In my last entry, I mentioned that Jonathan Wild was deserving of an entry on his own. So here it is. Wild, as I said earlier, was a deeply unpleasant man. How unpleasant? Well, he literally invented the double-cross.

A little background information. Back in the early eighteenth century, London didn’t really have any police force to speak of. The concept of a police force was seen as the sort of thing that was all very well in France, but wouldn’t do for the freedom-loving people of Britain. I’d say that in these times of constant surveillance and stopping-and-searching we can see that they had a point, only they actually didn’t, being as how crime was rife. Many parts of London were simply no-go areas. Even in busy parts of the city, robberies took place in broad daylight. Laws became increasingly harsh in an effort to combat the crime rate, with hanging or transportation (to America in those days) being the standard sentence for crimes as minor as pickpocketing.

Henry Fielding, alias Captain Hercules Vinegar. Yes, really.

Novelist and magistrate Henry Fielding pointed out that this was a stupid idea, as people would cease to be deterred by hanging if it was happening on a daily basis and, furthermore, that if you could be hanged for a minor crime, why not commit a major crime if the sentence was the same? By the way, he and his half-brother John would later go on to found the Bow Street Runners, the first police force in the city.

Law enforcement was a strictly local affair, organised on a parish-by-parish basis. There were the constables, who were elected from the ordinary citizens. The position was unpaid and untrained. Then there were the watchmen. I don’t know if you’re familiar with Terry Pratchett’s Discworld books, but if you are, think Sergeant Colon. They were usually elderly and unemployable elsewhere, so they didn’t exactly strike fear into the hearts of wrongdoers. Worse, because their jurisdiction was only within the boundaries of the parish, all a criminal had to do was go into another parish and the watchman couldn’t give chase.

The solution was the thief-takers. These chaps, much like modern-day bounty hunters, would track down the criminals and turn them in for the substantial reward money. Jonathan Wild was the best-known of these, and the most effective. He was imprisoned for debt in 1710, and swiftly figured out how to play the (corrupt) system, becoming top dog through a combination of bribery and toadying to the gaolers.

When he was released, he became a pimp and a fence. As he had done in prison, he developed an understanding of how things worked. A gentleman named Charles Hitchen suggested to Wild that he try the profitable career of thief-taking. Hitchen himself was Under-Marshal for London, and made a tidy profit both from his post enforcing the law and from bribery and extortion on the side. Wild was persuaded, and took up office in the Old Bailey.

The service he provided was unique. Victims of robbery would come to Wild and ask for his assistance in retrieving their stolen property. Wild would gladly oblige, for a price. To be fair, he was superb at recovering the stolen goods. That’s largely because he controlled a huge gang of thieves. If it hadn’t been one of his thieves who’d taken the property, he could usually find out who it was. He would work through agents in order to reduce the risk of being fingered for handling stolen goods (I’ve just realised how dirty that sounds).

Not only was he hugely successful as a law enforcer, but his official position also made him hugely successful as London’s first Godfather. He was able to pressure his rivals into joining forces with him or, if that failed, have them executed, thus gaining a virtual monopoly on organised crime in the city. And if any of his own thieves messed up or weren’t showing ’nuff respect, he’d turn them in as well. He even had Hitchin, his old mentor, arrested for sodomy and imprisoned (although that sounds a bit like punishing an alcoholic with a trip to a pub if you ask me). His knowledge of brothels and gambling dens meant he was also able to indulge in a bit of blackmail here and there. Effectively, he was untouchable – he controlled crime and punishment.

To legitimate society, he was a hero. He was a man who made a difference, the most effective law enforcer in the entire country. And he wallowed in it, enjoying the high life much as the prominent East End gangsters would in the twentieth century. He would attend upper-class parties and took to pimping his outfit up with a sword. To the criminal underworld, he was a two-faced snake who would get his yet.

And so he did. You may recall in the previous entry that he made the mistake of going after the popular lovable cockney thief Jack Sheppard. Out of the two, respectable society infinitely preferred Sheppard, who wasn’t on the side of hated authority. His repeated failure to put Sheppard away (or at least, to put Sheppard away without him escaping twenty minutes later) caused others to doubt his infallibility.

He eventually managed to capture Joseph “Blueskin” Blake, Sheppard’s partner-in-crime. Now, remember what I said about how the death sentence might prompt people to commit worse crimes than they might otherwise have done? Well, when Blueskin went to trial, he requested a penalty of transportation, hoping that Wild might be lenient given that they had worked together in the past. This was crediting Wild with too much humanity, and Blueskin was sentenced to death. Deciding things couldn’t get any worse, he knifed Wild in the neck and observed that “never did such a rogue as Wild live, and go unpunished for so long.” At this point, one assumes the guard responsible for searching Blueskin discreetly slipped out.

And then the poo really hit the air circulation device. Some constables, who generally couldn’t be relied upon to find their arses with both hands and very specific directions, somehow managed to arrest Roger Johnson, one of Wild’s men. Suddenly, Wild was exposed. What little of his reputation as remained swiftly evaporated and he was arrested.

Even in gaol, he considered himself untouchable, even continuing to advertise his services. He simply couldn’t believe that respectable society would turn its back on him, and didn’t seem to make the connection between “respectable society” and “those people who’d just found out he’d been robbing them for years.”

When he went on trial in May 1725, he found himself the victim of two ironies. Firstly, he was presented with an incredibly detailed list of his crimes. So much so, one might almost think the forces of justice had used insider knowledge. You know, much as Wild had been doing all these years. And secondly, when he produced a list of all the criminals he’d had executed, the jury took it as a sign not that he was a tireless servant of the law, but that he was a heartless bastard. In desperation, Wild even petitioned the king, pointing out that he hadn’t actually committed murder or treason. When that’s the best thing you can say to recommend yourself, you know you’re in trouble.

And so Wild was sentenced to hang. The mob at his execution was exactly the opposite in temperament to that which had turned out for Jack Sheppard. Mock invitations were sold with the words,

To all the Thieves, Whores, Pick-pockets, Family Fellows &c. in Great Brittain & Ireland.

Gentlemen & Ladies, You are hereby desir’d to accompany yr. worthy friend ye. Pious Mr. J___ W__d from his seat at Whittington Colledge to ye. Tripple Tree, where he’s to make his last Exit on __________, and his Corps to be carry’d from thence to be decently Interr’d amongst his ancestors.

Pray bring this ticket with you.

Wild had attempted suicide the previous night with an overdose of laudanum, and was, as they say, tripping balls at this point. The crowd didn’t care, they were baying for blood and actually urged the hangman on when they thought he was being too slow.

Even his death wasn’t enough for them. A few days later, it was discovered that his grave had been opened and his remains cast about the churchyard.

After his death, he provided much fuel for popular writers, with biographies appearing by Daniel Defoe and Captain A Smith among others. John Gay put him into The Beggars’ Opera in the disguised form of the character Peachum. Arthur Conan Doyle would compare Professor Moriarty to Wild a century and a half later. And even Henry Fielding got in on the act with his satirical novel The Life and Death of Jonathan Wild, The Great – a vicious attack that satirises the corrupt Prime Minister, Robert Walpole (remember him?) as much as it does Wild.

Jonathan Wild is neither forgotten nor entirely gone. If you should get the chance to visit the Hunterian Museum, you can take a gander at his skeleton. If that’s your pleasure.

Wait, what’s that you said at the beginning about the double cross?

Ah, thanks for reminding me. Yes, we get the term “double cross” from Jonathan Wild. You see, in order to keep an eye on his vast criminal empire, he had a big ledger of thieves in his employment. Those who were active had a cross next to their name. For those who weren’t up to scratch, he’d put a second cross next to their name, indicating he was going to turn them in. Thus, betrayal was represented by the double-cross.

Mack the Knife is a fine addition to the canon of “cheerful songs about serial killers” (others including Maxwell’s Silver Hammer and Still Alive). It’s been covered by Bobby Darin, Louie Armstrong and (ugh) Robbie Williams among others. Of course, it originates in Bertold Brecht and Kurt Weill’s The Threepenny Opera, albeit in a less swinging and more disturbing form. This in turn was based on John Gay’s 18th century play The Beggars’ Opera. Which in turn was based on the exploits of a real person.

The real-life model for Mack the Knife was, it has to be said, somewhat different from the character envisioned by Brecht and Weill. His name was Jack Sheppard, and he was a thief and folk hero operating in the 1720s.

Now, I tend to take the view that most folk heroes are just thugs with good publicity. However, in Sheppard’s case, it’s easy to understand. First of all, he was the original lovable rogue. Born into poverty in Spitalfields, he gave up the life of an apprentice carpenter for a more profitable career in thievery. He was a handsome and witty chap, and probably the closest thing you could get in those days to the “working-class boy made good.” He had a particular knack for escapology, and first came to public attention by escaping from the Roundhouse in St Giles (a sort of temporary prison) by cutting through the roof and using the classic rope-made-of-sheets trick. He was discovered to have escaped almost immediately, and the alarm was raised. Jack’s trick was to hide in the crowd, point towards the rooftops and shout, “Look, there he is!”

Not put off by his encounter with the law, Sheppard took up residence with a young lady known as Edgworth Bess, real name Elizabeth Lyon, and continued in the filching trade. Alas! Within a month he was captured once again, this time for pickpocketing. Bess visited him in prison and was arrested herself. The authorities thought it would be a good idea to put them both in the same cell, a secure one in the New Prison. Unfortunately, visiting friends were able to smuggle tools in, and Jack and Bess were able to saw their way out of their irons. They cut through the window bars and lowered themselves to the ground using a rope made of bedlinen and petticoats. Unfortunately, they discovered that they had just lowered themselves into the yard of Clerkenwell Prison (d’oh!). Undeterred, Jack drove spikes into the wall and the two of them climbed out again.

At this point, he incurred the wrath of Jonathan Wild, who was simultaneously the best policeman in London and the biggest gangster. Wild deserves his own entry, really, but suffice it to say for now that he was a two-faced bully and generally an utter shit. A thief-taker, his legitimate job was to capture criminals for the authorities. Meanwhile, he secretly operated the biggest gang of thieves in London and used his day job (as it were) to keep his criminal employees in line and to remove any obstacles to his position as the city’s Godfather. Sheppard observed of him and his ilk, “They hang by proxy while we do it in person.” Wild saw Sheppard as a potential rival. He got Edgworth Bess hammered on gin and managed to get the whereabouts of Jack out of her.

Jack was arrested and sent to the notorious Newgate Prison, pictured left. He was sentenced to hang under the notorious Bloody Code, a draconian system of laws by which one could be executed or transported for stealing as little as a pocket handkerchief. Of course, this wasn’t the end of the story. Bess made up for her inadvertent betrayal by smuggling a dress into his cell. Meanwhile, Jack loosened a bar in his window and, the very night before he was due to be turned off, Bess and an accomplice pulled him out of the window and they fled.

By this stage, Sheppard was a notorious figure. Wild’s men were in hot pursuit, and I like to imagine at this point that Wild was sitting at his desk muttering, “I’ll get you, Jack Sheppard, if it’s the last thing I do!” Jack was recaptured on Finchley Common, and this time they decided it was going to stick.

He was kept in the most secure cell in Newgate, chained to the floor with specially-made leg irons and under constant observation. Nevertheless, somehow one of the warders caught him strolling around entirely unencumbered, to which he observed that “‘Twas troublesome to always be in one posture.” By this stage I think he was just taking the piss. Nonetheless, they loaded him down with bigger, heavier and even less escapable chains.

And yet, he managed to escape again. That very night he picked one the locks on his irons using a bent nail and then, using bits of the actual irons and pieces of metal found along the way, he broke through various walls in the prison and ended up on the roof. Then – this is my favourite part – he rethought his plan and returned to his cell to get a sheet. Then he went back up to the roof, used the sheet to lower himself on to the next building and simply walked down the stairs to freedom.

Robert Walpole, first Prime Minister of Britain

Things were getting embarrassing for poor old Jonathan Wild (the arsehole), whose previously impeccable reputation was taking a dive. Furthermore, the general public were very clearly on the side of Sheppard. Bear in mind that, as I have said, the laws in place were excessive. One could be hanged for such offences as “kicking Westminster Bridge,” “being seen on the King’s highway with a sooty face” and “impersonating an Egyptian.” The modern prison system didn’t exist, and so if one was found guilty of a felony, the penalty was transportation or death. Mysteriously, though, these harsh sentences didn’t seem to affect the wealthy quite as often as the poor. The Prime Minister, Robert Walpole, was himself an utterly corrupt individual with interests in dodgy speculation and smuggling, and was so good at covering up the activities of himself, his friends and associates that he became known as “Skreen-Master General” to satirists (which he loathed – Walpole could not take a joke). So it’s really not surprising, given the hypocrisy of the upper classes and the poverty of the working classes, that people were on Shepperd’s side.

He was arrested for the last time on 1st November 1724. By this stage, he had developed the belief that he was all but untouchable, and it could be argued that had he fled the country, as advised by friends, he might have avoided justice entirely. Alas, it was not to be, and he was sent to hang fifteen days later.

The execution at Tyburn was not the sobering and educational lesson in justice that the authorities hoped it would be, and the route from Newgate to the gallows was lined with women throwing flowers and men wanting to shake his hand. Abuse was hurled at the chaplain present. Jack’s slight build meant that he found himself throttled by the rope, and sympathetic onlookers rushed forward to pull on his legs in the hope of breaking his neck and shortening his suffering. The mob also protected his body from the surgeons eager to dissect him. The hope had been that Jack might be revived by a local physician, but alas, this didn’t quite work out.

Various dramatisations of Sheppard’s life were produced in the years following. Of course, the best known is the aforementioned The Beggars’ Opera, which premiered in 1728 and not only dramatised the struggle of Sheppard and Wild (in the form of the characters Macheath and Peachum), but satirised the Walpole government viciously. Walpole, as I say, could not take a joke and had John Gay’s next play banned. Which, I think, was perhaps the most effective satirical punchline one could hope for.

Excelente juego, solo para plataformas XBox 360 y PC; Bioware, compañía desarrolladora de este título ha fijado la fecha de salida; 29 de Enero del  2010 y además viene con regalitos para todos aquellos que reserven el juego;

2 armaduras:

• Terminus Gear e
• Inferno Armor

Así que si ustedes tienen un 360 o una PC más o menos decente para que corra este magnifico título adelante que esta debe ser compra segura.

Acerca de los rumores de la llegada de Mass Effect 2 al PS3, esperemos que sean ciertos y que podamos tener el gusto de jugarlo también [ojala y sea un buen port...]

Les dejo un video por si no saben mucho acerca de este juego:

Source | ºvandal.net|gametrailers.comº

La filosofia di Lost. La filosofia di Lost? Davvero una serie tv può avere a che fare con la metafisica? O meglio può la metafisica avere a che fare con una serie tv? Fenomenologicamente la risposta affermativa è ineccepibile e La filosofia di Lost (Ponte alle Grazie, pp. 166; 10,20 euro) a firma Simone Regazzoni è la prova che si può condurre un’indagine rigorosa sul terreno della cultura pop sviscerando gli interrogativi “principe” dell’intera storia delle idee. Da Derrida a Heidegger, da Foucault a Freud passando per Cartesio, Gramsci, Aristotele, Nietzsche, Pascal, Schopenhauer, Sartre e Deleuze. Regazzoni, professore alla Cattolica di Milano, riesce, con una scrittura fluida, “narrativa” e accattivante laddove nessuno si era nemmeno avventurato – se non con risultati deludenti, nell’esplorazione della philosphy fiction. Dopo Harry Potter e la filosofia (Il Melangolo, 2008) e La filosofia del dr. House (Ponte alle Grazie, 2007 – con il collettivo Blitris), scandaglia l’Isola con gli strumenti della speculazione, evitando la forma saggio e costruendo uno spin off, un rizoma, di stampo filosofico della serie. Lo ho incontrato.

Tra tutte le serie televisive, perché Lost?

Cominciamo con il dire che molte, tra le nuove serie tv americane, meriterebbero attenzione da parte della filosofia, proprio nella misura in cui rappresentano le grandi narrazioni del nostro tempo. È come se la fine delle grandi narrazioni ideologiche avesse lasciato spazio a un ritorno delle narrazioni forti e strutturate nell’ambito del cinema, della letteratura e in particolare nelle nuove serie tv statunitensi. Con queste narrazioni credo sia urgente confrontarsi, anche inventando nuove forme mutanti di filosofia. Perché oggi più che mia la fiction è parte integrante di ciò che chiamiamo “realtà”. Non a caso, prima di Lost, mi sono occupato di dr. House e di Harry Potter. Quanto a Lost, ciò che in questa serie mi ha affascinato (perché prima di qualsiasi calcolo o ragionamento c’è questo: fascinazione, amore, ossessione da fan: non è possibile lavorare con la cultura di massa senza una certa dose di partecipazione) è stata la capacità di unire complessità e popolarità. Lost è un’opera d’arte – non esito a dirlo – che mostra come si possa essere, al contempo, radicalmente sperimentali e insieme popolari (stiamo parlando di milioni di telespettatori), mescolando filosofia e disaster movie, riferimenti biblici e fantascienza. Il tutto inserito in una narrazione di grande potenza ed efficacia, che sembra avvalorare la tesi di Orson Welles secondo cui la televisione ha una forza narrativa che il cinema non può eguagliare. Ecco il primo fattore di interesse, ai miei occhi, cui si connette immediatamente il secondo: l’effetto poetico di Lost. Umberto Eco, nelle sue Postille a Il nome della rosa, definisce “effetto poetico” la capacità di un’opera di generare sempre letture diverse senza esaurirsi. Ora, Lost è una macchina progettata per produrre le letture più disparate, rendendo lo spettatore una sorta di co-autore. Basta vedere che cosa accade in rete per capire fino a che punto funzioni la macchina narrativa di questa serie. Lost, detto altrimenti, è un universo narrativo in espansione transmediale. Alcune dichiarazione di Damon Lindelof, uno dei creatori della serie, sono a questo proposito molto significative: “Quando la serie sarà finita, e magari secondo le nostre volontà, il pubblico potrà ancora tornare indietro e ci sarà ancora spazio di interpretazione, come in qualsiasi opera letteraria”.

La filosofia e la tv, un rapporto burrascoso…

Sì, per molti filosofi oggi è ancora così. Ma questi filosofi non vanno presi troppo sul serio (Popper in primis naturalmente) se non come sintomo di una resistenza a un processo irreversibile di trasformazione della filosofia di fronte alla tv e, più in generale, ai nuovi media. Oggi non è più credibile, se mai lo è stato, il filosofo che, di preferenza in televisione, dichiara di non guardare la tv o di non possederla. È puro kitsch intellettuale: una caricatura del filosofo buona, ad esempio, per una serie televisiva italiana per famiglie. Certo, le caricature di filosofo non mancano, e devo dire che in fondo le amo molto. Non a caso spesso le uso nei miei libri come personaggi concettuali. C’è chi si chiede dalle colonne dei quotidiani, cito a memoria, “Guardare o non guardare Lost, 24, CSI, e quant’altro?” e chi accusa la televisione di essere un “paradigma pornografico”. Ora, è chiaro che queste accuse non sono altro che una forma di esorcismo verso un oscuro e inconfessabile oggetto del desiderio. Ma come ho già avuto modo di dire, questi filosofi sono dinosauri destinati a estinguersi. Non a caso la più importante rivista italiana di filosofia, Aut aut, dedicava nel 2007 un intero numero alla televisione dal titolo Davanti alla televisione, in cui si parlava anche dell’altro spauracchio di ogni intellettuale culturalmente corretto: i reality, a partire dal Grande Fratello. Presto occorrerà occuparsi anche di questo, a costo di scatenare nuove burrasche.

Locke, Rousseu, Hume, Bentham, Bakunin: troppo facile…

Troppo facile e banale. Lost fortunatamente non è un compendio di storia della filosofia. Altrimenti, almeno per quanto mi riguarda, sarei passato immediatamente ad altro. Sull’Isola ci sono nomi di filosofo come ci sono mille altri indizi letterari, mitologici, tratti dalla storia delle religioni. Sono tutti elementi di un gioco cui prendere parte, ma che non tollera strategie troppo prevedibili. Per questo se ci sono filosofi di cui non mi occupo nel mio libro sono proprio quelli il cui nome compare nella serie. Al di là dei nomi, sono le questioni filosofiche che l’Isola pone a interessarmi, a partire da quelle legate alle idee di mondo (è Desmond che dice: “Non esiste il mondo esterno”), di verità e, più in generale, di complessità. Leggo l’Isola come un sistema complesso cioè un sistema composto da un gran numero di parti che interagiscono in modo non semplice e in cui l’insieme è qualcosa di più della somma delle parti. Per questo chi sostiene, come il razionale Jack, che l’Isola è solo un’isola non arriverà mai a comprenderla. La razionalità di Jack sull’Isola, come nella realtà, è una semplificazione pericolosa. In un momento in cui anche importanti filosofi come Žižek o Badiou sembrano tentati di riproporre le virtù di un mondo ordinato che rompa con le logiche della complessità (tentazione che giudico pericolosa) mi sembra oltremodo interessante riflettere attorno alla questione della complessità così come viene messa in scena in Lost.

La questione dell’alterità, dell’altro, è un tema filosofico (di questi tempi più tangibile che mai) per eccellenza. In Lost è un punto centrale del meccanismo narrativo…

Sì, è centrale al punto che il termine “Altri”, con la maiuscola, diventa nella serie il nome di coloro che si trovano già sull’Isola al momento dell’incidente aereo. La tentazione potrebbe essere qui quella di evocare la filosofia di Levinas, in cui il concetto di “Altri” svolge un ruolo capitale. Ma se non chiamo in causa Levinas è perché in Lost gli Altri sono molto più traumatici di quanto non lo sia Altri in Levinas. Non a caso cito Sarte, en passant, che in una sua famosa opera teatrale fa dire a uno dei suoi personaggi: “L’inferno sono gli altri”. Gli Altri, sull’Isola, sono traumatici, sono una Cosa traumatica. Chi sono davvero? Che cosa fanno? Perché ci rapiscono? Perché ci attaccano? Perché ci imprigionano e torturano? Ecco tutta una seria di questioni che assillano i superstiti nel loro rapporto con gli Altri. Gli Altri, qui, non si lasciano facilmente addomesticare, non c’è nessuna fascinazione esotica verso di loro, ma prima di tutto conflitto e poi interazioni complesse. Ma quello che è più interessante è che agli occhi degli Altri sono proprio i superstiti ad essere Altri: dal punto di vista degli Altri i superstiti sono minacciosi, sono anch’essi Altri, gli Altri degli Altri. Il che significa che siamo sempre Altri per coloro che chiamiamo Altri. Altri è un concetto relativo alla posizione ci chi lo enuncia, come mostra bene John Locke quando afferma che Sayid è uno degli Altri per la Rousseau.

L’Isola viene paragonata alla radura di Heidegger…

Niente di più semplice per chi conosca un poco Heidegger. Credo che Heidegger ci abbia regalato, nel Novecento, uno dei più radicali e interessanti ripensamenti dell’idea di verità. Per farla breve, Heidegger pensa la verità non come adeguazione del linguaggio alla cosa, ma come non-nascondimento, come apertura di un orizzonte che nel suo aprirsi conserva sempre in sé un elemento di opacità, enigmatico e insondabile, una sorta di cuore di tenebra della verità. Per spiegare questa sua idea, Heidegger ha usato la figura della radura: la verità è una sorta di radura che si apre nel cuore di un bosco o di una foresta. Ora, ogni una radura per essere tale – uno spazio illuminato che si dischiude in una foresta – ha bisogno di conservare attorno a sé l’oscurità della foresta. Questa oscurità non è un difetto che nuoce alla radura, ma un elemento essenziale alla radura stessa. Se questa oscurità venisse eliminata, verrebbe eliminata anche l’apertura della radura. Lo stesso accade secondo Heidegger alla verità come radura: essa necessita sempre di un fondo di oscurità per manifestarsi. In Lost incontriamo spesso radure che si aprono nella foresta e che dischiudono una qualche verità: sempre parziale, che conserva sempre un elemento di opacità. Ecco perché ho evocato Heidegger. Più in generale, questa idea di verità è in assoluta consonanza con l’idea di sistema complesso di cui l’Isola è l’incarnazione. E questo con buona pace di quanti pensano che Heidegger sia una sorta di pensatore arcaicizzante e antimoderno. Non a caso il filosofo spagnolo Daniel Innerarity, parlando di come i sistemi complessi abbiano messo in crisi l’idea secondo cui i fenomeni possono essere sempre completamente svelati, ha evocato Heidegger che per primo ha posto l’accento sull’inevitabilità dell’occultamento. Venendo a Lost, direi che l’Isola ci mette proprio di fronte all’enigma di questo occultamento che sta alla base dei sistemi complessi.

Deleuze, Derrida e lo stesso Heidegger. Che cosa c’entrano con Lost?

Cominciamo con il dire che il mio libro non è, né non vuole essere, un saggio su Lost. La filosofia di Lost si presenta come uno spin-off filosofico (non a caso il sottotitolo è philosophy fiction) che prende spunto da un certo numero di questioni sollevate dalla serie per comporre un testo filosofico mutante, che si contamina con l’oggetto con cui si confronta, ne riprende alcuni elementi e strategie, e si propone esso stesso come oggetto filosofico in grado di circolare nella cultura di massa. Come testo filosofico pop. Date queste premesse mi sono preso la libertà di far interagire con l’Isola filosofi che in qualche modo mi sembravano in consonanza con alcune questioni sollevate dall’Isola. Questi filosofi sono i miei fantasmi che ho incontrato sull’Isola. Perché proprio loro? Di Heidegger ho già detto. Per quanto riguarda Deleuze e Derrida, sia l’uno sia l’altro si sono occupati, in momenti diversi, proprio di isole per elaborare una riflessione sullo statuto ontologico della realtà. Come se interrogarsi su che cos’è un’isola significasse interrogarsi nel modo più radicale su che cos’è la realtà o il mondo. Ciò significa che questi filosofi, per altro considerati difficili, si prestavano ottimamente a entrare con le loro questioni radicali nel mio testo mutante. Credo che quanto Wu Ming 1 ha scritto in Noi dobbiamo essere genitori a proposito di un certo modo di fare e concepire la letteratura valga oggi anche per un nuovo modo di fare filosofia: si tratta di portare dentro la popular culture un certo polemos filosofico per non ridurlo semplicemente a un gioco da tavolo accademico. Per parte mia cerco di portare una certa radicalità decostruttiva nell’ambito della pop culture. Perché credo abbia ragione Mark Taylor quando afferma che Derrida aveva sottovalutato il crescente impatto dei media e della cultura popolare.

C’è anche chi accusa Lost, 24, Battlestar Galactica, Prison Break, Dollhouse, ecc. di giustificare la tortura…

Niente di nuovo sotto il sole. C’era chi accusava Il Padrino di giustificare la mafia. Direi che è sempre buona regola di fronte alle opere di fiction attenersi all’idea che non ci dobbiamo aspettare storie con la buona morale incorporata. Altrimenti corriamo il rischio di introdurre anche nell’arte i politicamente o il moralmente corretto. Se c’è un’etica nell’ambito dell’arte, si può star certi che essa non ha nulla a che fare con l’idea di dover produrre messaggi edificanti. Poi naturalmente ciascuno è libero di preferire Il maresciallo Rocca a 24 o Lost. Per parte mia troverei artisticamente preoccupante non vedere in scena la questione della tortura e dei suoi dilemmi in opere d’arte del nostro tempo. E troverei francamente noiose opere che mostrassero quanto è brutta e cattiva la tortura. A un’opera d’arte chiedo che mi metta di fronte anche alla fascinazione che la tortura opera su di noi, alla tentazione che in certi contesti politici essa può suscitare. Mi pare che Lost e 24 facciano bene questo, proprio perché sono opere complesse. E poi non dimentichiamo che il rapporto tra un messaggio e colui che lo decifra non è un meccanismo semplicistico del tipo: vedi la tortura giustificata in una narrazione di finzione quindi giustificherai anche tu la tortura nella realtà. Per capire che tipo di fruizione sia oggi quella della cultura di massa basta vere che cosa accade in rete attorno alle serie tv: non si è mai vista un’interazione così attiva con l’opera d’arte.

C’è anche un pubblico, quello dei giovanissimi per esempio, a cui forse non vengono forniti tutti gli strumenti per confrontarsi con il “meccanismo semplicistico” della giustificazione della tortura…

Che strumenti dovrebbe avere? Chi decide quali dovrebbero essere? Dipende dall’età, dal genere, dal livello di cultura, dal tipo di formazione, dalla classe sociale, dal quoziente intellettivo? Credo che inoltrarsi su questa strada sia molto pericoloso: si arriva inevitabilmente ai comitati dei genitori, dei saggi o degli esperti, fino alla censura. Preferisco il rischio della libertà alla sicurezza della censura.

Il libro usa l’espediente dell’apostrofe, si rivolge a un lettore, anzi a una lettrice…

Sì, mi rivolgo per tutto il libro a un tu femminile (cosa insolita per un testo di filosofia) cui talvolta attribuisco idee e gusti diversi dai miei. All’inizio, nei miei appunti, il tu funzionava come una sorta di sparring partner – non pensavo che avrei mantenuto quella forma. Poiché però, al momento di dare forma al libro, non sapevo bene come orientarmi nel sistema complesso di Lost, ho scelto di farmi accompagnare e forse guidare da una figura femminile. Hai presente quando Kate aiuta Jack o Sawyer a seguire delle tracce nella foresta? Ecco, anche io avevo bisogno di qualcuno che mi aiutasse. Non volevo creare mappe che semplificassero la complessità, così ho scelto qualcuno che mi aiutasse a seguire delle tracce. Perché un tu femminile? Me lo sono chiesto anch’io e anche il mio editor (una donna, Cristina Palomba) che subito non era convinta di questa scelta. Non so perché, ma il fantasma del tu femminile era la dimensione più naturale per la mia scrittura in quel momento. A un certo punto questa forma mi si è imposta. E l’ho accolta senza nessun problema, tanto più che penso, proprio come Derrida, che i filosofi a venire siano donne.

Articolo pubblicato su Panorama.it (quando ancora mi ci facevano scrivere…)

The Last Days of Jack Sheppard

by Anja Kirschner & David Panos
co-commissioned by Chisenhale Gallery and Centre for Contemporary Arts (CCA)

http://www.chisenhale.org.uk/exhibitions/forthcoming_01.php

“The Last Days of Jack Sheppard is a film based on the inferred prison encounters between the 18th century criminal Jack Sheppard and Daniel Defoe, the ghostwriter of Sheppard’s ‘autobiography’, set in the wake of the South Sea Bubble of 1720 – Britain’s first recorded financial crisis.”

It’s more difficult for me to write about a book I really liked. Sometimes, there is just no isolating the ingredients that made the read exceptional.

With The Ghost and the Femme Fatale, fourth in the Haunted Bookshop Mystery series, I am at a loss as to what stands out.

Is it the chemistry between hard-boiled PI Jack Sheppard and gentle bookstore owner Penelope McClure? Is it the small-town whodunit elements, the cozy mystery, the race for the answers before more people are murdered? Or is it the fact that Jack is a ghost, dead since 1949, and that he is haunting Penelope’s shop as well as dreams?

In this installment, the Movie Town Theater is holding its first ever Film Noir, with special guest ‘50s femme fatale Hedda Geist. She has a dark past, which seems to have caught up with her—because the moment she steps onto the stage, she is almost killed by a massive speaker that fell off the roof.

Then other guests start to die. Penelope, who handles the book sales of these guests, wants to know why, and enlists Jack’s help, especially when she realizes the police are again on the wrong track.

Jack has a bad feeling about this. He was alive at the height of Hedda’s career and infamy. He suspects that the femme fatale may have had something to do with one of his unsolved cases. Combining real time investigation and dream travel, courtesy of Jack’s ghostly powers, they crack the case though.

Despite the murders and the killer’s murderous desire for revenge, I felt good reading this book. It may not be as edgy as other paranormal mysteries nor as riveting as the thrillers I’ve read but it is lighter, and fun.

I like the camaraderie between many of the townsfolk: they’re not all out to get each other, instead they band together to support Penelope and oust the killer in their midst. The activity room beside the bookstore serves as their unofficial club room.

Maybe, there is no one single ingredient that makes this series so likeable. It has a special appeal, you know… Ok, fine, I love> this series because Jack and Penelope having a crush on one another is just so darned cute I want to squeeze them!

——-
The Haunted Bookshop series is very hard to find. Our big bookstores don’t carry the titles; I chanced upon the second book in one Booksale branch while a friend this title in another. One major reason I am giving in to the lure of credit cards is so that I can order the rest of the titles from Amazon.

CONTAINS SPOILERS

WHY is Juliet always getting KATE’S SLOPPY SECONDS?

I DEMAND A RECOUNT!  … err.. I mean, better distribution of men.

http://www.watchinglost.com

She’s hot!  Amiright, folks? ^__________^

I’m interested in seeing who Kate will pick this season, now that this scandalous love triangle (NOW SQUARE, GASPO) is back in full swing.  Despite the fact that I have always rooted for the Freckles/Sawyer smexy dangereux tag team, I think Kate only has room in her heart for Jack.  The tables have turned!  Sawyer, you best give up now and run back to Juliet.  Oh yeah, and treat her well!  She’s a nice lady.

Heh.. heh heh.  Now all we are missing between the four shared lovers is some girl on girl and man on man action. ^_____^ heh heh heh.  Jack and Sawyer ftw!!!! ^___________^;;;;;;;

OMGOMGOMGOMG, this one EXCITES me!

#10: Kate and Sawyer

http://www.yesadam.com

Yeah.. that’s right. SCREW JACK, I SAID IT!!11!! If you don’t know what I’m referring to.. for shame I’m talking about LOST, of course! Sure, I have put up with this show’s shit for the past 5 years, they tease me with questions that are a total brain fuck and then provide no answers – but I still LOVE IT! That being said, I think it’s about time that we start hearing some of the explanations behind LOST’s many mysteries (of particular interest to me: WHAT’S THE DEAL WITH THE NUMBERS?!?!?!). I feel as though there are WAY too many loose ends to tie up. To be honest, maybe some of these things are better left unknown. After the series finale of The Sopranos, I remember hearing from everywhere that a majority of the fans went into total uproar (a bad one). I don’t follow The Sopranos, so I wasn’t quite sure what went wrong there, but I would HATE to see Lost end in a bad way. What am I saying though, this is crazy talk, I have faith! Anyway, to get back to it: screw Jack! I will keep saying it. He doesn’t deserve Kate! Sawyer so obviously loves her to bits, it’s really the sweetest thing : ) Plus, he is so dark, twisted, and hilariously mean (although I suspect on the inside that he is really a fluffy bunny) – let’s not deny it, all girls love a bad boy every now and then Kate and Sawyer FTW!

P.S. Just want to mention at this time that Evangeline Lilly is a Canadian that attended UBC, w00000000t Canada.

Yet another by George Clinch

George CLINCH (M: 1860 - 1921 Feb 2 or 5)

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The first of two by George Clinch

George CLINCH (M: 1860 - 1921 Feb 2 or 5)

Un artículo sobre los líderes en la isla.