About the blog name: "Gently Hew Stone" is a pun on the author's name. Michelangelo said that while carving his statue of David, he envisioned the finished statue inside the block of raw marble and just chiseled away the pieces that weren't part of it. Writing this blog is like that: I picture myself sitting before a hunk of raw possibilities with this keyboard as my chisel, and my labor of love is to reveal the beautiful ideas inside, to hone it to perfection by peeling away layers of ordinary thought and, ultimately, to bring to light the masterpieces just below the surface of it all.
Three intense interests of mine have intersected lately–literacy, religion, and U2 (I’ll be seeing them in concert Friday night). Ah, leave it to the Irish to combine literature and religion!
U2 has always been a great example of that trait of their people, and I fear that much of it is lost on us. (I just found this great site summarizing some of the many Biblical allusions in their work.)
Case in point: 1991’s “Until the End of the World,” from the Wim Wenders film of the same name, and U2’s album Achtung Baby. At first glance, it’s just another conflicted love song (as every true fan knows, even after 30 years, U2 has still never written a purely positive love song). But if you’re familiar with the Bible, it’s clear that this is Judas Iscariot confessing the betrayal of Jesus Christ. Even the title takes itself from a famous promise made by Jesus to His followers, which ends the Gospel according to Matthew: “…and, lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world. Amen.”
Here are the lyrics, with my explanations and links to relevant Biblical text (mostly from Matthew, since that’s the reference in the title):
I’ve been looking forward to today for months—it was 50 years ago, on Friday, October 2, 1959, that the first episode of The Twilight Zone aired.
It’s unbelievable how good these were, and still are. They are models of perfect pacing, creating suspense, framing and lighting shots, developing a theme, and dialogue that moves a stimulating story forward but never condescends. There are no short cuts or cheap shots in The Twilight Zone, just flawless exposition and social commentary. Rod Serling was a genius—besides the bulk of the great TZ episodes, he also wrote the original Planet of the Apes screenplay, including the best shock ending ever.
Who doesn’t like the monster of the wing of the plane, or Shatner getting addicted to fortune telling, or the nearly endless classic twist endings: the “deformed” girl in a conformist world, the broken glasses, or the alien cookbook!
I use a few episodes in my classes each October, actually, to help teach literary concepts, like identifying themes and commentary.
I’ve praised virtuoso violinist Hilary Hahn here before, but in this post I want to applaud her for another great artistic skill: her writing.
Hahn keeps a journal on her website, where she blogs about touring and concerts, the classical music industry, travel, and some odd and obscure observations about the minute details of life she sees from her unique vantage point.
She is a very excellent writer. I always enjoy checking out her little essays when I get a chance; my only complaint is that she doesn’t write more often (I’ve often been disappointed to see months at a time lag by without new material). Her prose is a whimsical joy, her buoyant focus with the keyboard as evident as it is with string instruments. Truly, talents tend to cluster, and Hahn is generously blessed with gifts in at least these two arts.
I got a little carried away, I suppose, because I didn’t notice the microphone suspended overhead until the tip of my bow halted as if I had hit a wall. I knew immediately what had happened; I practically leaped back, shocked both at the bow suddenly jamming into my hand and at the crack that I heard from the speakers beyond the stage.
The next morning, in the paper, the review mentioned the airborne flock with the equivalent of a literary wink but griped that the burst of fireworks heard from across the park during my opening solo might have been better saved for another day.
Sort of. Though he died a while ago, this year is the 50th anniversary of Kind of Blue, his legendary masterpiece, and one of my favorite albums. A couple of weeks ago, one of the kids and I went to see some local jazz performers give an all-Miles Davis concert at the amphitheater at Rainbow Library. We laid out a blanket on the grass, had some snacks, and enjoyed the music. Of course, it was past bedtime, so he was asleep by the end of the second song.
We only stayed for the first hour, but that half was heavy on Kind of Blue. They opened with “So What?” and also did “All Blues” and “Blue in Green.” It was that last one that was my favorite moment of the night, as it differed from the album version with an even softer, shimmering aspect to it, mostly achieved by the drummer using brushes and chimes. They turned a classic ballad into a mirage having a daydream. Good jazz music leaves blisters on your imagination. Here’s a good performance of “Blue in Green;” I liked this one more than most of the full-throttle versions on YouTube which seem to ignore the spirit of the original:
The title here is a Homestar Runner reference. Brownie points if you get it.
While camping this weekend, I wanted to practice something I love but that I haven’t worked on in a long time: pencil sketching. I wish I’d put more time into this; I think I could be pretty decent if I did. As it is…well, the kids were impressed.
Here’s a sketch I did of a scene from our campsite: some pine and evergreen branches in the foreground, a mountain face in the background, and a cloud. I never know how to do something as detailed as the mountain face without making it look too “busy.” True story: in a fourth grade art class, we had an hour to draw a scene. At the end, I still had a mostly blank sheet of paper because I insisted on drawing each individual blade of grass at the bottom of the page. So I’ve gotten over that.
Still, my work strikes me as clumsy and sentimental (much like my writing). The shading I use to indicate the late afternoon is desperate. All that being said, though, I actually like this–the only really bad part is the branches coming in from the left side, which look like they could have been drawn by Napoleon Dynamite. But it made me happy to do it, and I enjoy the rough, impressionistic style I’m developing (this would be more evident if you could see my jagged lines closer up). When I opened the sketch book I use, which I hadn’t seen for over a year, and flipped through the other pages, I was delighted to see some pleasant other work I’ve done. Now I think I should do some work in charcoal.
I’ve listened to several works of classical music this summer that are new to me, but I don’t think I’ve liked any of them more than I have these two pieces by Bach, his St. Matthew Passion and Mass in B Minor. They’re quite long and I’ve only heard each once, so I can’t write about them in any meaningful detail; all I can say is that I like how they sound.
What’s struck me the most about them is their pervasive, ubiquitous piety. These two major works by one of music’s great masters are also artifacts of pure faith, resonating with reverence in every note. Like his contemporary Handel’s Messiah (a couple of individual pieces from which are familiar to everybody), both of these are suffused with the sublime and elevate praise to that refined plane of existence known as art. Truly moving. In fact, the first time I listened to St. Matthew Passion, one of my main impressions was, I should listen to this on Sunday afternoons.
I’ve also learned this summer what a great classical music tool YouTube can be. Not just private interpretations, but frequently entire concerts, in full orchestra, are archived there, in versions of exquisitely professional quality. Not only that, but longer works such as these two are usually available for viewing on a playlist, where the bite-sized clips apparently required by YouTube can be strung together in a continuous order for nearly seamless enjoyment. Press “play all” and enjoy your night at the symphony, or your pleasant Sabbath afternoon.
Is it just me, or does the second movement of Beethoven’s Piano Sonata no. 23 sound similar to The Righteous Brothers’ “You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feeling?” Here they are; compare them and let me know what you think. Am I nuts here? Especially listen to the third and fourth minutes of the Beethoven piece and the third minute of The Righteous Brothers.
The infancy of the electronic age has been accompanied by instant and ubiquitous prognosticating about the inevitable advent of online art. What I wonder is this: when will the first great work of literature first appear online? When scholars and schools of the future look back on the 21st century and study our contribution to the canon, will the early works of earthshattering, breathtaking prose have been things that appeared self-published online, or in an e-zine, or even, dare I wonder, on a blog?
When will a generation of writers break new ground in marrying the form of the medium to its content as, say, Dickens did with his serialized works, or Cervantes did when he wrote a second part to Don Quixote responding to unauthorized “sequels,” or Joyce did by integrating news headlines into Ulysses? What will it look like when someone starts finding the perfect marriage of the World Wide Web’s visual layout and the untapped abilities of text that it might uncover? When will we see a powerful vision of HTML and prosody commingled? Will it be a cheap novelty at first? Will it be scorned–or ignored–by the establishment, only to be appreciated by our grandchildren?
Is it already out there? Or will it somehow never be? No, sooner or later, the Great American Blog will surface. (Perhaps the Great American Text Message? Or even the Great American Tweet? OK, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.)
I’ve seen some wonderful writing online, but nothing that wouldn’t work just as well, or even better, on the printed page. I don’t know exactly what I’m wishing for, but it’s more than just text in a fancy font or with some jazzy animation or backgrounds. I guess that’s the thing about watershed events: you just can’t predict them until some genius has actually done it. If you could, then it would already be done.
So I’ll continue to wade through the Slough of Des-blog, seeking a great new work of literary achievement. Until then, I can always read Shakespeare.
I often play light classical music in the background of my classes. One perennial favorite–used on days when the muse so strikes me for something slightly more intense–is Mozart’s Requiem Mass in D Minor. I’ve been intrigued with this work ever since I first heard it. When I think of Mozart, I think of the grace of his perfect genius: light, playful, clever, refined. But this final work, this is something different.
Myth and legend and Amadeus aside, it’s still hard not to imagine some of Mozart’s own morose foreboding about his imminent demise embedded into the woeful strands of this work. Mozart is still himself, though, and even in a work of precise focus, moods run the full possible gamut: parts are mild and melancholy, parts are violent thrashing in the face of death, much is composed and dignified acceptance of mortality, a subdued peace reached between oneself and the way of things.
The best experience with Requiem came one day several years ago when a class of older kids was reading to themselves while this played and after a while one girl turned to me and said, “This music makes me want to kill myself!” She wasn’t complaining about having to hear classical music, and she certainly wasn’t making a serious threat! She was joking (I’m proud that my humor is apparently such that otherwise misunderstood kids usually feel safe opening up without fear of being judged), and sharing a perception. I appreciated the fact that once again Mozart had worked his magic: across the gulfs of time and space, he had connected with a foreign soul and forged a bond. A concrete feeling about mankind’s inevitable drifting out of this world had been communicated as clearly as if he’d been sitting there telling her his life story. Of such is art.
And when I then told the class the story behind this work–the story of Mozart’s tragic young death and the mysteries behind the completion of the Requiem–they were honestly fascinated. Of such is education.
Here is a fine video set to the Lacrimosa section:
I’ve been wondering which of this summer’s moronic, eye-candy popcorn flicks will be crowned the big dumb event of the season. Will it be X-Men Origins: Wolverine, Terminator: Salvation, Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen, or G.I. Joe: Rise of the Cobra? (And when did colons and subtitles become standard fare for these special effects extravaganzas? What, are they too mature and artsy for X-Men 4, Terminator 4, Transformers 2, or just plain old G.I. Joe?)
But voting will not be necessary. We have declared a winner. Not that I have, will, or even have any desire to see any of these movies, there is no doubt in my mind that the worst movie of the summer is this direct-to-video abomination. How could it not be, when it features the ever so slightly less than stellar acting chops of Lorenzo Lamas and 80’s teen sensation Debbie “Electric Youth” Gibson?
*sigh* Maybe they’ll be so bad they’ll be watchable for the laughs. But is it really a good thing that our big summer event movies revolve around empty computer graphics and the hope that they might be so bad that we’ll remember them like Plan 9 From Outer Space?
There doesn’t seem to be much fuss out there yet about the upcoming 50th anniversary of The Twilight Zone, which premiered on October 2, 1959. Amazon lists an anniversary book, but that’s it. I know the Definitive Collection is already available on DVD (and which would make a great Christmas present for me, hint, hint), but doesn’t this landmark deserve more fanfare? Are there TV specials planned? Another movie? Nostalgic segments on news shows? Massive, emotional vigils at Rod Serling’s grave?
Presenting Stephen Duffy’s 1985 hit “Kiss Me.” Catchy song, ridiculous 80’s video. He wrote this version of the song in 1984; does it bother anybody else that stuff from that year is now a quarter century old? It just doesn’t seem right somehow.
Last week I saw something nostalgic at the library: some DVDs of Mystery Science Theater 3000. I checked a couple out and watched one (The Atomic Brain!) with my nine year old son. He loved it. The show was more corny than I remembered, but actually even funnier. I suspect that a lot of us enjoyed MST3K 10,15,20 years ago, and didn’t have kids then, or kids who were old enough to appreciate snarkiness. Now…I suggest that you consider this as a Family Home Evening activity. What better way to bond with the fam than by watching a guy stranded on a space station in the future, forced to watch bad old movies, which he and his robot friends mercilessly ridicule in a feeble attempt to stave off insanity?
In a fortuitous convergence of events, yesterday I heard Public Image Limited’s 1986 ditty “Rise” on the radio. Curious, I looked up its video on YouTube. Good grief, was it awful. Exactly the kind of faux-earnest, quirky-punk, weird-concept garbage that we all thought was so profound in the 80’s. In the video, Johnny Lydon (formerly Johnny Rotten of the Sex Pistols), endeavors to raise our awareness of the seriousness of South African apartheid. He does this by bouncing around, flailing his arms, and glaring sternly at the camera. This video begs to be mocked.
Here are two ideas: one part of the song’s refrain has Lydon chanting, “I could be black, I could be white.” Really? Hmm, we appear to have a mystery. Let’s try to figure this puzzle out. Skin so pale it’s practically transparent? Check. Bright orange hair? Check. Yup, I think it’s safe to say this guy’s white. Case closed. Next.
Another repeated element of the song–its only genuinely good part, really–is the chorus: “May the road rise with you.” Perhaps when we hear this we can sing, “May the Force be with you.” Catchy, no?
As the hubbub heats up for the release of the big Star Trek reboot in two weeks (and it does look terrific), I’ve been thinking back on the first ten films in the series. Fans have their favorites and their theories: the even numbered films are the best, most say, and favorites tend to cluster.
Many people will cite Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan as the best, and they have a strong case: Kirk’s backstory, the ingenious continuity of an episode from the original series (and the hilarious mistake of having Khan recognize a crew member who wasn’t actually on the show during that original episode), the presence of recently departed Ricardo Montalban as supervillain Khan and a young (and skinny!) Kirstie Alley as a Vulcan named Saavik, plus the riveting conclusion with its cat-and-mouse battle and Spock’s sacrifice. Undeniably, a great movie.
Those who aren’t devoted fans might fondly remember 1986’s Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home, a lighthearted romp where the Enterprise travels back to the 1980’s to…wait for it…save the whales! By far the funniest in the series, its jokes mainly revolve around the 80’s tried and true “out of place adults and/or aliens reacting to the strangeness of modern life” formula.
And of course, there’s a lot to be said for Star Trek: First Contact, a film made especially to attract non-fans, which did so by pumping out one of the most viscerally intense action movies of the 90’s (really!) by taking the Borg threat from the Next Generation TV series and making them ten times cooler.
But as I’ve reminisced, I realized that I hadn’t seen Star Trek VI: The Undiscovered Country since I saw it in the theater 18 years ago. I figured it was time to give it another go, and put it on tonight.
Here’s six reasons why Star Trek VI may well be the best of the first ten Star Trek movies:
WARNING: Spoilers follow! If you don’t like it, go and watch the movie first. Just trust me.
Savior of the World is a theatrical production by the LDS Church that premiered in November 2000 in the church’s Conference Center in Salt Lake City, and has since been performed in other locations. I saw it for the first time last night in Henderson, Nevada.
The first thing to know about Savior of the World is that it’s not really about the Savior, in the sense that a traditional nativity or passion play focuses on His life. Jesus only shows up a few times in the play, and when He does it’s only as a monolithic dispenser of quotations–His presence in the play is completely devoid of personality. The intent is clear: to focus on the lives and needs of those others who played supporting roles in His ministry.
One is reminded of Ben-Hur, where Jesus Christ’s few “cameo appearances” contained no dialogue and were shot only from behind. Savior of the World strives for a similar degree of reverence–the actor portraying Christ doesn’t even come out for the curtain call.
I’ve been looking forward to today for months—it was 50 years ago, on Friday, October 2, 1959, that the first episode of The Twilight Zone aired. 
As the hubbub heats up for the release of the big Star Trek reboot in two weeks (and it does look terrific), I’ve been thinking back on the first ten films in the series. Fans have their favorites and their theories: the even numbered films are the best, most say, and favorites tend to cluster. 
Savior of the World