What Precious and An Education Have in Common

Precious and An Education, two tales of 16 year old girls growing up, are also wonderfully thought provoking films on the subject of female agency and the role of education.

Precious, the more infamous of the two, is about an obese black girl (Gabourey Sidibe) growing up in Harlem in the 1980's. Her mother, played by Mo'nique, abuses her on a regular basis, treating her like a indentured servant who needs to cook to earn her keep. We immediately learn that Precious has also been consistently abused by her father, with whom she is now pregnant for the second time. After getting kicked out of her public middle school, where she is still a student at the age of 16, she enrolls in an alternative school and lands in the caring hands of Ms. Blu Rain. What teeters on the brink of cliche (teacher saves student; student transcends her situation with literacy) is saved by the constant barrage of bleakness in Precious' life. We learn that her oldest daughter has Down's Syndrome, and witness another terrible fight between Precious and her mother.

Most intriguing are Precious's seamlessly integrated fantasy scenes. While her mother force-feeds her while watching an old movie, Precious projects herself into the film and imagines a more caring dialogue between the two women. These fantasies are the only space where Precious is in charge of her life. Her mother is no more free. We learn that the reason she hates Precious is because her boyfriend (Precious's father) showed more affection for Precious than her mother from the moment she was born. Precious shows the limited agency of poor black women since both women's lives are controlled by the father, who is barely even in the film. The only characters who have some agency are the educated teacher, Ms. Rain, and the social worker played by Mariah Carey.

An Education is also based on a sordid, if more palatable, premise. Jenny (Carey Mulligan) is studying for her O levels on her way to Oxford when she meets David Goldman (Peter Sarsgaard), an older man. David quickly impresses her and her parents with his sophisticated pursuits (art, classical music, fancy restaurants, traveling), and starts to date Jenny for real. Though Jenny learns of David's sketchy real estate business, she still enjoys the worldly education he offers her via trips to Oxford, Paris, and the auction house. Soon, Jenny is faced with a critical decision: David or Oxford.

This decision is made more complicated as Jenny questions the point of going to Oxford. When she broaches the idea of getting married to her father (Alfred Molina), he tells her she'll be taken care of and doesn't "need" an education anymore. This is 1961after all, and even educated women seemed to have few options. Jenny's one teacher who went to Cambridge seems to be a lonely spinster who grades horrible essays all day long. Here's where the story gets interesting as the viewer ponders how women can gain agency through education.

Though Precious and An Education are set 26 years apart in different countries and across different socio-economic lines, they send important messages about education. Book learning might not be enough, but it is a start.

Nosaj Thing, jj, and The xx questioning Live Performance

Sunday night's triple billing at the (Historic) Sixth and I Synagogue was an exercise in defining the art of live performance. The XX headlined, playing with Nosaj Thing and jj.

I'd never heard o Nosaj Thing before, and was pleasantly surprised by Jason Chung's music. I was even more surprised by the fact that Jason Chung is a dj, so his entire performance consisted of him fiddling on a turnstile. While his act didn't need an entire stage with a seated audience at full attention, he was as lively as one could be for a music act that consists of turning knobs and pressing buttons. He danced in time with the music and did a dramatic flourish with his spindly fingers each time the beat changed, or the lull in the music was broken up, as if to emphasize that this was in fact being played live, and not pre-recorded.

If Nosaj Thing wanted to come across as a live act, then jj most definitely did not. jj, a Swedish duo with two albums under its belt (no 2 and no 3), produces a dreamy, poppy music that reminds me of Beach House. But their live performance was anything but fun. The music consisted of a recording played pumped through an iMac on stage. The lead singer then sang along to the music into a microphone. She maintained a grumpy look the entire time. Her partner, who is supposed to be the musician of the group, came out several times to give the singer a hug before retreating to the wings, as if to say "I'm part of the band, but have transcended my need to play music during a live performance." Perhaps this was an attempt to make an artsy comment on the value of live music, but it definitely left many audience members grumpy.

The xx finally came on at around 10 pm. The most traditional presentation of the night, the three band members came bearing guitars and a keyboard. Romy Madley Croft and Oliver Sim even sang into their microphones. But they also made me question the purpose of a live performance because of the huge disparity between their live sound and their album sound. As New Yorker critic, Sasha Frere-Jones, has pointed out, The xx makes music that's meant to be whispered into your lover's ear. Most of the lyrics traverse the territory of quiet broken hearts, nostalgia, and misbegotten romance. I expected an intimate concert that mirrored the intimate cocoon of their album. What I got instead were histrionic lights, thumping bass, and an aggressively swaying Oliver Sim. This made for an overly dramatic experience that rendered such lyrics as "Heart skipped a beat, but when I caught it it was out of reach," ridiculous. Though I enjoyed the music, I hope The xx tones it down for future performances.

Why I'm not a Fan of Up in the Air

"Did I make you feel cheap?" Alex (Vera Farmiga) asks Ryan Bingham as she leaves him alone in his hotel bed after a night of escapades in Up in the Air. "Yeah, leave the money on the dresser," he says. This exchange is what I remember about the film days after seeing it for the first time. It recalls the lighthearted, intelligent banter between Clooney and Farmiga that makes the film go down so smoothly as you watch. But it also reminds me that there's something cheap to Up in the Air's message, as if it's cashing in on a moment of economic weakness.

By now, you know that Up in the Air is about a man who fires people for a living. Ryan Bingham tells us in a series of voiceovers that he loves the air and hates attachments. But then he meets a woman who invites him to "think of me like yourself, except with a vagina." Alex and Ryan embark on a series of dalliances, meeting up in airport hotels across the country. Meanwhile, Ryan must bring one of his newest co-workers with him to show her the ropes. Natalie Keener (Anna Kendrick) is an earnest college graduate who constantly badgers him about what his deal with Alex is. The deal turns out to be quite predictable. Through a series of well-written, well-acted events, we eventually get the message that connections and people are the things that we hold on to, whether or not we're employed.

This would be all fine and good if it weren't for the fact that Up in the Air seems like an attempt to placate an underemployed audience in the laziest way possible. In one scene where Clooney is firing someone, he tells him to see it as an opportunity to follow his dreams and become a hero to his kids, instead of wiling away at his lame desk job. What Clooney says has a ring of truth to it, but it also looks like he is merely pandering to the laid-off employee. Throughout the movie, I couldn't help wondering if the makers of Up in the Air were mirroring this technique by telling audiences something they want to hear. Are they condescending to tell us that in this world, human connections are all that ultimately matter?

Like many of Clooney's firees, I was also suspicious of the messenger. Ryan Bingham is not an empathetic figure. Nor is anyone else in Up in the Air. Keener is extremely annoying, and faux-feminist. Alex is almost too witty and feminist, until you learn that she's not. Up in the Air may have captured our attention this past awards season, but will certainly fade from memory the second the country grows strong enough not to see past Clooney's soothing voice.

Hole-in-the-wall Food Adventures

A few memorable, yet inexpensive meals I've had in the past two days has reminded me that when it comes to eating out, the act of eating is sometimes only half the fun. While another quarter may be the companionship, the final fourth, how you get there, can make the difference between a typical dining experience and a memorable one.

The weekend's food adventures began at the Well-Dressed Burrito (19th and M). A coworker got a few of us together to make the short walk there. I had never heard of it before, but was guaranteed amazing burritos. It is also located literally in an alleyway between M and N streets. We finally found it thanks to a sign on 19th street that points you to the alleyway, and the number of people walking by with bright yellow Well Dressed Burrito bags. The brick exterior and narrow entry exuded some charm, but the interior did not with its flourescent lights and few table and chairs that also doubled as someone's office. But any skepticism quickly faded as the servers quickly took our orders in a line that was much more efficient than Chipotle's. Yes, it's slightly sketchier that the food is made in the back and comes out really quickly, but how long does a burrito take to assemble anyway when you've got all the ingredients cooked already? And this was a very satisfying burrito. I got the house special, the well dressed burrito, which has ground beef, rice, cheese, and sour cream. The ingredients complement each other in a perfectly textured blend.

Then yesterday, Mike and I decided to take advantage of the sunny weather and trek out to Arlington for the legendary Ray's Hell Burger. This place has attained such mythical status that it's even been graced by Obama and Biden's presence. We expected the line to be long, but were pleasantly surprised by the efficiency. Signs on the walls tell you to refrain from finding a seat until you've ordered and been given a number. "Trust us - it works," it reads. Indeed, they space out the order taking so that people can find seats right after they've ordered. I got a grilled burger with sauteed peppers and onions with Gruyere cheese, and Mike got a peppercorn-covered burger with sauteed mushrooms and blue cheese. They came out in a reasonable time. The 10 oz burgers were intimidating at first, but so juicy thanks to a secret lean to fat ratio, that both of us were able to wolf down our respective meals. I didn't try the fries because they looked pretty standard, and I wanted to save my fry-petite for the evening at Granville Moore's.

Later that evening, Mike and I arrived at Granville Moore's at around 7:30 to try our luck at a table for three before my friend Susan and I left for our concert at Rock N Roll Hotel. (We walked by it several times before finding it, since it is literally a hole in the wall, with a sign that looks almost written in sharpie posted to the window). Knowing that this "gastropub" famous for its mussels would be crowded, our back up plan was to scout out other places in the neighborhood. As we expected, Granville Moore's wait was 60 to 75 minutes. But so were the waits at the two other restaurants by there, Souk and Sticky Rice. After standing around Souk for a while "sorry we don't take names down," we decided we might as well just wait for Granville Moore's and wiled away some time at the Red and the Black bar. Though they don't have a tap system (can this really be considered a bar?), they did have some good bottled beer specials Susan and I took advantage of.

So finally 75 minutes after we first put our names down, a table at Granville Moore's opened up. The mussels were truly excellent and creative (try the Moroccan or the four cheese), but not worth waiting around for so long. I will not be going back unless I felt like killing 75 minutes in an "up and coming" neighborhood. On the upside, the wait staff and hostess were incredibly nice. Our waitress took drink orders quickly and was attentive despite the full crowd. Only today, though, did I learn that they failed to serve us bread with our mussels. At the same time, I will undoubtedly remember the Granville meal for a long time, for the journey more so than the food.

The Privileges: Rags to Riches in the Twenty-first Century

Jonathan Dee's new book, The Privileges, has been paired with other novels about money and the 2009 economic collapse in recent reviews. This seems like a logical choice for a novel that traces the lives of Adam and Cynthia Morey, an extremely attractive couple who quickly rises to the upper echelons of Manhattan wealth after getting married at the age of 22. The Moreys (think more + money) are a couple that inspires envy and hate. Blessed with two beautiful children, they are also favored by Adam's wealthy boss, allowing Adam to become fabulously wealthy--seemingly without--any work.

About ten years into the marriage, Adam becomes involved in a classic insider trading scheme. But the story doesn't end here. Dee doesn't take Adam down. The point is not to show how wealth leads to greed. Instead, Dee lets Adam walk away without criminal prosecution, and go on to leave a productive life in New York high society. The point is to show how greed leads to wealth.

This is because, at its heart, The Privileges has more in common with The Great Gatsby than with The Bonfire of the Vanities. Like Gatsby, the Moreys embrace the wholly American definition of success. Like Gatsby, the Moreys are also driven by love; in this case, their "epic love" for each other, as their son puts it, pushes them forward. Most importantly, like Gatsby, the Moreys are determined to free themselves of the shackles of their histories. Adam and Cynthia come from middle class backgrounds, from parents whom they refuse to ever acknowledge. Though we meet Mr. Morey at Adam and Cynthia's wedding, we don't hear about his again until Adam is forced to tell his firm that his father is dead. The silence is painful when Adam fails to understand his colleague's shocked expressions. As far as Adam is concerned, his father has nothing to do with his current identity as a rainmaking venture capitalist.

No - the Moreys are not likable. Dee uses free indirect style to show us how Adam and Cynthia think. They are disdainful of anyone who hangs on to their pasts or acts based on nostalgia. Cynthia's stepsister accuses her of raising two spoiled children. Maybe she should withhold things from time to time, she suggests. Cynthia silently laughs at this idea; what's the point of imposing hardship on children simply to replicate some romantic notion?

While Cynthia and Adam remain flat throughout the novel, the only dynamic character who's morality is at stake is their son, Jonas. He is into indie music, art, and actually gets along with Cynthia's stepsister. The novel's climax involves a moment when Jonas has to decide if he'll pursue and interest in art and history, or focus on living in the present, with eyes set on the future like his parents.

Throughout, Dee creates a tension in the reader. We are at once jealous and horrified at the Moreys. On the one hand, we want to be like them; so forward looking and unburdened by the past. On the other hand, we pity them for their myopia -- their inability to see how their lives lack meaning and create a destructive path. To be or not to be like the Moreys? It's up to us to decide.

What to Look for in French Films

For the most part, foreign films are like classic novels: the ones we hear about are the really good ones. But in recent years, I've noticed that foreign language films featuring big-name stars (Gael Garcia Bernal, Penelope Cruz, Audrey Tatou) might simply be trying to bank off American audiences. As such, a good rule of thumb is to follow is that foreign films that make it to US theaters with actors you've never heard of are going to be good, while those with a star-studded cast should be approached with more caution. Three French movies I recently viewed a la Netflix are a case in point.

The first, Summer Hours (L'Heure d'Ete) exemplifies good contemporary French film. Directed by Olivier Assayas, it's an intimate portrayal of three siblings who must divide up their mother's estate after her death. The estate is a rambling house in the French countryside filled with valuable turn of the century French art. Like 2008's The Class, it addresses the tensions in modern France between tradition and modernity; between the foreign and the native; between young and old. For instance, the oldest brother wants to keep the house and split the time there with his younger brother and sister. But the siblings, both of whom live abroad, want to sell the estate and divide the earnings. While the symbolism of the mother's house is quite obvious, Assayas doesn't beat you over and over with the themes.

The story is told through restrained dialogue; we see just enough of each character interacting with their spouses and their children to see where they are coming from. The sister, Adrienne (played by Juliette Binoche) is briefly seen with her American boyfriend at breakfast. She reads a French paper and then summarizes an article for the boyfriend. This quick exchange reveals how comfortable she is living with someone of a different background. Later, we aren't surprised when Adrienne announces her engagement to the American.

In contrast, the movie Paris is filled with as many cliches as the creators could fit. Romain Duris, a French actor who's made many appearances in American theaters over the past five years, plays an ailing young man in need of a heart condition. So as he stays indoors, he looks out the window and reflects on how lucky everyone else is to be alive and enjoying the city. How you don't realize the beauty until it's about to be snatched away. A series of loosely connected stories, Paris also tells of an architect who tries to find more meaning in his life after having a nightmare about being “too normal,” and a young Cameroonian who illegally immigrates to France. Yes, we get it: Paris is a changing city, and a city of hopes and dreams.

Finally, Coco Before Chanel is more of an Audrey Tatou vehicle than a biopic. Telling the tale of Coco Chanel before she became a famous designer, the movie typecasts Tatou as an inconspicuous, yet sharp-witted young woman. According to the film, Chanel’s practicality and disregard for others’ opinions lead her to design loose-fitting, comfortable clothing for women. Luckily, Chanel also has two affairs at key times to get the right people to invest in her fashion operations. Finally, a well timed death gives Coco the steely resolve to become Chanel. While the costumes provide a visual feast, the rest of a film merely provides a lesson on why not to watch biopics.

Not Preaching to the Choir

While flying to Arizona a few weeks ago, I had the pleasure of finishing a brilliant novel on the plane. 36 Arguments for the Existence of God: A Novel by Rebecca Goldstein was so good that I deigned to carry the hardcover on board with me even though I only had 30 pages left to read. This self-proclaimed academic satire makes fun of the recent phenomenon of best-selling atheist books (think, God is Not Great, The God Delusion, Letter to a Christian Nation, etc). Cass Seltzer, a religion professor, suddenly finds himself in the spotlight having written a tract entitled 36 Arguments Against the Existence of God. Included is an appendix that outlines the 36 most prevalent arguments, and the logical refutations to each of these.

In addition to Cass, the cast of characters includes a raving, red-haired feminist anthropologist (Roz), a menschy university president who cannot quell student protests, a self-absorbed brilliant female mathematician (also Cass's girlfriend), and Cass's rambling, incoherent yet highly regarded Ph.D adviser (Dr. Jonas Klapper). Of course, these characters all engage in witty bantering on philosophy, mathematics, science, and religion. These asides that allude to everything from William James to game theory make each chapter fun, challenging, and nostalgic to read. They recall the pretentious conversations that are unavoidable in academia.

But the biggest joke that runs throughout is that Cass has no idea how he became a bestselling author; he was basically writing about something he'd mulled over his entire life at the right time. It was nearly an act of divine intervention. Cass's reaction is appropriately transcendent. 36 Arguments begins with Cass standing on a bridge, overlooking the Charles River, feeling closer to something spiritual than he ever had before, as he reflects on his newly acquired fame.

Indeed, this transcendent feeling crops up several times throughout the novel, suggesting that a spiritual connection can be felt regardless of one's religious belief. Goldstein makes this theme most clear by interjecting a somewhat forced storyline of Azyra, a Hassidic boy whom Cass meets first as a grad student, and mentors for the next twenty years. Azyra is more or less a child math prodigy. While his family and neighbors recognize that he's special, they think he's been touched by God and should become the next Rabbi. As Azyra becomes a teenager, he needs to decide if he should leave his town and go to college to reach his mathematical potential, or stay and become the next Rabbi. Ultimately, Azyra does choose to become a rabbi, demonstrating that the knowledge of some things, like family, may be the best knowledge of all.

That's the Way We Get By: Notes from Spoon

Went to a sold out Spoon concert last night and can hardly remember when I've had so much fun on a Monday night. My friend Maria and I got there an hour after doors opened, but it wasn't late enough to miss the unfortunate first opener, The Strange Boys. The lead singer sounded like a failed yodeler whenever he sang, but their musical instrument chops were ok.

Next was one of my recent iPod acquisitions, Deerhunter. Despite a high-looking bassist, they managed to pull off the musical excellence that I came to expect from their album, Microcastle. They replicated their ambient sound on stage, but at the cost of completely muffling the lyrics.

Finally, Spoon came on at 10:15, three hours after doors opened (photo courtesy of Dcist). Britt Daniel looked sharp and sounded crystal clear as he opened with an acoustic version of The Underdog. Soon, Daniel was joined by the rest of the band, leaving soft acoustics behind. Spoon played nearly every song from its latest album, Transference. This made for much dancing along, but also got redundant after a while since most of their songs from their last two albums sound the same. At least the interesting lighting changes between each song helped distinguish them.

Despite this, it was still incredibly fun to see Spoon replicate live the sounds that I thought were pure production on their albums. Spoon's albums have this interesting echo that I thought was done by recording multiple layers. In fact, it seems like an echo setting on the amp can do this for you, which sounded great live.

I was a bit disappointed that Spoon only played two tracks from my favorite album Kill the Moonlight (Someone Something and Jonathon Fisk), but the concert definitely inspired me to listen to Transference a few more times.

Journeys to the American South and Contemporary China

I can’t stop recommending two recent non-fiction books that I read in the past month: The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks by Rebecca Skloot and Country Driving: A Journey from City to Country by Peter Hessler. Both works are ostensibly journalistic endeavors, the first about the woman whose cancerous cells became the famous HeLa cells used for cancer research today, and the second about development and life in contemporary China. While these are seemingly disparate topics, Skloot and Hessler share a similar strategy in their reporting. They both inject themselves into their stories so that their narratives are more memoir-esque than typical journalism. But they do this extremely well to uncover new insights into their subjects.

Henrietta Lacks was a thirty year old black woman with cervical cancer who checked herself into Johns Hopkins hospital in 1950. When her physician discovered that her cancer was rapidly spreading, he took a sample without her knowledge. His lab soon discovered that these cells could easily replicate in culture. They became the first immortal line of human cells. Soon, these cells found themselves in labs all around the world, influencing polio research, cancer research, and even HIV research. Skloot remains silent in the narrative about Lacks’ life and the scientific community’s use of her cells. But Skloot injects herself in the narrative to introduce another theme to the story: that of race. Skloot, a white student of science and aspiring journalist decided after college to track down the story of Henrietta Lacks. She read up on all previous journalistic reports of Henrietta Lacks and tracked down Lacks’ doctors. This research is evident throughout the book. But the final thing for Skloot to do was track down Lacks’ family; her husband and children were still living, and Skloot knew that they were the missing piece in telling the complete story of Henrietta Lacks.

So Skloot drove down to Lacks Town in rural Virginia to find Deborah, Henrietta’s daughter. Here, the book becomes more of a memoir. Skloot chronicles the difficulties of getting Lacks’ relatives to speak to her, but along the way, learns of just why they were so secretive. Once word got out in the late 1970’s that Henrietta was the provider of HeLa cells, everyone wanted a piece of the Lacks family. By the time Skloot came around in the early 2000’s, the family had become jaded. Skloot weaves the family’s mistreatment into Henrietta Lack’s story as an illustration of racial disparities in the US. Skloot’s close relationship to the family, however, also shows that she is not merely using them, but recording a version of the Lacks’ family history, as they would like.

Similarly, Country Driving tells the personal stories of the many people Peter Hessler encounters on the road as he drove around China in the past eight years. These aren’t people with many tangible records or documents, but regular migrants, village politicians, and museum guides who have all been affected by China’s incredible change over the past fifteen years. The book is divided into three sections: first, Hessler takes weekend trips from Beijing to Inner Mongolia, following the Great Wall; second, he purchases a second home in the rural suburbs of Beijing to write and finds himself involved in village politics and development; third, Hessler travels to southern China to witness the growth of factories and emergence of cities in formerly sparsely inhabited mountains.

While each section could stand by itself, they together tell a story of change. The Inner Mongolia chapter sets up China’s rich history well by discussing the Great Wall and China’s long history of keeping foreigners out. This tradition contrasts nicely with Hessler’s experience of traveling in Inner Mongolia where people were friendly towards his foreign face and mostly couldn’t care less about the history the Great Wall represented. The second section shows how China’s economic growth affects one family. After moving to Sancha, the rural village near Beijing, Hessler befriends the Wei family. Though their annual income starts at 150 dollars a year when Peter first meets them, it grows to 800 a year by the end of their acquaintance five years later. In that time, the government built a paved road to Sancha, which helped the Weis launch a food business. But as the family’s wealth grows, their unease does as well. The father of the family smokes and becomes more controlling of the wife, while the son gets overweight and watches more television. But Hessler doesn’t mock them, only describing how rational decisions got the Weis to where they were. Finally, the last section shows an entire region’s growth and the individual spirit that forms its base. In Zhejiang province, Hessler meets Boss Wang who starts a factory that produces bra parts. Hessler describes the migrant workers who come to seek jobs with compassion and humor, likening the booming factory industry in China to the booming factory industry during the American industrial revolution. It’s an era where people are still playing by the ear and ingenuity is rewarded.

While Hessler’s descriptions of Inner Mongolia and his attempts to navigate Chinese highways occasionally carry a comedic travelogue tone, his book accomplishes a serious task. He tells individual stories that reveal China’s heterogeneity while painting an overall image of a country still making up its mind about what it wants to be.