1996, the best year in movie history, pt. 33: Ghost in the shell

This violent, disturbing cartoon for adults has the best soundtrack of 1996:

When I hear those drums, I think of a vast, hidden indoor swimming pool, or a great cistern in a derelict building. I visit such places in my dreams.

The main protagonist of Ghost in the Shell likes to go diving in a canal in the middle of a Japanese city. There are skyscrapers all around her, but hardly anyone is in sight. It’s a good place in which to introspect.

All movie long, this character philosophizes out loud, compulsively.

She works for a governmental agency that deals with cyber crime. Her assignment is to trace the source of a computer virus called the “Puppet Master.”

Indeed, she and her colleagues have been designed for this task. They are robot-human hybrids, or cyborgs (the year is 2029). They look like regular humans, except that they stare vacantly and are able to talk without moving their mouths.

And, sometimes, their limbs get torn off.

The limbs are artificial and can be replaced. Still, it’s unnerving to see humanoids conducting themselves matter-of-factly while they’re mutilated. They’re like sinewy, bloody china dolls.

I’ve watched movies with reanimated corpses, talking severed heads, and the like, but nothing else unsettles me just like Ghost in the Shell does.

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I won’t go into detail about the metaphysics of personhood that underlies the combining of a human with a robot. Yes, the movie’s title evokes “The Ghost in the Machine,” the philosopher Gilbert Ryle’s derisive phrase for Cartesian substance-dualism. But whether or not the cyborgs have Cartesian souls is beside the point (as it happens, the movie opts for a thoroughly physicalist ontology).

What matters is that these beings have embodied selves. What kind of self the protagonist has – and, consequently, what her life means – can’t be separated from a physicality that she doesn’t embrace. It troubles her that she’s neither fully human nor fully robotic.

Nor is she fully female – she lacks genitalia. This is evident from scenes in which she fights in the nude.

And this takes us to the interpretation that I find most compelling. The movie meditates on transgenderism, on what it’s like to have a body that feels not just dysfunctional, not just awkward, but wounded.

Here is an excellent review that explores this theme.

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I have little more to say. The movie’s dialog is sometimes flat, sometimes ponderous. This is not an artistic failing. It reflects how the characters struggle to come to terms with the strangeness of their existence.

The futuristic Japanese city is superbly conceived. Against this backdrop, the humanoid characters are drawn rather lifelessly, except when they seem most artificial. Then they become curiously expressive.

There is an extraordinary sequence near the end of the movie. Two cyborgs lie next to one another; below their chests, their bodies have been torn away. They communicate by thinking. One tries to persuade the other to join with himself (herself?) into a single being. When shown from a certain angle, their faces almost seem to merge. The scene could be an homage to Bergman’s Persona. One being combines with another; only, in Ghost in the Shell, it isn’t a nightmare or a colonization, it’s a longed-for realization. The movie isn’t pleasant, but it does plumb fascinating depths.

R.I.P. Diego Maradona

… arguably the greatest soccer player. A “great man,” I heard one commentator say. I wouldn’t go that far, but, clearly, very few players have been as naturally gifted as Maradona.

In terms of natural talent, who else is in his class? Puskás? Pelé? Probably. But I know them mostly by reputation. Maradona himself admired Mágico González.

Among those I’ve watched in real time, the two players who stand with Maradona are Ronaldo Nazário de Lima and Lionel Messi. Zinedine Zidane and Ronaldinho Gaúcho, I relegate to the next tier – far, far beneath the others.

It’s also worth mentioning that Romário and N’Golo Kanté have displayed genius in their circumscribed roles. (Kanté works hard, yes, but with an instinctive clarity.)

What, then of such a determinant player as Xavi Hernández – or Johan Cruyff, perhaps the greatest soccer figure of all time (for what he did in management as well as on the field)? They were obsessives, constantly working, constantly scheming to improve. Were they naturally gifted? Surely. But their place on the podium of naturalness is hard to ascertain. The natural ability of Andrés Iniesta is more apparent than that of Xavi. (Iniesta is less conspicuous than Ronaldinho or Zidane, but he might be in their class.)

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Maradona’s other distinction, besides the naturalness of his talent, is the role he played as the “conduit” of his teams’ successes. His teammates floundered badly when he was absent. This was true at the club level and at the 1994 World Cup. The same has happened again and again with Messi. (Cruyff and Xavi also were “conduits” through which play flowed, but, when they left, their teammates were not without recourse.)

Unlike the other forementioned players, Maradona and Messi have inspired cult-like devotion among their teams’ supporters – and in an entire nation. Maradona encouraged this sacrilege; Messi, as far as I can tell, has been indifferent to adulation (though, in other respects, he’s hardly been faultless). In such cases as theirs, talent rather than personality is what has inspired devotion. Fans and teammates will tether themselves even to such a wastrel as Neymar, who is gifted but ultimately rudderless.

One achievement of Maradona’s was that, for nearly two decades, he overcame the idolatry and dependency of his worshipers forcefully enough to deliver the goods.

Sherlock Hound

… or, in Japanese, Famous Detective Holmes, is a 1984 TV series of Hayao Miyazaki’s. I never thought I’d get to view it without having to shell out a lot of money. Last night, though, our Amazon Fire TV Stick suggested that we try the show for free using the HappyKids.tv app. (We haven’t watched much of Miyazaki with the Fire Stick, but it must know that we like our British period shows.)

On the basis of our first episode – “A Small Client,” a.k.a. “Little Martha’s Big Mystery,” which adapts Arthur Conan Doyle’s story “The Adventure of the Engineer’s Thumb” – I’d say the show is a great success. Miyazaki’s Sherlock is youthful and tousle-headed. Mrs. Hudson – also surprisingly young, and exuding kindness – is a Victorian beauty (or, rather, she is as beautiful as a talking cartoon dog could be). Moriarty is a flamboyant wolf, while Watson and Lestrade belong to portlier breeds. Transport, done by hansom cab in Doyle’s stories, is here performed in a nifty little motorcar upon which Holmes – or Hound – has doubtless tinkered. Another marvel is a machine that wheezes and gasps as it mints counterfeit coins bearing the image of Queen Victoria.

Alas, as the show was being made, its production team turned over. Some of its episodes failed to reach the highest standard – or so says one reviewer. But a half-dozen episodes do evince the master’s touch. (The reviewer lists them.)

Karin & I are delighted to have found this show. Samuel also watched with interest and didn’t howl as he did when we tried to watch Sanditon – a Jane Austen series in which the men do naked sea-bathing (but not with such courage as in the Merchant-Ivory Room with a View).

Update: What we watched tonight: “The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle” (the link is to YouTube – this video was uploaded within the last day or so).

“Rawr” means I love you

Things that frighten Samuel:

• The alarm in Karin’s car, which has been sounding without provocation
• Gently saying the word “rawr” (one of Samuel’s shirts has a picture of a t-rex, along with the slogan: “Rawr” means I love you)
• The Geico gecko

Many thanks to Stephen for the birthday gifts of one book and one new rice pot (my old rice pot had stopped stopping; I’d been having to watch it like a hawk so it wouldn’t burn the rice). Stephen’s birthday is this week.

David, whose birthday is tomorrow, also gave me a book.

To them: rawr.

Ecuador 6, Colombia 1

An historic victory against one of our toughest rivals, who beat us twice in the previous World Cup qualification cycle (3–1 and 2–0). I figured we’d lose or draw this time, especially since some of our players were sidelined due to COVID.

I needn’t have worried. We scored twice in the first ten minutes. By the end of the game, the Colombians had suffered their worst defeat in World Cup qualification since Brazil thrashed them, 6 to 0, in 1977.

Every goal was scored by a different player. Our precocious winger, Gonzalo Plata, was ejected for taking off his shirt after he scored goal number five.

November’s poem

It’s been several days since the temperature descended from glorious heights. Almost all the leaves have died. We’ve had several frosts. The wind howled all of today; it is still howling.

Now that the porch is uninhabitable, Karin & I are making plans to clear out the spare bedroom and turn it into a play room for Samuel.

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Stephen David showed me this video of Brazilian referees discussing whether to award the penalty kick that led to Ecuador’s third goal against Bolivia.

The Bolivian almost surely didn’t handle the ball deliberately, but in this era of the VAR, that hardly matters. You can hear these referees talking about the defender’s having abierto la masa corporal – i.e., he had extended his bodily mass (of course, the operative concept is surface area, not mass). It’s notable that the defender “enlarged his body” before the shot was taken. The video shows the ball striking the arm after a ricochet, but the arm had occupied its “enlarged” position for some time.

If such refereeing were applied consistently, defenders would have to train themselves to keep their arms next to their sides inside the penalty box or else risk conceding a penalty kick for involuntarily handling. This would make it harder for defenders to balance themselves inside the penalty box. This, in turn, would allow attackers to easily dribble or pass around them very near to the goal.

I wonder if it would gradually improve the sport. Teams would have a strong incentive to defend well outside of the box.

Defensive bunkers might be abandoned or at least moved farther away from the goal, toward the middle of the field. There would be less clustering at either end.

Soccer would again become a full-field game – less like basketball, more like itself.

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This month’s poem – from the movie We Are the Best! – is called “Hate the Sport!”

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Nature is fully polluted
But you only care about the recruited
Children cry and scream
You only care about your soccer team
The world is a morgue
But you’re watching Björn Borg
Hate the sport
Hate the sport
Your team is winning
Oil companies are sinning
Hate the sport
Time to abort
Hate the sport
Hate the sport
Hate the sport
Hate the sport
People die and scream
But all you care about is your high-jump team
Children in Africa are dying
But you’re all about balls flying: hate the sport, yeah!

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

(English subtitles – translated from the Swedish)

Another good result

… in World Cup qualification, against Bolivia. The match transpired as I expected it would, with defensive errors, wasted shots, and Ecuador’s eventual victory. The final score was 3 to 2. We briefly leaped into second place among South Americans. It was mathematically impossible for us to remain there, however, and Argentina overtook us by drawing against Paraguay, in lackluster fashion.

Tomorrow, Colombia or Uruguay can knock us down into fourth place, but not if they also draw. The Colombians will play against us on Tuesday.

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November’s novel by C.P. Snow is The New Men, in which scientists jockey for the privilege of building the atomic bomb. They all consider that it’d be better for the world if the bomb weren’t built – but as long as Nazi and U.S. scientists are trying to build it, British scientists may as well try, too. And thus is lit the fuse of personal ambition.

The old Penguin covers are interesting.

A strange sequence in the fall

“Well,” says Karin, “I didn’t see any fleas on Jasper today.”

Jasper has been of two minds: some days, he’s had a flea (just one); some days, he’s had none. Some days, Karin has bathed him. Other days, he’s gone unwashed.

Little Ziva has gone many days without having been caught harboring any fleas.

Samuel has had spots (not from fleas) and a fever. Today he is well again, but he napped five consecutive hours in the late morning and early afternoon. The outdoor temperature was in the seventies (F). Toward evening, I wore shorts and strolled with Samuel around the block. Quite a few dogs ran up to their fences and greeted us. Neighbors were out of doors, visiting one another or washing their cars; their zest made the wintry clouds and the leaf-less trees seem out of place.

I wonder if my old friend Madame is aware of this book, Onward and Upward in the Garden? It’s by Katharine White, who was married to E.B. Its chapters have titles like “Floricordially Yours.”

Sweet dreams (goodnight song)

Not much to write about tonight (who really wants to find out what I think of the election?), so I’ll just post one of the boy’s favorite YouTube videos.

Samuel is made so, so happy by the loving glances between the mother and the baby.

De-fleaing; voting; reuniting

A few updates:

(1) The fleas

None in sight for a couple of days.

We’ve been laundering our clothes and trying to store them away from the fleas. Both Jasper and Ziva have been bathed. We’ve tried to make it up to them by giving them extra, extra love.

Right now, they seem flea-free.

(2) The vote

Today, we drove around before sunrise, looked at four different polling places, and decided to vote at John Young Middle School in Mishawaka – the only place where I’ve ever voted, as it happens. We queued for eighty or ninety minutes before it was our turn. We finished voting well before Karin had to go to work.

The cold was bearable (today’s temperature is supposed to reach the sixties). Samuel lay bundled up in his stroller. His mood was good.

We talked to several people we knew. One poor man (not one we knew) appeared to reach the front of the queue only to realize that he didn’t have his I.D.

My own mistake was to wear glasses instead of contacts: my mask guided my breath upward, fogging the lenses and effectively blinding me for an hour and a half.

(3) A different vote

2020 was to have been the occasion of my twenty-year high school reunion. Well, my classmates and I can’t reunite in person, but some of the go-getters among us have been organizing a video conference which is to include as many of us as possible. The date is TBD; votes are still being cast.

Meanwhile, my classmates and I have been sharing photos with one another.

Karin & I don’t have a recent family photo. We took these photos on Saturday.

In the second one, Samuel is dressed as Stitch, for Halloween.