Our Wedding Photos

Our photographer just released the video for all our wedding photos! I can't embed the video here for copyright reasons, but head on over to their site to check it out.

What have we been up to? Writing, dissertating (for Amber), thesis-ing (is that a word? for Theo), and generally loving our lizards and getting by in Central Illinois. It's been a little hectic, but we're happy we could share these photos with you.

Wedding Entertainment

Our wedding was a month ago now. Hard to believe, right? We're still waiting for proofs from our photographer, but we'll be sure to post those as well as a post-wedding blog post soon.

We're also still working our way through footage from another wedding we attended, Ami and Kunal's wedding in India, back where we got engaged. Indian weddings are known for their lavish celebrations, and Ami and Kunal's included 4 days of amazing events.

On our first night in Ahmedabad, we attended the sangeet, a night of music and dancing hosted by the bride's parents. We had a wonderful dinner, followed by music, choreographed dancing from Ami and Kunal's close family and friends, and ended the night with more freestyle dancing.

The performers were amazing. Here's a sample of the music from the evening.



The dancing was amazing as well. We'll post some footage from some of the choreographed dances later, but for now, feel free to laugh at my (Amber's) sad attempts at dancing:



Stay tuned for more footage!

Wedding Photos: A Preview

They're here! They're here!

Want a sneak peek of our wedding photos? Head on over to our photographer's blog. They really managed to capture our day so completely. We were so happy so many of you could share it with us.

All photos coming soon!

Wedding Countdown: Welcome Wedding Guests!

We're starting the countdown to the big day, and we're excited for you to join us for the big event in Fort Wayne. We hope this multi-purpose blog will give you all the information you need before the wedding. (Check the links over to the right too.)

First the important details: the ceremony will be at held at the First Presbyterian Church at 4:30pm. The reception will be held at the Freemason's Hall, starting at 5:30 with a cocktail hour, followed by dinner, music and dancing, featuring the band Years. The two locations are pretty close together, but here's a map.

We have rooms reserved at the Courtyard by Marriott and the Hilton Grand Wayne. (Be sure to book by Aug. 24). You can find the hotel info here. If you're planning to fly to the wedding, we also put together some airport advice. If you're spending the weekend with us in Fort Wayne, we've also included some information on area attractions. We're also registered at Traveler's Joy and Bed Bath and Beyond. You can find our registry information here.

If you haven't visited our blog before, you can find recaps of our travel adventures here, links to our India pictures, and video of Theo's proposal at the Taj Mahal. You can also check out our EPIC Save the Date Trailer.

We can't wait to see you in Fort Wayne!

Wedding Gift Registry

We're hoping you've caught on to the wedding theme by now. As international travelers, we've made this interest a large part of our big day. For our wedding, then, instead of asking for a lot of stuff, we're instead asking for a great experience and some wonderful memories on our honeymoon to New Zealand. You can find our honeymoon registry here: http://www.travelersjoy.com/tnagoglobal

If you'd like to help us cook some great international food in our kitchen, we're also registered at Bed Bath and Beyond. You can find the registry here.

MCI Cultural Journal #15: A Hairy Situation

I wrote earlier about my ambiguous ethnicity here in Ireland. Never am I picked as an Irishman, and rarely as an American. No one has even really identified me as a Midwesterner. As for anything beyond that, no. But the hair, the hair's the monkey wrench. It's not as if I haven't seen lads and lasses with dreadlocked tresses in Dublin, but it is an uncommon sight. And surprisingly to me, rarely has there been leers or sneers thrown my way by observers as I walk the streets. The only real moment of visual derision that I saw was from the landing crew at the airport. It was as much befuddlement as disdain. Ashley and I hatched a plan to cut my hair either shortly before Galway, or when we got back. It's a decision that I had been considering for a number of weeks, and not one I took lightly. But I had decided that I was going to cut my dreadlocks off after 7 years of sporting them. Not only was it for cosmetic reasons (the weight of the dreadlocks was starting to make me preternaturally bald, a prospect that makes me shudder), but the shits and giggles that would follow seeing my fiancé not recognize me at the airport, and the astonishment upon her mother's face just one week after was incentive enough to make the change. I'd also decided to change the color. Because if you're going to cut off 7 pounds of hair (yes, you read that right, seven pounds), you might as well go full-tilt boogie and change the hue as well.

I've never dyed my hair black before. I've had it dark on occasion, a terrible dark maroon job from junior year in college comes to mind, but I thought dying it black would be the most sufficient distinction I could make from the "old Theo." Remarkably, after getting it done, a number of people questioned, "did you dye it?," as if they weren't sure if my hair without dreadlocks was naturally this dark.

So, like any good academian, I did research as to where I could best acquire my follicular makeover. After seeing the prices at a salon close to my house off Griffith Ave., at €20 for the cut and €75 for the color, I just knew there had to be someplace cheaper. I mean, come on, I'm not a woman going to Paul Mitchell's. I took an afternoon down in the city centre to poke around and find a more affordable option, only to be disappointed by nothing quoted as under €100. They were all excellent salons, filled with lovely ladies and effeminate lads with cutting shears and garden weasels at hand to cut the "mess" upon my head.

After consulting with Brid, my host mum, she said I could find a much more agreeable price if I looked at the Polish salons. During the influx of Polish labor during the Celtic tiger, one of the professions that burgeoned with foreign labor from from Eastern Europe was hair salons. Willing to perform a dry cut for €5 put them on par with any Borics or supersalon found in middle America. One of the native Irish salons told me I'd have to do a skin test to make sure the hair dye wouldn't cause an allergic reaction. No such need at the lower tier salons. Hives? Rashes? No problem, as long as we give you the color you want. I eventually found my way to a small salon run by a Chinese immigrant who had been in Ireland for over 7 years. Interestingly, his shop lie in what appeared to be "foreigner hair salon row." I could have had my locks redone from the Cameroonians around the corner, shaved by the Russian girls with the €5 euro and barber pole motif. But I decided I should trust my hair to Shun, with his Vietnamese nail technician partner (yeah, apparently that's a global stereotype).

The only problem I had was when I originally told Shun I wanted to cut my hair off, he assumed he would be shaving my head. A slight negotiation in price resolved how much hair I would be allowed to keep. As he snipped off the first lock, I did panic a little. My heart sank as half a decade disappeared from my head. The cutting process took about 30 minutes, after which I astutely bagged up my hair (that's like 3 iguana pillows worth of hair -- long story, ask me later). Overall, the process was pretty painless. I did get a few head rushes when I stood up, but losing 7 pounds from your noggin will do that. After we were finished dying the hair Cool Black, (it's blue, like Dick Grayson! Nerd points if you get that.) My coif was styled into a righteous faux hawk.

Oddly, despite the compliments and the number of people in the shop who suggested the new look was quite "grand," I felt quite self-conscious about the massive change. It actually might take months to truly get used to the change. I did notice I received more smiles from the Irish female populace, and I by no means claim to be handsome. But even a bulldog looks cute with a bow.

As for the shock and awe upon those who didn't recognize me, check out the video below:

MCI Cultural Journal #14: I Think I Want to Hurl

Something I haven't written about yet was the hurling match we went to between Dublin and Kilkenny at Croake Park. As someone who has season tickets for the Indianapolis Colts, I understand what it means to be a rabid fan. But hurling, and sports in general, hold a unique place in Irish culture. Based both on economics and tradition, hurling and the rest of the GAA sports are purely amateur athletic endeavors. None of the athletes who sweat and practice as any other professional sportsman will ever receive a dime for their athletic achievements.

It's remarkable, really; these are major league sports, filling stadiums with over 30,000 people, securing large television contracts and endorsement and sponsorship monies, and yet the guys who put in the most work, the athletes who grind out games, who punish their bodies, get paid nothing? At least American college players get an education out of their indentured relationship, and some harbor aspirations to turn pro after their 4 year limit of servitude is up. But these guys, they get nothing, save the occasional personal endorsement deal and random hurling groupie. Judging by the talent on hand at the stadium, it probably isn't all that much.

Along with this notion of amateurism is the weird relationship sponsors have with teams, and it's something I never liked about European sport. In trying to find a jersey for Sunday's game, I perused a number of shops and sporting goods stores, trying to find a Dublin hurling t-shirt. But finding any logo apparel beyond a jersey was neigh impossible. In fact, walking into the stores was like walking into an advertising booth at a commercial fair. Every team jersey available, no matter the sport, was only emblazoned with the team sponsor so that the end result is that you because less a fan of a particular squad, but more of a walking billboard for Vodafone or Air Emirates, or whatever the sponsor of choice may be. All I wanted was a simple jersey to identify myself as a fan of my chosen team. But being unable to find a Dublin t-shirt and unwilling to pay 50-65 for the privilege of advertising Vodafone's mobile service, I left without buying a product.

The other thing that struck me in the store was the lack of identification of any of the local teams. Hurling may be the national sport of Ireland, yet in Dublin seeing a jersey worn in public beyond game day was highly unlikely. Inside the store, the racks of merchandise were more likely to be filled with products from the large and most popular European soccer teams. It was vexing and ultimately annoying. I mentioned to several clerks that if this were a shop in the States, every rack would be filled to the brim with various gear from the local sports teams, professional, college, or otherwise. None of the girls I asked had a satisfactory answer. To add to the frustration, nearly every store had three American baseball teams' t-shirts and hats; the Yankees, White Sox, and Dodgers were in every store. I don't know if it's the its the predominance of tourists from those three cities, the fact that they're the three largest markets in the United States, or whether a long history of Irish emigrating to each place (heck, the owner of the Dodgers was the O'Malley family for a number of decades. Even the current owner, Frank McCourt, has strong Irish roots).

The other interesting piece about the jerseys is that befitting their amateur status, none of the jerseys had a player's family name on them. None of the jerseys worn in game did either. As a result, I wondered how fans identified with these players. Nearly every other commercial sport has a players name on the back of the jersey. How else to create brand identification and fan loyalty but to have them wear the same Manning #18 that their hero wears every Sunday. I would chuck this nuance up to the players' amateur status, but during the course of the game, fans exhorted specific players by name, "Come on, McKinney!"

In regards to the game itself, hurling is simply fantastic. Even with the dog of the game that we saw, Kilkenny dominated throughout, winning the game, SCORE. There is something to be said for the speed of the game. It's not quite as fast as hockey (ice hockey to the Irish), but it's loads faster than soccer or American football. Beyond the speed of the game, I noticed two things during the course of action on the pitch.

Though somewhat physical in nature, hurling is not a violent game, despite being played with rather large sticks known as hurls. When collisions did occur, they were most often shoulder to shoulder, and no one ever really laid anyone out. [link to Darrell Reid hit] Most of the players are roughly the size of a soccer midfielder. They're small, incredibly quick, with lithe frames. Hitting is somewhat discouraged, with red and yellow cards as used in soccer. The hurlers are tremendous athletes, as they must have a remarkable field of vision and immense recover speed, especially when a punch and run offense is employed.

The second thing I noticed about the game itself was the lack of an offside rule. Nearly every other sport of this nature employs an offside rule, designed to prevent teams from cherry picking on offense. But as one kind father at the game with his kids explained to me, there's too many players on the field, and the game just moves too fast. If an offside rule was employed, the game would crawl to a standstill.

As I mentioned, the crowd would often yell a player's name in exaltation to attempt a goal or play a better defense, but that combined with the phrases, "up the Cats" or "up the Dubs," dominated those cheers. In comparison to the songs sung at soccer games, or the myriad of cheers screamed at an American football game, especially collegiately. Hurling seemed a bit tame in comparison. Sure, fans were exuberant and boisterous and maybe it was just the overall politeness the Irish show, but the crowd was largely absent of vicious, blood thirsty wails urging the team to victory. There were no personalized jerseys or signs or any differences in costume, i.e. a fan dressed in cat regalia to root for Kilkenny. The whole affair was really rather civil (if it seems I may be disappointed by the lack of fan-on-fan violence and raucous taunting, you're probably right.) Which is odd, considering the game's name.

MCI Cultural Journal #13: Vegangelicals and Fish-free Fridays

One of the cultural artifacts I've noticed here in Ireland is the innate desire for Irish to not be a bother to others. Certain requests aren't made simply because it will cause too much consternation for their fellow Irishmen. And while, the response may be "oh, 'tis no trouble at all." The truth is that it is very much so. It's just that the Irish are way too nice to tell you what a bothersome wart you're being. Which brings me to my least favorite thing about Ireland. I can't eat here.

That's not entirely true. It's just more "difficult" for me. I knew that finding vegan fare would be somewhat arduous, just not quite as frustrating as it ended up being. I've actually eaten a potato wedge sandwich here. I had no idea such a carb monstrosity existed outside of the weird delusions of Colonel Sanders. The sandwich was exactly that: potato wedges, ketchup, and red onion thrown on top to really make the sandwich. It was delicious, but I felt sort of dirty eating it, like some fatty on The Biggest Loser caught hording a stash of Little Debbie snack cakes. Better yet, like Private Pyle and his single jelly donut. On a number of occasions, my host mom Brid would verbally poke me with a stick, questioning not only my veganism as a belief system, not questioning the audacity with which I live my life. Audacity may be too strong a word, but the intent was clear. How dare I walk through this world expecting it to adapt to my dietary restrictions. Anytime I noted the difficulty in finding vegan cuisine, Brid would question me indignantly, "Well, what did you expect?" It was as if her icy queries were meant to protect the national trust, a not so subtle reminder that I was the foreigner, and a pigheaded one at that. Sometimes, the barb struck a little close as I knew I wasn't involved in a dialogue. The questions were meant to put me on the defensive. It was her way of needling me, but the manner of which left me oft questioning the "good-natured" aspect of her line of interrogation.

That said, I was able to find food out and about in Ireland. It came at a premium, as the Indian and Thai restaurants I frequented were a step up in price as compared to the Supermacs and the Eddie Rockets. I did find three establishments in Dublin that advertised vegan/vegetarian fare. And I did find vegan food on the road in Kilkenny at a nice Indian restaurant. The most difficult times were in Galway and Belfast, both points at which my finances were stretched to the maximum. The bus trip to the Giants Causeway was fruitless because tourist stops just don't cater to vegans.

In Ireland's favor, I will say that most people knew what a vegan was. There weren't many, "huh?" or "I don't know what that is," remarks to be found. The only problem came when I was offered a vegetarian option, and I had to remind them that I was not vegetarian. So people do know what vegans are, they just don't give a flying rip about them them, or hey, Ireland has potatoes.... lots of potatoes.... My host mom was really quite accomodating despite her retiscence about cooking vegan fare. And sure, I ate "Balkan stew" at least three times, but she did try. Mrs. Martin bought a vegan cookbook and even bought me vegan mozzarella and soy milk, which she really didn't have to do. So beyond her questions and quibbles, I have no quarrel with how I ate at her house. But that is not to say I hated the lack of protein at the grocer and in restaurants. Tofu was a rare and foreign commodity and priced as such. Seitan, Veat or Boca was nowhere to be seen. I found lots of Quorn at my local Tesco, but Quorn is for vegetarians because I don't do eggs. Health food stores were not really health food stores. There was no vegan jerky or Gardein in sight. They might have a can of vegan cutlets, but that's it, highly processed, highly salted slabs of cured tofu. As a competitive power lifter here in the States, I'm used to getting at least 200 grams of protein a day, well over 100 of that in food alone. But in Ireland I was lucky to get 15 or 20 from some of the veggies and the Luna bars I would each each day.

I guess that's what made me feel most like a foreigner in Ireland. And that's the tricky thing for Americans visiting an English speaking foreign country, isn't it? The signs are all in English, the people greet you in English, but in the end, they're just as different as someone from a land with a foreign tongue. I've heard folks speak of being lulled into thinking that a far off land is just like "back home," only to realize later in a moment of culture shock that "gosh darn it, they don't do things like we do back home." While I realize this was really the extent culture shock and I are well-acquainted, had I known what I was going to encounter I would have packed a few more Luna bars.

MCI Cultural Journal #12: No Pants Nausea

Dublin has become quite the capital for the fashionistas, but for some reason, the "no pants" is king. What is the "no pants," you may ask? As Amber always says, it's the undergraduate uniform. On campuses like U of I and NIU, women of all size, shape and color have decided that stretch pants and tights are just as good as what most of us consider to be pants. When or how this trend started, I don't know. But it's in Ireland, and it's big time.

Frankly, as much as I like to see the curvaceous buttocks of a sprightly young lass, there is something insidious about this fashion trend. And not just because every woman thinks she can pull this outfit off, but that so many of them really don't care if they can. I am not the slimmest of fellows, knowing that, I really don't want to subject anyone else to perusing my porkiness as I'm out and about town. Sure, I might wear just an Under Armor undershirt after working out at the gym. But no one is going to see me in that beyond the poor unfortunate souls that work at the convenience store next to my gym. People don't have to see that, and as a rational human being I'm cognisant of that. Yet somehow, Ashlee, or in this case, Aisling, has determined in all the confidence youth and inexperience brings, that you really need to see her butt cheeks hermetically sealed in black stretch pants. But uniquely Irish is that the no pants were most often accompanying a skirt, or microshorts.

Now, before you think I'm some Tim Gunn wannabe, let me reiterate that. I'm about the least fashionable person I know. I mean, I do have friends who think a Hawaiian print shirt and khaki shorts are appropriate attire for a wedding rehearsal dinner, but I digress. The fashion choice was simply vexing and most dramatically not in a good way. These 20 year-old girls would be standing in the queue for the bus in 50 degree rain with Daisy Duke microshorts over the most snug black tights one could imagine. In my head, I'm screaming, "My God, woman, they make these things called jeans!" But one of the girls in the group, I don't remember who, suggested, "well, it's too cold to show off their legs, so this is the best they could come up with." "And they don't have to shave their legs, right?" I snarkily retorted. "Yeah, that too."

After a while, the outfits became something of a uniform. It was like Eastern Europeans and acid wash jeans back in the early 200os. Sadly, I don't know if this is a wholly Irish trend, or if it suggests a European influence. While the no pants are everywhere in the States, the non-tunic microshorts is a different twist that may eventually catch on. If the trend does spread to the malls of Hoboken and Helena, God help us.

MCI Cultural Journal #11: The Belfastian Blues

As I mentioned before, I traveled to various locales in Ireland at every opportunity I could. Back when I backpacked through Europe all of those years ago, I went at a furious pace. Traveling by train I would hop an 8-hour train each night, which I would then use as my mobile hotel. I would arrive in a city such as Warsaw or Budapest at close to 6 in the morning, and I would spend the entire day touring the city. At 8pm that evening or so, I would hop back on the train and rinse and repeat. Granted I didn't see everything I wanted to see, but I saw enough to know when I came back in the future, I would know exactly the places I would want to spend a few days in. When you're young, dumb, and single, there's not really a better way to travel.

While my tour of Ireland was not at nearly the same frenetic pace, I did make sure that I tried to see as much as possible. The first weekend we had free, Dan and I were set on heading to Belfast. We talked to a few others in the group, and eventually we grabbed a bus Belfast-bound with a total of 9. Normally, I hate to travel in groups. Invariably, there is always one person that isn't quite as enthused with seeing all a particular locale has to offer. And not that I'm saying that's completely wrong, it's just that I don't travel that way. If I'm going to a museum, I want to see everything in the museum. Otherwise, why would I go? By the end of our weekend, everyone but me was sucking wind pretty bad. I don't know if it was Saturday night's libations or just the amount of walking we did, but by the time we took the hop-on, hop-off city bus tour, half of our nonete were more than ready to hit the road. I was able to convince a few to do a short walking tour of the city with me. That may have been my favorite part of the trip.

Ultimately, I walked away thinking that Northern Ireland was not really Ireland at all. Any geographer could tell you that, but from a pure cultural and dialectical viewpoint, I didn't once feel as if I were in the Emerald Isle at all. The houses looked British, the people sounded British, heck the people even looked British. It was like I were in Disneyland and was magically transported to Limeyland on one of the rides. And while I greatly enjoyed my short weekend in Belfast, I couldn't help but think that that feature, "the un-Irishness" of Belfast, was a real downer. If I wanted to hear a Limey lilt, I would have just spent a weekend in London or hopped a ferry over to Liverpool.

Another odd thing I noticed about Belfast was an increased sense of commercialism. It reminds me of the debate that was had during the Irish Civil War between the socialist republicans and the capitalist nationals. It is clear from the few days I spent in Belfast that this is one place the capitalists won. The bars were mostly dance clubs, the bustling malls were brimming with goods, and advertisements were crammed into any available signage. Even Dublin, in all its cosmopolitan nature, felt downright homey compared to Belfast at times.

Which is one more interesting paradox, because Belfastians proclaimed that Dublin was a far more expensive town. This came as a bit of a shock to me, as I noticed my bank account rapidly declining due to Belfast's use of the sterling. Whenever I told anyone I was studying in Dublin, they were quick to assert, "how can you afford to live there?" often with a derisive sneer, often to suggest Dublin was a city for rich tourist suckers. Perhaps it's just a big brother/little brother complex, but this seemed to be Belfastians' way of digging at Dubliners. There were no violent undertones in their derision, just a palatable snarkiness. But most interestingly, though I traveled to a number of other places in Ireland, only in Belfast did people remark about the economic status of Dublin.

MCI Cultural Journal #10: From the Written Journal...

9:58 am July 3, 2011

I’m headed back to Dublin from Kilkenny and one day was just not enough. It’s a tiny little burg, but there was loads I didn’t get to do. I didn’t get down to Kilkenny until after most things had been open a bit, but I had such little direction to start. Getting to the caves was the hardest part. I walked for over an hour until I caught a cab to the caves, and I was quite worried as the fare began to rise into the teens. In fact I spent way too much on that part of the journey. The caves were well worth the trip, but I’m a bit worried about the rest of the trip now. I’m pretty much limited to no more nights out. I could probably go out with everyone, but I can’t spend any money. I’ll be like Ashley.

Good thing is, not going out will save me time for work. I should be able to get tons of video and journaling done. I think, from here on out, I'm gonna try and write something ANYTHING down each day. Even if I never complete the entry, at least get something on paper. I've been hatching this plan to try and get Ambi to type the journal. I'll be busy with video and the resultant journals about the vids I post.

Weird side note. So the cat next to me is wearing his Kilkenny hurling jersey and reading the UK sports page. Why isn't there a huge Irish Sports page? The TV is all British and most of the print I see is from the UK. That said, what I find most interesting is the lack of actual content. Most stories have a dominant image, like a picture of Rory McElroy with some cheesy header like, "Rory Glory Hallelujah." Seriously? What fifth grader is on the editorial board? Then there's probably only 6-10 column inches of actual content. And the content that is there is just fluff. There's no analysis, no statistical reasoning for any opinions put forth at all. None. There are opinions, some very strong indeed, but much of the analysis is on gut feelings, not number crunching or true scientific evaluation of talent. It's an aspect of the culture I just don't get, and probably never will.

Second weird tangent, no one says, "bless you," when someone sneezes, not even the person who sneezed. It's a bit maddening really. The Irish are such a kind and welcoming people, it seems as a paradox. When I say, "bless you," I'm often greeted with the quizzical, never the agitated, just puzzled look of curiosity. It's not like they haven't heard it before right? So why the reaction? What's the frequency, Kenneth?

Truly, I know this is no big deal, nor will it stick n my culture shock craw, where upon it shall agitate and fester into a nasty boil ruining my perception of my time here. But it will be placed in the Annoying Anecdote pouch, where it will be whipped out accordingly, accompanied by the phrase, "You know, in Ireland they..." To which friends and associates will respond with über-surprise and the word "really?" Yeah, just like that.

2:45 pm July 18, 2011

So I'm on the plane back to the States, and I've neglected from writing my cultural or academic journals in a while. I always feel like I have to write a few confessional lines of neglect to justify the lack of writing. I don't know why I do it, because I don't have to, or really even to anyone but myself and my writing conscience. I've taken to writing my academic journals on the laptop, and with all the videos and pictures on the Mac, it's a chore to crack open the journal and put pen to paper. I don't really crack the journal for an academic journal. Without the ability to edit, it makes them too hard to write here. Dr. Chown joked that my videos and pictures are like taking notes. I view them more as separate pieces or addendum. Considering I only have a few more academic pieces to write, I'm way ahead of the game. A few of my friends in the program haven't done any. Granted, more have done almost all of them, and I'm pretty sure I'm the only one doing them online. We'll see how they look when I'm done.

MCI Cultural Journal #9: All in a Name

I've been talking with a lovely lass on the bus to Galway named Marie. Marie and I were discussing something interesting about how the Irish don't say their names nor do they introduce themselves. It's as if the hospitality is kept at arm's length.

You can talk for hours to someone in the local pub without ever finding out their name. It's really rather intriguing. Everyone is so friendly here, yet the name, which Americans would consider as fundamental to one's identity, or definition of such, is never exchanged. Granted, Ireland is a much more homogenized country and culture than is the States. I always joke with my foreign friends that if you have fifteen minutes, any American can tell you his or her life story in such a brief amount of time after initial introductions. Not only do they share this information so quickly, but they do it in such an easy, breezy manner. Details the Irish might consider unmentionable, are commonplace for Americans to drop in conversation.

For example, an American might detail every illness or medical situation requiring hospitalization in the course of these conversations, sometimes to complete strangers. Doubt this? Try sitting next to a blue-haired old lady in an orthopedics office, and you'll see what I mean. This information is just too personal for an Irishman to tell anyone, much less a complete stranger. Perhaps it's a case of the Irish simply being a more private people, or of not wishing to burden anyone else with their troubles. And while telling someone your name is much less of a blip on the privacy warning screen, learning one's name does present a conundrum.

Once you know someone's name, you have a personal attachment to them. Their name alludes to a backstory, a history, an ethnicity, the very identity of that person. Knowing all of those things suddenly complicates an otherwise innocuous meeting. Not many would say that "Jessica," the girl you met at the hair salon waiting to get your color done is suddenly a friend. Chances are, you'll never see "Jessica" ever again. For the Irish, there is an innate familiarity with each other, because hey, we're all Irish. So in that sense, the name is unneeded. I don't think I'll every truly get an answer to the reason this phenomenon occurs, but it is interesting to ruminate upon.

MCI Academic Journal #16: The Dead

On several occasions during the course, I professed my love for the writings of James Joyce. I've read Ulysses three times, heck, I even named my first bearded dragon Ulysses. Of course I'd read The Dead before the course, and it is perhaps my favorite short story by Joyce. Oddly, though, I'd never seen the John Houston film adaptation, and my expectations for the film were nearly as low as the Ryan Reynolds crapfest Green Lantern I watched mere days before my arrival in Ireland.

In my eyes, that piece is simply unapproachable for cinema. It is slow, plodding, and just too complex to display on celluloid. Before watching the film in class, Dr. Chown presented an exercise where we were split into three groups. Dr. Chown and Dr. Rank acted as the studio, which would produce a version of the film, as described by the three groups. The first group's objective was to sell the story to the producers so that the film would be made, i.e. it's a great story, it's a great plot, it's romantic, blah, blah, blah. The second group determined what had to be in the movie for it to be true to Joyce's vision. The third group, which was Connor, Christina, and I, were left to say why the film would be a critical and commercial failure, but let's be honest, unless the studio's Miramax or Focus features, we're talking dollars and cents, not little golden statues. We were tasked to come up with five reasons for to justify why The Dead should not see the silver screen, and despite my love of the text, this assignment was remarkably easy.

Here are the five reasons our trio came up with:

1. It's Irish. It's Gosford Park without a murder. Who wants to see a bunch whiny brogue-talking alcoholics in period dress.
2. There's just not enough material for a feature length film. 40 odd pages and no explosions or dismemberments? No way.
3. Period piece. Unless you have a fantastic love story, heroic icon, or swashbuckling battle scenes, period pieces just don't work. You make this movie, congrats, you've just remade The Color Purple without Oprah.
4. Gabriel is a schmuck. The protagonist is weak, and has resolve and intestinal fortitude of a turnip. He's just an angst dude at a party, an emo rocker in period dress. Good luck on that getting the masses to flock to the theatre.
5. The Joyce fanboys will cry murder. You can't make this and please your core audience. They'll be worse than the comic book nerds.

That said, the 1987 movie was made by renowned filmmaker John Houston, starred a remarkably strong cast, including John's daughter Angelica, and was a minor critical success. Yet for me, the film was hollow, empty and unsatisfying. The scene where Gabriel and Gretta arrive at the party has an odd sexual tension as the young maid helps Gabriel out of his galoshes. He compliments her awkwardly and asks about the attention she receives from young men, eventually attempting to tip her in thanks for a job well done and as a Christmas bonus. In the movie, this sexual tension is wiped clean. While Houston's character has a bawdiness not shown but alluded to in the text, this scene is an excellent display of the differences in class betwixt Gabriel and his wife. This East/West paradigm is better explored in the text as well, for, according to Joyce, it is not just one of geographic location, but of class. Galwegians are raw and unrefined, which restricts them to a lower class of Irishman. And even as Gabriel calls attention to Lily's femininity and attractiveness (she is a lower class lass, after all), it is all for naught. He did the same thing with Gretta bringing the farm girl to the city, "rescuing" her from a rural life with a lack of true potential. Both acts were done with limited knowledge of life below his station.

The portrayal of Miss Ivors was most troubling. The personification of the East/West paradigm should have been a key moment in the film yet Maria McDermottroe's portrayal of Miss Ivors was far too cavalier and too aggressive. In the text, Miss Ivors is snide and provocative. Less jokey but more pointed. Specifically the exposition of the term "West Briton" was annoying, this coming from my status as a Joycean fanboy. I know what a West Briton is. All of the characters know what a West Briton is, and especially Miss Ivors and Gabriel are familiar with it. But somehow, the film needs to explain this derisive barb thrown Gabriel's way. The otherwise pronounced attention to detail failed in this regard. This harkens back to the early part of this blog where my study group detailed why The Dead is such a difficult film to make. Combine the derision of the Joyce enthusiasts with the slowed pace; the film spends much of the dinner scene focused not on the context of Celtic hospitality or stratification of the Irish class system, but on the protocol of the dinner itself. The result is a very unenjoyable film.

Donal McCann's Gabriel is neither angsty nor lusty, as the script text requires. While McCann manages to scowl and harumph his way through the script, his performance lacks the nuance of trepidation and melancholy of Gabriel's station. Without an inner monologue or a clearly reflexive performance, this Gabriel is underwhelming to say the least.

This encapsulates my feelings about The Dead in a nutshell, well, an underwhelming nutshell that is.

MCI Cultural Journal #8: From the Written Journal...

10:07 am July 2, 2011

So I've been pretty terrible about keeping a solid journal. I've written some tinges on Word on my laptop, but mostly it's been the video camera cataloging my journeys and the weird aspects of culture that fascinate me.

Anyway, I am on the train to Kilkenny right now, and I barely got my fat ass on it. This morning, I got on the bus and went to the wrong station. Seriously? I walked from the stop near the Liffey to what I thought was the end of O'Connell street, where that weird spilt is. I couldn't remember which way to go exactly, so I went to the right towards Trinity and Temple Bar, but soon realized I made a mistake. I asked for some directions (again, no distance, just left, straight, right) and eventually ended up at O'Connell Station. After hopping the escalator up to the info desk, my fears of being at the wrong station were confirmed and it was suggested I take the tram and I'd be there in 7 stops. Well I know that screwed the pooch, but what choice did I have? I was gonna miss the train. So I sat on the tram for a minute on the phone with Ambi and was like, "Fuck it," I'm hopping a cab. The tram has to stop 7 times, so I'd just be better off in the cab even if if the cab can't move. The driver had actually been to the States living in Rhode Island for a year, and his brother had lived there for 15 years. He thought he'd get me there in less than 10 minutes and he did! So I jump out, run over to print my ticket, and haul my chubby carcass to the No. 7 platform, hopping a gate and a fence in the process. I made it with just two minutes to spare. Whew! I found my seat, or what I think is my seat, and sat down for a ride south.

One funny thing so far, the conductor (?) comes down to check our tickets, I motion to the two ladies across from me that he's coming to get our tickets. But the younger lass was more concerned with the realization she was drinking chardonnay at just 10am in the morning. I joked that, "Well, since you've been drinking, you may not have noticed we need to have our tickets out." That got quite the chuckle.

Yesterday, we saw two films at the Institute, and both were rather decent. The commentary tackled the problems and perceptions with women in Ireland. It was filmed in 1987, and the presentation was quite poor. When Dan and Ashley about how bad it was, I reminded them it was made in 1987, to which they remarked, "That's no excuse!" It was on the level of a poorly made student doc, seriously, "The Man from Aran" was better, and that was pure hokum. In one scene the former fashion model on the cover of travel brochures was interviewed in a pub or restaurant of some sort, and the woman's kids are running around in the background playing and shouting. Just a few scenes later, she actually has a baby sitting with her, who of course begins to wail. What the hell?

The shots on some women are just way too tight, and anytime she used b-roll, it was so poorly edited, it looked like bad Power Point. This really distracted a lot of students from the quality or importance of the subject matter, which is truly a shame.

A few days before, Dr. Chown mentioned an author once wrote that Ireland was "the first first world country with a third world mentality." Certainly the discussion of Ireland as represented by Mother Ireland is problematic, and the film addresses this well, despite the lack of technical proficiency.

MCI Cultural Journal #7: From the Written Journal...

3:21 June 21, 2011

So we're back at the house, and Connor has decided to knock off of the afternoon, and I want to agree with him. I had chatted with Brid downstairs about our class discussion and how we talked about the potato famine and the history of Ireland. I mentioned my family had immigrated to the United States years before, in the earlier part of the 1800s, before the mass exodus in 1847.

I haven't yet been confronted with a question of my ethnicity. I'm sure I'm known as a foreigner, but I have not yet been marked openly as a Yankee. I will closely watch this during my time here.

3:50pm June 24, 2011

So we're still on the road to Belfast, and since the laptop battery has sort of conked out, I decided to get at least some writing in. I've been quite neglectful of writing, something I'm normally good at on these sort of travels. I've just been so busy with ids and the blogs, that the only other time would be to skip the pubs at night. That might have to happen soon as I have just been burning through money. I'm actually a little scared I'll run out of money!

We had a dickens of a time finding the Irish Film Institute this morning. We (Connor, Dan, me) wandered the backstreets of Temple Bar trying to find that damn place for near 20-30 minutes!! The same thing happened to us the night before at the Abbey Theatre.

But here's the purpose for mentioning the misdirection and misfortune; the Irish are inept at giving directions. Ok, ok, I know that's a bit of hyperbole, but there is a distinct difference in the giving of directions between the States and the Emerald Isle. Only once during our travails did the local give us a distance in measurements; only once was it in terms of a measurable quantity. "Go left for 200 meters." "Take the next road down about half a mile." Things like that.

Instead, the Irish denote all distance by the time it takes to travel that particular distance. Maybe it's that they've always measured distance by the time it takes to walk somewhere. Hell, in the "Quiet Man," they walk 5 miles to town as if it's nothing. Surely, you'd just say it's a 2 hour walk or whatever. why would you frame it in distance when it's just a walk that everyone does. It's these little things I notice, and drive me mad!

MCI Cultural Journal #6: Galway's My Kind of Town

One of the exceptional parts of the Media and Culture study abroad program is the ability to travel throughout the country, seeing more than just one locale. Doing day trips during the week, or touring other cities on our weekends off, variety is the spice of life right?

Mostly though, it gave us a chance experience the country beyond what we simply saw in Dublin. Ireland, by no means diverse as larger countries such as the US or Japan, as a greater degree of variances in culture and tradition than one might expect. The West of Ireland has a distinct flair to it, and Galway, as a town, was quite enjoyable. It was really quite different from Dublin, which at times feels cosmopolitan and generic.

Locals were quick to remind visitors that Galway's a city, not a town. And while 72,000 residents makes it larger than your typical American college town, it feels very similar in nature. Galway as State College or Chapel Hill makes a lot of sense, and not just because the renowned National University of Ireland is located there. Galway just feels like a cool college town. There's a university village home to a number of cool bars, filled with the hipster elite and drunken flirty coeds; a series of ethnic restaurants to please the palate; and while the music scene doesn't feature indie acts like The Frames, there are plenty of places to listen to live music, essential in becoming a future elitist music snob.

Another interesting note about Galway is the slight difference in accents between it and Dublin. While I am no expert on dialects of Ireland, my linguistic background helped make these differences in tongues discernible. The clearest difference in the homogenized accented world, where British and American media rein supreme (no doubt these two forces have dulled the distinctions in the brogues) Galwegians have a tendency to great me with "Hiya," aside from momentarily transporting me to a Scandanavian land, the "hiya" was immediately recognizable in its familiarity. While much of the media we have studied has declared the west of Ireland to be uncivilized "bogmen," I found this general congeniality not to be lacking in class or couth, but to be honestly be far more welcoming than the aloofness I found at times in Dublin. Although they may chafe at this (on both sides) Galwegians filled me with a sense of southern hospitality. They're like Texans and their "howdy," minus the grating gusto and saunter.

Finally, as we often do, when confronted with a new place or new experience, we try to associate the new with the old, previous experience, or with something more familiar. And generally, Ireland's weather has been quite good in our travels here, but our time in Galway was a bit more depressed due to gray skies and intermittent showers. On Sunday, I had saved time for me to do some sightseeing in the city, but the rain hampered this, siphoning my will and doing a walk about searching for nooks and crannies filled with new experiences and resultant journal entries.The rest of the group had had enough, and whilst I tried to make do in finding something else to do on my last day in Galway, my compatriots packed their belongings and hit the bus hours before I rode back with Dr. Chown and Dr. Rank. I'm not saying they missed anything, but it did seem odd that they were in a rush to leave only to arrive a mere 30 minutes before we did in Dublin. The issue of burnout and the impetus of culture shock will be saved for a journal in the near future.

I liked Galway; I really did, and when I return to Ireland, it will definitely be on the list.

MCI Cultural Journal #5: Shamrock Cinerati

An academic and professional exercise I discussed in my first blog post about the Galway Film Fleadh was the vast array of friendships I made during the four days we spent in Galway.

The Irish hospitality was expressed in full force as I met kind soul after kind soul, engaging me in conversation about film and even their own works, some of which were on display. Having never attended a film festival before, much less one in a foreign land, the openness and friendliness of everyone was a real joy to experience. Sure there was an element of glad-handing and some sycophants roamed the crowds, but generally, people were there because they loved film, and they loved the culture surrounding showing these films to a rapacious public.

A central place for meeting folks was The Rowing Club, a bar with a picturesque view of Galway Bay which shines with the light of the city. After the evenings films were over, everyone would walk just a few shorts blocks behind the Town Hall Theatre to waterfront. On Friday night, I met Rory and Bruschi there, two film recent film school graduates who premiered the short film Punchline to an appreciative crowd. We exchanged views on cinema and the filmmaking process, and talked about everything from Irish customs, to hobbies, to hurling and gaelic football. The next day we three of us and Dan saw the Samuel L. Jackson narrated African Cats in the Omniplex down the road. There we were, four complete strangers with nothing but film in common, hanging out and enjoying movies together.

I also met the director of Gnarr and former Quarashi bassist Gaukur Úlfarsson on the street while everyone but me wolfed down fish and chips during the program dinner McDonaghs. We talked about Gnarr, his current projects, and what he thought of Ireland and his time at festivals like this one. We also talked about Screaming Masterpiece, a film I was set to see the following day, which Gaukur was actually in scene from Tokyo as a member of Quarashi. We saw each other again on Saturday night after the Cillian Murphy performance in Misterman. I'm no sycophant or hanger on, nor am I foolish enough to think I "made a new friend," but in a way, I did. Where else would that interaction be possible?

Finally, I went and saw Jack Taylor: The Pikemen on Sunday. Not only was the director at the showing, but I ran into both Killian Scott and Nick Lee who star in the film. I didn't drool at the prospect of meeting a "big star," which arguably, neither is, but it was cool to just chat with two lads who were in a movie I just saw. Killian told me about a film he has coming out next year, and Nick and I discussed his stagework and how incredible Misterman was. Sure I could have gotten autographs or pictures with each fellow, but this wasn't the time or place for that. Plus, I didn't want to lose my coolness by acting like just another teenager with Bieber Fever.

I guess the point of all this name dropping is to explain how much I really got into the "festival culture" and enjoyed the experience to the fullest; going to films, meeting people, and taking in the sights and sounds surrounding the Fleadh. I wish everyone else had immersed themselves in the environment as I did, but they're not film nerds like me. It's just a placement of value, some would rather visit the Aran Islands, (which is a fine choice, nothing against that), or go see Cillian Murphy in a play. I can always come back to Ireland and go visit the Aran Isle, in fact, I'm sure I will. But the chance to see an actor's actor like Murphy in a show from esteemed Irish playwright Enda Walsh?

That's a once in a lifetime opportunity, just like the Galway Film Fleadh.

MCI Academic Journal #15: Shortsighted

I was most looking forward to the Film Fleadh in Galway. It not only satisfied the hardcore cinephile in me, but surprisingly, the connections I made in Galway will last a lifetime. A number of young professionals I met were involved in the New Irish Shorts program. What an amazing experience for any young filmmaker!

Just as found my first international academic conference in AoIR 11.0 in Göteborg, the opportunity to exhibit something you have lovingly crafted over a number of months and possibly years has to be an exciting experience. It certainly was for me when I chaired my panel on Twitter. I was completely nervous and anxious about the reception, but the applause for a job well-done was a reward beyond any measure. They liked me, they really liked me!

I attended two shorts presentations, a 10:00 am showing on Friday and the 12:00 pm showing on Sunday. The set of presentations were a mixture of the overly ambitious historical drama to the simple yet witty comedic short one might see from a YouTube college comedy channel. Almost all dealt with the epiphany, the one moment where the punchline, the plot revelation, or even the surprising (or unsurprising) twist. I wouldn't call these quite Joycean in nature, but they were epiphanies just the same.

One short that struck me especially was a film shown on Friday titled Still Early. The film contained very little dialogue and very little narrative, just two lovers whose relationship is possibly ending but left rather unexplored and nebulous in the few short minutes we see them. No exposition, no explanation. Yet, the film is shot so sumptuously, with such passion and attention to the smallest visual details, no frame goes unwasted.

But perhaps the most powerful of these was a very well crafted film, The Christening. There was some serious money involved, as the film was shot on location in both Cork and London, and the credits revealed funding was obtained from a variety of film boards and sources. It was superbly acted, and the difference in professional actors and equipment set the film apart from other shorts included in this program. But it's the subject matter that is most striking. Abortion is not an easy subject to make a film about, and in fact, The Christening never uses the word abortion as it portrays the difficult decisions young Ailbhe faces, and the perilous journey she faces in traveling abroad to London to have the procedure. The last shot is the clincher; a harried and unkempt Ailbhe arrives at the church where she is honored as the godmother to her sister's infant. As she holds the baby in her arms, we see the bundle of emotions she has become, a mixture of relief that she made this all-important ceremony in time, love for her new role, and sadness and possible regret for the decision she made not 24 hours before, yet all wrapped in a shell of confusion amongst these varying feelings. It is truly a powerful image.

The movie makes no judgement call about the morality of her decision; it is ambiguous as to reasons why and even as to how she feels upon making it. The larger point is clear: as long as women have to make a decision to leave, morality surrounding the issue is irrelevant. One source claims nearly 4,500 Irish women a year leave the country to obtain abortions in the UK, a figure, though down from 2001's 6,600, not due to change anytime soon. While in Dublin, a large "rally for life" took place just near the city centre as thousands came out to place voice the pro-life position, despite the European Union deciding Ireland's anti-abortion laws violate civil and human rights protections provided by Ireland's entry into the EU. The Irish government has routinely argued that abortion violates what it means to Irish, citing the “profound moral values embedded in Irish society” as enough to prohibit women from seeking medical care. The Catholic Church, not one to show concern for women's sexuality or gynecological health, has remain even more defiant in its opinion.

We were asked about Ireland and the EU on our final exam, but nowhere is the friction between the two more readily apparent than in this case. A number of Irishmen intimated to me that Ireland is no more European than Martian. The notion was carried by a number of films which dared to suggest the same for Iceland, who like Ireland lies on the outskirts of the EU geographically and socially, for quite diverse reasons, but unified in the idea that a European-identity just doesn't quite fit either island.

This might be an issue to explore at another time, but in conclusion here, it's film festivals like these that ask these important questions through independent and non-commercial films. The Irish Shorts Programme was successful in at least that endeavor.

MCI Academic Journal #14: Congo: An Irish Affair

I had the pleasure of watching another brilliant Irish documentary at the Galway Film Fleadh, Congo: An Irish Affair which investigated the Irish peacekeeping mission in the Congo in the 60s. The Irish were part of the United Nations Force sent into to quell rebellion and civil war in the face of the disintegration of colonization. Beyond my surprise at the revelation that Belgium used to be a tough little bastard of a country, the story had a number of parallels to US military operations in the present and not so distant past.

Taking a relatively straightforward approach, the filmmakers mixed a combination of raw archival and news footage with various media, including newspaper and radio broadcasts of the day, to weave a complex tapestry for their film. Congo: An Irish Affair avoided the problem many historical docs do in relying too heavily upon narration to move the film's exploration and narrative along. There's nothing worse than having a great film ruined by bad exposition through voiceover.

In addition to the excellent archival footage, (from a variety of sources, including the BBC, Belgian and American outlets) very personal and often poignant interviews with a number of veterans were included to added a much needed personal touch to the proceedings.

Before I delve into the subject matter more in depth, I did want to make one stylistic critique. During the interviews, which were set against the backdrop of the UN armament used by the Irish soldiers during their mission in the Congo, the camera would often take a long shot and swivel around the veterans being interviewed. The direction was unneeded and rather puzzling and set me off against the film at points. Here we have a veteran of a vicious and cruel military action, (both for the rebels and the peacekeeping forces) detailing intimate and sometimes painful memories of what went on, and the camera shot and ensuing movement often destroyed that mood. It was counterintuitive. Could the camera have not turned in slightly on a tight close-up, or even just zoomed in on the eyes a la Errol Morris? The effect was jarring and disconcerting, mostly because I was so totally engrossed in the film that it distracted from my enjoyment of it.

That said, the film was great. Most interesting to me was the humility of the men interviewed, not a surprise considering my experiences in Ireland and from a number of films and media we have consumed during the course.

I don't think it's by accident. I think a trope of Irish humility has emerged in a number of films, bolstered by my expectations for it from my dealings within Irish society. When Mrs. Martin's son was relaying his experiences in national judo tournaments and competitions as well as a few anecdotes about his proficiency in local trivia contests while watching a game show at his mother's house, she chastised him for being a braggart, a clear social faux pas in Ireland. Alan is well into his 40s, and here's his mother chiding him for boasting!

Hush-A-Bye Baby had a number of instances where boastfulness was chided, as did Butcher Boy, in a far more cruel and hurtful manner naturally. This isn't quite developed in thinking for me, true, but I do think there's something to this line of thought. If Irish society decries boastfulness, which in a sense is a by-product of being special, or extraordinary in some talent or facet of life, does Irish culture then bemoan those who strive to be different and in effect, special? Are kids hammered from an early age, as they are in Japan, to avoid being special? To avoid being outside the lines of normality?

Unfortunately, I'm writing this on the plane ride from Charlotte to Chicago, so querying an Irishmen at this point to analyze it further is nigh impossible, but I think a film like Congo: An Irish Affair lends credibility to the origin of my inquiry. The men interviewed refused to take credit for a job well-done. They showed solidarity in their praise of their commanding officers and even in their resolve to complete what was in most ways a no-win mission. Some bemoaned the view many outside their battalion held at the time and the public perception that they somehow failed. They bristled at the notion their withdrawal was viewed as a retreat, based in part by no loss of life in their unit. No one died, everyone came home, and treaties were signed. Why wasn't that a job well done?

Like many I spoke with after the film agreed, it was a job well-done and hopefully Congo: An Irish Affair will correct a misfortunate perception.

MCI Academic Journal #13: Knuckle

Without doing a complete blow-by-blow of the festival films I saw, I did want to share a few highlights in individual academic journals. The first, although the third film I saw chronologically, was the documentary Knuckle, and what an amazing film it was. It was a film for documentary nerds like myself, and the passion and dedication, and in the end, the complete and utter devotion to chronicling these sordid lives of the Irish Travelers director Ian Palmer followed made the film an absolute must-see.

From a technological and cinematic perspective, Knuckle is not the most adept film. It's a shaky one camera that at times bled too much light, wobbled to exhaustion, and had a grainy quality of early VHS. But of course that's not the point, nor is it the sole measure of the film. Nor too is the oft-annoying mugging children who find their way into the frame of Palmer's lens.

What I focused on in my question in the Q & A forum after the showing at the Fleadh in the Town Hall Theatre, and what I think is the most interesting aspect of the film apart from the exploration of the subject at hand, underground illegal bar knuckle brawls between warring Irish Traveler clans, was the role of Palmer in the film itself.

Palmer is most certainly a character in the film, not like James or Michael in the role of protagonist or even that of a minor bystander. Palmer is as much an engine in the film as are the tainting tapes and DVDs the clans send to each other declaring intentions to beat each other senseless. In fact, a number of these "call-out" videos are made from the very same footage Palmer himself shot.

And while Palmer is narrating the action, he's not only showing and explaining the various plotlines at play in the direction, planning, and eventual celebrations before/during/after the fights, but he's letting us behind the curtain of the film-making process. Not as reflexively as the maestro of the boom mike Nick Broomfield, and more than willing to edit in few buttocks in tight jeans shots. But certainly Palmer is a character in the movie, and by sharing the disappointment in not being able to film a fight, or dealing with the secretive and reticent nature of his subjects at times, he is as emotionally involved in the action as he hopes we, the audience, would be.

Palmer declares that the documentary tradition of an unobtrusive, emotionally uninvested observational, cinema vérité style film, is in fact, dishonest. As Palmer says in his answer, "At this stage, I kinda feel there's an element of dishonesty in presenting the subject that way. You're pretending, you know, it's a, it's a, there's something happening invisibly in front of the camera; there's no interaction. Inevitably there is interaction."

Without the interaction Palmer is referencing, Knuckle is not the same movie. As he says in the video from the Q & A, it was an editorial choice, and it was the right one. To be fair, the subject begs for Palmer's approach, it is bare knuckle fighting after all, not a subject for a timid hands-off approach. Just as bare fist strikes against flesh, tearing wounds open and bruising with blunt force, Palmer had to be right in the middle of the action.

The thing that strikes me the most is that Palmer made this as an editorial choice. He let the action dictate his approach, and it was successful, and as such, he should consider himself a smart director. A stoic interview style, with a reporter's interrogatives and intuition, like Errol Morris or Alex Gibney, would have been too abrasive and jarring. A more self-referential or personal film from Michael Moore or Alan Berliner would have drawn too much attention away from his subjects.

Palmer was right; he found truth in this approach, and the result is a film you must see.

MCI Academic Journal #12: Galway Film Fleadh

The Galway Film Fleadh was simply amazing. I once said to Ambi in shivering excitement when visiting the Association of Internet Researchers 10.0 conference in Milwaukee in 2009, "They're nerds just like me!" The Film Fleadh was a complete sense of of deja vu. It was like coming home once again to house full of complete strangers who knew you completely with judgement of pretense. It was awesome for the cinephile in me.

While I'll write about a number of films individually at a later time, I just wanted to write about the Fleadh as an academic exercise. The Fleadh brings together directors, screenwriters, and students from a number of disciplines together is loveliest of cinema. I met directors and stars of films throughout the four days I spent at the festival, but what surprised me the most, and what felt so comfortable in the end, was the comfort I felt in the environment. Everyone knew everyone else, and as one participant told me later, "Ireland's film community is a rather incestuous place. "

What does that mean for the support of filmmaking on the island? Well certainly a ready-made support system is available for new directors and writers who seek it. Talent, expertise, and advice are freely given to those who take advantage of the generosity of such a tight-knit community. But beyond the simply networking principle of meeting other like-minded individuals, the Irish film community is united in an unspoken common cause.

By that, I mean that in this increasingly competitive environment, getting a truly Irish film into mainstream distribution is a monumental task. Even the Fleadh is subject to the whims of the market place, as this year saw a showing of of the yet to be released Cars 2 on the main screen of the festival. The showing obviously drew a big crowd, and casual attendees of the festival may make the premiere of a Hollywood blockbuster a premium ticket. Pixar's track record aside, the original was one of the lesser critical success of the studio's stable, and surely one could argue that of the numerous upcoming "family films" to hit theaters soon, that Cars 2 might be one worth passing on. But for all those attendees unfamiliar with the inner workings of the festival, perhaps a film like this brings them in to cat another solidly told story as Bellflower, a critically approved and quite popular film with attendees shown the night before. Granted, it was clearly shown with a very different target audience in mind.

But in an age of media imperialism, festivals like these are paramount for Irish films to succeed in the marketplace, especially when Hollywood routinely flexes its muscle in the global cinema exchange. A theatre owner is forced to make a decision: Transformers 3 or Knuckle, a small nation/subculture specific documentary I saw on Friday of the film festival (I'll write on this later), clearly and rather unfortunately, Knuckle will never see the mainstream cineplex. It's destined for the arthouse circuit, and since most Irish films are in part funded by the state, and at a reduced cost, it's quite the norm that Irish movies remain undiscovered by the modern filmgoer. Certainly no mainstream franchise theatre in the states will carry Parked, another Fleadh favorite. And unfortunately, as the States go, so goes the modern global market.

So what we often end up with is craptastic big budget shitfests like Transformers 3, my apologies to my friend Dan who somehow(!) thinks is a better film than Irish indie-fave Once. Transformers 3 will make money, lots and lots of it, but at what costs to our souls?

No seriously, films like that take pieces of our souls. We lose heritage every time a good film is not made in favor of greenlighting another one of Michael Bay's explosion-gasms. It's like the 80s all over again. Want proof? Stallone made $100 million and enough to greenlight a sequel do next year. As long as we don't get Cobra 2: Back on the Bike, let's take the victories where we can, M'Kay?

MCI Academic Journal #11: Women and the Revolution

As I wrote just a few posts back, the male gender is certainly favored in Ireland, as it is in much of the world. And while women are no longer treated openly as second class citizens or worse, as chattel, there are still a number of reminders that women suffer ignominy in great effect in Ireland.

The same goes for the The Troubles, which may no longer dominate the news cycle in the way they once did, we are asked to consider what is women’s place in the national struggle in the post-Hunger strike era in Northern Ireland? A number of pieces we have seen or read this semester abroad have suggested the answer to this question is up for debate.

Certainly, pre-hunger strike, women were not just discouraged from taking up arms or even action against the British, they were downright forbidden. Pernell disbanded the women's auxiliary of the IRA, ostracizing his sister to the point that she never spoke to him again. In countless other films and stories we've read, women were simply mules or couriers, involved just on the periphery of the fight, but never in the midst.

Yet it's the women who are left to clean up the pieces after the house falls. Some Mother's Son, Hushabye Baby, The Wind That Shakes the Barley … all showed the repercussions of their sons, fathers, and husbands losing lives, coming home maimed, or locked away in some heinous British prison. It is the women who wear the yoke, but yearn to carry more. If it is they who must hold the family together after tragedy, and they who must work to provide a roof over the heads of their children and food on their plate, shouldn't they have a larger stake in the battle for a united Ireland? Shouldn't they have a larger say in the unfinished revolution?

Ourselves Alone by Anne Devlin asks these questions. My initial reading of the play was a completely different interpretation until in the midst of the class discussion, the tungsten wire of cognition was lit in my brain. While I'm no expert on feminist critical theory, Devlin is not as much concerned with the the unfinished revolution in terms of a united republic of Ireland. Her interpretation is of the inequality of women in modern Irish culture.

The last scene in the play confirms this as close friends Frieda and Donna discuss their relevant past and expectant futures. Frieda, desperate to leave a land she has come to resent, informs Donna of her plans to leave, even as unsure of of them as she is.

DONNA: … (Pause) So you're saying goodbye.
FRIEDA: (Nods) I left him sleeping. i walked out just as I am. If I'd taken the suitcase he'd have known and stopped me.
DONNA: Have you somewhere to go?
FRIEDA: England.
DONNA: Why England?
FRIEDA: Why not? It's my language.
DONNA: Why not go South?
FRIEDA: I'm not that kind of Irish.

Frieda reveals a provincial worldview that excludes Ireland altogether. Even though she could move to Dublin or even further south in County Cork or County Wexford, she wants to leave the country completely. It's too constricting, too suffocating, and in her eyes, even with the colonial oppressor England, despite the obvious backdraws, the shared language is enough to satisfy a move.

Just after this conversation, the two young women reflect on happier times back, where just the girls had a grand time at the beach. Free from men, from societal convention, and the rule of law from the church, they stripped naked and swam in the ocean where the luminescence of the stars and the phosphorescence of the waves shone so beautifully. It was just them alone in the dark still waters, free from all that held them back as women; it was liberation. This is the Ourselves Alone of which Devlin writes. And in a sense, it's always been HER unfinished revolution, hasn't it?

The Christy Moore ballad, “Unfinished Revolution,” says it best,

Soldiers kicked down the door,
called her a whore

While he lingered in Castlereagh

Internment tore them apart, brought her to the heart

of resistance in Belfast today

Her struggle is long, it's hard to be strong

She's determined deep down inside

To be part of the unfinished revolution.

She holds the key to the unfinished revolution.

MCI Academic Journal #10: Joyce and Postcolonial Literature

Another assigned writing topic concerned James Joyce and postcolonial literature. Frankly, without it, I'm not Joyce's work would be possible. His disgust with colonialism and how it has ravaged his country drive him away from home in effect. Joyce is like a drowning rat in Ireland, scratching and clawing his way through the sinking ships timber trying to escape a life of mediocrity and malaise in a postcolonial world.

Joyce, though a non-nationalist and a pacifist, would never have aligned himself with the Republicans who sought to toss the British out on their rears, he certainly would have applauded their efforts should they succeed. Joyce's utter rejection for Ireland, despite all his works being a product of the postcolonial period, are a direct by-product of the despair of the average Irishmen in a nihilistic environment fostered by the colonial oppression of the Irish.

I've noted on a number of occasions that although the Irish seem to walk in a cringe induced malaise, as if when bad things happen, a sigh and a shrug precede the utterance, "Yeah, it's Ireland." Ireland is that great uncle you love; he's funny witty and extremely talented at nearly anything he does, but the boy just can't catch a break. He seems vexed by life, and the flummoxing behavior he engages in is not purely his fault.

Joyce once wrote, "Ireland is a great country. They call it the Emerald Isle. The Metropolitan Government, after so many centuries, has reduced it to a spectre. Now it is a briar patch." He of course is blaming colonialism for the continuing cloud of corruption and incompetence. While there might be a number of sweet succulent berries in that briar patch, one would have to contend mightily with the numerous thorns in order to attain the reward. Joyce viewed the berries from afar; the thorns were just not worth the hassle.

Without these thorns in his way, perhaps Joyce would have never left Ireland, gaining the independence and freed from the confining and suffocating prison he had seen his native land become. When writing Dubliners, he is quoted as, “My intention is to write a chapter of the moral history of my country and I chose Dublin for the scene because that city seemed to me the centre of paralysis.”

But this is often the case with the great writers isn't it? Misunderstood in their own place and time, they emigrate to a distant locale to center themselves and write so lucidly about the very place they feel has choked their art and ambition. Hemmingway, Woolfe, Eliot, all sought an escape from what they deemed an inescapable coffin of creative corrosion. Some authors have even become so synonymous with their new homes, they lose identification as a denizen of their native land. Heck, I just found out Henry James was a Yank!

But escape as he tried, Joyce is clearly an Irish author. He may have left the Emerald Isle in body, but not in spirit, and wonderful pieces like "Abarat" and "The Dead" so consciously express. Could he have written "The Dead" set apart from his youth in a postcolonial time?

I doubt it.

MCI Academic Journal #9: Guinness Goes Global

I fancy myself as a man quite in touch with the postmodern. I write in that style, bordering on the pessimistic doused with a healthy dose of mistrust and cynicism. Sarcasm and I are old friends, and as a result, reading and appreciating the postmodern is easy and approachable for me.

The postmodernist died a little in me during the trip to the Guinness Storehouse, though. A paean to the Black Gold, the Storehouse should represent the pinnacle of Irish brewing achievement. Instead, it is an achievement in the commercial.

Guinness is no longer an Irish company, no more than Sarah plain represents the average Alaskan. Generally, it's American companies, giant behemoths of capitalism and greed which swallow local culture and tradition whole, chewing it into a multinational mash of global consumerism. But what Diageo has done with Guinness is not much different.

In fact, very little in the Storehouse tells you you're seeing an Irish beer being made, even less that you're even in Ireland. Except for an occasional Irish brogue in the video displays and a few spelling differences in the materials, there's nothing that can truly be identified as "Irish." Guinness is trying very hard to be the next international brew of choice; the next draught for drinkers from Dublin to Durbin to Denver should be a Guinness. It's like Budweiser's beefier brawnier older brother; more history, better taste, and a "stouter" identity. (I know, bad pun, but I just couldn't resist.)

Floor upon floor, this Irish institution I cherished was being swept away, from the evangelism of Guinness as a world wide brand, to even cold (COLD!) Guinness on draft, again and again, I saw signs that being Irish just wasn't enough. "We're not Irish," Guinness proclaims. "We've moved on, just like the millions of Shamrockers who've left the Emerald Isle to find their fortune across the seas." The natural emigration of the Irish to far flung lands finds yet another advocate.

But something that sticks in my craw is that Guinness is now served cold. 40 years ago, the American market was a just a fantasy for Guinness and countless other imported beers. the allure was great with millions of American football fans eagerly awaiting a solid brew to quench their thirst on gameday. But these Yanks liked their horsepiss cold, not warm. Room temperature beer could never catch a fancy in the States, and so Guinness started chilling the draft to suit American tastes. Since America's greatest export is her culture, is it any wonder that much of the world drinks a cold frosty brew as well? Beer used to be about taste, now it's about refreshment, once left to lemonade and Sunkist.

As I trudged up escalator after escalator, I became more and more disillusioned at the prospects of witnessing Guinness' decline in multinationalism. I'm sure shareholders appreciate the bonus in dividends expansion the world market brings, but it's a loss of innocence for me and others who look at Guinness as the epitome of Irish beer.

It's a sad day for a pint.