Subsequent Bullshit

I don’t know if you’ve ever noticed, but people are fucking dishonest and it’s hilarious. My example of the day takes place in the realm of theater; a magical place of “families”, ego, and passive-aggressive rivalry. The most disgusting form of this sort of thing exists in the form of peer critiques that fill most of the acting or performance-based classes. Here, students are forced to complement the performance of their peers and give them “constructive criticism”. Now, let’s get one thing straight: peer-to-peer critiques are a load of complete bullshit that I like to call: diplomatic dishonesty. It serves no purpose except to hear the opinions of those unqualified to give it.

Now, I try to avoid participation by quietly analyzing the performance in my head, but more importantly analyzing the character of those who speak after the performance. On my journey of silent social experimentation, I’ve noticed there’s a few common trends in the reactions.

Here are a few of the stereotypical bullshit responses procured by peer critiquing:

1) THE EXPERIENCED ADVICE-GIVER

The Bullshit: This student raises their hand for almost every person. They have an opinion and they want everyone to know it. But they totally know a ton about theater. Right? They use big theater terms! They spew their carefully thought out responses, and give advice using their own past experiences. They just want to spread their knowledge to everyone!

The Truth: This person mostly babbles the same generic bullshit, fill-in-the-blank responses, dropping meaningless vocabulary whenever they can. They make sure they mention their resume at every turn. They don’t care about helping the others, they just want to make sure the teacher still remembers that they’re the best.

2) THE PITY PARTY

The Bullshit:  The student that tells those who give a bad performance that they’re “so good” and that they “try so hard”. And that they have “so much courage, getting up there”. They continue, by critiquing with diplomatic and measured compliments. They say, “even though you messed up, you totally pulled through.”

The Truth: This is code for pity. No one will ever tell someone that they gave an awful performance. But this person is sure to convey their benevolence at every turn, you know… by NOT giving the performer advice, or any sort of honest critique. Because that’ll help right? Right? This person doesn’t want to you to be any better, they want to keep you far below, where they can see you.

3) THE SILENT TREATMENT

The Bullshit: A technically good performer will get very little compliments from the following students. In fact, none at all. Their logic? “They already know they’re good.”

The Truth: Passive aggressive jealousy. They refuse to give the “enemy” any more fuel. A blank response will keep the performer doubting their performance. After all, what is a performer without a good audience?

4) THE SELECTOR

The Bullshit: Much like the advice-giver, this person is eager to share their expertise, but only with specific performances that they claim were “so, so, so, good”. They make sure to correct the tiniest of details, since they just want to “help” you be “the best you can be”.

The Truth: This person marks their rival, and makes sure to upstage them with their fabulous response. They want the teacher to notice their sharp eye, and make sure he or she noticed that almost invisible mistake, or the mistake that they merely made up.

So alright, I exaggerate slightly. (And I mean slightly) Some people may be honest when they say they really liked the tone of your voice, or how natural your monologue sounded. I give artistry comments more credit than technical ones. But honestly? Deep down, there’s a reason you’re saying what you’re saying, in the specific way you’re saying it. 9 times out of 10, if you dig deep enough, all motives are selfish.

I admit this sounds a bit cynical, a bit cruel even. But I can assure you one thing: it’s fucking honest.

And that’s better than nothing.

I implore anybody who prides themselves in having an ounce of intellect to watch the movie “Brief Interviews with Hideous Men”. Inevitably, when you start watching the film, be prepared to get a seemingly “run of the mill, low-budget, realism film” vibe. But as the movie progresses and escalates to it’s climax and it’s final ending, be prepared to find yourself proven utterly wrong. This movie goes beyond feminism propaganda, or anything political. It strips down and examines the inner-workings of human beings, beyond the layers of social interaction. The film jumps around from subject to subject, ignoring a chronological time-line, but rather organizing itself around concepts and theories. This cinematic choice parallels the thought-process of the almost-silent narrator, Sara as she continues her research for her graduate studies while simultaneously addressing her own life experiences. The style assists the rhythm and emotion of the story, through the decision of how often to switch between scattered scenes, and how fast. At times, the movie produces an almost symphonic quality as voices from various scenes come together to form one congruent thought. The acting quality is superb, in the sense that every actor is so precise in making the delivery of their monologues extremely authentic, without losing the artistry of the writing. (Not to mention, Death Cab for Cutie’s Ben Gibbard shows off his acting chops!) The movie is adapted for the screen and directed by John Krasinski (The Office) who also appears in the film sparsely, but actually ends up giving one of the most moving monologues at the film’s conclusion. The story itself is based on a some of the stories found in a book of the same title, containing a collection of 23 short stories by David Foster Wallace; A book, after watching this movie, that I will surely be picking up at Barnes & Noble. Though the film starts off slow, it’s certainly worth sitting through. I could see how this movie would not be for everyone, since if you fail to pay close attention, or find yourself distractingly shocked by the brutal honesty of these men’s confessions, then you’ll find yourself missing the point completely. The film is falsely marketed as a “romantic comedy” with a tangible plot line. But that is far from the case. It’s an intelligent and well-written examination of the human relationship that doesn’t pretend to have all the answers.

I don’t know if you’ve ever had one of those introspective days, but since I am a brutal self-analyzer, these sorts of days suck. I break myself down into a million pieces with the intention of sorting the pieces in some objective way that I can wrap my head around. Then I decide on a plan of action. All this happens in the crevices of my brain, while my outer persona stares blankly at a Facebook newsfeed and says grumpy things to those who try to speak to me.

But for the first time today, I found it difficult to sort out what I want for my academic future. Particularly, if I want to transfer, the reasons for doing so, and is acting a good idea in the first place? I would rationalize and organize, and think I had made a decision. But then doubt that these rationalizations are legitimate at all, and question the underlying reasons. This lead to further digging, and I came to the following phrase: my entire persona is an ironical witticism. This may have absolutely nothing to do with any of my important decisions of the day, but this pretty much sums up what I think is wrong with me. I can’t express my feelings in real life situations, and yet here I am, an acting major, a supposed devoted actress portraying the emotions of fictional characters. I always thought I was a pretty open person, at least that’s how I categorized myself.  I never hold back my opinions, and I certainly have a lot to say about things. But I realized today that I dance around the root of most issues. I state the rationalizations, but you’ll never hear me state the feelings that these opinions stem from. I guess it’s because it’s fucking scary. And honestly that’s how most people are. I’ve noticed that trait in so many other people, but for some reason I failed to put myself in the same category since I’m constantly living with my own feelings.

But then it hit me. And I’ve figured it out. This is probably why I act to begin with. I act, to act out the feelings that I keep to myself. The feelings that I phrase, rephrase, and edit for the public. The things I will never say for fear, I can say onstage, with the voice of another soul as a translucent mask. This is why I need acting. But when I woke up today with unsettling questions in my brain, what I really needed was a path.

But I guess that’s just not how my mind works.

“Within hours of a tragedy unfolding, journalists and pundits should not manufacture a blood libel that only serves only to incite the very hatred and violence they purport to condemn.” -Sarah Palin

Oh I’m sorry, is this an example of the EXACT sort of violent rhetoric that the journalists have been speaking out against? How can you call the journalists hypocrites while using the same sort of violent, wartime metaphors that they have pointed out in your own political language to begin with? “Blood libel”…… Are you serious?

No really.
SERIOUSLY?

I was sitting in the dentist’s waiting room today and I found myself mindlessly musing at the tabloid magazines so lovingly supplied by my friend, the mouth sadist. I believe it was in Us Weekly or some similar trash, where I came across an entire section of the magazine devoted to proving how celebrities are “JUST LIKE YOU!” But here’s where it gets good. The whole spread was a collage of pictures of various people doing regular things in their daily lives, but the magazine captions them with gigantic, colorful, bold face font screaming, “THEY BUY BOARDGAMES!” “THEY PLAY WITH THEIR IPADS!” “THEY DRINK COFFEE!” “THEY TALK ON THEIR CELL PHONES!” I truthfully had to let out a chuckle at the audacity of this entire spread. They might as well have been shouting, “LOOK, THEY BREATHE!” at me. No shit, sherlock. Thank you for informing me that Sandra Bullock has a pulse and the Tayler Swift still remembers how to shit properly. The magazine’s clear excitement that celebrities are, in fact, human is ridiculously amusing, and moderately sickening. Are we so far gone in society that we need an entire spread devoted to reminding the public that celebrities are living, breathing, humans? They’re actors, not fucking gods. They still need to roam the earth once in a while. I just found it so absurd that this is news to people. I mean, even for a ridiculous magazine filled with gossip and mindless drivel, this is quite a low. It’s one thing speculating whether your two favorite stars are dating, but it’s just insanity to marvel at the fact that these people occasionally take a walk, or go shopping! It’s called living.

I know, I know. You’re wondering what would happen to all the starstruck pundits in the world if they weren’t reminded of celebrities’ humanity. But I want you to put those oh so tragic thoughts away. Never fear, Us Weekly is here. Don’t you feel a lot safer in the world knowing that Ryan Reynolds occasionally takes a shit? I sure fucking do.

Such bullshit. Such hilarity.

I just woke up. The last dream I had was quite literally a low-budget indie movie film montage with scenes from my life and other people’s. The background music was an indie version of Sick Muse by Metric. Just the lines “Everybody, Everybody just want to fall in love. Everybody just want to play the lead” over and over again, being sung by pedestrians. Then it broke out into harmonic “Ahhh’s” The scenes that played from my life, seemed oddly familiar, but actually hadn’t happened. Not to mention, the song-choice and the scenes were weirdly symbolic. What has my life come to?

So on my mind lately, has been the idea that no one knows what love is. It’s such a broad vague term and people just tend to define it as they wish. But what I find appalling is the worldwide accepted cliches for the term, and how people are actually pining for this. For example, any romance movie ever, involves some sort of borderline stalker harassing a women, despite her insisting that she loves someone else. Then she suddenly finds herself turned on by this sick obsession, and decides she is in love with the mentally unstable, but endearing, hero.

Anytime I watch these movies, I always think about the other guy. In about 50% of these movies, this guy isn’t portrayed as an asshole. He’s just some clean cut, generic, rich, attractive man who doesn’t get enough screen time. The moral of the story is usually to prove the idea that money and appearances aren’t everything, and the flawed man is the one with the soul. But I always feel bad for the other guy, because his character is never sunken into. The poor dude had to deal with this woman randomly acting psychotic for an hour and a half storyline and leaving him for some other shmuck. All the while, the scripts always portray him as some sort of symbol for the the soul-less business man. But this man, that she leaves for her flawed stalker (with lazy-tendencies and very little future, usually) is a person too. We never find out what his favorite movie is, what his quirks are, what he wears when he’s not working. What kind of music does he listen to? What’s his opinions on pop culture? Or politics? Or anything? Maybe he likes vintage records! Maybe he used to live in a trailer! But we never find out. However, if this were a real life situation our female protagonist would know all these things. And despite all this, would be choosing someone who went to ridiculous lengths for her attention, instead of the man who had been supporting her throughout her confusion. Yet, this is considered romantic.

I find it strange that this formula is constantly used by the movie industry, and that so many people swoon over it. I know that I, personally, would be very creeped out if suddenly one of my friends or co-workers, or neighbors started constantly following me around, sabotaging my dates, and constantly being a regular annoyance. (Or in the case of Twilight, started sneaking into my room at night and watching me sleep) I mean, yes, everyone craves attention. And I understand the idea of wanting someone to love you unconditionally. But does that condone borderline psychotic behavior? No. So why is this constantly encouraged?

Now, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy movies about love, and the idea of it. But I tend to prefer ones that don’t follow the general formula; that attempt a little heightened realism, at least. The puppy love sentimentality tends to disgust me. I believe there’s a good balance of devotion and independence that plays well for romance.

Here are movies about love that I like:

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (Technically the disintegration of a relationship, but hopeful ending, beautiful realism, and interesting story)

(500) Days of Summer (Sad, but wonderful.)

Definitely, Maybe (A really interesting story about the different relationships throughout a man’s life. Cute.)

When Harry Met Sally (Okay, hear me out. This isn’t so generic, since it was the first “best-friend into lover” movie to really do well. Now the idea has been overused. However, this portrayal of the progression of the relationship, is very witty, and not overtly cliche.)

NOW THEN.

I’ve started to ramble. Per usual. But the point I’m trying to make is, why is the absurd suddenly accepted because it’s what the general public perceives as love? These ridiculous, larger than life cliches only lead people to expect too much, and reality cannot provide for this. Someone will always be disappointed.

But then again, maybe I’m just missing something.

So last night I went to bed uncannily early (11:30pm- wowzers!) and ending up having the strangest of dreams. The dream involved some sort of reality altering challenge.

Allow me to explain. In my dream, I show up to this sort of indoor pool, YMCA-type setting. but the pool has upward inclines and downward declines and rocks and things. I discover that a group of people (random friends from high school) have been completing challenges, and are now on level seven. Three of them failed level  6, which was swimming against a raging river current and avoiding rocks. For some wild reason, I join in on level 7, which is swimming up and down hills of water, with constant temperature changes within the water; scathing hot to freezing cold. I was impressed by how easy it was for me in the dream. Now, it was down to three people including me. One person I knew, the other I didn’t. Apparently, they had teamed up for the majority of the challenges in order to last as long as they did. Level 8 was in a completely different setting: an empty train car. It was late at night by now and very dark in the train. We find various positions around it and prepare ourselves for the unknown. The train slowly starts to lurch forward, at first we’re underwhelmed, until the car starts to take a small dip forward much like a roller coaster, then starts to speed up. I cling to the pole in front of me. I remember the three of us saying, “Alright, it’s just a regular roller coaster, we’re all set.” When suddenly the train car, instead of moving forward, tips sideways, and we start flipping over. This is no ordinary roller coaster we realized: it doesn’t follow a track. So now the train car is manically flipping around and there are no seat belts and so I’m clinging for dear life and closing my eyes. When I open my eyes, I see the person whom I did not know, telling (lying) to the person I knew, that there was a safe room at the top of the train car, through that “trap door” on the ceiling. My friend lets go of her place for a moment to reach for the trap door. The trap door swings open, but she loses her gripping, and is barely hanging onto the trap door as her body is thrashed around by the train car. She manages to pull herself up, and into the trap door and pull it closed behind her. I almost breath a sigh of relief when I hear her say something reassuring. Maybe the strange girl hadn’t lied. But then I hear my friend say, “What’s this?” We hear a bang, a whoosh of wind, a scream, and she’s gone. Eliminated. The challenge is over, and train car, which we discover is driving on air, is slowly bringing us back to a certain location. The eliminated friend is now back in the car somehow and questioned the girl saying, “I was under the impression we were still working together. What happened?” to which I didn’t hear a response. The train car pulls up to the porch of a random house. We exit the vehicle, and on our way in, pass a glimpse of what Level 9 is supposed to be: an igloo. So we continue past the igloo and go inside the house, saying to ourselves that we’ll have to stock up on food and coats. Now I as a dreamer was wondering why we were here, but we walk into a room with a bunch of my friends in sleeping bags, everyone who was participating in the challenges actually. I hear one of my friends saying, “It’s amazing that none of this is real, but even still, it feels like my hair was wet from the water!” Weird. Strange and awkward dream interactions ensue. And suddenly we’re back in the YMCA-setting. And it’s the last challenge. For some reason, no longer an igloo. Everybody from past challenges are there at the bottom end of the pool. And the finalists (which somehow includes the eliminated person, someone who I thought to be eliminated, and myself) are at the top inclination of the pool. There’s a man at the bottom edge of the pool, who is actually an instructor from my college in real life, and he’s obviously running the show. He says to us, “The challenge is, the water’s red, but your blood is yellow.” In an instant, the people in the bottom half of the pool are floating like a cluster of corpses. Their half of the pool is nearly all yellow, our half, red, but we’re covered in yellow. So we swim/walk through the disgusting “who-knows-what” (blood?!) towards our wounded friends, a grotesque mixture of red and yellow. (They do not blend to form orange, the substances are too thick and slimy for that, and this is also a dream). We make it to the corpses, and suddenly, the challenge is over. Apparently we succeeded. I don’t know why. And the people at the bottom half of the pool start moving and functioning, laughing at the part they had to play. One girls says “So I put my red bra on OVER my yellow shirt, so it’d look like I was bleeding from the chest!” She then laughs. Not amusing. We all get out of the slime. And suddenly we are no longer colored red and yellow. We’re just wet, as if we jumped in a pool with all our clothes on. There’s a rush of people going to dingy bathrooms to dry and change and whatnot. And I’m asking the instructor where to put the towels. He answers and I cheerily say “Thank you.” To which he frowns and says, “Uh, please don’t do that again.” In my dream, I, for a fleeting moment, wonder where my things are. Then I see a string of people going down a dark trap door under the pool chatting as they go, casual, as if they often do this. I assume my things are down there.

I wake up.