Teaching as Learning (Again)

Too often I forget that teaching is the best way to learn.

I'm trying to be particularly transparent with a small crew of filmmakers who will be accompanying me on a three-week shoot near New York in January. To that end, I've set up a private blog wherein I'm deconstructing the process of film making. Recently, I wrote about a long shower during which I considered the composition of interview footage and the purpose of a "B" camera. It shouldn't surprise me by now (but it always does) that the act of explaining my ideas gives me even better ideas. As I blogged about the emotional intensity that a "B" camera's extreme close-ups might convey, it occurred to me I might mount the "B" on the jib we're hauling to NYC. I know I'm not the first person to think of putting a "B"camera on a jib. Even so, it might add a rare and distinctive lilt to the footage.

The lonely shower is a fine and reliable an incubator of good ideas. But perhaps it's not the greenhouse. Perhaps the necessary transparency of a master explaining (even justifying) himself to apprentices improves the creative product and process of both.

Mars and Venus #47

My grandfather died a quarter century ago, but the things I learned at his Ideal Barber Shop still seem important:

1. Be more frugal than vain. A $10 haircut should last three months, not merely until the next "bad hair day."
2. "Barbers" are not "stylists." If you want style, go to a beauty parlor.
   
3. If your time is so valuable that you must call ahead for an appointment, your life is over-scheduled. Sit down, leaf through a three-month-old copy of Field and Stream, and wait your turn.
4. Listen to the old guys. They know more than you do and tell it more colorfully. Warning: do not play checkers with the old guys for money.
   
5. Never fall asleep in the chair. You might intend it as a sign of trust in your barber, but it's rude to stonewall a conversation.
6. Never pass up the chance for a hot-lather, straight-razor shave.
   
7. Measure twice; cut once.
   

Obsolete Again

I saw James Cameron's Avatar last night. The film is attracting so much attention, I cannot hope to write anything new about it. Fans and critics have already said what needs to be said about both the content (a derivative plot with liberal politics on its sleeve) and the form (jaw-dropping, groundbreaking). Deeper -- or at least, more pretentious -- analyses will, no doubt, appear in doctoral theses for the next two years. The movie will probably be remembered as a milestone of motion capture technology, "one giant step" for film makers. Robert Zemekis' retelling of A Christmas Carol, released only weeks ago, seems quaint by comparison.

I am bracing for the next round of high school seniors, prospective college students shopping for an alma mater. Immersed in all its 3-D, IMAX glory, Avatar will infect them with new dreams, dreams which likely seem light years from introductory classes in lighting and camera operation. As a measuring stick, Avatar will remind students how little their teachers know. A movie which showcases so many of cinema's possibilities, renders the basics even more boring to would-be Camerons. Avatar will make them more impatient, but it will not make them better.

La Posadas

December 16 marks the start of the Mexican "La Posadas," a string of nightly neighborhood processions recreating Mary and Joseph's search for shelter. Funny how we worship a Homeless Man each Sunday and ignore homeless thousands each Monday.

Buying Christmas

I read this in an e-mail yesterday:

"A friend of mine reports that she went home and sang [a carol] to herself after Christmas shopping to 'purge' herself of all the Santa and holiday gift giving songs she'd been hearing."

It seems to me we can hardly complain about the commercialization of Christmas after a day of shopping.

Credit Crisis

I've sent e-mails, Tweets, texts, IMs, and Facebook updates. I've made personal appeals with handshakes in the hall. Finally, I ended the exam period with a reminder to students to fill out their on-line course evaluations. One student said "I hear other teachers are giving points for a certain class response percentage. What do we get if we evaluate you? " A friendly class opinion leader with whom I have a good relationship, he had the mischievous gleam in his eye of a boy who's just discovered the closet in which his parents hide unwrapped presents.

Trying not to sound as trapped as I felt, I replied, "Um... the satisfaction of knowing you've improved the level of instruction at your alma mater?"

An "A" means somebody has figured out how to impress a professor, employer, or client -- beyond stated expectation. It means a student deepens her own education by doing something I didn't specify in a syllabus or learning objective. It means somebody with passion takes a risk they don't have to. It means an above-average student goes another hour without sleep because "a man's reach should exceed his grasp, or what's a heaven for?" A's (or any grades) are not for students who bake us cookies or babysit our children. They are not the currency with which we pay those who further our research. They are not our bribes for favors.

Thus a bias against "extra credit" isn't simply a crotchety prof murmuring "humbug" while the rest of the world roasts chestnuts. It seems pedagogically important to me -- especially in filmmaking -- since no one can give you the formula which distinguishes a good movie from a runaway blockbuster or enduring classic.

Some professors say "A point here or there is insignificant. It almost never impacts a student's grade." If that's so, the carrot we brandish offers no nutrition. Worse, we presume our students' mathematical stupidity will keep them from discovering the worthlessness of our gift. And if the scale is tipped for even one student per term, doesn't that hollow our rhetoric against grade inflation over time?

Yes, I understand my student's wish for reward. He and his classmates have been surveyed to numbness. Rate the student life experience. How's my driving? Evaluate a course. Tell us how we're doing. Evaluate a major. What can we do to improve your shopping experience? You've been chosen at random to review this restaurant. Take an exit survey.

My colleagues and I are desperate to distinguish our surveys from all others. Because we need them. We're told we need assessment, that we need data as we have never before needed it. To justify budget dollars, promotion, tenure, additional hires, tuition increases, administrative leaves. The numbers are apparently essential, for we lack objective standards of our success.

On the machine shop floor, the quality of work is determined by micrometer, by deadline. On a construction job site, the quality of work is determined by plumb line. But in the classroom -- indeed across much of the "knowledge economy" -- the standards of success are less evident. Increasingly, they are quantified feelings and impressions. And, evidently, they are for sale.

Dang it, I'm not buying.

Preferring the Copies

The block of Fulton Street surrounding the subway station was a mess of shredded gray cobblestone. Hardhats bobbed in trenches below me. I picked my way through bootlegged copies of recent films, Gucci handbags, and designer perfumes. “One dolla! One dolla! One dolla!” mumbled a man with a scarred ice chest of bottled water. “One dolla today, three dolla tomorrow… maybe five. Get it today.”

Beyond the fare card turnstile, the subway platform was a stifling pit (maybe I should have bought the water). The northbound Number Two was a blessed respite from the triple-digit sauna. The air-conditioned express train whooshed through destinations made famous by decades of movies and television. “The people ride in a hole in the ground,” I thought, recalling lyrics from Gene Kelly’s film, New York, New York.

Nowhere to sit during the 6:00 rush. I grab a rail and hang on. A brave woman applies eyeliner despite the car’s rhythmic rocking. Another punctures her eardrums with an iPod I can hear six feet away. A miniature terrier sleeps in a pink handbag under a seat. A guy escorts his ten-speed from my train to the Penn Station transfer.

I’m a little dazzled by just how many ways there are to exit the 42nd Street station. So I probably leave the wrong way, but Times Square’s human traffic has no discernible direction or flow. Even ant farms seem better organized. A nation of jaywalkers seems oblivious to a centrally-located police outpost. It’s hard to notice the cars in your path when you’re assaulted by a phalanx of 20-story light shows.

Bubba Gump and the Hard Rock Café want my dinner per diem. Instead, I choose the Brooklyn Diner (confusingly named, since Brooklyn is a dozen train stops to the south). An interior of warm wood and stainless steel awaits patrons inside the heavy revolving door. The menu’s on the classy side of affordable. Twenty bucks for the aptly-named “Perfect Plate” of grilled shrimp, Greek salad, and hummus. I order a chocolate egg cream just so I can say I’ve had one. The sting of seltzer surprises me, but I decide I like it.

Half a century ago, the diner’s wait staff probably shouted coded orders for Blue Plate specials toward a short order cook. No doubt he responded with a slab of meatloaf on a bed of mashed potatoes. Ketchup (not salsa) was the country’s favorite condiment. Maybe dietitians of the day considered it a vegetable. The restaurant probably served bottomless cups of coffee for a dime (let us not confuse coffee of the Eisenhower era with latte or espresso; It was joe, the real-deal, a biting elixir aged by neglect on a hot plate).

Over time, that diner has been subsumed by this one. Its prefabricated metal frame may yet be buried beneath layers of tony varnish. Now it offers pretentious portions of upscale atmosphere, the canned experience of bygone days, adjusted for inflation. Commemorative t-shirts available at the cashier’s counter. Of course they take American Express.

Two streets up: the Shubert Theatre. Mary Poppins, Young Frankenstein, and The Lion King flank Spamalot. Maybe the current Broadway trend doesn’t favor original drama. All these shows seem to be artifacts of other entertainments. Everyone who’s seen Monty Python and the Holy Grail (and – believe me – everyone in the audience has), laughs even before most of the jokes have been told. The Black Knight proclaims “None shall pass.” Collective nostalgia triggers a pre-emptive grin. We are not living the theatre; we are re-living the cinema.

Frenchmen famously taunt Camelot’s hapless knights, threatening to “fart in [their] general direction.” Scores in the audience can recite the familiar comic insults. Arthur readies to storm the French fortress. The castle’s residents respond by catapulting cows (yes, cows). End Act One. House lights up. A teenage boy and his mother to my left wipe tears of mirth from their eyes. When they’re again capable of speech, I realize they’re talking to each other… in French. Suddenly, I don’t know how to feel. I can’t discern the ethnically sensitive thing to do (or think). Being politically correct means always having to say you’re sorry.

It’s a good show. Half-price, same-day tickets make me feel better about going. Orchestra in the “S” row for 56 bucks. Yeah. Half-price is $56. The whole family will see Dark Knight in IMAX for that price. Hard to argue against live theatre’s elitist reputation.

Did I mention it’s a good show? Stephen Collins looks like he’s having fun playing King Arthur. I think I’m supposed to recognize Nick Lachey, who’s also in the cast. I am only peripherally aware that he’s maybe related to somebody half-famous. He was truly funny as “Patsy,” Arthur’s coconut-wielding dogsbody/horse (Long story. Either you’re up on your Python or you’re not). Perhaps if I were a dozen years younger (in pop culture years), his performance would have delighted me even more.

I guess I could end with some smart philosophical summary. Something about Plato's cave and how humanity seems satisfied with the shadows on its wall, preferring copies to the authentic experience. There's probably a spiritual lesson to be learned from people who would rather go to EPCOT's version of France than to Paris itself.

Instead, it feels more authentic to tell you that when I returned from the theatre, someone was playing bagpipes three floors above a corner sushi bar. Only in America. No. Only in New York.