Showing posts with label war. Show all posts
Showing posts with label war. Show all posts

11/29/07

On Eleanor Coppola's Hearts of Darkness

X-posted here.

[Errata: My bad; it's been brought to my attention that Eleanor Coppola did not direct Hearts of Darkness. Not changing my blog post.]

Shhhh! Don't tell anyone I had not previously seen Eleanor Coppola's Hearts of Darkness until yesterday evening at Sunny [Vergara]'s, though I had previously read sections of her book, Notes, while in the thick of writing Poeta en San Francisco. For those of you not in the know, this was E. Coppola's documentary on the making of Francis Ford Coppola's Apocalypse Now.

We open abruptly with F. Coppola speaking at a podium: "It's not about Vietnam. It is Vietnam."

Um, no, you arrogant fuck.

This is Vietnam.

Then the camera is rolling, as E. Coppola films F. Coppola manic like Dennis Hopper's photographer character; F. Coppola is flailing his hands about, shirtless and revealing his jiggling, furry man-boobs, ranting about creating a work of cinematic art that is vulgar, "actionful," and "senso-ramic." This was reminiscent of Hopper's character, sitting outside of Martin Sheen's/Willard's bamboo cage, fanatic ranting about Colonel Kurtz being a kind man, a wise man, that he had plans....

Apocalypse Now

Let me not get into synopsis mode here. What I wanted to say is this: I have feared that when I finally came around to watching Hearts of Darkness, that I would realize I missed something so crucial to the writing of my book, and that this omission of whatever crucial element would forever nag at me. Well, I am relieved to report this was not the case, that E. Coppola's film confirmed much of what I had already read in her Notes, in film critic reviews, what I could surmise or conclude from so many viewings of the original and the redux versions of the film, from Oscar Campomanes' post-colonial literature lectures during my undergrad, from conversations with Sunny when he was one of my grad thesis advisors.

And actually, one of the reasons why I did not finish reading her book, and why I never watched the documentary had to do with something I think Oscar Campomanes told us in lecture. In addition to the obvious toll on the countryside, from pyrotechnics and all, and on the Ifugao people who were brought in as stand-in's for the Montagnard people, the Philippine military personnel and equipment which F. Coppola secured use of via negotiations with the dictator Ferdinand Marcos, the local populations who became the workers (at 1 - 3 US dollars per day per worker, one of the film producers says, "I hope we weren't taking advantage."), Professor Campomanes told us of local prostitution, including child prostitution, finding an abundant market in Coppola's film crew/personnel.

There was no mention of the local prostitution industry in Hearts of Darkness, and while I believe it was more than likely, film crews getting their R&R this way, really, I can see how E. Coppola would omit this from the documentary, for I think it's some of the more unsavory elements of the American excess, arrogance, self-indulgence which characterize their admitted bad behavior in the Philippines and in making this apparent grand anti-war statement. "There were too many of us in the jungle. We had access to too much money. We went crazy," F. Coppola says, almost proudly. Like the American soldiers in the Vietnam War, F. Coppola and the gang, in embodying WC Williams' "Pure products of America go crazy," truly believe they have created a film that "is Vietnam."

"They think they can take my helicopters, and do whatever they want with them," F. Coppola is again ranting, as the Philippine military helicopters are called away to deal with rebel/insurgents elsewhere in the islands. We see these choppers break off, when Wagner's Ride of the Valkyries is blasting from Colonel Kilgore's Air Cavalry Division descent and assault upon the village they bomb to Kingdom Come. MY helicopters.

So in the midst of all this open contrition, no one of the film crew, the actors, not Francis nor Eleanor, really seems to communicate genuine regret.

Laurence Fishburne tells us that the purpose of his role as Mr. Clean was that American kid who didn't know anything about anything. But there he was, killing and dying in an American war. I think Fishburne might have been the only one to say anything that wasn't self indulgent and self-aggrandizing. Leave it to the man who played Furious Styles.

Sam Bottoms (Lance, the surfer boy) says of the filming, yeah I dropped acid, yeah I did speed, smoked a lot of marijuana. I was going for a certain effect. I was bad then.

For justification of their bad behavior, they refer to Joseph Conrad and the darkness of the jungle, and the darkness of their souls as an unavoidable effect, as something necessary to tap into in order to make this work of genius. These black souls just are, and something of which Coppola seems mighty proud.

(I haven't even mentioned here the Marlon Brando part of the documentary, speaking of F. Coppola going crazy.)

10/30/07

An Arab Woman Blues - Reflections in a sealed bottle...

From Layla Anwar's blog:


How come you are still asleep when a Genocide is happening in your name?

And repeat that word GENOCIDE, until it sinks in deep, into your thick skulls.

How come you are still asleep when you are regurgitating words daily ?

[...]

I know you will say because the media manipulates, etc...We are not being told the truth, we are fed lies, we have been robbed of what this country - yours - stands for and what our founding fathers - yours - fought for and after all we are suffering too, we are overstressed, overworked, underpaid, riddled with hormones, numbed, etc...etc...etc...

More words again...Delusional words and delusional beliefs.

I have news for you here and they are not good.


You are not only being fed lies, you entertain those lies by constantly lying to yourselves as well.

The ILLEGAL invasion and occupation of Iraq. Its massive, irremediable DESTRUCTION. Its untold suffering. Its deaths in the millions. Its refugees in the millions. Its plundering in the billions of $. Its rape and torture; physical, geographical, psychological, social, spiritual...right down to the individual body. Its contamination with the most lethal chemical weapons in history; DU, phosphorus bombs, Neutron bombs, cluster bombs, Napalm...

Its stripping it away from any identity, from its history, from its roots, from its people...and I can go on and on and on...

ALL of that has failed to MOVE YOU TO ACT.

And that despite your knowing "alternative medias" and reading hundreds of articles, and joining hands in prayers, and participating in conferences and giving speeches and showing up on you tube, and blogging and interviews... and, and, and...


And you want me to believe your lies of how you have been robbed of the ideals of what your nation stood for ? Who are you kidding here ?

You are kidding none but yourselves.

Iraq was the golden opportunity that you have deliberately or stupidly failed to seize. And I call that BAD FAITH.

Iraq was the golden historical opportunity for you to finally put into practice those ”ideals of your founding fathers” that you o' so preach about all the time...

But you did NOT. And that is a FACT!

And I will tell you why you did not. Simple. Because you have no such ideals. You are deluding yourselves.

You have forgotten that your so called "democracy" has been nothing but a SHAM, a travesty from the very beginning.

And you have also conveniently forgotten that your so called "democracy" only gave rights to "african americans" in the late 60's. And that is just 40 years ago.
Until then, you were living segregated lives...preaching “democracy.”

So what ideals are you exactly talking about?

And I can go on and on about your own history but your history does not interest me...anymore. You do not interest me either. Nor you, nor your collective or individual stories...

Words and more words...and more words.

Files of papers filled with words, riddled with words like bullets. And this is exactly what your words ended up as, they ended as...BULLETS.

Bullets that ripped through us, through our being, our psyche, our identity, our culture, our very existence...

So spare me your words, articles, news, analysis, research, theories...papers.

And remember you are not to preach to me, someone whose ancestral fathers invented the letter and the word and taught you how to write.

You are nothing but words on paper. And we have become nothing but a target people riddled with your bullets.


......

10/24/07

Thoughts on Artifacts

Shiny pink HK (Hello Kitty) AK-47. Hot pink paint job. Hand crocheted stock (our eyes want to see the words, "hot pink hand job"), so as not to blister our soft little hands. Can we say what a bummer it is to fuck up a perfectly good pink glittery manicure? "Standard issue in any young girl’s arsenal." Makes us think, well shit, if every girl accessorized with this, would there be less (gang) rape in the world? We are not sure why, but we think we'd like to model one of these. Come on, we’re Asian, we’re girls, we’re kind of cute. And. For twelve years, we wore Catholic school girl uniforms.

Hello Kitty vibrator (In Japanese ハローキティ バイブレータ). In case you had a choice between this and the tentacle monster (speaking of Catholic school girl uniforms), which would you choose? And don't tell us the tentacle monster. You don't know where that thing has been (it's a slut, and we like our sex un-bestial and STD-free). And doesn't this sleek product promote chastity? If in adolescence, for example, you could have a choice between this and the zitty-faced white boy who is in your AP history class, and who is developing an Asian fetish the more honors and AP classes he takes, wouldn't you choose this? No interracial drama, just batteries.

White cotton Christian Soldier thong with AK-47 logo/image/icon. For the ass man in your military (What? You don't know of any ass men in your military? Liar.), it's ass-tastic. This artifact is courtesy of the poet Linh Dinh, who has written, “When the shots ring out, dash for the biggest guns and hug them.” AK-47, we didn't know (because we’re girls), is short for Автомат Калашникова образца 1947 года, Avtomat Kalashnikova 1947). Let that roll off your fat wet tongue, and isn't that, in and of itself, just hot. So Cold War.

10/21/07

Onward, Christian Soldiers!

The mercenary outfit Blackwater was in the news, accused of killing 17 Iraqi civilians in a single incident, but they've been linked to many more murders, just like the regular US Army. Our boys are just doing their jobs, you'all. We have to fight them over there, so we won't have to fight them over here. We have to fight them over here, so we won't have to fight them over there. We have to fight them where we can find them, yesterday, today and tomorrow, even if they're not, especially if they're not fighting back. In truth, the only difference between a defense contractor and an American GI in Iraq is the size of their paychecks, since both are hired guns, willing to kill for money. What else are they fighting for? Oh yes, for the SUV, NASCAR, exurban way of life, which is unnegotiable. It's the petroleum, Gomer. Is there no higher purpose? Some American grunts are convinced they're soldiering for God [...]


......

9/19/07

Some thoughts: is this where poems come from?

Thinking on Patricia Smith's recent blog post on the Harriet blog.

I can't look at the pictures of what American soldiers are doing to Iraqi women prisoners of war on Linh Dinh's blog (scroll down to the entry entitled "but is she a blonde?"). They are making my stomach turn, and they are making tears well up. "Disturbing" is a mild term; pornographic is really what it is. He links to another place online, which tells us that these images can be found on porn sites. I am not faulting Linh; he has juxtaposed this against some "artistic" renditions, "fantasy" images, if you will, of sex during war. And I have dialogued with Linh briefly this morning about this. So this is what our boys are doing in Iraq. We knew this already, right? Taguba's report on Abu Ghraib exposed the bloody details about torture, rape, sodomy, humiliation. Photographs were already telling us something fucked up was institutionally happening there.

[more]

7/13/07

Tran Da Tu







American readers are familiar with the Vietnam War poetry of Bruce Weigl and Yusef Komunyakaa, etc., some may even have read former NVA Bao Ninh's novel, The Sorrows of War, but almost no one has read the war poetry of the South Vietnamese, on whose land much of the fighting was taking place, but that's not so unusual, is it? Does anyone know what Iraqi and Afghan poets are writing? Among the best South Vietnamese poets of his generation is Tran Da Tu, born 1940, whose war poetry reads as if it was written, well, right now. I translate two:



Toy for Future Children

A blind and deaf bullet buried in the field
Dozing through decades of blood and bones
Then one morning
In a bustling future
As the children return to the field
Returning to goof around and chase each other

The blind and deaf bullet will be dug up
Will be dug up and awaken
In the middle of this happiness
As the children shriek and crow
The bullet will wake up
Wake up and open its eyes
Open its eyes and explode
Explode and the children will die
Die with their bodies and faces shattered

There, that’s the toy left over by your parents

O my children
What more can I say
What can say to my children, to my children
To a pitiful future.


[Saigon, 1964]




Fragmented War

The loose change are still warring on the table
Amid paint brushes, cheap plays, vague poetry and confused papers
An endless economic war
A weird adventure inside a bowl’s rim

How do we exit from it
Beside stripping ourselves naked
To search and sketch ourselves, to confess
Is there a body not as obscure as the night
A desire not as messy as a storm

That’s when history assumes the enemy’s face
I punch his chin hurting my hand
Hear love dissolving like a breath exhaling
While the past is as exhausted as an illusion
As you look down

How do we exit from it
Beside finding each other
To weep, lament and swap stories
Is there a history not as treacherous as you
A truth not as ragged as mother

These are mornings you must stand on the balcony
Evenings you must wander the streets
Suns that must be put into frames
Nights that must appear as words

And how do we exit from it
Beside dying
So as to finish, fall and exterminate ourselves.



[Saigon, 1965]
*Photo: Tran Da Tu with his youngest son in 1976, just before he was imprisoned for 12 years by the Communists