Mandy Van Deven

Feminism for Real: Deconstructing the Academic Industrial Complex of Feminism

mandy — Sat, 23 Apr 2011 08:00:00 +0000

Jessica Yee and I have a lot in common, personally and politically. For one, last year we were both curating collective published works that simultaneously construct and deconstruct contemporary feminist theory while broadening the scope of who is seen as legitimate enough to be a theory-maker. I wasn't aware of her work, and so far as I know, she wasn't aware of mine either. Despite being topically similar, the results of both projects are strikingly different. And I have a few theories about why.

Feminism FOR REAL brings together twenty written works, both poetry and prose, penned by a variety of radical activists. While the authors are diverse in their backgrounds, they converge on one belief: academia, boo! This is a pretty common refrain among activists, one I've sung over and over myself. But it's also one that now feels a little off key to me for its wholesale exclusivity and apparent lack of understanding of the ways activism and and academic are necessarily interdependent. For that reason, I found myself having to put forth some effort to read many of these pieces where they're at, instead of with condescension.

I want to be clear about a couple of things: 1) although it is a frequent accusation tossed my way, I am not an academic and 2) I claim the sentiment in the paragraph above as a part of my own personal struggle and processing, not a failing of this anthology. Too many times we patronizingly press our lips together, just waiting to inform the young'ins that they'll see things differently one day. And even though they might, that's no excuse for bolstering one's sense of superiority at another's expense, nor choosing not to interrogate the things that contribute to our own self-righteous point of view. In fact, it's just this kind of ageist trope that Yee and crew (rightfully!) rail against in Feminism FOR REAL.

So every piece in this book didn't speak to me—so what?! The ones that did were exciting to read and filled me with validation. Megan Lee's "Maybe I'm Not Class-Mobile; Maybe I'm Class Queer" is an excellent examination of the complex conflicts held by those of us who have been able to 'escape' our families' poverty while maintaining the desire to embrace our working class identity and advocate for us and for them. Andrea Plaid discusses the unintentional delegitimizing of Ann Marie Rios, and therefore all nontraditionally educated sex workers, by professional (read: degreed) sexologist Bianca Laureano in "No, I Would Follow the Porn Star's Advice." And ending with Kate Klein's "On Learning How Not to Be An Asshole Academic Feminist" (re)assured me that Yee and I are probably on the same page with our personal and political intentionality.

Pick up Feminism FOR REAL if you're looking to gain an worthwhile education, and perhaps a bit of critical self-awareness too.

Written by: Mandy Van Deven, April 23rd 2011

Monogamy

brittany — Fri, 11 Mar 2011 22:00:00 +0000

Directed by Dana Adam Shapiro

Oscilloscope

Don’t let the relationship-centric plot fool you; Monogamy is not a chick flick. In fact, it’s one of the more interesting films I’ve seen that explores fears about committing oneself to just one person for the rest of one’s life, from a wholly male perspective.

Typically these kinds of heteronormative man-boy treatises on marriage phobia are treated with ample doses of trite and predictable humor. While Monogamy dips its toe into these well worn waters, to writer-director Dana Adam Shapiro’s credit, it never dwells there for very long. Instead, Shapiro gives the viewer nonverbal shards of Theo’s (Chris Messina) conflicted inner tumult through a dully present, self-distanced, unsteady lens. The result is a thought-provoking film.

While Shapiro stays away from Hollywood-style cliché, Monogamy is overflowing with film student-esque visual metaphor: Theo’s repeated donning of a creepy dog mask indicates that men are dogs, an engagement ring constructed from a piece of string represents how Theo’s desire to get married is hanging by a thread, and a repetitive, ambient score overlays the relationship’s tedious monotony. These ubiquitous moments caused my partner to say out loud at one point, “Alright. We get it already!” Clearly, he’d had enough.

That said, I appreciated the way Monogamy's clunky pace impressed the awkward and stilted predictability present in Theo’s and Nat’s (Rashida Jones) interactions—and the interactions of most all the married couples in the film, for that matter. The utter lack of spontaneity coupled with Nat's rejection of his sexual advances made it easy to empathize with Theo’s frustration with his fiance, despite the deep level of comfort he felt with her. So, when the mysterious, daring, and overtly sexual Subgirl (Meital Dohan) makes an entrance by masturbating in a public park as Theo consensually captures the indiscretion with his camera, you can feel Theo’s core being shaken.

The enigmatic character’s pseudonym illuminates Theo’s undoing. Subgirl is not a full person, just a partial representation of something men desire: naughty, anonymous, illicit sex. She is as tantalizing as she is elusive, and her entry into his life causes Theo to become obsessed with what marrying Nat means giving up. He takes the gains of monogamy for granted.

This provocative, if somewhat banal film, is sure to get attention for all the wrong things: its treatment of voyeurism and exhibitionism, for example. But what makes Monogamy worth the watch is what it says about male perspectives and masculinity. It’s a trip to boy’s town, that’s for sure. And one I believe is worth making.

Written by: Mandy Van Deven, March 11th 2011

Literary Readings: Salman Rushdie (11/22/2010)

mandy — Sat, 05 Feb 2011 14:00:00 +0000

92nd Street Y

New York, New York

Everywhere you go in India, you see bootlegged copies of Salman Rushdie's groundbreaking Midnight's Children being sold by hawkers along the footpaths to tourists who've come to see if the romanticized country is as mythical a place as the then-copywriter delightfully described in his make-me-or-break-me novel. The fantastical worlds created in Rushdie's mind closely resemble our reality, but their magical element—at times more prevalent than others—has the ability to transport the uninitiated from a place of sensory overload to one of simple beauty. And it was with great pleasure that I attended the literary reading with Rushdie, and subsequent jocular verbal sparring with fellow Mumbaite, and Maximum City author, Suketu Mehta at the 92nd Street Y.

After Mehta's endearing introduction of Rushdie, in which he comically described being rebuffed at the authors' first encounter, the senior writer took the stage to read excerpts from his recently published young adult adventure novel, Luka and the Fire of Life. I had read the book a few days prior to the event while stuck on the 2 train from Prospect Heights to West Harlem. Crushed on all sides in the crowded train, Luka's quest allowed me some reprieve from claustrophobia during the snail's pace journey. And I much preferred experiencing Rushdie's linguistic acrobatics and smarty pants humor in the comfortable seats at the Y.

The audience seemed pleasantly amused at the children's story, crafted at the request of Rushdie's own adolescent son. They tittered at all appropriate parts and chuckled at Rushdie's added commentary between excerpts. Luka and the Fire of Life is clearly a rumination on mortality and fatherhood, a point Rushdie freely admitted. As an aging father of a teenage son, the desire to leave a personal legacy influenced the timing of this book, which Rushdie said was vetted by his son before he turned it over to the publisher.

After the reading, Mehta returned to the stage to facilitate a conversation that ran the gamut of nonlinear literature, so-called cultureless Americans, the inevitability of the novel's survival, and Rushdie's addiction to Angry Birds. Rushdie's natural charisma outshone his interviewer, but he was gracious enough to dim the light from time to time. The evening came to a close with a more serious consideration of present day tyrannical regimes and Rushdie's having the "misfortune of acquiring an interesting life."

He told Mehta, "[Writers] look aghast at the world as it is...When times are bad, it's great for writers [because] the worse it is, the better it is [for us]." To which Mehta fondly responded, in an effort at comical flattery, "Then let's hope it gets worse."

Written by: Mandy Van Deven, February 5th 2011

Freedom

brittany — Thu, 06 Jan 2011 08:00:00 +0000

By Jonathan Franzen

Farrar, Straus and Giroux

Brittany: I’m one of those lit geeks who has long loved Jonathan Franzen. I read How To Be Alone on a solo trip to Japan when I was twenty, and it particularly spoke to me as an introverted writer. The better part of a decade later, I’m still so infatuated with that particular collection—though I’ve also read Franzen’s three previous novels, memoir, numerous pieces in The New Yorker, and his longtime partner Kathryn Chetkovich’s Granta essay “Envy” before it was so publicly associated with Franzen—that it was no stretch to know I’d like Freedom. I’ve also read a lot about Franzen’s process as a writer, and frankly, it seems few people have the commitment to churn out the type of work he produces. That doesn’t mean I think it’s above critique; it’s just that I admire his work ethic and generally, the end result.

Mandy: Given that I frequently read The New York Times Book Review and listen to pop culture pundits on NPR, I’m quite familiar with Franzen’s status as a literary darling; however, I had never read his work until Freedom. This past July, I listened to a compelling New Yorker podcast in which Franzen discussed the prevalence of songbird killings for food in the Mediterranean, and I decided it was time I join the ranks and give this guy a shot. When Freedom was released, I dutifully attempted to avoid its reviews, so as to not taint my experience of the nearly 600-page tome. But that effort yielded little success; once the media got a hold of the book, glowing reviews were ubiquitous, and thus my hopes were high.

Brittany: Freedom ended up being much of what I expected, and months after putting it back on the shelf, I’m still relatively satisfied with the long nights it took me to finish it off. Five main characters (six if you count the underdeveloped daughter) weave in and out of one another’s lives, most tragically and painfully, and nearly all of them are deeply flawed, rather screwed up people.

For reasons I still haven’t quite figured out, I identified both with philandering tortured artist Richard Katz and college athlete cum miserable housewife Patty Berglund. In part, I think this is because Franzen has gotten rather good at not overstating who his characters are, allowing readers to put a bit of our own experience onto the story of each key player. That said, as is nearly always the case when a critic loves a mainstream work, I like to pretend that the reflection I seek in this sort of fiction isn’t shared by anyone else. I don’t want to think about who else identifies with a woman like Patty, because in the end, while I might have felt for her, having sympathy for her character is also very much a statement of how I see myself opposed to her. I’m not a miserable housewife, nor am I an adulterer (even if I do sometimes act like a tormented creative type). Being able to both identify as something and not as something both hold value for me; in this case, simultaneously.

Without giving too much away, I think the book is about having compassion, and I suspect that I liked it because I tried to have a lot of it for all of the characters. Except for Joey Berglund. I think he has a personality disorder.

Mandy: While I understand why Franzen is being showered with praise, I was pretty disappointed in Freedom. To my mind, fiction should facilitate a temporary transportation into the world the author has created, and my main criticism of Freedom is that I was entirely aware through the duration of the book that a) I was reading, b) I was reading something someone made up, and c) I was experiencing characters through the lens of the author (read: they didn't come off as authentic selves). It also was clear to me that Franzen himself really identifies with Walter Berglund; therefore all the characters felt like they were presented through Walter's point of view, even when they were in first person narration.

Many critics have lauded Franzen for having the ability to write realistically from a woman’s perspective, a notion that itches my anti-essentialist thinking and one with which I don’t entirely agree. Even though most of Freedom is written is from Patty's perspective, the novel really revolves around her husband, Walter. For that reason, it makes sense that Franzen chose to write a lot of Patty's self-reflection in third person, particularly since one can argue that women’s lives tend to revolve around men’s (instead of their being agents of self-determination), a viewpoint to which I give some credence. But the question is one of intentionality on the part of the author, and I don't think Franzen was ever really able to get inside Patty’s character in a way where she enveloped him; it was always the other way around, with Walter being the focal point. The same is true for Richard Katz, the two kids, and Lalitha. In fact, the only character I even slightly identified with—and believe me, it was only slight—was Jessica. But she barely got any face-time, and may have been the least developed of all the characters.

It probably didn't help Franzen’s case that I recently read Zadie Smith's On Beauty, a novel which is thematically similar to Freedom (in that it also has a filial cast of rather unlikable characters who represent middle class liberal America’s hypocrisies and idiosyncrasies) that also had the benefit of an immensely skilled author whose linguistic craftsmanship and character development outshines Franzen’s, in my humble opinion. Smith’s characters are messy and lack self-awareness or self-control that might prevent their ample mistakes while Franzen’s characters see the forest for the trees and still insist on bumbles. In that light, On Beauty contained happy and unhappy surprises that felt genuine. With Freedom, I had the jump on the trajectory of each storyline from beginning to end, and the failure of the writing itself to captivate had me using the strength of self-persuasion to avoid skipping pages. In short, enjoying Freedom required too much effort for my liking.

Brittany: The last two pages of the book were simply magical for me and made the whole thing worth it because I'm not good enough yet at predicting endings to have seen any of that coming. I tend to think ninety percent of fictional or fictionalized stories—films, books—end horribly, and this didn't. I may like to think I’m above a happy ending, that I can somehow stomach that life so rarely grants them, but for me personally right now, I was just sort of relieved that even made-up people could have one.

Written by: Mandy Van Deven, Brittany Shoot, January 6th 2011

Botanical 2011 Monthly & Weekly Planning Calendar

mandy — Sat, 23 Oct 2010 00:00:00 +0000

By Posh

Andrews McMeel Publishing

Upon returning to the United States after living for two years abroad, my partner was particularly giddy about one specific purchase: a cell phone. In the time we'd been in India, smartphones had become commonplace, and my Applephile other half was overjoyed at the idea of being able to sync his Macbook and iPod with a mobile device. Although he valiantly fought for an iPhone, the more cost efficient two-for-one sale on the Droid won out. For my part, I don't give two flips about technosyncage, and I'm not entirely convinced my semi-functional PC can handle that kind of software. I just wanted to be able to easily check my email.

Although I'm moving in the direction of a paperless lifestyle (the Droid is facilitating my newly blossoming love of apps), the process is slow-going. And now that the end of the year is drawing near, I find myself on a search for the perfect new year planner. I'm not high maintenance, but I do have two uncompromising needs: 1) monthly and weekly planning sections and 2) enough space to write in each. Although it sounds like a simple enough request, many planners fail in at least one of these regards, but the Posh Botanical 2011 Monthly & Weekly Planning Calendar has what it takes—and more.

Let me start with the basics. This desk planner is 7 ¼ x 9 ½ inches and comes in four different retro chic designs: Botanical, Flowers & Stars, Circles & Squiggles, and Asters. All have a feminine sensibility without going over the precipice to infantile, a risk one runs with cutesy product aesthetic. An elastic band wraps around the outside of the planner to hold the cover closed, and a single ribbon allows you to easily keep your place. It's utilitarian in form and function.

Once you crack the slick and sturdy cover, you come directly to twelve pages of monthly calendars. This is where I keep track of important dates, like birthdays and holidays, that I need to prepare for in advance. Gift buying shouldn't be a last minute affair, but it ends up as one when you're only going week-by-week. Posh has also helpfully included major U.S. and international holidays, as well as religious celebrations from Christian, Islamic, and Jewish traditions. So, while you won't find the dates for Durga Puja, you will find Ramadan, and I can live with that.

Just past this monthly section are the two-page spreads of fifty-two weeks broken up into an equally spaced seven days. I appreciate that Saturday and Sunday don't get the short end of the stick, as some other planners are apt to extend the size allotted for traditional work week days at the expense of the two on the weekend. But since I work on several projects outside of my proper 9 to 5, I don't want those days relegated to secondary status by giving them a decreased size. I want them to have equal spacial importance. Posh comes through again!

The handful of back pages in the Posh Botanical 2011 Monthly & Weekly Planning Calendar get a little hit or miss, which is to say that they've covered all the bases and not everyone will need everything found here. There are one-page 2010 and 2012 year-long reference calendars, as well as a two-page "2012 Looking Ahead" spread. Six pages are provided for "Names & Addresses," which even I prefer my cell phone to hold, and inclusion of "Emergency Numbers" seems terribly outdated, especially when situated opposite a page for jotting down "Web Sites." Three pages for "Notes" brings up the rear.

I plan to wear this desk planner out next year, and maybe with a little more cajoling, I'll consider making the tech savvier, eco-switch come the year of the Mayan apocalypse. Perhaps by then my PC will have seen its end-of-days and a sync won't seem so scary.

Written by: Mandy Van Deven, October 22nd 2010

The New York Regional Mormon Singles Halloween Dance

mandy — Tue, 12 Oct 2010 16:00:00 +0000

By Elna Baker

Dutton

Beginning at a Halloween-themed singles dance for Mormon adults in the tristate area (the party referenced in the title of her novel) a Queen-Bee-costumed Elna Baker sets the scene for the spiritually-infused existential struggles that are soon to come. Although the attendees are adults, the event aches of prepubescent awkwardness and is plagued by the same maladies that afflict these preteen school functions: forced sobriety, abysmal music, sex-segregated clustering, embarrassing encounters with couples dancing, and sanctified social hierarchy. In a room full of college-aged virgins expectantly looking to find a future spouse before spinsterhood sets in at graduation, no one seems the least bit interested in the chubby girl dressed as a mistress of the hive, and for the fourth year in a row, Elna Baker leaves the dance alone.

Being a single Mormon gal in New York City isn’t without its unique challenges, and Baker addresses them with just the right blend of earnestness and self-deprecating humor. More Sex and the City than Big Love, Baker’s story is an uncommon version of a common enough conflict for the modern American woman: how to be yourself and nab the man of your dreams. For a liberal Mormon like Baker, religion gets added to the mix, and The New York Regional Mormon Singles Halloween Dance takes us through her coming of age—and coming to terms—as she attempts to reconcile her desire to embody conflicting identities: that of a headstrong, adventurous, sexually curious young woman who wants to be desired by men (and envied by women) versus a submissive, straight-laced wife and mother.

Baker’s somewhat unrealistic relationship expectations stem from her own experience growing up in an idyllic Mormon family. They are complicated by the overlapping and contradictory messages about conventional gender roles and individual autonomy that she has gleaned from both her religion and American popular culture. The marriage Baker envisions for herself takes the shape of a traditional man-and-wife coupling where a charmingly pragmatic and devoted soulmate (Mormons only please!) passionately sweeps her off her feet in Hollywood rom-com fashion. But this is real life we’re talking about here, and even Carrie Bradshaw had to wait until SATC made its debut on the big screen to tie the knot with her perfect match.

Kissing boys is fun and all, but after twenty-seven years, Baker is ready to get to the good stuff—just not at the expense of her faith. Having been taught that sex before marriage is the second greatest sin (murder being the first), her Mormonism contributes to the manifestation of a kind of rabid marriage mania. Unfortunately for Baker, the only Mormon boys she finds in New York City are either tragically dull or playing house Dad at the “family home evening,” a weekly gathering-cum-celestial popularity contest for twenty-something Latter Day Saints who prefer wholesome entertainment—like group devotional readings—to the debauched activities on offer in the big city. When Baker finally does meet a guy with zeal, he’s a diehard atheist who doesn’t believe in the institution of marriage or the existence of a soul, much less the idea that Pocahontas was a Jew.

Baker’s lack of firm resolve about the truth of Joseph Smith’s teachings creates a flip flop effect of religious vigor and apathy, as well as an intellectual insatiability that causes her to return again and again to the unenviable position of trying to explain the unexplainable. She seeks solid ground where none can exist, and as a result, Baker can’t seem to find a sturdy core from which to build her belief.

Ambivalence is not a new condition for those who struggle with spiritual (un)certainty—or, for that matter, those who write memoirs about that struggle. After nearly three decades of indecision, Baker finally makes up her mind about her faith: she decides to hang on to God and continue to grapple with the uncertainty. For now.

Excerpted from Religion Dispatches

Written by: Mandy Van Deven, October 12th 2010

Amen, Amen, Amen: Memoir of a Girl Who Couldn’t Stop Praying

mandy — Tue, 05 Oct 2010 16:00:00 +0000

By Abby Sher

Simon & Schuster

How does an eleven-year-old girl cope with the trauma of losing both her favorite aunt and her beloved father in the span of one calendar year? She may pray to God daily to ask Him to protect her loved ones. But what happens when prayer becomes more than just a comfort? What happens when it becomes a compulsion? This question is at the heart of Abby Sher’s memoir Amen, Amen, Amen.

The power of prayer has been the subject of much debate and research, with studies claiming that prayer can help heal the sick, even when the sick person has no relation to the people offering the curative incantation, nor knowledge of being prayed for. There are other studies that show people who pray experience feelings of relief: it makes sense that prayer could benefit those for whom religion is personally significant. If it’s good for people, even if it’s not provably efficacious, what’s the harm?

Abby Sher’s compulsions began when she was a small child—from tearing up paper napkins at the dinner table to tracing the wallpaper on her bedroom walls until her finger bruised. The impulses grew more invasive as Sher got older and calamity became a fixture in her life. An emotionally fragile pre-adolescent, Abby identified herself as the one to blame for the unexpected deaths in her family, and turned to God for help. But her sense of consolation was quickly overshadowed by a consuming fear of causing death and danger. Abby became convinced that giving herself fully to God and doing His protective bidding was the only way to ensure that no one else would meet an untimely, tragic fate.

For all the benefits that prayer might offer, it does not guarantee safety from disaster. But Abby was certain the lives of others were her responsibility, and hinged on her pact with God. To Abby, the balance of the world rested squarely on her shoulders, and the slightest misstep on her part set in motion scenarios with disastrous consequences.

No doubt this manner of irrational thinking will sound strange to most people, religious or not, and Sher does a good job of allowing the reader an insider’s view of the logic behind her delusions. Much of her behavior fell within the bounds of what is normal, especially in a devoutly Jewish context. On the surface, Abby appeared to be a staunch, if somewhat peculiar, follower of God. It is only when we learn what was going on in her head that Sher’s actions read as bizarre instead of faithful.

Ascetics throughout history have gotten into trouble for exhibiting behaviors far more extreme than Sher’s; the difference between mystical devotion and mental illness can be hard to construe. It is primarily though a lens of psychoanalysis that compulsive ritual begins to be regarded as illegitimate or destructive. In Sher’s case, even when she began seeing a therapist, her faith served to reinforce some of her more ritualistic actions, like daily fasting—a behavior that, when decontextualized, was revealed as severe anorexia.

By the time Abby meets her savior—an atheist man who helped her see her conduct as the result of self-loathing and delusion—I was glad to let go of my knee-jerk feminist disapproval of the knight in shining armor fable. Amen, Amen, Amen is a painful yet revelatory read that had this nonbeliever sending a healing mantra into the universe for Sher and others like her who live with a form of obsessive compulsive disorder masked by religion. In another time or place, Sher might have entered a hermitage. Today she will have to settle for appearances on TV talk shows.

Excerpted from Religion Dispatches

Written by: Mandy Van Deven, October 5th 2010

I Can’t Think Straight

admin — Fri, 06 Aug 2010 08:00:00 +0000

Directed by Shamim Sharif

Enlightenment Films

It’s always a bit tricky to adapt one’s real life experiences to the big screen, but that’s what award-winning filmmaker Shamim Sarif has done in I Can’t Think Straight. Based in London, the film depicts the budding romance between Leyla, an Indian Muslim woman raised in the UK, and Tala, an Arab Christian Palestinian woman who was brought up in a very wealthy family in Jordan. There are several challenges conspiring to keep the two apart such as racial, religious, and cultural discrimination, but the one central struggle in the film is overcoming the families’ homophobic bias.

Both Leyla’s and Tala’s cultural traditions are portrayed as not simply privileging heterosexual couplings, but forcefully pushing marriage to men on daughters. Tala is on her fourth engagement, a situation that brings much embarrassment to the family. She is set to marry Hani, a wealthy and handsome man with no protruding flaw, but whom she does not love passionately. Leyla and her boyfriend Ali are being pressured by Leyla’s mother to take their relationship to the next level, but her sister correctly guesses the reason for Leyla’s reticence. Despite the unexplained insistence that coming out to their families would be impossible, it is the infatuation of the women’s mothers in particular to be the gatekeepers of cultural and religious authenticity. Their siblings, friends, and fathers, however, are proud of Tala and Leyla’s feisty personalities and sufficiently sympathetic to their “Western” desires.

A typical romantic comedy, the myriad issues brought up in the film are never delved into with any amount of depth. More than lesbianism itself, the Israeli-Palestianian conflict receives the most attention in the film’s dialogue, which features several conversations involving anti-Semitism and support of suicide bombings that are, of course, tempered with standard liberal rebuttal. Feminist sentiment abounds as well with moments like Tala shoving food into her mouth after her mother’s reprimand that if she continues to eat she won’t being skinny enough to fit into her wedding dress. If not taken too seriously, I Can’t Think Straight is a fun, fast-paced, slightly campy, B-movie romp about self-determination and laying claim to one’s desires.

Originally published in Bitch Magazine

Written by: Mandy Van Deven, August 6th 2010

Tea on the Axis of Evil

admin — Thu, 24 Jun 2010 08:00:00 +0000

Directed by Jean Marie Offenbacher

Reorient Films

After two years of providing security intelligence about the activities of Al Qaeda to the United States government in the wake of 9/11, the Bush Administration publicly dubbed Syria a threat to democracy by including it in the so-called Axis of Evil. Knowing very little about the secular republic, filmmaker Jean Marie Offenbacher decided to spend a year in Damascus in order to offer a look at everyday citizens of Syria and combat stereotypical depictions put forth in the mainstream media.

Though the U.S. Embassy warned the director that Syrian folks would be too afraid to talk to her, Offenbacher found enough subjects to fill the hour-long film. She highlights the stories of a few Bedouin people, the family of a taxi driver, and a couple of impressively quintilingual teenage boys who sell rugs at a souq in Aleppo, but the film focuses on people most Americans will find quite palatable: liberal, middle-class, educated Syrians who speak English and whose lifestyles mimic those in the Western world. There are several students of literature, sociology, and journalism, as well as a fashion designer, an actress, a weaver, a painter, and a businesswoman. In an interview with New America Media, Offenbacher explains this choice by saying she chose people she believed Americans could identify with; unfortunately, tactic undercuts her claim of and desire for authenticity, as the film’s characters are hardly representative of the general population (Syria’s lower classes, political conservatives, and the religiously dogmatic are conspicuously absent from the interviews) and simply become a counter-stereotype themselves.

This bumble heightens the well-intended, if naïve, thesis of the film: Syrians are just like us! They dance to 50 Cent in pubs. They swoon over movie stars like Antonio Banderas. The women struggle with feeling beautiful, and with sexist double standards regarding female sexuality. They worry about how to balance the need for childcare with their demanding careers. They learn to reconcile their religious practices and beliefs with newly emerging desires. The version of Syria presented in Tea on the Axis of Evil is, indeed, very much like urban America, but just as one should not forget that urban America comprises more than latte-sipping, New York Times readers, it is equally necessary to understand that Syria is not America—nor should it be—and, in a film about countering false depictions, present the complex diversity of Syrians’ lived reality.

Originally published in Bitch Magazine

Written by: Mandy Van Deven, June 24th 2010

Henna

admin — Mon, 21 Jun 2010 16:01:00 +0000

Directed by Saleh Karama

Practice Productions

Henna is a visceral cinematic experience that functions as an exercise in patience. Drawing from reflections on his own childhood growing up in a rapidly developing Abu Dhabi, Saleh Karama created the character of Henna (A’aesha Hamad), a curious eight-year-old girl through whose perspective we are invited to see the world.

Henna lives in a fishing village in an unnamed Arab country. The goings-on of daily life are marked by their simplicity, which is transferred to the viewer by lingering scenes of mundane living: collecting fish that have been caught in nets, conversations over coffee about nothing in particular, the process of cooking lunch for a visitor. At the side of the screen is Henna, eyes wide and twinkling with apt absorption.

The viewer is introduced to Henna on the floor of her bedroom, completing her homework before her mother shoos her to bed. The young girl lives with her mother and grandfather; we are given the impression that her father—who abandoned the pair after Henna’s mother was stricken with an unexplained illness—drops by only once in a while to bring uselessly modern gifts, like bottles of soda.

Most of Henna’s story rests on the visual juxtaposition of contemporary and traditional living. It’s often subtle, as with scenes of gender role segregation where women speak to other women and men to other men; female servitude is expected even as Henna’s family encourages her education. Elsewhere, it’s seen through the lens of infrastructure: The village lacks adequate water for its inhabitants, but the ongoing construction of things like paved roads that camels cannot cross and shopping malls with flashy, expensive goods interfere with the inherited methods of operation that have existed for centuries. When Henna’s uncle Tarsh, a Bedouin man who has been living in the desert, comes to visit, the stress of the newly formed, hurried ways of the community’s impetuous youth are too much for him to abide, and he promptly leaves.

Absent of narrative commentary, Henna leaves the viewer to sort out the benefits and drawbacks of the many different ways of existing in the world and the conflict that occurs at the cusp of change. Using a visually induced melancholy, coarse cinematography, and acting that comes across as more innate than put on, one is asked to consider the paradox of what is lost and what is gained during the process of industrializing the desert.

Originally published in Bitch Magazine

Written by: Mandy Van Deven, June 21st 2010

Made in Pakistan

admin — Tue, 15 Jun 2010 08:00:00 +0000

Directed by Nasir Khan

Talking Filmain

These days, political analysts on both sides of the aisle are calling Pakistan a failed state. While the “most dangerous place in the world” does face profound political and social turmoil, such sweeping commentary fails to capture the more personal intricacies of the lives of ordinary people living inside the country’s borders. Pakistan is more than the Taliban fighters implementing Sharia law in the Swat Valley, and it’s more than the frequent bombings of embassies and hotels from Islamabad to Karachi. As a way of countering the predominant fundamentalist image of Pakistanis constructed by the global media, filmmaker Nasir Khan recently released a poignant documentary that defies stereotypes and sheds light on some of the common challenges faced by citizens with lofty and patriotic ambitions.

Made in Pakistan presents the way a new generation of young leaders negotiates the conflicting pulls of consumerism, family, politics, gender, religion, and traditionalism. The film follows four educated, upper middle class, young Pakistanis in Lahore—a working mother, a lawyer, an event/PR manager, and a politician—from General Pervez Musharraf’s declaration of a state of emergency and military takeover in November 2007 to former Prime Minister Benazir Bhutto’s assassination in January 2008. Waleed Khalid is a lawyer and professor at the Pakistan College of Law. He is a devout, but not uncritical, Muslim who has joined others employed in the judicial system to protest government corruption, in part fueled by American aid. In addition to raising her son, Rabia Aamir is the editor of The Fourth Article, a newly established magazine by and for politically savvy Pakistani youth. Aamir is a cultural activist who wants to find solutions to the political, social, and spiritual upheaval in the country. These two characters were the ones with whom I felt most sympathetic.

On the other hand, we have Tara Mahmood, a girl for whom the whole world is one big party waiting to happen, and she’s the one organizing it. Tara provides a lot of comic relief to an otherwise weighty film (at one point she says, "Alcohol is not banned here; it is just not legally sold."), and I was particularly moved when finally given the chance to see beyond her bubbly veneer. By contrast, duplicitous politician Mohsin Warraich provides an ominous, slimy representation of modern Pakistan: The film doesn’t have an outright villain, but if it did he’s be the one. Made in Pakistan is a compelling view of the immense contradictions of modern Pakistani society.

Review by Mandy Van Deven

Originally published in Bitch Magazine

Written by: Mandy Van Deven, June 15th 2010

Half Life

admin — Sun, 06 Jun 2010 16:01:00 +0000

By Roopa Farooki

St. Martin's Press

Love stories aren’t really my thing, but Roopa Farooki’s newest novel, Half Life, shows many shades of love in a way that warms the heart, wets the eye, and expands the mind. The book opens with Aruna Ahmed Jones’ seemingly crazy and impulsive decision to leave her year-old marriage. She does this quite literally by stopping mid-breakfast, throwing on a light jacket, and making her way through the Tube to London’s Heathrow International Airport where she hops the next plane to her hometown of Kuala Lumpur, and back into the arms of lifelong friend and ex-lover Jazz Ahsan. We soon learn that two years ago Aruna left Jazz in a similarly rushed and unexplained exit, and the story progresses by attempting to resolve the characters’ (and reader’s) unanswered questions about her ostensibly hasty retreats.

To go into any depth about the somewhat unsettling plot would be to reveal too much; indeed, I recommend the reader skip even the publisher’s description on the front cover flap and dive headfirst into chapter one. The core of this story revolves around the destructive nature of family secrets and the reparative qualities of truth. Half Life is full of subtle yet astute observations about the personal and social functions of one’s identity as a person of a particular class, gender, nationality, and mental health status—and exemplifies how all are historically and geographically situated. Without being too obtuse or heavy-handed, the story is, ultimately, about finding one’s authentic self while avoiding being a detriment to those one cares for deeply.

Language makes the ordinary extraordinary, and Farooki’s gift is in the ease with which she perfectly captures the complexity of a moment with a casual, pithy description. Literary hat tips are littered throughout with tender references to such masterful figures as the Bengali polymath Rabindranath Tagore, British poet Wilfred Owen, and Jacobean dramatist John Ford—all of whose influences can be readily felt while turning the book’s pages. Farooki is obviously a thoughtful writer, and the story is executed with well-planned precision. Half Life is penned in a visceral style similar to that of Jhumpa Lahiri’s Interpreter of Maladies or Kamila Shamsie’s Burnt Shadows. Farooki’s witty wordplay constructs a melancholy emotionality that mirrors the interplay between the main characters. The ubiquitous sense of suspense maintains reader’s interest even after the elements of surprise are effortlessly divulged.

Half Life is a substantive beach read that is engaging as it is accessible. But be sure to slather on the sunscreen or find a cozy spot in the shade before cracking the spine. You might just find you’re unable to put this book down once you pick it up.

Cross-posted at VenusZine

Written by: Mandy Van Deven, June 6th 2010

Triangle Tribes Pendant

admin — Mon, 24 May 2010 00:01:00 +0000

By inDpendant

It wasn’t so long ago that I’d stricken reading fiction from my timepass repertoire. I saw no need for flights of fancy and, instead, preferred to lose myself in pages of dense history and theory. I made my foray back into the land of make believe slowly, first though memoir, then short stories. Eventually, I nabbed a copy of Invitation to a Beheading—a book I’d become interested in thanks to Azar Nafisi’s gushing about the notorious Russian American novelist Vladimir Nabokov in Reading Lolita in Tehran—and completely mended my formerly incurious relationship by means of poetic prose, witty alliteration, and intentional linguistic foolery.

Now, wordplay makes me giggle, and there’s no better site for wordplay than in the places where it's unexpected. Case in point: Israeli designer Irit Schneor’s fashion jewelry shop, In-d-pendant. Aside from the allusions to strength and self-sustainability from a woman-owned business, the name also holds within it an anti-corporate sentiment. Top that off with multifunctional, utilitarian design (Schneor’s accessories are both a necklace and a glasses holder), and methinks Schneor is a woman after my own heart.

Speaking of hearts, directly above mine is where the Triangle Tribes Pendant falls on my chest, though the length is somewhat adjustable given the two inches of chain past the rolo links that sits opposite the lobster clasp closure. The pendant has a sturdiness that effortlessly supported both pair of my glasses while I went about my day. On the whole, I found this sterling silver necklace to be impeccably crafted with a smart aesthetic.

For those who prefer something a bit more mod, the Bubbles Pendant might suit your fancy. Or if dainty is more your thing, you’ll find several options from which to choose on In-d-pendant.com. There are even options for the more masculine among us.

No longer will cheap strings be attached to this farsighted fashionista’s eye wear. Now I can appreciate a good book in style.

Written by: Mandy Van Deven, May 23rd 2010

Marolsha Jewelry

admin — Tue, 20 Apr 2010 08:00:00 +0000

By Marolsha Jewelry

When you live in a city like New York or Chicago, it's fairly easy to find your way around. For the most part, urban planners patterned these cities on a grid with numbered streets indicating one direction (East/West) and avenues or named streets indicating the perpendicular other (North/South). So if you're at my favorite Mexican restaurant in the East Village and want to get to my favorite all-veg diner in the Lower East Side, you can do so with ease simply by knowing the cross streets. Easy peasey.

Like most things in India, however, navigating the chaotic streets of Kolkata isn't so simple. There is no helpful grid to indicate the desired direction, and good luck finding anything in its proper place on Google Maps. In order to get where you're going, one must rely on the kindness of strangers who live or work locally to point you in the right direction. But sometimes that direction isn't clear. I mean, how do I know I'm still walking south when the street I'm following seems to have veered to the left?

Instead of going the route of a Boy Scout and carrying around some clunky chunk of magnetized metal, Marolsha has come up with a solution to help you find your way in style: the Vintage Compass Silver Ring. Lightweight with an adjustable band, the silver compass ring is a utilitarian's dream. I tested it out in a place where I am direction literate to be sure it works, and sure enough, it pointed north. Although the aesthetic is a little reminiscent of something you'd get out of a machine for a quarter, the construction is vastly superior and ensures a significant cost per wear lifetime of getting you where you're going.

The compass ring isn't the only offering from Marolsha that piqued my curiosity. I was also interested in two seemingly opposite feathered finds: Twin Owls Earrings and Mod White Love Birds Earrings. Owls are birds of prey, which means they are solitary by nature to facilitate their livelihood, and, based on their appearance in Hieroglyphics, that rugged individualism has kept them around a long time. Love birds, on the other hand, form long-term, monogamous bonds marked by a social demeanor and affectionate nuzzling. But you won't find their likeness in Egyptian caves. Despite their differences, both birds make regular appearances on adornments, as they captivate the human imagination.

Twin Owls Earrings are made of a sturdy antique brass and fall two inches below the earlobe on a thin kidney earwire that is easy to attach and detach. Their color is so bright it could be mistaken for a matte gold. The Mod White Love Birds Earrings are about a half-inch in length and dangle from silver plated leverback earwires. The color is painted onto the pair with a white enameled finish. Like the compass ring, both set of earrings are well-constructed.

Based in Singapore and created by Canadian fashion lover and jewelry designer Maddy, Marolsha peddles unique, vintage-style jewelry that is inspired by the natural world. Whenever possible, Maddy repurposes and recycles her findings in the process of creation. This eco-friendly sentiment is also found in the paper box in which the pieces arrive along with a handmade gift card that resembles a postcard. All of which is to say that Marolsha's jewelry reminds me of both the abundant joy of travel and the warmth of returning home.

Written by: Mandy Van Deven, April 20th 2010

Chai, Chai: Travels in Places Where You Stop but Never Get Off

admin — Mon, 15 Mar 2010 08:00:00 +0000

By Bishwanath Ghosh

Tranquebar Press

Good travel writing is hard to come by because it requires a convergence of several elements: a catchy hook, entertaining prose, historical context in just the right doses, and a keen eye for what is interesting about people and places visited. The ability to impeccably execute these essential components is what separates the sacred from the profane. Regrettably, Chai, Chai succeeds in only one of these areas.

Journalist Bishwanath Ghosh dreamed up an interesting idea while making his way on the Indian Railways to his hometown of Kanpur from his chosen home in Chennai. As the train paused at Itarsi, and Ghosh stretched his legs by wandering about the station, he wondered what he might be missing by never venturing beyond the station’s walls. As a frequent rail traveler, Ghosh had been through these kinds of junctions (i.e., Itarsi, Mughal Sarai, Guntakal, Shoranur) numerous times before, yet not once did he step out of their gates and into the towns themselves. Thus, Ghosh decided to take up the task of exploring the cities whose railway crossings provide a gateway to the rest of the country.

The book starts out well enough. Ghosh arrives before dawn to Mughal Sarai and has an amusing yet blunder-filled time of finding a place to sleep. The following evening, he has a few noteworthy interactions with some sordid and assorted fellows at a local bar who tell and mis-tell the history of the town in which they live. (He never discovers whose version is the truth.) Ghosh indulges and shares indulgence in several bottles of whiskey with the bar-goers, and the newly made friendships give the reader the sense that the journey to the heart of this junction city has begun—until the following day.

Ghosh rises to find his “friends” have slipped through his grasp (no one will take his calls), and he is on his own to survey the city. Unfortunately, the exploration is largely unexciting, and full of the typical mishaps and bumbles of someone traveling in India. He is given the runaround, eats food that can be gotten in most any other city (subzi puri, alu matar), scans an issue of Cosmopolitan, and chats with a temple sadhu who refuses to divulge his secrets. These kinds of banal scenes repeat themselves again and again.

Repetition wouldn’t have been a problem had Ghosh put forth more of an effort before, during, and after his visits. Instead, his lackadaisical observations are based more on conjecture than proper research. (Wikipedia apparently counts as a suitable authority.) While in the towns, Ghosh is perpetually reticent to speak to the locals (at least until he downs a drink or three for courage), and thus, we are told more of overheard conversations than ones Ghosh actively engages in.

The final fault is in the writing itself, which fails to engage and lacks in finesse. (This is partly an editorial error as repetition and lackluster passages could have easily been cut out.) On several occasions Ghosh describes his teenage lust for some woman or other he has happened across, (but is too afraid to speak to) and bolsters his arrogant self-importance by diminishing the townspeople as “simpleminded” and unsophisticated. He even ventures from his stated goal of focusing on the junction towns and leaves them to visit more exciting places, like Banaras and Khajuraho, because he’s "seen whatever was worth seeing."

The trick to good travel writing is having the ability to recognize that _everything _is worth seeing, and it’s the duty of the writer to look closer than the average traveler in order to extract what is fascinating from the seemingly mundane. Ghosh clearly doesn’t have this ability, nor does he have the tenacity to obtain it. In the future, I’ll stick to reading books by those who do.

Written by: Mandy Van Deven, March 15th 2010