in which a review of my kitchen table in the context of free will. or possibly the other way around.

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I was looking at my kitchen table a little while ago, and it got me to thinking about free will.

When I look at my kitchen table, sometimes it occurs to me that it doesn’t really exist. What I see as a kitchen table is really just a collection of various sorts of stuff which itself is surrounded by various sorts of nothing. Mostly, there’s just nothing.

When you think about it, this is true of most things.

Free will, for example.

It’s very possible that there’s no such thing. It’s very possible that, in the same way my kitchen table is not really as solid as I perceive, the concept of free will might well be less solid than we imagine. It’s very possible that only at our scale of reality, in the world of our perceptions, can we imagine that such concepts as kitchen tables and free wills exist.

Some people find this distressing. They think that if a study reveals that free will doesn’t exist that it will mean free will doesn’t exist. It scares them to think of a world in which there is no choice. But that’s not what it would mean if we discovered free will doesn’t exist. Anymore than it would mean that kitchen tables don’t exist. Science proved the non-existence of kitchen tables ages ago but, for the most part, the world carries on pretty much the same as it always has. At least when it comes to kitchen tables.

Whatever happens, I imagine that it’s probably best to go along believing in the notion of free will in the same way that I believe in my kitchen table. Just because something doesn’t make sense in one reality, doesn’t mean it becomes meaningless across all realities. That’s not how reality works. A lot of the truths we cling to are only true from a certain point of view.

If tomorrow I adopted the point of view that my kitchen table didn’t exist, for example, then I would be faced with the decision of where to put my coffee.

 

Hello, readers. Every Saturday I publish a selection from a monthly newsletter I’m writing for Storyological patrons called, CHRIS REVIEWS EVERYTHING. If you’d like to receive this newsletter, and so receive more of my reviews, visit the Storyological Patreon page to sign up. Thank you. That is all.

 

ttfn.

the last jedi, a commentary track by director rian johnson

Star Wars The Last Jedi GIF by Star Wars-source

There’s this one myth. It is the myth of the auteur. This is how it goes. When it comes to film, it is the director that matters above all. It is a singular artist with a singular vision which determines the success, or failure, of the thing. This myth emerged in the 50s and 60s as part of the French New Wave led by such as Godard and Truffaut. It was in response to other modes of thinking about film, such as that they were studio or star-driven. It is, as most myths are, not entirely untrue. Directors matter a lot. But, so do studios and actors and so much else. It is also, as far as myths go, not all that different from any of the great man myths, which are, really, not all that different from any of the chosen one myths. Which brings me around to Star Wars.

Star Wars The Last Jedi GIF by Star Wars-source-3

Just as The Last Jedi affirms, even as it dismantles, certain heroic myths, director Rian Johnson’s commentary for The Last Jedi, affirms, even as it dismantles, the myth of the auteur. Mostly because, for the most part, Rian spends the entirety of the commentary talking about other people. The lines Carrie Fisher and Benicio del Toro came up with. The advice from editors as to the importance of grabbing at least one cutaway to BB-8 in every scene. The laugh from Kathleen Kennedy that told him everything he needed to know about the Porgs. The instructions on directing Yoda’s entrance passed on to him by Frank Oz. The conversations he had early on, in walks along the beach, with a production designer about the big, personal questions a film like this could address. It’s only a very few times, and mostly near the very end—possibly, actually, the very last scene—that Johnson reveals something of what this film, and the legend of Luke Skywalker, meant to him. And by de-centering himself, you might think he’s unmything the myth of the auteur except, well, here’s the thing.

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The Last Jedi begins with a scene of heroism from an unexpected place, and it ends with the possibility of heroism arising from all corners of the galaxy. It is a film about making room for all kinds of heroes from all kinds of places. It is a film that says there is no chosen one. It is a film that embraces the idea that the hero’s myth belongs to everyone. And seeing the same sort of generosity in Rian’s commentary kind of confirms how much his vision—one of expanding definitions of heroism and heroes—defines this film. He affirms the myth of the auteur by affirming his vision of making room for the vision of others. Just like how Luke, at the end of Last Jedi, affirms his own legend by making room for, and inspiring, a whole new generation fo heroes.

I love this film so much.

 

Hello, readers. Every Saturday I publish a selection from a monthly newsletter I’m writing for Storyological patrons called, CHRIS REVIEWS EVERYTHING. If you’d like to receive this newsletter, and so receive more of my reviews, visit the Storyological Patreon page to sign up. Thank you. That is all.

 

 

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in the aeroplane over the sea (neutral milk hotel, 1998)

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This is one of those songs I imagine playing at my funeral. The other is “Chicago” by Sufjan Stevens.

This song might also be my answer to what song is playing when I’m at my happiest1. Well. This or the main title of Star Wars. Come to think of it, the main title of Star Wars would be a pretty good one for my funeral, too. That music more or less played me into the world. Why not out of it, as well?

“In the Aeroplane Over the Sea” is a love song unstuck in time. Past, present, and future exist all at once. Every verse occurs in the present tense, no matter where in the timeline of love we might imagine ourselves to be. There is only now, and so much of everything that it breaks your heart. Here’s how the song begins: “What a beautiful face/I have found in this place/That is circling all round the sun/What a beautiful dream/That could flash on the screen/In a blink of an eye and be gone from me.”

The song consists of five verses. Each verse learns from the one that came before it. The second verse imagines that knowing this can’t last forever means we must “count everything beautiful thing we see.” The third verse imagines counting every beautiful thing: light, music, trees. In the fourth verse, love is lost to the past, though we remain in the present. “But now we keep where we don’t know/All secrets sleep in winter clothes/With one you loved so long ago.” In the fifth verse, the song ends back at the beginning, repeating the opening three lines before coming to rest in the wonder of having loved and lost and discovered how much love remains with you still.

For the most part, there are only four chords—G, Em, C, and D—played in that order, in 6/8 time, over and over, for nearly the entire length of the song2. There is only one moment in the song where this changes. The chords shift in the fourth verse to a different progression—Em, C, G, D—and each chord is held for twice as long. It’s almost as if the song, having been trapped in its endless circles, finally finds a way to soar, and in soaring, it doesn’t want to let go. Because of the extended chords, we imagine, along with the song, that it might last forever. That this soaring occurs in the memory of all that’s been lost perhaps tells us something about the song. Or about ourselves. I’m not sure which. Probably it’s both. When we really understand something—whether it’s a song or a book or a film or a person—we usually understand something more of ourselves, as well.

The fourth verse doesn’t last forever, of course. Nothing does. No matter how beautiful it sounds. In the fifth verse, when we return to the old chord progression, when we return to the circling, something of the soaring feeling remains. The song has learned something, I think. And so have we. That it doesn’t last forever is part of what makes it all so goddamn beautiful. It doesn’t hurt any less to understand this. I’m not sure what it does, really. But it’s that understanding, I think, that propels the song to its final line, to its final perfect wonder: “How strange it is to be anything at all.”

 

Hello, readers. Every Saturday I publish a selection from a monthly newsletter I’m writing for Storyological patrons called, CHRIS REVIEWS EVERYTHING. If you’d like to receive this newsletter, and so receive more of my reviews, visit the Storyological Patreon page to sign up. Thank you. That is all.

 

ttfn.

  1. Kathy Nightingale: What’s so good about sad?
    Sally Sparrow: It’s happy for deep people.
  2. Note, these chords I’m talking about come from a version I’ve learned to play on ukulele. They are possibly not the same as actually played in the song. I don’t really know.