Children of the Screen

The bleak perspective of American society portrayed in Hannah Baylon’s essay, though accurate in many points, is also biased and melodramatic. Certainly there is truth in her assertion that humanity has succumbed to robotic antics lacking in vigor and enthusiasm as we blunder our way through the banalities of yet another day. Too often we complete our daily tasks without actively engaging in life or even really appreciating the wonders of the world around us. Society has become mechanized and technology-based, leading to a world where personal interactions are limited and it is easy to forget the enormous potential we possess. To this extent, I agree with Baylon’s analysis of modern day life. Yet, Baylon also asserts “the media is our environment.” Here I must disagree.

The media, although present in almost all facets of our lives, is not the problem but rather a symptom of the hectic lives we live. After a full day of trying to mold ourselves to what we believe society wants us to be, nothing is more appealing than relaxing, immobile and disengaged, in front of one of our many modes of virtual escape. Societal structure and the media truly do “feed each other” in an endless cycle of listlessness and discontent. Baylon suggests we have become accustomed to this environment and lack the will to change. On the contrary, I believe it is more than possible for humans to break from the mundane habits of our world. In fact, society itself isn’t really the chain holding us down, but it is our own perception of what we must do to fit in that inhibits us. Those who realize their potential and live true to their souls have no problem of becoming bogged down in a superficial society. Society does not shackle us; we bind our own hands with the chains. I believe the media is really not as detrimental as Baylon asserts; in fact, her one sided opinion instigates me to find a rebuttal and disagree. Her dismal analysis and adamant assertions are ripe for argument and controversy. I believe a less opinionated and more rounded presentation of the data would have bolstered her ideas about the constrictive and pervasive nature of the media.

Moreover, the photograph attached to the end of the article, although a very persuasive appeal to pathos, is entirely melodramatic. The media may chain us into a lifestyle in which the virtual is more appealing than that which is real, but that chain is self-imposed. We are not without strength and motivation to pursue other paths and engage in the living world. Additionally, the beaten child and the duct-taped mouth exaggerate the restrictive and abusive nature of the media. The media can be informative and enlightening; it is often a portal to the world outside our own limited sphere.  This is yet another example of the polarized view Baylon presents in her attempt to convince her audience of the detrimental affects of media and the loss of humanity’s spirit. To me, her propaganda is yet another media facet trying to impose a view on the human mind, merely contributing another link to the chain suppressing “this era’s zeitgeist.”

The Picture of Dorian Gray Analysis

The Picture of Dorian Gray vividly depicts the dangers of a life based solely on the pursuit of pleasure. The film centers on a young, innocent looking man named Dorian Gray, whose face can be described as nothing less than cherubic. This man’s face and demeanor convey a sense of naïveté and pure goodness; the portrait painted of him by Basil Hallward especially emphasizes these traits. Upon examining his own image on the canvas, Dorian remarks that he wishes the picture could age and he himself could remain as he is now. Unbeknownst to Dorian, his desire would be realized and his life permanently altered.

Living under the spell of youth and the pursuit of pleasure, Dorian embraces life whole-heartedly. He quickly becomes engaged to a singer by the name of Sybil. This relationship is not fated to a happy ending though; instead, Dorian leaves the woman he once loved to pursue other vanities and amusements of life. Struck with grief, Sybil takes her life and the first of Dorian’s malicious transgressions comes to a close.  With this ominous turn of events, Dorian notices something peculiar: his portrait wears an expression of malice not present before. Worried, Dorian locks the picture away, allowing no one to view the less-than-angelic portrayal of Dorian.

From this point on, Dorian’s life continues on a horrific path as he indulges in dubious acts and unsavory affairs. Perhaps worst among these is the murder of the man who painted the malicious portrait, Basil Hallward. The murder occurs, ironically, in the room where Dorian keeps his childhood memories, a stark contrast to the man Dorian has become. By this point, the portrait reflects all the evil that Dorian has secretly become while his outward façade remains the innocent mask of the young man he once was. Ultimately, driven to madness with the depraved creature he has become, Dorian stabs his portrait in the heart, causing a sudden transformation. All the features of the portrait detailing the foul deeds and malicious acts of this young man are transferred to his own face while the portrait assumes the innocent angelic aura that it began with those many years ago. With this ending, the film suggests that not all facades of innocence should be believed; the souls behind the face may truly be the most evil and malicious known to exist. The face can only reveal so much about the man beneath.

Of the many poignant scenes in the film, a relatively insignificant one is the one which caught my attention. Immediately following the murder of Basil, about ¾ of the way through the movie, Dorian prepares to leave the murder scene and the cache of evidence in the portrait room. Dorian descends the stairs, puts on a pair of crystalline white gloves, and exits. There is no dramatic exchange of dialogue, no grand gesture suggesting Dorian’s inner evil. Simply, it was the adorning of the white gloves that seemed so symbolic and ironic.  After committing such a foul deed, Dorian wears the white gloves on the very hands which were, moments ago, soaked in another man’s blood. This is symbolic of Dorian himself: of his childlike face, free of any impurities, which hides the wretched soul of a truly vile man. Similarly, the gloves cover up the hands that committed the murder, covering up the scandal in a wave of white. It is ironic that he should wear these gloves at this moment when white stands for goodness and purity, and Dorian is anything but these things. This scene ultimately symbolizes Dorian’s entire life of hiding his true evil nature behind a face of purity. For this reason, this scene fully encompasses the message that not all portraits portray the true soul of the subject and that one cannot ever truly escape the evil doings of his or her life; rather, the truth can only be hidden. At some point, all that we are and all that we have done will be written on our faces, as is the case with Dorian Gray as he lies dead on the floor, flaunting the face of the evil, depraved, and truly wicked man he had become.

Who is That Person?

My narrative focuses on portrait #4 of the old woman sitting in the chair. The narrative is told from her perspective:

   The grandchildren, God bless their sticky little fingers and unbelievably piercing voices, have just left. Silence again descends, though a slight ringing persists in my ears. Sinking into the antique rocking chair, I let the facade of durability that I put up for my family crumble. Faced with the sudden emptiness of my austere cottage and the haunting image staring back at me in the mirror across the room, I have no more strength to pretend. My heart wells with despair as I fail to obliterate the image of what I have become from my head. The mirror paints it all too clear (and the children, oh the children with their boundless energy and sense of invincibility! Have I really come to resent them too?).  The details are burned into my mind: the dips and craters that mark my face, erasing any traces of past beauty.  My mouth resembles the awkward beak of a sea turtle, while two furry creatures that look as if they have been ravaged by a fierce desert storm crawl over my skin. It takes me a moment too long to realize that they are my own eyebrows. No maidenly smile flits across my lips, no blush graces my cheeks. Instead my hair has become wisps of wool which I find in little clumps on my pillow in the mornings. The wiry frames hanging off my sharp nose feel as spindly and fragile as my bones, and probably would break just as easily. But the eyes. The eyes are what haunt me most; those forlorn globes peering from this unknown face are not mine. They simply cannot be. I am not that old, wretched creature I see.

   With trembling hands I pull the coarse robe I wear tighter around my body, attempting to ignore the curious lumps and jutting bones hidden beneath. I am afraid to see any more skin than I have to; the wrinkles did not cease with my face, but wreaked their damage on every surface. These days though, hiding is the least of my problems. I sit in this chair for hours, listening to life continue outside as children laugh and car horns blare. I sit in this chair, feeling the heat of the sun as it rises, waiting for the stars to appear so I can go back to bed. So I can continue this monotonous dance with mortality for yet another day. The throbbing solitude is broken only by the weekly visits from my family. I know they have better things to do than entertain an old woman; I am their chore now. If it were not for guilty consciences, they would not be here at all.

    Sighing, I shift stiffly in my seat, my gnarled hands grazing the rope holding my robe in place. I think of the struggle it was this morning to perform the simple task of tying that rope; the knot was nearly impossible because my fingers, plagued with arthritis, are constantly tripping over themselves. I realize I am a ragged heap of bones and out dated memories, really no more useful than the chair I sit in. A single tear slips from my lashes, racing up and over the moon craters of my face, sliding to the edge of my jaw and perilously hanging for a second before taking a suicidal plunge and disappearing into the oblivion.

Somewhere Happy

Home sweet home in sunny California.