Michael J. Kramer's Blog, page 18
January 26, 2023
Gross Reiterative Impressionism of a Computer

To boil down 20 instances to a line or two apiece must, after all, entail much selectivity and the suppression of much attendant evidence. The reader must still place his confidence in the historian who has decided that this feature only (and not all those others) of the evidence shall be singled out for remark: although he is not as much a victim as he is before the gross reiterative impressionism of a computer, which repeats one conformity ad nauseam while obliterating all evidence for which it has not been programmed.
— E.P. Thompson
January 8, 2023
American Will, American Intellect

The American Will inhabits the sky-scraper; the American Intellect inhabits the colonial mansion.
— George Santayana
January 7, 2023
Stylish Analysis

Things made more sense, however, when we turned away from questions of representation to questions of style.
— Vikrant Dadawala, “Ethnic Studies,” The Point 28, 18 October 2022
December 31, 2022
Rovings

December 27, 2022
Remembrance of Covids Past

Infamously, when Marcel Proust tasted a madeleine dipped in lemon-blossom tea, it caused him to experience intense memories of his youth. The Proustian madeleine is now famous as a symbol of how taste and smell can spark the return of repressed or forgotten experiences. But what about when someone loses their sense of taste and smell? What then?
One year ago, as the delta wave of Covid-19 shifted into omicron, I finally caught the virus. Fortunately, my symptoms were fairly mild thanks to vaccination, however I did lose my sense of taste and smell for a few days. This was at once terrifying and fascinating, a kind of psychedelic trip of defamiliarization, a sort of unintended systematic derangement of the senses à la Proust’s almost-contemporary (but quite a different character), Arthur Rimbaud.
Losing one’s sense of taste and smell was a bit like eating a minimalist painting. You know there is a flavor and odor to the food from memory, just as you know that a totally white canvas inside a frame is intended to be a painting, but that’s all you have. The abstract idea remained while the material reality disappeared. The sensory reality was nothing, the imaginary projection became all. Here was Proust’s madeleine, but in reverse! In place of a taste and smell sparking a memory, now all I possessed was the memory of taste and smell.
As Covid-19 itself partially dissipates yet still lingers, we find ourselves in a strange historical moment that dangles between the misty past and the still-circulating present. Might the experience of what we might call Covid-19’s anti-madeleine serve as a kind of metaphor for the larger cultural experience of the era? A time of emptiness, of trauma, of shutdown, of loss, the Covid-19 pandemic currently exists as a kind of void, a blank slate, a memory gap, a hole in time. It wears a mask. We know that awful things happened—suffering, death, depression, despair—but we can’t quite recognize what they meant yet as history. Fragments are everywhere like phantoms haunting us, yet the semantic whole remains missing. We plant flags for the dead, but all they do is flicker in the wind. There is memory, but no taste or smell to it.
For a period when sensations themselves became but memories, what will it mean to establish connections back to its sensations? What was this lived experience of the world dying? What historical or memorial seance will make contact with a history of when we went contactless?
December 24, 2022
Gen X Is In Trouble

Television shows are always part of a larger show called the televisual world. This world has many countries: UK Detectiveland, US Urban Policeville, Greater Suburbia, International Spynesia, Hunky Cowville. New York City itself is a very special kind of televisual Balkans, with many different -stans (and “stans”). You’ve got Downtown Bohemiastan, Upper West Sideistan, Brooklynistan, Bronxistan, Bridge-and-Tunnelstan, Archie Bunkerstan, and the Guy from High Maintenance biking around delivery weed to everyone.
When I watched the first few episodes of Taffy Brodesser-Akner‘s Fleishman Is in Trouble television adaptation of her 2019 novel, it appeared to be a variation on Sex in the City. You know, an anthropological examination of the exotic erotic lives of the Upper East Side, with antecedents found everywhere from Woody Allen films to Edith Wharton novels. Here was a world of elite competition and misery, with a bit of a Jewish tinge but still squarely WASPY in its core elite class and cultural essence.
As the season has unfolded, however, and we increasingly pivot from divorced husband Dr. Toby Fleishman’s perspective, portrayed with typical flummoxed quizicality by Jesse Eisenberg, to the female perspectives of his ex-wife Rachel (Claire Danes) and friend/show narrator Libby Epstein (Lizzy Caplan), the show strikes me as a fundamental kind of Gen X tale. This was not the world of Girls, with its droll millennial absurdities and expectations, but something older, something at once more skeptical yet hopeful, more jaded yet barely covering—like some tattered flannel shirt dangling from the waist—a kind of intense idealism. There is fierce belief in something more to life here undercut by a sour sense of “that’s it?”
The casting of Danes and especially Caplan is the Gen X tell. Caplan links Fleishman Is in Trouble directly back to the show Freaks and Geeks, as if we were witnessing the continued stories of those characters, who have now reached indie-rock-reunion-tour midlife crises filled with clove-cigarette-smoke nostalgia for a kind of youthful anti-nostalgia. Danes is a bit younger than the tail-end of Gen X, but My So-Called Life fits the bill too as part of this tele-generational world.
Fleishman Is in Trouble is, of course, its own brilliant creation. Nonetheless, it links to a larger screen-world whose tones are decidedly grungy, whose ambitions for adult achievement continually turn back to a longing for a slacker’s paradise, and whose portrayals of class entitlement reveal that happiness for anyone who is now in their 40s and 50s, even the filthy rich ones, should be swallowed with a jagged little pill.
Rockumentrarianism


A quick comparison from a longer essay I’ve been working on about the 1960s and documentary films:
Todd Haynes’ The Velvet Underground documentary film tries to make the band into the Beatles, while Peter Jackson’s Fab Four documentary Get Back makes the Beatles into a durational Warholian VU experience.
November 30, 2022
Rovings

ScreensI WishShantaram Season 01Defense of the RealmBlacklightShaq, Episodes 01 and 02Ben Franklin, dir. Ken BurnsFour Adventures Of Reinette and MirabelleThanksgiving Day Parade mishaps, Psychotronica Twitter feed
November 27, 2022
Sour Grapes

But no thing can be its own symbol. Painted grapes are no symbol of real grapes, they are imaginary grapes.