We saw The Strangers last night and it admittedly scared the shit out of me. (Although - bonus - our stolen popcorn scheme worked, as much as I didn’t think it would.) The film was as minimalistically frightening as Open Water, which is what I imagined it to resemble. Just a couple in the woods and some killers in masks. But that what works so beautifully about this film–it’s real, and it could happen. And about this “it could happen” thing: I’ve been trying to find what true story on which the film is based, but haven’t had any luck. Maybe that’s a good thing, though. Regardless, it was a genius thriller. (But scary moves and I don’t get along very well, so that’s not saying much…)

Oh, and that soundtrack.  Not since Sondre Leche’s Dan in Real Life have I felt so connected to the music in a film.  I must also say, one of the most effective uses of a turntable in awhile.  Or ever.  Heebee geebees all over again.  The early female singer sounded a bit too much like Mazzy Star at times, and that’s reason enough for me to keep that cd on the bottom of the pile that is my music “collection.”

So, I might be a little slow on the draw on this post, but we watched Cloverfield yesterday afternoon and I can’t stop thinking about two things. One: that is was alright. Not great, not terrible. But just sorta “eh.” Two: I feel like I missed something because I was watching the movie through everyone’s phones/cameras. Now, that I find fascinating. Aside from the mediated view we already get - the film is shown solely through one man’s perspective - it is at the same time remediated in the sense that he’s also (coincidentally) filming others’ filming the events. Which then leads me to wonder, are there ever any events that are pure, or non-mediated anymore? I guess this is a question I should tackle with my dissertation, but I’m not there yet. The event is already reproduced as it is occurring. In terms of memory, Jose van Dijck states in Mediated Memories in the Digital Age, “memory-keeping is a function increasingly assigned to the electronic media, while a new awareness of the artifice of representation casts a cloud of suspicion over the documentation of the past” (16). What the characters in Cloverfield were concerned with was not their own memories of that event (they surely didn’t believe they were going to survive), but that they had an ethical responsibility to remember for the future by documenting the event.

Zizek explores this ethical dilemma, too, in Plague of Fantasies.

The traumatic Real is thus that which, precisely, prevents us from assuming a neutral-objective view of reality, a stain which blurs our clear perception of it. And this example also brings home the ethical dimension of fidelity to the Real qua impossible: the point is not simply to ‘tell the entire truth about it,’ but, above all, to confront the way we ourselves, by means of our subjective position of enunciation, are always-already involved, engaged in it…For that reason, a trauma is always redoubled in to the traumatic event ‘in itself,’ and into the trauma (a concentration camp, a torture chamber…), what keeps one alive is the notion of bearing witness- ‘I must survive in order to tell others (the Other) what really went on here….The second trauma takes place when this recognition of the first trauma through tis symbolic integration necessarily fails (its pain can never be fully shared by the other): it then appears to the victim that he or she has survived in vain, that their survival was meaningless (215-216)

By keeping the camera “alive” (which, seriously, would the battery last that long?) was purely a survival mechanism. Hud even said as he was crossing the bridge that he “wanted others to see what went on here”–that he was already thinking of the use of his footage in vain; regardless if he survived, his film would. This last point speaks to the point that humans are outsourcing ourselves to our technical, extended memories. “We” - our physical survival - doesn’t matter. Only the digitized memory, or footprint, “counts.”

I might have an inflated ego, but I can never see myself packing to teach.

You see, before my life as a grad student, I was a server. As I was listening to this story on the ride home last night, I realized that I’ve been in grad school longer than my tenure at Outback, and I’m halfway through that six year tenure as a server. The day I got accepted to grad school (March 12, 2005 in case you’d like to celebrate), I remember thinking that I wanted every table to know that I was smart, and not just another person bringing them their food. I connected with the lady in the story–she’s a writer and was a housecleaner. Two careers that both pay the bills but don’t really connect. It made me smile that I’ve out lasted the Outback phase in grad school. It’s self-gratifying, if not anything else.

Welcome back, friends!