The Marksist Faction

Remember how I once commended Christian Bale for starving himself to play the part of an insomniac in The Machinist? Well, I’ve since come to the conclusion that Bale ain’t got nothin’ on Jared Leto. Jared Leto: one of People magazine’s “50 Most Beautiful People” (1996 and 1997), lead singer of unbelievably lame band 30 Seconds to Mars, and–dare I say it?–the most dedicated method actor of our time. No wait, that’s ridiculous …the most dedicated method actor of ALL time. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, may I direct your attention to:

Exhibit A: Requiem for a Dream (2000)

In preparation for the role of  junkie Harry Goldfarb in Darren Aronovsky’s upbeat, feel-good foray into the wonderful world of drug abuse, Leto reportedly spent two months living on the streets of New York, starving himself and abstaining from sex with his bangin’ fiancé, Cameron Diaz. Note Leto’s sunken eyes, razor-sharp nose, and  pallid complexion (not pictured: swollen testicles).

Speaking of swollen…

Exhibit B: Chapter 27 (2007)

Whoa! I thought this movie starred Jared Leto! Who IS that bloated, double-chinned creature with the sweaty forehead and moldy-looking 5 o’clock shadow? The film, a critical bust but a triumph for Leto acting-wise, tells two stories: 1) the tragic murder of John Lennon by Mark David Chapman; 2) the shocking transformation of a man committed enough to his craft to gain 67 lbs and, as a bonus, develop gout!

Finally, because I care about my hundreds of imaginary female readers:

Exhibit C: My So-Called Life (1994-1995)

What a whirlwind this post has been! Too skinny, too fat, and juuuust right.

Here we go, guys. I’m back at it. Normally, when starting to blog again, I’d do a short beer review. I may be one to dive right into the ocean before allowing myself to realize how frigid the water is, but I like to ease my way into the swimming pool of cyber prose, dipping my cyber toes, splashing some cyber water on my cyber face. However, a beer review would be inappropriate at this time, and here’s why: my friend and I have made a pact to go one month without booze.

But wait, there’s more! We’ve also given up meat until the third week of September.  Keep waiting…no caffeine, either! That’s the real kicker, the caffeine. Bombay Sapphire, bison burgers at DMK, even my precious Weihenstephaner Hefeweizen (got a six-pack sitting in my fridge as we speak)–all peanuts. (It would be really difficult going a month without peanuts, though. I’d inject peanut butter into my veins if it were possible and didn’t have any Requiem for a Dream-esque conseqeunces.) I’ve been drinking at least a cup of coffee a day for as long as I can remember (ok,  so it was the occasional decaf cafe au lait when I was a kid; my mom’s not THAT irresponsible), and it’s been rough forsaking not only that morning/afternoon/evening jolt but also the deep roasty pleasure of a properly brewed cup. Decaf coffee, as well as green and white tea, are on-limits in small quantities (even though all three contain some caffeine), but that doesn’t do me much good, especially right now, as I sit here typing away in my Boystown apartment. All i have in my pantry is a box of ginger peach white tea. To bastardize one of the Bruces‘ oft-quoted quotes, “white tea is a little like making love in a canoe. It’s fucking close to water.”

Why are my friend and I making ourselves jump through all these restrictive hoops, you ask? A few reasons: to try something new, to see how we feel in a few weeks, to give our bodies a chance to recover from the bar-based fun we must endure as twentysomethings, to get much-craved attention from our incredulous friends (“A month without ALCOHOL??!”). Mainly, we just want to prove we can do it. I’d say that’s a noble pursuit.

This is Day 9 of the detox. So far, I feel noticeably better. More energetic, less puffy, clearer-headed. Plus I’m sleeping like a baby on Ambien. The only strange thing is I’ve had a few very intense cravings for cigarettes. I’m not a smoker or anything, but maybe part of me is itching to bring some poison into my pure, sunny, vice-free life. Wouldn’t it be deliciously ironic if abstaining from certain pleasures caused me to pick up one of the most harmful habits in the world? Only time will tell.

So that’s it. No brew review today because I don’t want to weaken my willpower by thinking too much about beer. I know what you’re thinking. You don’t have to give up beer, Leah, because it isn’t exactly booze; it’s so much more. Liquid bread, yeasty sustenance, part of a well-balanced breakfast (kidding…maybe). Mmmm…sweet, sweet beer. I think I’ll go make myself a peanut butter sandwich.

Since this is my first post about Hamburg, I’m gonna start off nice and slow. It’d be a shame if I tried to cover all the billions of things that have happened so far and got overwhelmed and burnt out too quickly and abandoned the blog altogether. Plus I need to save some juicy stuff for the next post, just in case my life grinds to a complete halt and I’ve got nothing exciting to tell you. Speaking of telling you things…

1) I’m renting a room from a family (Mutter, Vater und 11-year-old Kind) in Eimsbüttel, one of the nicest parts of Hamburg. Here are a few pictures of the apartment:

The living room

Another pretty room

Tina, the family cat. Favorite pastimes include shedding all over my clothes and coughing up hair balls for me to step in, usually while barefoot.

I didn’t post pictures of my room because I haven’t taken any yet. If the weather weren’t so Hamburgerish (gray, drizzly, and generally depressing), I’d get on that right now, but I want to make sure my loft bed and very Euro balcony photograph well.  Next time for sure.

2) Teaching has been lots of fun. Every day, I help out different teachers in classes ranging from 6th to 9th grade. It’s nice bopping around the school–I feel like some sort of American-accented minstrel, only without the singing and dancing and other minstrel-y stuff.

HLG is the top Gymnasium in Hamburg, so the majority of the kids, even the little ones, speak  amazing English. Here’s a fun scene from the other day:

Me (to a group of 9th graders): Gosh, you’re all so good at English! I feel almost superfluous. Do you guys know what superfluous means?

Students (deadpan): Yes.

Highlight of my week.

3) Last Saturday, I went to a gay warehouse party in Lange Reihe, the “Laufsteg” (catwalk) of St. Georg, Hamburg’s gay district (Note: Somebody at www.hamburg.de used the word Laufsteg to describe Lange Reihe. I cite this anonymous person because of themarksistfaction.com’s strict anti-plagiarism policy, which I mentioned in my previous post.) My friends and I danced to ’90s pop hits and random German club songs everybody but I knew by heart til 5 in the morning. It was a wundervoll night.

So there you have it. Stay tuned for more about my gradual and delicious transformation into a Hamburger.

Hey there, internet world. After nine months of grueling physical labor and scrounging in the gutter for spare change, I finally earned the $10.00 I needed to renew my domain name, so The Marksist Faction is back in action. To my former readers: welcome back (if any of you are back). To my new readers: welcome to my blog. I hope you exist. Alright, here goes…

During my last semester at WashU, I wrote an optional senior honors thesis. We German majors had a choice: either do what comes naturally and write in English or put your brain through a cognitive paper shredder and write in German. Being the masochist that I am, I chose the latter. In the end, after several weeks of bed rest and daily electroshock therapy, I was pleased with my decision, but I’m still not sure how I managed to finish the project. Guess that’s what happens when you spend four weeks living in the library, fueled only by 24 oz. coffees and your own panic because you didn’t start researching or writing till a month before your deadline. You go into a sort of waking coma and somehow, when you regain consciousness, everything is done. The only logical explanation is this: a band of German-speaking elves lives in the stacks and helps out the tired, poor, huddled undergraduate masses yearning to breathe free.

I wrote my thesis on Wim Wenders, a member of the New German Cinema movement of the ’60s and ’70s. Unlike most directors, Wenders had no interest in being a storyteller. Rather, he wanted to make films that capture reality and the passage of time, both of which stand at odds with a fabricated narrative. Unfortunately, this pursuit proved impossible; movies need stories for structure, coherence, and entertainment value. In the 1970s, Wenders reconciled the narrative/anti-narrative opposition with his Road Movie Trilogy, which includes Alice in den Städten, Falsche Bewegung, and Im Lauf der Zeit. (Funny thing about the last film–the title translates as “in the passage of time,” but distributors opted to call the American version Kings of the Road. Sounds like an exciting, Easy Rider-esque film, right? Well, it’s not. In fact, this is the single most boring movie I’ve ever seen. Check it out if you hate dialogue, action, and plot and love endless shots (pretty shots, I’ll grant you) through the window of  a beat-up van.)

Anyhoo, I argue Alice in den Städten is a model for a cinematic approach that attempts to challenge narrative while representing reality on celluloid. Through the film’s episodic structure, use of the long take, and closing scene, Wenders’ images retain a certain degree of autonomy yet still manage to satisfy the viewer’s need for narrative form and a sense of closure.

*Note: the two previous paragraphs were inspired by the abstract I wrote for “WashU’s Senior Honors Thesis Abstracts: Volume 2, Spring 2010.” During college, I learned it’s possible to plagiarize yourself. I also learned plagiarism is the worst crime anyone can commit. Aggravated assault, extortion, homicide…all child’s play. For these reasons, I’m citing myself.

In 1968, Wenders made Silver City, his first film and greatest venture into the land of story-free cinema. The young director, high on his own artistic ambition and a whole lot of marijuana, simply stuck a camera in the windows of several Munich apartments and filmed people walking by. No script, no actors, no nothing. This goes on for thirty minutes with only ten cuts. That’s Silver City. Riveting.

Now here’s where this post gets interesting. I recently splurged on Daria: The Complete Animated Series. Truly a great impulse buy, I tell ya. For no reason at all, here’s a picture of me as Daria before WashU’s Art Prom, an annual  art school-sponsored costume party known for its creative themes (e.g. cartoons) and way too open bar:

La La LA La La

Since I have no job, no summer projects, and virtually no obligations whatsoever till I leave for Hamburg at the end of August, I’ve spent a good chunk of the past week working my way through seasons 1 and 2. In the last episode I watched, touchy-feely English teacher Mr. O’Neill pairs off the class and assigns each group to make a movie. Daria and Jane’s film, The Depths of Shallowness: A True Story, explores a day in the life of Quinn, whose primary concerns include figuring out which side of her face photographs better and making sure her pores are cute. However, before they land on this theme, Daria and Jane fool around with a few other options, including this one:

Jane (placing a camera in a tree): There. Tree Cam.

Daria: You’re just gonna leave it running?

Jane: Only a day or two. It’ll catch everyone passing by through the tree’s totally objective point of view.

Daria: Riveting.

Jane: Andy Warhol filmed eight hours of a guy sleeping and people thought it was brilliant.

Daria: Those people changed their minds after they got into 12 step programs.

Jane: Wait! I think I just saw some leaves rustle.

Daria: There’s our climax.

Jane: …maybe we need a script.

Wow. Silver City much? It’s like I’m in the library all over again, scrambling for secondary sources and fighting off the shakes cause I’ve got 70,000,00 miligrams of caffeine coursing through my system. Ah, precious memories.

But DAMN! If only he’d jumped 30 years into the future and turned on MTV, Wenders could have saved himself a lot of time and effort. He also could have spared me three hours of watching a couple guys drive around Germany in complete silence. I should get myself a DeLorean, build a flux capacitor, steal some plutonium from Libyan nationalists, go back to 1968, send Wenders to 2010, give him my dvds, buy a dvd player from Best Buy, give Wenders the dvd player, send him back to 1968, and let the rest take care of itself. Now THAT’s what I call a summer project.

I must admit I wasn’t expecting much when I went to see Inglourious Basterds at the Moolah, a fabulous St. Louis movie house that boasts worn-in leather couches and an adjacent bar. (They even let you take your drinks into the theater! Ohmygod, how cool is that?!)  Sure, I love a good Nazi flick as much as the next guy, but Tarantino, despite his reputation as a film dork who references classic cinema every 1.5 seconds, has never captured my interest. I get a lot of flack for this from my Pulp Fiction-loving friends, but what can ya do?

Imagine my surprise when I plopped down in that probably filthy couch (if a couple of hormone-charged teens can find a way to cuddle and make out in those standard uncomfortable theater seats, God only knows what happens when they have an entire couch at their disposal) and found myself riveted to the screen from first gunfire to last brutal Nazi branding. Oops, spoiler alert.

Here’s what I learned from Inglourious Basterds:

1) Quentin Tarantino knows how to make a film.

Tarantino, you son of a gun. You took my initial skepticism, chewed it up, and spit it right in my face. Narratively, the movie couldn’t be stronger. The tight convergence of several plot lines–the Jewish Shoshana’s plan to pack her movie theater with Nazis and burn that motha down, the Basterds’ attempt to infiltrate the British Operation Kino (an identical mission, only this one is the brain child of a thickly-accented, mustachioed Mike Meyers), the war hero Frederik Zoller’s successful effort to be as adorable as possible (sorry, he’s played by Daniel Bruehl, the object of my dopey preteen heart’s desire)–made it impossible for me to take a bathroom break, even though I was on the verge of going Tycho Brahe.

Visually, the combination of explosive, on-the-verge-of-bursting action shots and fawning close-ups of beautiful women’s lips, eyes, and so on pulled me in such opposite directions that I thought I might split in half. I haven’t been so struck by a film since Transformers 2. Kidding, of course.

2) Brad Pitt is a fine actor (No, really.)

By no means am I claiming that Mr. Pitt stole the show. That honor goes to Christoph Waltz, the unknown-to-Americans Austrian actor who played SD Colonel Hans “the Jew Hunter” Landa with the most uncanny blend of pure evil and childish delight. However, Pitt’s Lt. Aldo “the Apache” Raine, a hearty Tennessean who wants to give each and every Nazi (pronounced “Natzi”) a blood-soaked what for , still jumps off the screen. Pitt was decent in Fight Club and Seven, but these days, he’s much better known for his celebrity hunk/Mr. Jolie status than his dramatic skills. Now we see the man has more than a muppet-lipped wife and 37 adopted children; he has some serious chops.

3) Watching Nazis get scalped is pretty cool.

A lot of scalping goes on in this film. “Duh,” you say. “This is Quentin Tarantino, not Walt Disney.” Just hear me out, though. The Scalp is actually a main player in Inglourious Basterds; it gets sliced and peeled back and cut off and triumphantly displayed like some costly animal pelt. Diane Krueger wasn’t too happy about being credited after the Scalp, but let’s be real–dude can capture an audience.

4) Cinematic historical revision can be extremely satisfying.

Many critics, including The New Yorker‘s David Denby, have bashed Inglourious Basterds for turning the past on its head. The bulk of the movie traffics in fantasy–the only thing that’s true is that G.W. Pabst was an awesome director–but it’s not until the climax that things really get crazy. After Landa decides to go traitor so he’ll look good in the middle school textbooks and be able to buy a nice little place on Nantucket Island, the Bear Jew (a ripped Eli Roth) pumps Hitler and Goebbels full of lead and watches them burn to faschist crisps in Shoshana’s cinema, a look of utmost spite and deliciously sadistic pleasure in his eye.

Anyone who doesn’t relish this scene should head to the nearest hospital for a quick CAT scan. Who cares if Tarantino messes around with the facts? One of the most accepted functions of film is to provide an escape from reality and a glimpse into an alternate world in which love conquers all, good triumphs over evil, and everyone lives happily ever after. The chance to view such a horrific historical episode through the lense of fantasy, to take that “what if…” idea and pump it full of cinematic life, brings a big fat smile to my Jewish face. Guess I’m a regular Basterd.

Yesterday, the world-renowned German scholar Russell Alt suggested I start this thing back up. I couldn’t possibly say no to such an academic inspiration and all-around amazing guy, so here I am, trying to remember how to type. They say it’s like riding a bike or swimming, but that doesn’t help me very much–I’m a disaster on my used Huffy, and the only stroke I know is the doggie paddle.

In any event, we’ll see how it goes. Let’s begin…now.

Today’s topic: wineries and caves (There’s a connection, I promise.)

Last weekend, my friends and I took a mini road trip to Cave Vineyard, a tiny operation about an hour outside St. Louis. The journey was not easy (on and off rainstorms, flat tire, a slow as molasses Subway sandwich artist (no joke, that’s what they’re called), etc), but we made it eventually. By then, everyone really needed a drink, which was convenient because we were about to have several.

I never expected anything good to come out of a Missouri vineyard. Missouri’s a beer state, not a wine state–no way in hell the fine people at Anheuser-Busch would let a bunch of hoity toity grape squishers encroach on their alcohol  territory, right?  Unsurprisingly, I was not disappointed when I took that first sip of Chardonnay. I mean, I was disappointed because it tasted like Pier One–never have I had such a wicker basket-y beverage– but at least Cave proved itself to be as mediocre as I anticipated. Always nice to know you’re right.

It wasn’t all bad, though; there were two wines I really enjoyed. The first was a sweet, borderline Manischewitz red, which somehow did it for me, the Queen of Dry. The second was a white that tasted like neither scented candles nor paisley throw pillows. Since the others were in agreement, we bought a couple bottles of those, as well as a semi-decent zin/pinot/cab/who-knows-what hybrid.

Here’s where the second part of today’s topic comes in. It turns out Cave Vineyard got its name from a natural cave in which patrons can bring their glasses (or just their bottles, if they feel like being extra classy). So the seven of us grabbed our vino, Brie, Italian sausage, and crackers and chilled at a picnic table surrounded by stalactites, stalagmites, and all sorts of drunk people. Best day ever.

Sometimes I wonder what it would be like spend a couple days in the body of my dog Freddie. Like most Australian Shepherds, he’s always happy, energetic, and ready to make his own fun. The other day, for instance, I caught him throwing a squeaky ball to himself. He’d toss it up in the air and run after it, a sparkle in his eye and a big, dopey grin on his face. Ah, to be so self-sufficient.

Another of Freddie’s great qualities is his huge brain. My mom has taught him dozens of tricks, all of which earn him countless oohs and ahhs when he performs them in the park or at my house. The best is his portrayal of a complex emotion. If you put a blanket, towel, or pillow in front of him and ask, “Freddie, are you ashamed?”, the wunderkind goes and hides his head under the covering like we all want to do when we’re caught slap-chopping a prostitute. (It always comes back to Vince.) Sure, he may be whipping out a conditioned response to an unchanging command, but Freddie gives the impression of truly knowing shame. Amazing how such an animal spends much of his time eating goose poop.

Freddie is also very beautiful. Every time we take him for a walk, he’s complimented ad nauseam on his interesting markings and silky coat. Boy’s a regular beauty queen. Even though I’m pleased for him and proud of his physical blessing, I can’t help but wonder if all this attention is going to his silly doggie head. Here, have a look at the Paul Newman of the canine family, pictured with his less glossy-coated human keeper:

Studly, no? This is the main reason I want to be Freddie. For once, I want to go to the park and have strangers tell me I have pretty markings and a soft coat.  I want to be praised for my adorable stumpy tail and nice sized head. I can be a calendar dog, too. Just give me a chance.

It just dawned on me that people like pictures. I, for one, prefer blogs that feed my hungry eyeballs to those that bombard me with blocks and blocks of boring  text (like mine, for instance). As such, I’m posting a snap of the Smuttynose Summer Wheat ale, the beer whose praises I recently sang. Take a look at this baby:

Pretty, huh? Hope this photo will make you salivate all over your keyboard–I don’t want to be the only one with a creepy thing for beer porn.

In a few weeks, my family is packing up and heading to Montreal for the annual jazz festival. Should be pretty fun–good music, cool nightlife, famously delicious bagels, etc. My only concerns are:

1) poutine, a Québécois specialty that consists of fries topped with gravy and cheese curds. When I visit a new place, I  make it a practice to try every traditional food, even the scary ones (remember the Weisswurst incident?). Not sure that’ll happen this time, though, and here’s why: I’m afraid of the word “curds” and the things themselves. “Leah, you’re such a silly head,” you say? Just take a peak at this terrifying dish:

Damn. How can people not only eat that but also enjoy it? The human race never ceases to amaze me.

2) flapping-headed, beady-eyed Canadians who have a bone to pick with us high and mighty Americans. They’ll probably look something like this:

Yesterday, I was raped. Since acknowledging the incident is the first step to recovery, broadcasting it over the internet must speed up the process by at least 150%. That’s why I’m sharing this shameful event with you. You can help me heal. 

On the night of June 12, 2009, I was Scrabble raped. This form of recreational activity assault is a serious blow to a seasoned player’s confidence. It is also the leading cause of Scrabble-related suicide. Over 7 million cases go unreported each year; victims are too ashamed to admit they got their asses kicked up and down the game board. That’s another reason I must share my story. Someone has to speak out for those poor souls who lost by dozens, even hundreds, of points. 

The incident occurred around 9:00 pm. At approximately 8:30 pm, I came down to dinner after a long mid-afternoon nap. Groggy and disoriented, I fell into my chair, mumbled something incoherent, and started eating my tacos. The rest of my family mocked me, calling me “sleepy head” and otherwise insulting my awareness. Their barbs, however cruel, were ineffective; they simply bounced off my melatonin-addled brain. 

“After dinner, do you want to play some Scrabble?” asked my mom. She smiled kindly, but her eyes were cold and heartless. Before I knew it, the game board was in front of me, and I had drawn a letter to determine who would go first. I picked an F. My mom drew a B. First turn means double word score. She already had the upper hand.

For years, I’ve prided myself on being an expert Scrabble player. I know all the obscure two letter words (xu, ut, etc.), and I’m a master of strategy (going for a triple word score, for instance, is not always the wisest move. You must tailor your game plan to the board’s current layout.) My mom is no hack, either. She has over 40 years of experience and can whip out a zazan (n pl. -S meditation in Zen Buddhism) or a murre (n pl. -S a diving bird) with the best of them. Nevertheless, in the past few weeks, I’ve been beating her silly. Maybe it’s a temporary winning streak, but regardless, the current situation has inflated my ego to epic proportions. I am the best. Losing is not an option. 

As last night’s game progressed, my mother pulled further and further ahead. I felt degraded and powerless; I couldn’t even remember the Q-without-U words. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew I should call for help. Perhaps a sibling would come to my aid and point out a good word I failed to see in the 7 letters on my tile rack. Unfortunately, my nap-induced cognitive impairment prevented me from seeking assistance. I was too sleepy and confused to move. If only I’d had a Scrabble rape whistle to notify my family of the crime that was taking place at the kitchen table.

The rest of the game was a blur. All I know is that my mom continued to put down word after amazing word, exploiting my weakened state in a display of Scrabbling prowess. She even used all her letters in a single turn (Scrabblers call this move a “bingo”), which gives the player an extra 50 points. I knew things were bad all along, but it wasn’t until my opponent revealed the final score that the true gravity of the situation became apparent. I had lost by nearly 150 points. I had been Scrabble raped.

I hope my story will give all victims of Scrabble rape the courage to speak out. You don’t have to suffer in silence. You are not alone. I also hope that by reading this post, you have become aware of the dangers of playing Scrabble. Scrabble rape can occur anywhere at anytime, which is why we must always be on our toes. Don’t play after napping. Don’t play while reading a magazine or balancing your check book. And above all, don’t play with a loved one who would seize any opportunity to kick your ass. I was raped by my own mother. Watch out, fellow gamers–it could happen to you.