Fringe: The Creepy Edition

Remember that Aesthetics course I was sitting in on and for which I went to that Shoppers? Well, today was the day each student taking the class had to present their final paper. I had the option of doing the paper as well, but opted out because... because doing no paper is easier than doing a paper, essentially. (And I wanted to focus on my dissertation and course syllabus, but that's a boring explanation.) And to be honest, I kind of regretted it, after seeing the high quality of papers presented today. (In particular, the panel on masculine aesthetics got me thinking how interesting a paper on the appearance of Barney Stinson from How I Met Your Mother could be. This song alone could take up the whole essay.)

Besides the masculinity papers, there were papers on pretty wide variety of topics. Highlights included papers on the aesthetics of the video game Fable, a not-for-the-squeamish discussion on the self-mutilation in Dans ma Peur, and one enterprising gentleman gave a pretty good performance of the Joker ala Dark Knight, and talked on the aesthetics of chaos and supervillainry.

All the presentations were good, but what really got me thinking was a comment the professor made, on how doctors, those operating on the body, get to decide to decide sometimes get to decide what makes that body beautiful--or just normal. That brought to mind another performance on the body I've seen recently, on the last episode of Fringe. I'll say this just once: Spoilers ahead. (I'm going to analyze the episode in some detail here; if you just want to skip to the video clip at the end, I understand.)
Fringe is the middle of a fairly complicated multiple-season alternate universe plot at the moment, but the 22-episode per season format means that you get a few filler episodes every season. This episode, technically, was a filler episode, but it deviated from most in that it wasn't mind-numbingly dull. The A plot is a story straight out of the Twilight Zone. A ballerina commits suicide, and her body parts are distributed after death according to her organ donor status. But one of the members of her old depression support group is also a specialist in tissue regeneration, and happens to be in love with her as well. So he steals the body, and then goes around stealing back her organs, and lovingly sews them back into place. It should be noted that he tries to be as merciful as possible with these thefts, using his tissue technology to stabilize the organs' new owners--not much comfort when your new eyes have been gouged out, but it's something.

Anyway, once our cadaver-inclined Casanova gathers back all the body parts, he plans to use his technology to jump-start her brain, but before he does that, he dresses her up in a tutu, hooks her up to a series of pulleys and levers, and mechanically makes the dead body perform a dance. The scene is quite possibly the creepiest thing I've ever seen on prime-time network television. (And if you want to skip to the movie clip at the end NOW, I understand.) Still here? Really? All right. The scene is also really interesting for how the manhas imposed himself on the artistic scene. The girl has been reduced to a collection of limbs, devoid of volition. Is ballet any more than music and mechanical precision? There's also a heavy gender relation, one that also gets exploited in the B plot. This girl's last choice was to end her life; the scientist is, in a sense, violating her will by assuming she "made a mistake" and that he, as the representative of science, has both the means and the moral right to bring her back.

After this scene, the actual ending of case is almost a denouement. He performs the revival, and the show's protagonists finally arrive on the scene shortly later. They find him upstairs, and the girl in the basement, dead again. He won't say anything beyond "I couldn't bring her back. I brought back something, but it wasn't her. It... didn't have her spark." In other words, he could recreate the mechanics of her performance and the flesh of the body, but her inner essence couldn't be duplicated.

And this is where the B plot comes in. You may have wondered exactly what was going on when the protagonists of a show don't come in until the final act. Well, they were busy--trying to find the scientist, yes, but also dealing with the emotional fallout from the last episode. And this is where things get complicated. If the A plot was classic horror film stuff, then the B plot is pretty hardcore sci-fi. (If I lose you, just scroll down to the end, and... well, you know.) Okay: the main plot of Fringe is that FBI agent Olivia Dunham and associate Peter Bishop investigate paranormal phenomena, mostly those created years ago by Peter's father and cast member, Walter Bishop. (Essentially, it's the X-Files, but with more plot and less pointless bafflement.) The last season ended with a harrowing escape from an alternate universe. However, there was a shocking twist where Olivia was captured by the enemy and replaced by her alternate reality self, without her teammates being the wiser.

The captured Olivia was brainwashed into thinking she was the alternate reality Olivia. A voice in her head--physically embodied by hallucinations of Peter--keep telling her that she is not who she thinks she is; there is, in other words, some core part of herself that they couldn't brainwash away. She fully regains her memory, and escapes narrowly back into our universe.

At the same time, the alternate reality Olivia has been pretending to be the original. She gets physical in the original Olivia's budding romantic relationship with Peter, and takes it to the next level. And she generally skulks around and gathers info until the original Olivia returns and the faux one hightails it back to her own reality.

This leaves the original Olivia feeling pretty violated, especially when Peter confesses that he was sleeping with the alternate reality version of her. (And yes, I recognize the ridiculousness of that sentence.) She has a breakdown in her apartment, throwing the clothes out of her closet, ripping the sheets off the bed. Finally, after the scientist-ballerina case has played out, she lashes out at Peter. Even the scientist could tell that the body in front of him wasn't the woman he loved; why couldn't Peter tell the same?

Okay, on the surface, it's a ridiculous thing to hold against someone: "Why can't you love me like the necrophiliac organ thief?" But it speaks to the same underlying question: "What makes a person's identity?" Olivia saved herself because she found some core that was more than what she was told she was. The scientist recreated the form of the girl, but not what he truly loved about her. And Olivia lashes out at Peter and her possessions because she's forced to confront the notion that they weren't sufficient to identify her: someone who could copy her face and body could swoop in and take her life, and no one knew the difference. Whatever core essence she has beyond her physical appearance didn't make any difference.

This all ties back to aesthetics, for me, because modern individuality is tied so much on expression and appearance. If we express ourselves through the products we buy and the clothes we wear, is there any element of us that isn't reproducible? Is there any core to us that extends beyond the surface? And if there is, is there any way we can prove its existence to anyone else? Or see their inner self? Can you prove that it's me, your beloved blogger, writing this? Or could I be someone who was just sufficiently schooled in his rhetoric and cadence?

And to leave everyone with the really important question:




Is that just the creepiest thing ever?

Later Days.

IQ test? I can't even pass a Turing Test

In my multimedia studies, I've done my share of reading into early AI stuff. I've read about Turing's famous thought experiment, Searle's counter, Weizenbaum's ELIZA, the Julia bot on TinyMUD. So I know the theories. But I've never faced them personally... until now. I just had the following conversation on MSN, and, frankly, even now, I'm not entirely certain
on who/what I was talking to. Take a look, gentle readers, and judge for yourselves. (Names have been altered to protect the people and bots involved.)

Anoymous says: hey are you there?
PERSON OF CONSEQUENCE:Yeah. How’s it going?
A: I just took an IQ quiz.
PERSON:And the result…?
A: I was better than I am! I scored 111
PERSON:That’s… good, right? Or is it a drop? I’m having a little trouble sorting out the verb tenses there.
A: You got see if you can do better than me, go to http:---OMIT----.
PERSON:Ok… but first, prove you’re not a spambot. Compare Battlestar to Stargate.
A: im not a bot silly, its me
PERSON:I’m not hearing a comparison, here, Ms. *last name omitted*.
A: Im sure you cant haha.
PERSON:Seriously though, the link’s not working. So beyond taking rampant IQ tests, how are you doing?
A: good. You?
PERSON: good ‘nuff. Everything’s kind of on hold school wise until classes start in September, so I’ve been enjoying a protracted vacation. Are you working right now, or…?
A: Take it now while im in the shower and tell me your score later
PERSON:I’m telling you, the link isn’t working, and a google search of the address makes me about 90% sure you’re a bot, so unless you can tell me what class we met in within the next 30 seconds, we’re pretty much done here.
A: Are you kidding? Its me and not some bot, stop this
PERSON: Hmmm. Let’s try a trigger word exercise. I like spam on my toast.
A: nope
PERSON:Viruses taste like veal.
A: lol no its me.
PERSON: …I’m gonna just assume it’s NOT you. And apologize profusely later if I’m wrong. Bye.

*END OF CONVERSATION AND/OR FRIENDSHIP*

That's PROBABLY a bot, right? It doesn't answer directly any personal questions, and it's pushing the site long beyond what's conversationally acceptable. At the same time, if it is a bot, whoever programmed it knows what they're doing--the replies to my flippant accusations are light and simple, and the replies to the more direct accusation is mildly hurt. Which would be exactly how the friend in question would react. Or... is it?

Equally interesting is my own reaction. I twig on to something being "off" right away, but I'm just as eager to shoot the electronic breeze. I remember reading a sci-fi series (Tad Williams' Otherland, I think) wherein the biggest social norm you could violate on the future Internet is to accuse someone falsely of being a bot instead of a person. I think we're already there, in a way. The line between human interaction and computer interaction is getting fuzzier, but the idea that a person can be replaced by a computer is still incredibly threatening, to the point where implying that any person's conversation could be replaced by a machine is insulting. Also note that my trigger word sentences both involve eating food, an action that definitely separates the organic from the digital other.

This issue raises a very interesting line of discussion, namely, the issues of identity and security in online interactions. How much of a person's self can be conveyed online? How much can replaced by a simple program? What is a "real" conversation? Do you know everyone you talk to online to be able to tell the difference? But really, it all boils down to one question: was I talking to a bot, or am I descending into endless pit of paranoia and suspicion? (Or is that just what you want me to think?) Weigh in with your opinion!

And remember, the best way to convince someone you're real while on the Internet is to give them as much of your personal information as possible, as quickly as possible.

Sincerely,
Bot #43124365346-A34
Person of Consequence

*UPDATE: I've contacted the friend in question on Facebook, and she's verified that it was a bot. So it's nice to know for sure. Unless... the bot's gotten to facebook too...

Later Days.

Also acceptable: rubicund, hued, blowsy, roseate, sanguine

A few days ago, I mentioned that I lost my glasses. A full room clean yesterday determined that I have, at some point over the last weekend, also lost my student card. Operating under the assumption that these things happen in threes, my keys, wallet, and memory stick have been moved to an undisclosed location where I can't hurt them anymore. Anyway, today I went down to the card office at the U of Blank and got a $20.00 replacement. The price is kind of steep, but I'm still doing better than my undergraduate days, where, at its peak point, I lost about one card a month. That's a lot of money I could have been losing in foozball tournaments.

Anyway, the replacement went as expected until the woman at the counter told me to sit down at the stool so they could take a new photo. I had not been expecting this. I had assumed they'd just print off a new card using the stock photo. I was not prepared to be on film.

Photo ID is a staple of stand-up comedy, on account of the fact that everyone's is usually bad in their own eyes, and so it becomes a common experience people can bond over. In my case, though, it goes a little further: Forget ID. I've never liked an actual photo of me ever. Okay, yes, some of the childhood photos are adorable. But the others? Forget it. I'm either about to sneeze, or I've just sneezed, or I'm blinking or frowning or twisting my face in bizarrely inhuman contortions or some damn thing. The entire high school-era photo album is a mess of an unfortunate body type mixed with one bad fashion decision after the other. The university years are similarly unbearable, at least until the point I started exercising a little and admitted that the full beard was not going to happen. Even now, the most innocuous circumstance leads to the most hideous photo. My Facebook account is a testimony this fact. Every smile is a grimace. Every wry look is searing contempt. Even a simple toast looks like an SS Salute.

So when I was told to take a seat, my mind went into blind panic. I was dripping sweat, I hadn't combed my hair before leaving the house, I hadn't shaved in days, I hadn't even showered that morning. (I was going for a run later, see, and--forget it.)
But the woman was gesturing, so I got on the stool, gave a weak smile, and snap! Another student card, with a photo that will represent my identity in the university system for the next 2-ish years. And... it's not bad. Maybe even an improvement over the old one. (In my old one, the glasses are not just crooked; they're practically at right angles. It's a miracle of geometry.) It's a little... tanned, though. Actually, that's not the right word. I look ruddy. But... the smile is present, the eyes are focused, the hair seems to have taken it upon itself to assume a pleasing form, and the facial hair isn't too obvious. So... we'll take ruddy. This time.

Later Days.

And Yet He Looks Like Samuel Johnson

I feel like James Boswell.

Ok, that's going to require a little explanation. First, my last night. As those who know me can attest, I'm not exactly the partying type. Given choice, I'd prefer a small group of close friends over a casbah rocking. But on the other hand, long time readers know that I fancy myself someone who deliberately lives--in small doses--an interesting life. So after much hemming, hawing, and general indecision, I went to an English grad student house party last night.

In retrospect, it went EXACTLY how I should have expected.

And in this case, that's a good thing: I started out slightly awkward, but mellowed out as the night went on. I will credit a large portion of said mellowing to the fact that my four pack of pomegrante cider (Yes, pomegrante cider. Read the link above. Bad drink = good story. Also hangovers and intestinal problems, but those hazards come with the territory.) turned out to be a six pack, so when I thought I was downing my last drink of the evening, I was really just starting on the second half.

I've never drank enough to reach blackout levels, and tonight was no exception to that, but I'll admit to a general blurriness. What really stands out--besides the 5 km walk home at 3 am--is the Rock Band session. As will suprise absolutely no one who really knows me, by the third pomegrante cider, all I really want to do is belt out kareoke all night.

And that's roughly what I did. I performed righteously on "Mr. Brightside," kicked some major patoot on "Eye of the Tiger," and would have delivered an absolutely awesome "It's My Life" if it wasn't for not realizing until the song was half over that I was singing the Gwen Stefani version instead of the Bon Jovi version.

Now, the question I'm sure everyone is asking is: where does Mr. Boswell fit in? And if you're asking yourself that, then I have no choice but to belive that you just don't know Boswell.

John Boswell is an eighteenth century writer best known for his biography on his friend and mentor, Samuel Johnson. But he was also an accomplished autobiographer, and spent most of his life compiling a truly comprehensive memoir/journal. For my scandalous memoirs course, I'm reading "Boswell's London Journal 1762-1763." And if I feel like I had a night out on the town, I'm basically just putting a drop in the bucket to the ocean that is Boswell's life of cavorting and making with the merry.

But while he was an inverterate merry-maker, Boswell was also incredibly reflective. He was an avid church goer, which makes me feel a little guilty in comparison. On the other hand, I spend comparatively little time wenching with whores, so I guess we balance out. His journals show someone who was deeply conflicted with his life, and obsessed with how others saw him. Over and over again in his journals, he talks about feeling that he spoke too freely at a party, that he spent so much time trying to be the clown that he's not just afraid that he lost the respect of others, but that he lost respect for himself.

As someone who, in the past 24 hours, felt it absolutely necessary to convince a room full of people* he could do 50 push-ups, I get that.

And that's what I love about English: being in a position where I'm exposed to these ideas and texts that allow me to compare myself to an eighteenth century rake, or crack wise about Derrida's deconstructionist theories, or debate intepretations of chora. Bottom line: this stuff is fun.

Not fun is hovering around a toilet after the sixth cider, but that's another story. And probably one that doesn't deserve retelling.

*Come to think of it, it might have been an entirely empty room.

Later Days.

Wait, what time is it?

I wasn't going to make any new posts between now and Wednesday, but something's come up that's proven so shaking to my overall sense of self that I felt that I needed a post to explain it. As many know, today is the day Daylight Savings time comes into effect, and clocks are moved... in some direction. Forwards, backwards, side-to-side, I'm not exactly sure. The point is, it lets farmers stay up late. Or something.
From this vague description, you can probably tell that this is not an area in which I am well-versed. That is because I spent the first few decades of my life in a province where we don't do this sort of thing. (We don't allow strip clubs either. I'm pretty sure it's for different reasons, though.) So even though I've been hearing lots of announcements of the "time to change the clock" sort of effect, it wasn't until I turned on the TV and was an hour early for my Sunday show that I realised "hey, this affects ME." And honestly, it has proven pretty shattering to some self-definitions. Prior to today, I was one of those smug westerners who didn't have to worry about silly things like daylights saving. And now... now I'm not sure what I am. I still feel not quite "Eastern" enough to identify myself with the current province of reference, but today has driven home (poor choice of words) that the old one will not suffice either. Sure, I can identify myself as Canadian, but then, as I understand the matter, I need to affiliate myself with beer commercials and their distorted, alienating view of masculinity. (Someone remind me to do that post one day. It'll be fun!)
So, to the ex-Flatlander province dwellers out there, howsabout sharing some stories concerning your approach to this crisis of self?

Later Days.