Showing posts from 2014

Open Minds, Open Hearts: Paddington's London

The last time I wrote a blog was the last time I saw a film at the cinema. That was Interstellar, which I saw with my step-daughter Sophie; this week I went to see Paddington with my other daughter, Isobel. There’s something about cinema-going that piques my interest in a different way to watching a dvd, though most of what I see at the cinema are children’s films. Perhaps it’s the ‘event’ mode of spectatorship, or the physical space of the cinema itself, or perhaps it’s because I don’t watch enough films at home; or perhaps because I see the films with members of my family. The cinema makes me think and respond in a different kind of way.
Of course, watching films at the cinema for me becomes re-inscribed into patterns of conceptual and intellectual work, the thinking about cultural production that makes up this blog and, ultimately, articles and books published in more traditional forms. In parallel fashion, Jonathan Beller’s brilliant book, The Cinematic Mode of Production (2006)…

Christopher Nolan and the locked-room mystery: Interstellar

On Friday I managed to go to see Interstellar, at the cinema, a rarity for me these days. And it was a mighty long experience, so much so that I misjudged the starting time of the film and the amount of parking I needed and was haunted during the film by the promise of a ticket upon the return to the car. (I was lucky.) Quite appropriately, while I was watching the film I was also still in the past (why did I think the film started earlier?) and rehearsing the future (this film is going to cost me £50. But it might not…). This didn’t impair my enjoyment of the movie, though. Although I understand and agree with many of the criticisms of the film – though I have to say its liberties with science don’t bother me – I liked its scale, Matthew McConaughey (Coop) and Anne Hathaway (Brand) in the central roles, the use of the robots, and in particular the ‘realistic’ look of the spaceship interiors. Some of the effects sequences were quite exciting, such as the re-docking with the spinning …

The Over-Investment Ethical Trap

It would be difficult to overstate just how angry and heart-sick I am as I write. I've long been guilty of over-investing in work, not just in critical activity and writing but in the satisfactions of teaching, of feeling that you're helping students to understand and investigate the world and our culture, and of doing your best for and by them; when I was Examinations Officer, for instance, or in advising PhD students, or simply chatting to students about things. This over-investment has had serious personal side-effects, but has acted as a kind of alibi for the time I've spent dealing with the river of thoughts that flows through my head, believing that by turning them outwards that they might mean something, not just to me. This blog is an example of that, I suppose.

It's not uncommon, I would think, among academics. The lines between home and work life, between everyday activity and critical activity, become blurred; to the extent that it is difficult to switch off…

Fata Morgana, or auto-criticism

I've always been a bit confused about writing, to be honest. I wanted to be a writer as a teenager and remember that one of the reasons I gave, when going to study English at university, was wanting to write myself. (That mightn't have been the best idea.) But I didn't really keep up the creative end of things, and writing became critical writing. All these years later, having gone through the process of finishing a couple of books at the beginning and end of this summer, I feel myself written out, and although I'm on study leave from teaching this term, I'm struggling to get it together. (Last one I had I wrote a lot.) I'm involved in a collaborative creative project that is going very well, and I wish I could devote more mental space to it. And yet here I am, writing, partly because I haven't posted up much recently, and partly because writing has become both a burden and a necessity. I feel my mind clotted with unwritten projects and ideas, and I always …

First of the Tenth: a manifesto for a new academic practice

I will get back to science fiction soon, but I had to get this down, in the light of recent experiences.
A Manifesto: a utopian (re)vision of academic practice

First, ALIENATION now commands academia: alienation of teachers from researchers, faculty from management, academics from the products of their labour, and increasingly, students (as consumers) from education. The first principle of A NEW ACADEMIC PRACTICE must be to challenge alienation through new working practices, through non-hierarchical teaching environments, and through a revision of the investigation, writing and dissemination of research.
Second, the role of the academic in contemporary society, and in particular the relation of the individual to the institution, requires systematic re-evaluation and analysis. This analysis must encompass the conditions of labour under which academics now work, and the relation between that work and the research and teaching they produce. Academics now work to produce research outputs…

Method and anti-method

I've been thinking a lot about what I do, why I do it and how I go about it. I'm middle-aged now, I suppose (more than half-way through my life, I would guess; 'middle age' is really the third quarter of your life-span, past what Dante calls 'the middle of the journey of our life' when he finds himself 'within a dark wood where the straight way was lost' in Canto I of the Inferno, though I deeply sympathise with that feeling), a time when the unthought elements of life and purpose come to the surface and ask for explanation. These are troubled times for the life of the institutions I've existed within for the majority of my adult life, as I indicated in yesterday's blog post, and for someone of my sensibilities, they are personally troubling too, for I am not in sympathy with the current marketisation of higher education, and feel that its purpose (and thereby my own) has become eroded. Of course, I do what I can, particularly as a teacher and a…

Feels like down to me

I don't know whether you've read Marina Warner's London Review of Books blog on why she quit the University of Essex (happily, she's now at Birkbeck, so no need for tea and sympathy), but in it she contrasts the aspirations and hopes of the expansion of higher education in the mid-60s, embodied in the Brutalist architecture of the Wivenhoe campus, with the neo-liberal managerialism of the current regime. My own university, Lancaster, is one of the same generation of UK universities, founded in 1964. It is therefore 50 years since the institution opened its doors, and 'Jubilee' celebrations have been held throughout the year. Not much of the old fabric of the Lancaster campus remains, as in the 8 years I have been there, several new buildings have gone up and a fair few torn down. The picture is from old accommodation stock, now mothballed, that my friend and colleague Lindsey explored a few months ago. There are still some old areas of departments that retain …

I've Got a Feeling

It’s a strange thing to admit, but literature rarely moves me to tears. For me, reading is, and I think always has been, a pleasure of the head: imaginative or intellectual stimulation rather than emotional. (This is perhaps why I have ended up an academic in an English literature department who writes and teaches on science fiction.) That’s not to say that I don’t react emotionally to culture, but I am most moved by other things; namely, movies and music. I regularly cry in the cinema, at the most emotionally manipulative things, in spite of myself; rarely does a children’s animated film go by without me piping my eye, and I’m not even talking about the genius at work in the opening sequence of Up. In the cinema, I’m a softy.
Certain songs almost always trigger tears. ‘Spare Parts’ and ‘Cautious Man’ from Springsteen’s Tunnel of Love, for instance (the hair stands up at the back of my neck too). And recently, although I don’t cry, some of the late work of The Beatles works emotional…

A certain melancholy

Over the past few days I’ve watched the first two films of two trilogies: The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey and The Desolation of Smaug, and The Bourne Identity and The Bourne Supremacy. None of them I found particularly happy experiences, which is especially problematic with regard to The Hobbit (an adaptation of a children's adventure story, after all), which I found very gloomy, much more so than The Lord of the Rings trilogy. The Hobbit begins with an invasion, of Bilbo’s house; and yes, he’s a fussy, nerdy creature, but he becomes the unwitting victim of Gandalf’s social engineering: ‘if you return, you will not be the same’.  Both Bilbo and Jason Bourne are made into problematic heroes by authority figures whose motives are opaque, if not outright dubious. Each is sent on a ‘mission’ that may prove fatal; each loses their sense of themselves along the way. Each must adopt a ‘warrior’ masculinity, and in both films the personal body-count is pretty high. The saving grace is …

The Critic as hack(er)

A couple of things last week made me wonder. The first was when I was invited to contribute an article to a journal. My first thought, as usual, was ‘Great! Yes, of course!’ But then I came up dry. I couldn’t think of a single thing that I wanted to write about.
The second was that I had a few ‘free’ days at the end of last week. It’s Easter vacation, but my daughter Isobel is still at school, and Deniz took my step-daughter down to Oxford. So three clear days for – what? I have a couple of pressing projects (a monograph to finish, corrections and revisions to another book), and this seemed like time I could use. But – no. I read a bit, thought a bit. Let my brain tick over without forcing it. And the days went by.
And I realised that I hadn’t posted on here for a couple of months. Traffic is still steady (thanks), but nothing had come to mind, nothing urgent that I wanted to write about. So I wondered: have I written myself out?
I asked myself this last night. I wanted to write for…

Anarchy (and science fiction) in the UK