Shiki: Haiku 4

4: いくたびも雪の深さを尋ねけり

Each time it falls

ask

how high is the snow

Shiki: Haiku 3

3: 月涼し蛙の聲のわきあがる

Cool moon

the sound of frogs

comes up

Shiki: Haiku 2

2: 名月の出るやゆらめく花薄

Full moon rising

swaying

reeds

Shiki: Haiku 1

[Over the next two weeks, I'll be posting some translations of the great poet Masaoka Shiki I did under the guidance of my sensei, fall 2009 (revised spring 2010). It is important to note that these are literary and not literal translations.]

1: 暑くるし乱れ心や雷をきく

Suffering from the heat

a reeling mind

listens to thunder

Film reviews: Two by Ozu

The Only Son (1935). The Only Son was Ozu’s first talkie (a fact whimsically referenced in the film itself). It does not feature as cohesive a narrative as Ozu’s mature work, nor is the social commentary as sharp, but most of the characteristics of Ozu’s cinema are already in place--the static, perfectly framed shots, the themes of filial regret and parental disappointment, the deliberate pacing. The film is only slightly flawed by the unnecessary title cards introducing the year and an aura of sentimentality that is replaced in Ozu’s later works by understated resignation. A-.

There Was a Father (1942). One of two Ozu films made during World War II, There Was a Father is a brief work stressing filial piety and the transmission of social values, especially a productive, contributory lifestyle. Like most Japanese films made during this period, There Was a Father smacks of propaganda; however, Ozu’s worldview is largely intact, and the film is open to multiple readings (note, for instance, the capsized boat and Chisu Ryu’s reaction). With several prominent similarities to The Only Son, Criterion made an excellent choice releasing the two simultaneously; watching the two films together allows a viewer to watch Ozu develop as a filmmaker. A.

A short review of Jack Miles’ God: A Biography

Using only the text of the Tanakh as his source material, Jack Miles constructs an intoxicatingly clever pseudo-biography of the world’s most ubiquitous character: God. With an overwhelming attention to detail and an inventive, fearless command of the material, Miles re-visualizes God as a conflicted, confused, and multifaceted character in one of the world’s great literary masterpieces.

By treating God as a literary character, Miles is able to distance himself from centuries of pious writings and bracket theological inquiry. Miles’ methodology allows him to approach the text with fresh insight and sidestep tricky issues of orthodox interpretation. Of course, not all of the books of the Tanakh fit his reading; I expect this is why Miles excludes some books from his analysis and drastically reinterprets others. And just as the Tanakh’s concluding series of books abandon the narrative of the earlier books, the narrative structure of Miles’ biography becomes similarly muddled near the end--a fact that Miles himself seems to realize as he struggles with the Tanakh's several endings.

Despite these weaknesses, God: A Biography is a highly entertaining, endlessly illuminating, and thought provoking book that should become the subject of many heated debates and earnest discussions. Miles’ book is essential because it gives readers a new way to approach the Bible and a new way to think about the primary recipient of devotion for three major world religions. With this book, Miles argues more effectively than any theological treatise for the foundational importance of the Bible for Western thought and psychology.

Deerhunter: “He Would Have Laughed”

Deerhunter have changed dramatically and rapidly over their career, from the psychotic depths of Cryptograms to the terrified eroticism of Microcastle and now to the heart stopping wistfulness of Halcyon Digest. Halcyon Digest is principally a spiritual album--in a way, all of Deerhunter’s albums are--but Halcyon Digest is their first album where the preciousness of life finally overcomes the fear of death, the revulsion of decay, and the ache of loneliness. This happens at the final moment of the album’s final track.

“He Would Have Laughed,” is Deerhunter’s most beautiful sustained song, a tribute to the late Jay Reatard. It is built around a simple, looped riff with various instruments and effects layered over it, all orbiting around Bradford Cox’s noticeably weary voice.

Cox opens the song with this line: “Only bored as I get older.” He then hesitantly approaches the next line, seemingly unsure of what words he wants to sing: “Find new ways to cul…t--cult of time.” It’s as if he decides to switch verses midway through the line, thinks better of it, and then thinks better of thinking better of it. The phrase Cox produces, then, is an ambiguous one, to say the least: “cult of time.” What could this mean? It invites the listener into dialogue with the music: “Can you help me figure this out?” Cox sings later, and he may as well be singing to his listeners.

Cox only gets more enigmatic from there. The final verses are indecipherable if approached literally, though the words are sung with a delicate attention to intonation and contour. They must be heard to receive the full, intended impact. And just as the music seems to be approaching its final notes, and the listener prepares for a slow regression into terminal silence, the song abruptly cuts to silence, and the album ends.

The most obvious interpretation of this would come from the biographical background of the song. Jay Reatard’s tragic death at 29 is replicated by the song’s refusal to tidily conclude--in effect, it is a refusal to offer the listener a cathartic release. But I suspect Deerhunter are also getting at something deeper here. By mimicking the terrible suddenness of death, they are able to escape the song’s death.

We know that every piece of art must have borders or limitations. A compact disc can only hold so much music before it runs out of room. By creating a formal ending, the artist is able to achieve a sense of completeness, of wholeness. But this song, and this album by extension, refuses to end and remains incomplete, and the silence that falls inevitably silences us, too. Now our discourse with the music is over, and reflection begins. Implicit in our reflection is the greatest affirmation possible: the affirmation of life.