The article in the stately Paris Review begins this way: “As Kim Kardashian recently reminded us, marriage is no longer the inevitable result of a wedding; the ritual is easily divorced from the institution.” The author—a woman approaching thirty—goes on to describe (in ecstatic prose) a fake wedding weekend. Social commentary by post-college twentysomethings in New Orleans? No: “It was a sincere effort to organize the kind of communal joy that’s in such short supply these days.”

Performed on a shoestring budget, complete with a chain-smoking rabbi and nervous groom, the whole event was both wondrously creative and wondrously odd. The groom, Matt, didn’t know what to make of the whole ceremony. The night of his bachelor party, he drunkenly mused, “You know, it’s more real than fake.”

In the days when flash mobs have integrated our cultural psyche, a fake wedding seems to fit perfectly: essentially it’s a weekend-long flash mob, more for the performers than the passersby. But isn’t a flash mob about community and camaraderie—about being in on the secret together—as much as it is about performance?

I don’t know how to react to fake weddings. Part of me wishes I came up with it, this wonderful joke, this assertion that that joy and community are necessary in our lives: and what freer joy than when there’s no pressure, when nothing is real? But part of me, either the old curmudgeon-y part or the deeper visionary (I’m not sure which), worries that in divorcing ritual from commitment we are losing something, that true joy comes from deeply committed relationships, unconditional love, and words that would’ve made me sick when I was sixteen.

Still, I wish I’d thought of it.

In addition to co-hosting Troy and Abed in the Morning, Donald Glover (aka Troy from NBC’s Community) has also been dabbling in the rap game under the pseudonym Childish Gambino.  I might have just lost my street cred by using the verb “dabbling” to describe what Glover is doing, but growing up in Iowa it isn't like I had much of it to begin with. Which puts me in good company as many question Glover’s own “street cred” in the hip-hop world. (And that is what we call a “smooth transition” in the blogosphere.)

If you’ve seen more than thirty seconds of Community you know that Glover isn't one of the hardest rappers around. But if you listen to any of his latest releases (Camp and Culdesac) you know that Glover isn’t a slouch or a jokester when it comes to his music. As Glover defines it on his album, this is “real” hip-hop.

Typically we like our rappers with a history of drug dealing (Jay-Z), jail time (Lil Wayne), or at the very least a pimp limp (50 Cent).  So how does a kid starring in a hit sit-com, who doesn’t even come from the streets, claim such a title?

But if it’s good, as I think Glover is, does it really matter who made it? Hip-hop seems to say yes, believing that the who is just as important as how good it is. Why does this exist in hip-hop? I can’t think of another genre or art form as wide-spread as hip-hop that puts so much stock in who the artist is and where he/she comes from.

I understand that hip-hop is seemingly inseperable from the culture it was born out of, but shouldn't we be past this? Shouldn't the art stand alone?  Is who made it really just as important as how good it is?

Glover seems to think that good art is good art, regardless of who makes it.  However, from a number of the tracks on his latest albums (see The Last below), it still seems that there are plenty of people who disagree with him.

The Last, off the album Culdesac [explicit]

[youtube:http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KyJxFlpblrM&feature=youtu.be]

Can I be fixed?

Let’s be honest. Martin Scorcese and “family friendly” have never gone hand in hand. But what Scorcese forgoes in his familiar, often violent, style with the release of Hugo, he gains in subject matter.In fact, what is seemingly a kid flick at first glance, is arguably more of a lesson in film history for us all. A film about (the wonder of) film.

Hugo is based on the children’s book The Invention of Hugo Cabret by Brian Selznick and is both the fictional account of an orphaned boy (Hugo) and the (predominantly) non-fiction account of French filmmaker George Méliès. One could even argue (I am) that Hugo’s storyline is a mere excuse to get to the real agenda at hand – educate the modern culture of Méliès’ prolific work and vast contributions to our present film era.

And while this is worth the price of admission alone, it is not the basis of its representation here. Rather, what Hugo brings to theaters this month (that intrigues us) is its commitment to image, its celebration of creativity, and its pursuit of one of humanity’s familiar questions – What is my purpose?

Actually, Scorcese uses the sub-plot of a broken automaton (a weird and somewhat creepy clock-like-person-of-sorts) with missing pieces, as a metaphor to our primary characters Hugo and Méliès. Midst the pursuit of purpose lies the fundamental concern of being fixed. A concern that we are all too familiar.

What if… I exercised more? What if… I tried something new? And, what if… I actually found what I was looking for? (obligatory U2 reference) What then?

In the case of Hugo (the movie), it’s not about a thing. It’s about a reality. A reality of grace and acceptance. One that happens to show up in a film of three-dimensional beauty.*

*Personally, I think the onslaught of 3D releases (and re-releases) is a bit played and ultimately driven by additional revenue opportunities. (Seriously, Titanic in 3D?) But, Hugo is worth it. Embrace the awkward glasses. Enjoy.

Where will your curiosity lead you?

In 2006 The National Science Foundation sent documentarian Werner Herzog to the South Pole with some doubt as to whether he wouldn’t “come up with another movie about penguins.” Herzog, in his gravelly, German-accented narration, continues this recount: “My questions about nature, I let them know, were different.”

Herzog was drawn to the Antarctic after seeing underwater photographs taken in the Ross Sea, an expanse covered in six feet of ice and the size of the continental United States. Yet the story is just as much about the people living in this corner of the world, as the place itself, where compasses don’t spin but point upward.

Encounters at the End of the World is a strange film, full of odds and ends, people and creatures alike. Herzog finds volcanologists, a Russian philosopher, a linguist-cum-biologist, a researcher who once drove a garbage truck across Africa, a plumber descended from Aztec royalty. He asks how they arrived there. As one puts it, “if you take everybody who’s not tied down, they all sort of fall to the bottom of the planet.”

The more profound questions Herzog brings to this place, to its creatures and topography, to our modern-day explorers, the scientists, and finally to humanity, remain mostly unanswered. They are questions of existence, of our past and future, questions pregnant with joy and grief, met with visions of the silent, overwhelming continent. Melville’s description of Moby Dick helps us to imagine the this land:

“Is it that by [the whale’s] indefiniteness it shadows forth the heartless voids and immensities of the universe, and thus stabs us from behind with the thought of annihilation, when beholding the white depths of the milky way? Or is it, that as in essence whiteness is not so much a color as the visible absence of color, and at the same time the concrete of all colors; is it for these reason that there is such a dumb blankness, full of meaning, in a wide landscape of snows?”

The people living here send mammoth balloons 40km into the atmosphere looking for neutrinos, the most elusive, omnipresent, foundational of particles. They swim beneath fields of ice, “underwater cathedrals,” in search of species and formations. Shackleton at the turn of the century and modern-day scientists: people are directed here by the compass of their curiosity. Their questions connect them, and are sustained by this “wide landscape of snows.”