Rabbit Trap

When I see wildly divergent movie reviews I know to head straight to the theater. Such was the case with a new film, Rabbit Trap. Reading between the lines of the, mostly, bad reviews I could tell that this was probably going to be an interesting film that breaks the mold of Hollywood’s tired formulas.

Rabbit Trap is, in fact, a very good movie. As the Weird Studies podcasters point out in an episode about the film, Rabbit Trap resembles a decadent, fin du siècle Arthur Machen story come to life: the Welsh mythology, the eerie mood, and the emotional transformation of the characters.

I won’t do any spoilers here but the film owes a lot to 1970s British folk horror both visually and in terms of a slower pacing than most new movies. The film is heavy on atmosphere but also rich in character study and drama. It fulfills my main requirement of a good movie, that the actors are transformed over the course of time, different at the end than at the beginning. For those who don’t like horror I’ll note that there’s no slasher or violent content.

The cast is made up of only three characters. Rosy McEwen portrays Daphne Davenport, an experimental electronic composer and Dev Patel is her husband who collects field recordings for her music. Jade Croot is a mysterious and ambiguous child who appears appears at their isolated, rural house. The experimental music and the field recording conceit allows for a rich sonic texture in the film and a good reminder that, in my opinion, sound is just, if not more, important in a movie than image.

The conclusion of my favorite Machen story, A Fragment of Life might be the best, if oblique, way of summing up Rabbit Trap,

So I awoke from a dream of a London suburb, of daily labour, of weary, useless little things; and as my eyes were opened I saw that I was in an ancient wood, where a clear well rose into grey film and vapour beneath a misty, glimmering heat. And a form came towards me from the hidden places of the wood, and my love and I were united by the well.

Flour, Water, Salt, Yeast

Loaf fail!

What could go wrong in a recipe with just four ingredients–flour, water, salt and yeast? When it comes to making bread, it turns out, a lot. In addition to the some recent, notable bread disasters, such as the one above, I felt that I had also fallen into a lazy rut, baking loaves that were edible but uninspiring.

On a recent Little Free Library perambulation, I stumbled on Portland, Oregon baker Ken Forkish’s Flour, Water, Salt, Yeast, published during the heady artisan baking uprising of the early teens. I had seen this book at the library but never bothered to check it out. With a few free days of house sitting for friends, I decided to dive into Forkish’s recipes.

The book is divided into four parts: recipes that use commercial yeast, recipes that use a sourdough starter (or levain), pizza and a section on doughs that combine sourdough starter and commercial yeast. I’ve never tried this heretical combination and I decided to give a go.

I was blown away by the results. You get the same sourdough tang and long shelf life (due to the preservative effects of the acidic culture) combined with a more open crumb structure due to the extra power of the commercial yeast. It also idiot-proofs the proofing since just a small amount of added commercial yeast (a 1/4 teaspoon in Forkish’s recipes) gives you a greater chance of success, even on the cold day.

I really like Forkish’s clear instructions in this book, especially his suggested baking schedules which involve feeding the starter in the morning, mixing the dough in the late afternoon, shaping the loaves in the early evening and proofing the dough in the refrigerator overnight. This schedule is more likely to fit into a normal day, though it can, of course, be modified.

The book owes a debt to Chad Roberston’s methods including baking the loaves in cast iron pots. Unlike Robertson, though, Forkish’s recipes are easier to follow and intended for a home baker. In addition to the heretical commercial yeast/levain dialectic, Forkish also skips the slashing step allowing the loaves to, in effect, slash themselves in the baking process.

Now all I want to do is bake bread instead of make dinner.

A Crisis of the Real: A Levitating Saints and a French Theory Remix

José García Hidalgo, Levitation of St. Teresa of Jesus and St. John of the Cross at the Convento de la Encarnación, late 17c.

I’ve long kept an eccentric morning habit, reading the Daily Office Lectionary followed by some philosophy tome before the distractions of the day begin.

The, often dense and ridiculous, readings have varied over the years and, if I have any regrets, its been that I’ve worked backwards rather than starting with the Greeks. Western philosophy is a long series of dialogs and disagreements. Individual philosophers are contained, like Russian nested dolls, one inside another all the way back to Plato and Aristotle.

The two authors I’ve tackled over the last few months reflect my schizophrenic reading practice: the late literary professor and philosopher Fredric Jameson and history and religious studies professor Carlos Eire. Coherency be damned, I’ve enjoyed this particular contradictory juxtaposition.

Italian School, 18th Century, The Ecstasy of Saint Joseph of Cupertino.

Flying Saints and Witches on Broomsticks
Carlos Eire’s book They Flew: A History of the Impossible is an incendiary look at levitating and bilocating saints, demons and witches. Eire dares to take narratives of the “impossible” seriously. As Eire explains, we have more credible accounts of, say, Theresa of Avila’s and Joseph of Cupertino’s many moments of ecstatic flying than we have of well accepted moments of European political history.

Personally, I had always taken a cop-out attitude towards such paranormal phenomenon, thinking that it’s not important if these miraculous events were “real,” that what really matters is what they mean in the context of history. Towards the end of the book, Eire quotes religious scholar Jeffrey J. Kripal’s irritation with this stance,

I cannot tell you how many times I have heard an otherwise admired colleague say something like, “Well, it does not really matter if Joseph of Cupertino flew up into the tree after a scream, or if Teresa of Avila floated off the floor as her sisters piled on top of her to avoid a social embarrassment.

What matters is how the popular belief in such presumed levitations was disciplined, controlled, and maintained by the church and later constructed as sanctity and as a saint…. Really? I want to pull my hair out in such moments…. A super-pious Italian man ecstatically flies into a tree and has to be retrieved with a ladder, or a raptured Spanish nun cannot keep herself on the floor in front of some visiting noblewomen, and these physical events do not matter to you? Uh, excuse me, if either of those things actually happened (and our historical records suggest strongly that they did), such anomalous events change pretty much everything we thought we knew about human consciousness and its relationship to physics, gravity, and material reality. Either single event would fundamentally change our entire order of knowledge. And you don’t care? Don’t you find that disinterest just a little bit perverse?

Inside of many of us, particularly a certain class of over-educated folks who live in big cities–I’m including myself here–is an inner, literal and very annoying Neil DeGrasse Tyson. I’ll be blunt. I no longer want to inhabit Neil’s disenchanted world. It’s flat, boring and meaningless. Call me a crank–I don’t care anymore–I want to stay open to the possibility of the impossible. Let’s fly again.

If this book floats your boat you’ll enjoy my favorite podcast Weird Studies which turned me on to Eire’s work.

I kind of wish this was real and not just a meme.

Theory Bound
As an example of just how disjointed my morning reading can be, I also just finished Fredric Jameson’s book The Years of Theory: Postwar French Thought to the Present, a transcription of a lecture series delivered via Zoom during the pandemic.

Jameson in lecture mode is easier to read than his normal and, very dense, academic prose. In the lectures he gives you the historical context for a chain of post WWII French thinkers from Sartre to Latour. Jameson knew many of these people personally, and the lectures have an often funny, gossipy tone.

If, like me, you went to grad school in the 80s or 90s you likely got a dose of French postmodern theory. If also, like me, you studied music, or art or literature you likely got that theory secondhand, from a well meaning professor who perhaps lacked the philosophical chops to give the contextualization for theorists such as Foucault and Derrida. Jameson’s book corrects a lot of misconceptions I had about this period. Jameson has the background to engage with and explain their thinking. Let me also note here that most of the critics of postmodern theory haven’t bothered to actually read it (I’m looking at you Jordan Peterson). Admittedly it ain’t beach reading but that’s not a bug it’s a feature.

It’s true that some of these French thinker-dudes ran their conceptual ships ashore on the rocks of extreme skepticism and dense prose. In so doing they inadvertently created an anti-metanarrative-metanarraive of avoidance and rhetorical vagueness. That said, we live in a media landscape they anticipated and this is, perhaps, their most enduring legacy, despite the fact that most of them died at the advent of personal computers.

I recently stumbled on an Instagram rise and grind influencer who explained, without knowing it, Baudrillard’s version of sign theory. To overly simplify, the Mercedes logo doesn’t refer to a car, it refers to things like “luxury” and “freedom”. This influencer knows sign theory intuitively, uses it to make money and even authored a book that’s kind of what would happen if Jean Baudrillard wrote a version of Rich Dad, Poor Dad. I think this demonstrates why it’s helpful to have some postmodern theory in your understandin’ toolkit to navigate the moment we all find ourselves in.

If you’re a theory-head you’ll love Gilles Delueze riffing on topics in alphabetical order for six whole hours (!). Someone has thoughtfully uploaded a subtitled version to Archive.org. It’s hard to believe, in our idiotic present, that this kind of content used to be on mainstream television. Lest you think this is just a French thing I’ll point out that, when philosopher Henri Bergson came to New York to do a guest lecture in 1913, he caused the first ever traffic jam on Broadway(1). If you’ve only got an hour and a half of theory-time, there’s also a great documentary about Derrida on Kanopy.

Disaster Nationalism: A Politics of Cleansing Violence

“What I always expect from history is surprises, and surprises which I still haven’t succeeded in explaining, although I have made great efforts to understand.” – Jacques Lacan The Structuralist Controversy: The Languages of Criticism and the Sciences of Man

It feels like we’re on the cusp of an epochal change with what has come to be known as neoliberalism in crisis and an unknown future showing the first signs of breaking through.

Understanding our neoliberal present led me to a life changing book, Mark Fisher’s Capitalist Realism: Is There No Alternative? Fisher, in turn, guided me to the writing of Richard Seymour, specifically his book The Twittering Machine. The central thesis of that book, that we think we are “tweeting” when we are, in fact being tweeted is something I think about as I, and I’m sure many of you, struggle with the amount of time we are captured by the algorithms.

Seymour has a new book out, Disaster Nationalism: The Downfall of Liberal Civilization that grapples with our present confusing moment. In the book Seymour analyses the international rise of authoritarian leaders in the U.S., Brazil, The Philippines, Hungary and elsewhere and how these emerging movements create compelling, though false, narratives to explain real crises such as climate change, immigration and economic disparity. As Seymour puts it, “disaster nationalists offer a curative decivilization: violent restoration, followed by laughter and forgetting.”

Against a background of atomization, loneliness and toxic individualism disaster nationalists provide what Seymour calls “participatory disinfotainment” such as Qanon and a violent “death squad populism” of strongmen like Rodrigo Duterte.

The difficulty with an honest assessment of the troubles we face is the abstract nature of problems such as climate change and disaster nationalists know how to exploit this. Seymour says,

Many of the sources of our problems are obscure, remote and impersonal, and they can appear almost random. For example, it was reported in 2022 that austerity policies in the United Kingdom had caused 300,000 excess deaths. That causal relation would not necessarily have been evident to surviving relatives at the time, when the deaths would have been attributed to ailments such as cardiovascular disease rather than to the conditions making people vulnerable to the disease. If one wasn’t tuned in to politics, one might have been aware of losing a loved one, of misfortunes piling up, of the quality of life generally getting worse, without having a face to put to the crime. In those circumstances, resentment might either remain below the threshold of awareness or settle on a personal or political scapegoat.

Pro wrestler Kane in the ring with future education secretary Linda McMahon.

Pro wrestler Kane in the ring with future education secretary Linda McMahon.

While the disaster nationalists offer “a nimbus of piety, sex and violence.” (see the six part Netflix documentary about pro wrestling impresario Vince McMahon for a perfect example of this) the centrist politicians who oppose them keep us in a state Mark Fisher described as “nihiliberalism”. As Margaret Thatcher said “there is no alternative” and as Joe Biden promised, “nothing will fundamentally change.” Seymour describes this now stagnant and fading order,

The point was not any admirable social goal, but merely the maintenance of a market order in which everyone competes in a state of ignorance: ‘a willed and deliberate unknown,’ as Raymond Williams put it, ‘in which the defining factor is advantage’. This pointless pursuit of advantage as the summum bonum of social life also entailed constant measuring of self-worth against the success of others, so that failure became unbearable at just the point where millions could amount to ‘literally nothing’.

Seymour spends the bulk of the book analyzing the qualities of disaster nationalists, their obsessions with violence and sex, the ways they use celebrity and technology, the differences and similarities between them and the fascists of the 1930s. It’s definitely not a fun beach read but if we’re going to counter this movement we’ve got to do some ‘know thy enemy’ homework. Seymour sums up,

Where real crises abound, disaster nationalism is enthralled by entirely fictional crises. And, inasmuch as it presents itself as a solution, it is also palpably hankering for a world-shattering, cleansing crisis: bring it on. This disaster fiction, I have suggested, is a kind of dreamwork enacted on the real crises of the age, conducting the molecular flow of economic, emotional and erotic miseries into a building tidal wave of vengeful violence.

Seymour hints at two promising suggestions on how to counter the disaster nationalists. He says we need a basis of, ‘bread and butter’ politics—addressing people’s material needs for health care and housing. But he suggests that this is not enough. We need to work, Seymour says, on the “bowling alone” problem described by Robert Putnam—the fact that we lack connections between people that used to be formed by churches, labor unions, clubs etc. I don’t think anyone knows how exactly to go about solving that lack of group cohesion but I also agree we have to try. The neoliberal order wants to keep us isolated on our smartphone screens while the far right offers a togetherness rooted in an “armed shitstorm”. We have to offer a compelling alternative based on solidarity.

The Man Who Exorcised the Bermuda Triangle

There’s a hole in my late night soul once occupied by the late, great Art Bell. No talent can ever replace that voice, emanating as it did from the vast mysterious desert of the Southwest, spinning tales of the great mysteries of this land, from UFOs, to Bigfoot, to ghosts to the shadow people that haunt the margins of our vision.

I listen to a few podcasts in an attempt to fill that Art Bell hole including the Dark Histories Podcast. The host, Ben Cutmore, did an episode on a very unlikely exorcist, the Anglican clergyman reverend Dr. Donald Omand. Cutmore based the episode on a book, The Man Who Exorcised the Bermuda Triangle by journalist Marc Alexander. I picked up a copy of this book in the library and it proved to be page turning fun.

Father Omand’s ecclesiastical career first came to prominence when he became the chaplain of a traveling circus. It was his work with this circus where his exorcism skills first came to use. A tragic incident occurred in which an otherwise normal and much loved strong man antagonized, in an uncharacteristic and unexplainable moment, the lion tamer’s animals causing them to attack and kill the tamer. Omand was asked later, by the superstitious circus performers, to exorcise the lions.

The press picked up on this incident and Omand’s skills were soon in demand. He built up his exorcism chops (which he traced to the supernatural skills of his Orkney born mother), starting with possessed individuals to ever more geographically spacious and seemingly absurd projects ranging from roadways with high accident rates to remote “sea madness” vortexes in the North Sea, to the Lock Ness Monster and his magnum exorcism opus, the entirety of the Bermuda Triangle.

I had expected the book to be more absurd and unbelievable than it actually was. By the end of the book, Omand’s project seemed sensible as a purging of the psychogeographical bad juju that we all intuitively feel in our desecrated landscape of parking lots and freeways. Omand comes off as careful, kindly and sincere, a man with a sense of humor and not the attention seeker you might expect at first. The Lock Ness exorcism is indicative of his approach. Alexander’s book explains that he wasn’t really seeking to end sightings of the monster but, rather, to stop the negative “vibes” associated with the Lock Ness Monster’s apparitions. In so doing Omand not only keeps the British Isles’ enchantment intact but even ads some “rizz” to the mystic Albion of our dreams. I’m left wondering if the U.S. could use one of Omand’s large scale psychogeogrpahical exorcisms at this present moment.

I recommend you dig The Man Who Exorcised the Bermuda Triangle out of the dusty stack of your local library, but if you want a quick summary of Omand’s life the Dark Histories Podcast episode, “The Spectacular Life of Donald Omand, Exorcist Extraordinaire” is a fun listen. The BBC segment above doesn’t capture what I think Omand was attempting to do, but at least you can see him at work and hear the bemused opinions of the Lock Ness locals.