counseling my family, but being a part of it. Struggling with them, sharing my hardships as I have complained they do.
I should hug her, listen to her, play with her hair, tell her it will be okay. Maybe that is what a sister is supposed to do. I have been stuck in the role model mode, having sacrificed my obligations as a sister.
If Laura and her both come down here to live with me, I can get a full time job to support us, all the while encouraging them (indirectly so there is no real pressure) to search for a job or schooling or volunteering, anything to get them into new experiences. The goal being to build their character, their self-esteem, their recognition that there are opportunities out there. I can immerse them in my atmosphere here, my support group, my own love (since I am apparently needing something to love after my kitty died and my maternal clock is taunting me). This town is kinder, smaller, and provides an excellent setting for new beginnings. There are so many programs in this little area that we could look into that would be educational and fun. I am hoping the many resources available to me can be available to them through me. Brittany could take them horse riding. They could babysit for Channing? Maybe?
However, I am concerned about losing the main figure of my support group, Jim, if my sisters and I choose to do this. Will he want to live with my sisters as well? We could get a different place with a few rooms, they could stay in one.
This would give me the chance to guide them more thoroughly in their lives, and offer me some peace about leaving them. It could be a great opportunity to really get to know them.

Writing Style Experiment

Never fails. Put my laptop aside convinced at last that I should sleep, only to pick it back up not two minutes later burning to type something more. Life of an insomniac… with a need to write… and inability to stop thinking… over analytical… too easily inspired by the silence of night and freedom to dwell inward… … Right, freeze ray.
It seems certain conditions must be understood for comedy to really be appreciated. I am pondering the question of how something intended to be funny makes one person laugh and not another. If you have a level of respect for someone, they become the funniest damned person in the world. Perhaps as a way to impress them or because the laughee believes the person intelligent and therefore must be clever even if the laughee had no clue what the punch line was. Amazing how we assign certain qualities of wit and intelligence to our models. Of course we learn later that they are really drunk, misinformed, airheads equally capable of being swayed and influenced as we were by them. No bitterness there, I promise. Maybe God wasn’t being selfish when he carved into stone (which means it must be real) not to idolize anyone or thing beyond him. Disappointment is a bitch.
This entry is of course dedicated to my boyfriend, who admires his humorous authors for their wit and blatant disregard for societal expectations of decency and filtering ones inner dialogue of vulgarity (maybe I went too far; love you honey!). Thought I’d give it a try. It’s entertaining to say the least, freeing in a way and in another way a bold faced lie because the sort of mood this type of writing requires is like a drunk sorority girl, you’re hot enough for her to dress her back up before she wakes up just so she doesn’t suspect something happened last night, but something deep down tells you something would give you away (just to distinguish from some(Bush reference?), I intentionally used vague words in that similie). Wait. That had nothing to do with the point I was trying to make. See this is why this type of writing doesn’t befit me. It sends my analytic personality into overdrive. Who knew! Thought it would demand a Fuck you, and this, and me attitude and the ability to offend every race, creed, gender, and (enter a category which will inevitably manage to deny that white, middle class, and male are also included within it), which I have done none of. FAIL. Defendant sentenced to never writing this way again unless voted to by popular demand (did I mention I’m more likely to use clichés in this mood?). Yeah don’t ask where the court reference came. I can’t track the process, just release it.
Oh right, the point. So my boyfriend is my idol in many ways. After I began to acknowledge myself as a writer (an obviously undetermined sort), my spidey senses tingled about why he enjoys the particular authors he reads every week. Being only exposed to the type of reader he is set me up for trying to model those writers in order to receive the sort of reaction they elicit from him (paste asinine comment about expecting an asinine comment here). I also realized that maybe he won’t find my material funny anyway, simply because he knows me too well and is more likely to lift an eyebrow and give me some asinine (Muahaha!) comment about ‘being cute.’ Feminists unite!

Here is where I become genuine. The above seemed necessary in my scramble to overcome the hesitation of finally compiling my writings in one spot and the doubt that resulted. I know what sort of writer I am, inspirational, observational, analytical. But all for the purpose of improving myself, my life, and those I influence. Laughter is important, but I escape through other methods for that fulfillment. My writing is my processing. Managing my sensitivity, empathy, and genetic predisposition to anxiety disorders has been my greatest challenge. Yet, I have managed to survive and embrace the possibility of happiness through this processing. It is my therapy. My effort to inspire others while helping myself. I do rediscover the same answers to the same problems at every interval. It has become an inside joke for me. Thus my writings serve as logs to track patterns, to observe myself from a third-party perspective, to confront the hardships I encounter.
For me, strength is not a measure of resilience or push and pull, but of one’s ability to climb out of pitfalls. Health is not a measure of one’s ability to avoid illness, but of one’s ability to manage the given stresses of life. My ideas are often contradictory, and I allow that for the purpose of learning. Critics are quick to identify when someone contradicts themselves, as if it indicates a lack of true commitment to or definition of one’s ideals. I, on the other hand, strive to create a safe environment for my thoughts to move freely. This site will be my playground.

PS. Maybe the above theory about laughter and role models is crap. I watched that link again expecting to poke fun at my boyfriend for his obsession with watching that reporter receive whiplash and ended up laughing myself into shame. I hate disproving my own ideas.

This rant was not what I picked my laptop back up for. Balls.

Being Bipolar

Bipolar is one of those psychological disorders (by ‘one’ I mean all of them) that is often misunderstood. Here is my attempt at explaining it based on my current mixed manic-depressive mood. Subject (and almost guaranteed) to change (see actual definition of bipolar).
Bipolar is an experience where each manic phase comes with an epiphany that is followed by a low that makes you realize how dumb your epiphany was. Wash, rince, repeat. Then years of diary entries later testify that you’ve rediscovered the same answers to the same problems countless times throughout your life. Like 50 first dates, except in this case you don’t get to forget the terrible thing that happened, you repeat it at every crossroad, doomed to forever re-experience the same cyclical torture. Like marriage. Yeah. Being bipolar is sort of like being in a bad marriage. Without the sex. Apparently you can take pills for that too. Sex I mean.

Doubt

This was a film deserving of its nominations. While the obvious preoccupation with this movie would be deciding whether the priest did indeed commit the undeclared acts suggested of him or not, I avoided that debate, since it was never satisfactorily stated. Big surprise. Instead, I appreciated the subtleties of the filming, like how slight tilts of the camera angle at certain moments in the plot added to the suspicion, and the greater lessons suggested.
The plot itself was brilliantly set up. There was a fair balance between the two rivaling characters, giving them equal ground to walk on, negative and positive aspects. As the viewers we did feel the pull either way, making the doubt most realistic.
The accuser, the principal of a religious school based in 1964 in New York (before the mess with the Catholic Church was going on), is an intolerant leader who expects her students and others in the Parish to follow the guidelines strictly. She is constantly correcting the people around her and demands a way of perfection. The preacher however, is portrayed as a lenient father, who breaks the rules on occasion for simple pleasure: sugar in his tea, a smoke outside, drinking with his fellow priests. He teaches boys basketball and regards his students with respect, letting them ask questions that pertain to their immediate lives, giving them advice and modeling they need. When his relations with a particular child come into question, he is accused of making advances on him. He claims to be taking him under his wing to protect him. The boy is an outcast, bullied, isolated, abused by his home father, and black in a white school. However, the sister believes the boy to be a prime target for a wandering priest. Right off she suggests that she's seen it before, that her experience tells her the Father is trouble. Above all the rest of the suggestions made by the camera angles, the shots, the lack of information, hers is key. She saw everyday behaviors, possibly misdiagnosed behaviors that she came to conclusions about because of past experience. It only takes one to ruin it for the rest.
One accusation or case of sexual assault on someone thought to be the most trustworthy and holy of men spreads doubt like a brush fire through the church. Suddenly everyone is concerned about the behavior of religious leaders in relations with children. A touch on the shoulder becomes force, a place of confession becomes the right circumstances for a predator to strike.
In psychology we recognize the Power of Suggestion; we compensate for it in studies by using a placebo effect and go to great lengths to control it. It takes one scare and suddenly we have instances of discrimination: those of Japanese descent are forced into camps, the wrong words could put you on the Black list, "random" searches of persons thought to be Islamic or of Middle Eastern descent. Our history is built on the doubt that leads to the rights of innocent people being ignored.
We never get to learn if the Father accused in this movie was guilty. We are left guessing if he who breaks the rules once in a while is truly out to help those who need a role model, or is abusing his position. Is the strict principal filled with conviction that is based on no definite evidence only seeing what she expects to see? How can we ever really know the truth when the mob mentality holds the control with its chaos, when its better to be safe than sorry.

Inglorious Basterds (R)

Tarantino has done it again and with such a sick but satisfying humor that you can't help but walk away delightfully offended. His trademark setup of using conversation and dialogue to create the tension that would otherwise be overdone special effects in an action movie, has been taken to a new level. The dialogue is clever, often with philosophical underpinnings, but mostly brash, adding that necessary comedic element so indicative of his scripts.
If you're not used to his style, you may be rather confused at the hype since it seems to move along randomly, without any indication how it might all come together, and seems to twist and blatantly alter history. Just as Abrams went his own way with an alternate reality of Star Trek (minus the annoying hollywood abuse of Uhura as the tamed woman turned nurturer for our big hero), the story is a filmmaker's conception of how WWII might have gone; a sort of bizarre fairytale telling about various efforts coming together to put Hitler and his Nazi's in their place, a place where they are blindfolded, stripped naked, and piled together for any person who ever secretly dreamed of revenge to point and laugh at them (the terrorism reference should be familiar).
I appreciated the non-sugarcoated violence. Tarantino has no qualms about showing dismemberment or lingering on a shot of tearing flesh while portraying total indifference in the characters as though to mock our rolling stomachs. Ah the subtleties.
The movie itself is a wonderful experience for an American to hear such a mix of language in a way that appeals to our short attention spans. It is mostly subtitled, showing a rich diversity of French, German, English, American, and even Italian. And he left some room for humor in his subtitles as well, if you know to watch for it. Perhaps, almost equally delightful as the script was Christoph Waltz's performance as the villain Colonel Hans Landa, which he has already won an award for at the Cannes Film Festival in France. His character is a cunning, psychotic villain, a true hunter, capable of noticing minute details and steering his prey into a trap with finesse and delight. He is quite the similar in many respects to Brad Pitt's character, a deceptively stupid American in charge of the Basterds who speaks bluntly and without any attempt at fancy talk, but together they provide a balanced humor by contrasting one another's style.
I highly recommend this movie to anyone who appreciates a good film and dark humor. Just be prepared to go "WTF?"

Ciudad de Deus (City of God) (R)

I do not usually watch foreign films because the cultural differences are often too much for me to truly appreciate, but this one has me questioning the depth and quality of America's film industry in comparison. The scenes of violence and blood are vivid and realistic, as though it is more a documentary than scripted scenes. It is haunting when a child of no more than seven is crying from a shot to the foot as his life is being subject to an either or choice by another child holding a gun. Children pushed to limits you and I could never know, forced to fight and steal or die and be exploited.
The movie tells the story of a slum on the outskirts of Rio de Janeiro, a city known for its beauty and history. Gangs of adolescents run the streets through threat of violence while managing drug trade for income. Calling their lifestyles "hood" these boys rise and fall quickly, living until they are struck down by corrupt law enforcement, or assassinated by other gangs. Lives in poverty, where starving dogs roam the streets, where the youth must steal from passing vehicles for gas fuel.
The narrator, a boy witnessing the events of gang violence and drug trade take place in his neighborhood while pursuing his dream of being a photographer. His inside advantage to the crime that plagues his streets allows him opportunities to capture images he sells to a newspaper, eventually establishing himself as a photographer and the chance to earn an honest living.
If you can get pass reading the movie through subtitles, and still catch the subtleties of the films artistry, this movie is a beautiful insight into a hell most of us can never imagine.

The Sing-Off Review

Usually I avoid the trendy pop-culture media, but in this case I am willing to make an exception. Finally the contemporary acappella genre has received national recognition for the creativity, musicality, and entertainment it represents. Eight groups from around the country put their lives on hold for the chance to win $10,000 and a Sony recording contract. Each group brings a unique understanding of the genre, harnessing the voice as a versatile instrument to produce a visually and orally entertaining atmosphere.

Being in the original founding group of a contemporary acappella group, working with OSU and UO's founders, competing, and researching on my own has provided me with the background to appreciate these groups. The amount of energy and commitment required to prepare for a performance that combines composition/arranging (knowledge of blend, harmony, part-writing, dynamics, tempo, choosing appropriate syllables or words), choreography and drama (interpreting the music and lyrics, using the space, timing, coordinating with singing, gesture and motion), and most importantly singing (choosing soloists, blending voices, proper and appropriate diction, dynamics, imitating instruments, complimenting other roles) which also includes the vocal percussionist (VP) more commonly known as beat-boxer. VP must understand how to adjust and maintain tempo to aid and compliment the singers, all while keeping the mouth moist and making the sounds consistently clear. Other duties a group's success rides upon is song selection. An arranger can make a wonderful arrangement of a song, but if the singers cannot interpret it right and the audience doesn't feel it, the performance suffers. Each part is integral to group. How all the parts come together and the quality of the individual areas and performance as a whole will decide the ultimate success of a group.

Acappella music puts a new spin on a range of other musical genres, including classics, popular music, jazz, rock, all contemporary. It allows music to be a mobile profession, something you take with you everywhere but requires the unit to be complete.

One aspect of the show that bothers me the most is Nicole Scherzinger as a judge. Her comments seem overly superficial and lack constructive criticism or even intellect. While others might believe her background as a lead vocalist for a pop group is enough to qualify her to judge a competition on group dynamics, I do not buy it. She knows nothing of the genre, nor does she seem to know much about music as an art and study. For those who dare compare this sort of competition to American Idol, understand this first, these groups focus on musicality, harmony, interpretation. This is not a scene where the group only sings their part without concern for the background vocals, instruments, choreographers, without knowing anything about music, how to read it or actually interpret it. Performing a solo and taking claim to all the credit and fame is not what the genre is about. They are real people, it is a competition of a popular variety, but the similarities end there. This is where real music begins.

Episodes are available to watch on nbc.com or hulu.com. It is on at 8pm channel 5 (cable) for only one or two more episodes (week-long competition). It takes a long time to prepare so many pieces so they had to make it doable for the groups by limiting the repertoire. Its not gimmicky; it may be annoying in a way to see the sudden hype when its been around awhile, but pleasing nonetheless. I recommend it to those willing to enjoy and appreciate it.

Avatar Movie Review

I thoroughly enjoy a good fantastical setting, but I am often disappointed by the cliches or lack of creativity. This one made me swallow my words (gotta love em, the cliches I mean). The overall artistic ideas were interesting as well as the quality being stunningly beautiful in detail and color (I continue to be disappointed at my inability to catch seats for a 3D showing). The transition from the human scenes to the CG with the avatars began awkwardly. But I am willing to dismiss it as a purposeful attempt to represent the characters' own awkward transition to a new body.
Being an anthropology minor and science fiction reader, I was semi pleased by the overarching idea presented. Although the overarching plot was predictable, particularly the love story, it did not hinder the film but rather gave it a base to expand from. It exemplified the classic epic love story in a way that had even some men in the audience hiding their eyes. The story blends the progressive technological era with the reemerging naturalistic perspective, encouraging audiences to see Mother Nature in a relatable way with science. I was especially impressed by the female Navi actress. Her raw emotive presence greatly overshadowed the lead male, pulling us in and speaking to us with gesture and facial expression (the more universal language) than words.
I also appreciated that the camera did not overuse large detailed scenes with every shot as I often felt many films today do (particularly during war scenes). The more personal shots maintained an intensity and anxiety those larger shots strive for. Whenever a large scene was included, it was to give the feeling of chaos, to acknowledge the feeling of being overwhelmed from the character's perspective, and to convey the awe at viewing the epic beauty of the scenery.
The accusation that the avatar creatures are plagiarized from another author's imagination unrelated to this work should be recognized. This has been suggested against countless works and frankly as long as enough is different I see no harm. It is possible for two people to come up with the same idea.
I have also heard much criticism in the form of demeaning the script as that of Pocahontas with blue people. I feel this is a blind oversimplification. It is a story above all else, as a fiction movie of this type should be focused on, one that is told beautifully in all elements of dialogue, visuality, plot, conflict, perspective, themes, and character development, all while incorporating social commentary about the vanishing culture and the impact of globalization (which is what the Pocahontas critics are referring to), the theory of interconnectedness (world as a neural network like our brain), and issues of our modern addiction of escapism through fantasy avatars (evident in video and role-play gaming). Despite that some of its aspects "have been done before" is it still not a story worth repeating and updating for the modern generation? Every good moral has been repeated in one manner or another, it is a testament to the writers and film's crew not whether they created a new moralistic ideal or original story (which can certainly be amazing) but how they recreate and spin an existing one. These are lessons that should be reiterated constantly, as it seems they are easily forgotten. Ignorance is a choice.
I do caution generalizing this view that aboriginal, untamed, uncivilized, savage, unspoiled, primitive (all synonyms, interesting connotations) cultures have all the answers or a better way of living. The common response when studying culture is to romanticize the natives. Every culture has its problems. It is both interesting and concerning that the film defines the native culture as "alien" while comparing them to exotic native cultures in our world.This would seem to dehumanize them by considering them alien. Or perhaps it is simply as District 9 attempted, to criticize the typical human response to 'others' which is further evidenced in every major US movement for equal rights: blacks, women, homosexuals, Harley bikers (couldn't resist). It is our tendency to view those different from us as less human, or lacking in something we believe we possess.
There have been reports that the Catholic Church has shunned the film's concentration on the spirituality of naturalism as deviation from the beliefs of the Catholic religion. What is religion truly selling anymore, surely not encouragement to find one's own answers. Nor does the Church seem to acknowledge that one can be in touch with nature on a spiritual level and still practice Catholicism. How did everything become so black and white? They quickly labeled the behavior of the Navi for their planet as worship, demonstrating a complete lack of understanding for the relationship many naturalists have with our Mother.
With the amount of popular viewing this movie has received, it is inevitable that someone will have a problem with it. Hold a light to the surface and its imperfections will be magnified. But remember to pull away and see the entire being as a whole. It is becoming more essential that we learn to analyze the images we are bombarded with in our culture, especially the ones we choose to let impact us (in response of how idealized woman and sexualized images flooding the worlds of young girls has influenced a generation of women to obsess about weight and appearance; striking to have a five year old come to you and complain about being fat), but I feel it equally important to see both sides of the coin or we lose the other half of a balanced understanding.
Get passed the so-called flaws the individual is easily preoccupied with (and the lame unobtainium reference) to consider it an opportunity for conversation, reflection, learning with either a negative or positive focus, or simply enjoyment.