I saw the Canadian premiere of this last night:
The little I knew from Kafka came from references I caught while doing mandatory readings for my Modern Critical Theories class (which means I needed to read them to write an essay, because we all know that the only mandatory readings are the ones that you'll be marked for knowing), in a Deleuze and Guattari essay -- probably the worst way to get to know someone, akin to waking up in a mountain range and trying to figure out what year it is with only an existentialist hermit for company. Bad things happen when existentialists talk about other existentialists.
With a tidy, minimalist title like "K.", I expected a whole lot of angst and a monochromatic colour scheme. I wasn't far off. I just finished 1984, and nearly chuckled with glee (can you imagine me chuckling with glee?) with the opening Matrix-esque speed-up slow-down scene of pacing businesspeople. The rest of the play involved a guy dressing and undressing repeatedly, a nifty backdrop of 20-foot filing cabinets, a whole lot of yelling about paternal alienation, and an actual Lilith character in crushed red velvet.
My own question of the evening asked something a bit more selfish, though: what does being "cultured" even mean these days? I went to "K." with a friend from English class who has a birthday this weekend, and had coffee with some other English-types after the talk-back session at the end of the play -- a stereotypically highbrow (or 'fauxbrow'?) ending to a highbrow evening. We chatted about grad school, the play, city life, travel, work, and all that. We even stuck out the questions about how actors "got into character" and the "difficulties of translating Danish drama" asked by the audience. I gulped a ridiculously huge mug of hot chocolate, and took advantage of complementary coffee. And though I hadn't done this kind of theatregoing in a very long time, somehow all this felt like old hat.
At the end of 1984, Winston Smith realises that even in rebelling against the Party, the Party groomed every step of his resistance, making a strong case for how unescapable our surrounding contexts can be. Was this kind of evening what my fourteen years of education and life in middle-class Canada set me up for? Someone should probably stop me and ask why I'm picking apart a genuinely fun time, and I can only answer that it's a personal trait. Socrates insisted "the unexamined life is not worth living," but I've managed to turn great events in my life into navel-gazing exercises. So much for Mooch's advice! (see below)
Maybe what matters most at the end of the day -- to me, at least -- are those things I can't be questioned, those things that resist prodding like Jell-o Jigglers and persist even after a few swipes on the critical theory grindstone. I had tea with M. (to carry on with the Kafkian trope here) on Friday, for a recent example. We talked for a good hour about the compatibility of Christian and Buddhist philosophy, and she cleared up a few muddy areas for me. What caught me, though, was how easily she believed that at our core, humanity has an inherent evil.
I can't believe that. Say it for me, Samwise: there's some good in this world, Mr. Frodo, and it's worth fighting for. Hugs. Tea. Smiles. Kids. Family. Friends. Peanut butter. Tangible, inexplicable things that even theory can't accuse of being deceitful abstracts. If humanity built the frame of our lives, through our history and politics and social upheavals, humanity also left room for these things that bring us joy.
And what the hey: 104.9 FM is now "Clear FM"?
The little I knew from Kafka came from references I caught while doing mandatory readings for my Modern Critical Theories class (which means I needed to read them to write an essay, because we all know that the only mandatory readings are the ones that you'll be marked for knowing), in a Deleuze and Guattari essay -- probably the worst way to get to know someone, akin to waking up in a mountain range and trying to figure out what year it is with only an existentialist hermit for company. Bad things happen when existentialists talk about other existentialists.
With a tidy, minimalist title like "K.", I expected a whole lot of angst and a monochromatic colour scheme. I wasn't far off. I just finished 1984, and nearly chuckled with glee (can you imagine me chuckling with glee?) with the opening Matrix-esque speed-up slow-down scene of pacing businesspeople. The rest of the play involved a guy dressing and undressing repeatedly, a nifty backdrop of 20-foot filing cabinets, a whole lot of yelling about paternal alienation, and an actual Lilith character in crushed red velvet.
My own question of the evening asked something a bit more selfish, though: what does being "cultured" even mean these days? I went to "K." with a friend from English class who has a birthday this weekend, and had coffee with some other English-types after the talk-back session at the end of the play -- a stereotypically highbrow (or 'fauxbrow'?) ending to a highbrow evening. We chatted about grad school, the play, city life, travel, work, and all that. We even stuck out the questions about how actors "got into character" and the "difficulties of translating Danish drama" asked by the audience. I gulped a ridiculously huge mug of hot chocolate, and took advantage of complementary coffee. And though I hadn't done this kind of theatregoing in a very long time, somehow all this felt like old hat.
At the end of 1984, Winston Smith realises that even in rebelling against the Party, the Party groomed every step of his resistance, making a strong case for how unescapable our surrounding contexts can be. Was this kind of evening what my fourteen years of education and life in middle-class Canada set me up for? Someone should probably stop me and ask why I'm picking apart a genuinely fun time, and I can only answer that it's a personal trait. Socrates insisted "the unexamined life is not worth living," but I've managed to turn great events in my life into navel-gazing exercises. So much for Mooch's advice! (see below)
Maybe what matters most at the end of the day -- to me, at least -- are those things I can't be questioned, those things that resist prodding like Jell-o Jigglers and persist even after a few swipes on the critical theory grindstone. I had tea with M. (to carry on with the Kafkian trope here) on Friday, for a recent example. We talked for a good hour about the compatibility of Christian and Buddhist philosophy, and she cleared up a few muddy areas for me. What caught me, though, was how easily she believed that at our core, humanity has an inherent evil.
I can't believe that. Say it for me, Samwise: there's some good in this world, Mr. Frodo, and it's worth fighting for. Hugs. Tea. Smiles. Kids. Family. Friends. Peanut butter. Tangible, inexplicable things that even theory can't accuse of being deceitful abstracts. If humanity built the frame of our lives, through our history and politics and social upheavals, humanity also left room for these things that bring us joy.
And what the hey: 104.9 FM is now "Clear FM"?
