Judging a Facebook by its Cover

Last year, I succumbed to the horribly bourgeois, popular phenomenon of  the social networking website Facebook. Having avoided it for a few years, partly because of my counter-culture yearnings and partly because of my dearth of close friends my own age, I signed up on a whim during my initiation into collegiate life. I was thoroughly amazed at the crack-cocaine-like addiction to the website that then ensued: I had caught myself once a few months in actually checking for notifications on my dentist's computer as I waited for a teeth cleaning. And, despite any attempts to curb my appetite, I habitually find myself logging on at least three times a day. Why, I couldn't cogently explain, but nevertheless, there is some sense of joy and acceptance that comes from seeing a little numerical red speech bubble poking out from a crude icon of a sign, even if said communication was merely alerting me to the fact that somebody made a smiley face emoticon on my wall. Even now as I pen this post I'm changing my status on the site. But, as I sit back and examine this fad, I cannot help but think: have these new developments in social networking helped us become connected to our fellow man or quite the opposite?

It takes a somewhat critical eye of self-awareness to really determine what exactly we are getting out of transforming ourselves into a profile page. We write not about our own self-images, but the image we want to project for other people. If we were to have one of our friend's write our profile for us, it would probably be exponentially different from the one we write ourself. Think about it: how many negative things are we willing to say about ourselves? Even more so, how many positive, yet inaccurate, things are we willing to say in the sake of promoting a self that may not truly reflect the people we are. Hand choosing the attributes and qualities that define who you are is probably more dangerous than it appears to be. I mean, couldn't it be possible to lose your sense of self if you cultivate this insanely glorified and falsified personality which in no way defines who you are, and maybe not even who you want to be, but who you want other people to see you as? It's all so pathetically submissive. 

Unfortunately I have yet to stop the siren's song which is Facebook, but hopefully in a few year I--we--will move on and try to be ourselves for real, rather than virtually.   

The Art School Girls...of Doom

Cum all Ye Faithful

Rating:

As the holiday season approaches, it's normal for us to be berated with religious images and messages. Normally, though, they aren't disparaging or metaphorical in nature (not intentionally, anyway). Doubt is an exception to this observance. While timely in its subject matter (namely Pedophilia in the church) its themes and locations transcend what is on the facade and dig down into deeper motifs, such as intolerance, progression and, of course, trust. Transition into new and uncharted territories is a double-edged sword that is unsheathed in this film; it asks "is progression good?" Does taking the risk of abandoning antiquated (yet steadfast) ideas pave the way for something better, or does it end in misery? Meryl Streep as the suspicious Sister Aloysius questions the integrity of the new priest played by philip Seymour Hoffman by criticizing everything from his fingernails to his use of a ballpoint pen; it isn't until a naive nun (Amy Adams) smells wine on a young boys breath, though, that Sister Aloysius vows for the expungement of the new priest. 

To give the ending away in one fell swoop, we as viewers are left in the dark. And as it should be. Too often we are coddled and given the answers in a nice little Christmas package, but the fact of the matter is, we never know. Recently, my godfather Monsignor Capua was accused with the molestation of a young boy some twenty years ago, and has since left the parish and moved to Massachusetts. He was never found guilty of the crime, or even charged with it I believe, but it has nevertheless ruined his reputation. Did he do it, though? I couldn't tell. He never touched me, but the incident happened before I was even born. Considering the track record with priests these days, it's possible, but aside from that there's no real proof. Uncertainty is probably one of the more dangerous concepts floating around, considering that the correctly chosen words can be forcefully damaging to a person's integrity or reputation, whether factual or not. The slightest utterance of a carefully chosen rumor is grounds enough to ruin a life, no matter if it's true or false. 

Doubt hosts a spectacular production that poses these questions to the audience and, horror of horrors, actually makes them think. John Patrick Shanely's screenplay is simply divine, but this comes as to no surprise seeing as he penned the play it was based upon, too. His direction is remarkable, considering it was his first go-around in that particular area. And, of course, the acting is perfect; especially Meryl who stole the show.  Of course, there was no doubt about that.

Middle of the Pack

In our earlier years, it was probably quite common to hear that we could do anything and be anything that we wanted to be. That steaming string of optimism was stitched into our minds from the beginning, but slowly began to unravel with each waking year. Cynical as it may be, it is undeniable to admit that the majority of people are not special. In fact, it is possible to say that we are all almost invariably interchangeable.

For the most part of my life, I have considered myself average; I am not the smartest man alive, nor the dumbest. I don’t have the best body or the worst. I’m not ridiculously wealthy, nor am I destitute. It’s rather depressing and fairly nerve-wracking to see that most other people fit into this category as well. How can we even imagine the possibility of the philosophy of individualism when it’s all together true that everyone fits into some general statistic or percentage?

What’s worse is this is all coupled with the sheer mortality of life, the inescapability of death. Why put ourselves through the misery when we end up with nothing to show for it? What if we become great successes and generous do-gooders, what does it matter when we’ll end up in the same place as the rapists and murderers? It’s odd to just sit and reflect on the banal existence we all partake in, and how random and ineffectual it all is. So what if we find a cure for cancer? So what if we help orphans in Africa? We’ll die anyway.

We go through life living in the shadow of someone else; we know that as soon as we die, someone exactly like us will fill our place like some big, existential vending machine. Perhaps it’s sound advice to live for ourselves and be the bet we can be, but in the end how can we not look back and say “What was it all for?”