Nadya Suleman and the absolute right of pregnancy

Nadya Suleman, a single, unemployed mother of six, recently gave birth to eight children (the pregnancy was by in-vitro fertilization). The total, of course, is now fourteen children. Her (only) home, a three bedroom house, is owned by her mother, who is about six months behind on mortgage payments. The births of the eight children and subsequent aftercare, supposedly, is likely to cost a total of one million dollars -- and which the state of California is going to have to pay.

Nadya -- who I think is still unemployed -- has given many, many television interviews. The media attention, also, has been frantic. Yesterday, Cher -- for whatever reason -- said that she finds Nadya repulsive and her new children should be seized by the state. Dr. Phil devoted yesterday's show to her. The result is a storm of media outrage -- and which Nadya seems to willingly feed with continuing to give interviews.

The purpose of this review is to analyze the outrage of the media (and which, admittedly, I also feel at Nadya) and the assumption that the right to children is absolute.

If the media -- and by "media" I mean those that I follow -- were interested in something other than sensationalism, I think it should be easy to recognize that, although Nadya did make the tragic decision to impregnante herself, the decision was made in the context of a system that, at the least, implictely supported her choice.

Consider, the doctor who did the procedure could have been prevented from doing so. If this weren't possible -- let's assume that there's an unregulated market for these procedures -- than a clear outline of action could have been provided of what was to happen afterwards. She would have been told that the state was going to seize the babies. In any case, Nadya's extreme case highlights a broken system of determining how one gets pregnant, who does, and the role of the state in these decisions.

Specifically -- for the sake of brevity -- I'd like to focus on the relationship between the state, technology, and the apparently clearly stated assumption that the state can't interfere in any pregnancy. For reasons that I assume are historical, the right to pregnancy I assume is absolute. That is, the state, for instance, can't force an abortion. The state, also, can't determine who has the right to have children and who doesn't. Because of technology, however, I think, at the least, there should be a discussion of the validity of this absolute position.

Because, now, a woman can, theoretically, have as many children as her body can bear, I think it's now fair to ask what the limit should be? That is, should a doctor (must a doctor) refuse in-vitro treatments for single mothers? Should employment be mandatory? If a single mother of six becomes pregnant, should the state force an abotion?

I don't have answers to these questions. I am sure, however, that an unemployed mother of 14 is as morally unacceptable as an extreme option, say, such as a forced abortion.

"Waltz with Bashir"

Set in present day Israel (and partly Holland), the animated film follows the main character, a former Israeli soldier during Israel's invasion of Lebanon in 1983, as he tries to understand the bad dreams that, more than 25 years after he served, have only recently started to haunt him.

This narrative trick (of shifting from present day conversations with fellow Israeli soldiers and past memories of the war) I assume is a metaphor of why (I presume) some Israelis only now are trying to understand the massacre of Palestinians (that happened during the war).

First, it should be strongly noted, this movie is brutal. The brutality, however, I think is enlightening. With two wars the US is presently fighting, this animated film provides what daily news reports can't: about the helplessness of terror that a 19 year old soldier must feel; about the randomly brutality of spraying an area wildly with bullets, just to feel safe; about the random happenings during bombings and shootings and snipers that, ultimately, determine who lives and dies. Mostly -- in my opinion -- the brutality of the film is from the injustice.

In 1983, Israel was removed 38 years from the liberation of the European death camps (and, yes, I know Israel was officially recognized by the UN in 1947). This film, however, portrays how Israel cooperated with a massacre that could have taken place in one of those death camps. This juxtaposition was a type of brutality that, several days after watching the film, still enrages as much as it does perplex. Why has Israel become so brutal? Why is no country, seemingly, immune from committing such horrors?

Also, a note about the animation. I like animated films. Of all genres, it's my favorite. This film was unlike any other animated one I've seen. It had splendid moments. That is, when it took fully advantage of the animated genre. During a battle scene, for instance, the soldiers, sky, and background were lit in a pale green -- and which I think would be impossible in a non-animated film. Unfortunately, the film makers seemed not to be aware of the limitations of the animation. The slower scenes, primarily the ones in Holland, in which two characters just talk, are awkward. The animation is jerky. The characters move stiffly. The backgrounds look unconvincing. Often, the film reminded me of a Saturday morning cartoon.

Finally, the reason I strongly recommend this film is of how the horrors are presented. The narrative technique of discovering has, seemingly, freed the film makers from judgment. The result is an exploration of memory. In doing so, the war is presented as a series of images of a 19 year old soldier: of naive wonder, extreme fear, horsing around with your friends, and doing something that you know that you just have to do.

The result is a film that strongly condemns, not only Israel's barbarity during the war, but all types of barbarism: of forgetting and not remembering, of war, ethnic hatred, and the barbaric types of justice that -- most likely -- occur during war.

The Bird and The Bee: "How Deep is Your Love"

The Bird and The Bee are a duo, male and female, who have remade The Bee Gee's song of the same title. The song is wonderful. Unlike most remakes, the song seems to be such a reinvention of the '70s song, that, after hearing The Bee Gee's version again, it seems as if the original version is a medicore copy.

What makes the song truly unique is the woman's voice (yes, this is a blog, after searching for it, I've already forgotten). It's deeply feminine: vulnerable and steady and open to the possibilities of love, which makes it fragile and quivering.

It's a touching song. The delicate lyrics, song slowly, remind me, whenever I hear it, that the type of love this song is about is rare. So rare, the song is likely an idealized version of what love is, rather than the reality of what a relationship often is. Nonetheless, it's this idealized version of love that I think is likely inherent in us all.

"Milk"

I wanted to like this film. I wanted to cheer for Harvey Milk, against the abuses of homophobia, discrimination, for a more egalitarian world, and against bullies and the small-minded. I'm certain the film makers also wanted this. Unfortunately, after watching "Milk", my conclusion is that Harvey Milk is only slightly different from those who discriminated against him.

The films begins on Harvey Milk's 40th birthday. Convinced he's a failure, and convinced that he doesn't want to be, he begins on an unintentional path to find equality. It begins slowly, with a business association in San Francisco. Slowly, as Harvey Milk understands the needs for political representation of San Francisco's large gay community, the movie presents the 1970s as one of blatant discrimination against gays. Humiliation, then, was common -- and apparently accepted and expected.

Eventually, Harvey Milk decides to become the first openly gay elected political official in San Francisco. The struggle and the political maneuvering take up much of the film. It demonstrates Harvey's determination, how he changes, and, the backdrop, the 1970s, becomes a comparison to how much and how little has changed in the US.

While pursuing his political ambitions, Harvey comes across a political rival who represents what San Francisco used to be: straight, Irish, Catholic, bigoted. This political rival, however, is willing to negotiate. He wants to get reelected and Harvey, at one point, needs his affiliation to achieve his political goals.

Harvey, however, eventually turns on him. The specifics, I think, aren't as important as what Harvey could have done. That is, he could have forgiven him. He could have recognized the need for forgiveness, over the need for either vindictiveness or pettiness. Instead, Harvey is now the aggressor -- and perhaps also an abuser.

This was a missed opportunity. If the film makers had chosen, they could have chosen to understand that Harvey Milk, truly, is only slightly different from those who inflicted their bigotries on him. When Harvey Milk had power to abuse, he used it.

And this is why Harvey Milk is not a martyr for the noble cause of equality and against homophobia. Instead, he's an all too-real symbol of the consequences of power.

"The Wrestler"

To begin this review, I should note that, on Friday night, I hadn't intended to see "The Wrestler". Because my original selection, "Waltz with Bashir" was sold-out, this was my secondary choice (and better than going home and, inevitably, struggling with the latest math textbook I'm studying).

The movie was disappointing. I do, however, understand why so many films critics have praised the film.

My primary complaint of the movie is the narration-style. The movie begins with the primary character, Randy the Ram, in the midst of his dysfunctions. Following a strict linear time line, the movie progresses to follow Randy the Ram as he -- generally -- struggles. He struggles with his relationship with his daughter. He struggles with the only possible romantic relationship. And as is evident, he's a failure in many ways.

Without a flashback -- or any interruption of the linear time line -- the movie doesn't provide any type of explanation or insertion of what happened to Randy. Why, for instance, did he become a washout, after achieving a high degree of fame as a professional wrestler? Why doesn't he perceive -- what I think anyone who sees the movie would -- abandon wrestling? What are the hints or reasons to why he treated his daughter so poorly?

Instead, proceeding with Randy the Ram's decision to continue to professionally wrestle, the movie -- essentially -- forces the viewer to interpret what has happened to him. I wanted more. I wanted to understand Randy beyond the strict slice of time the movie makers presented. Perhaps most importantly, I wanted to sympathize with him. Instead, I found myself detesting him. I detested his choices. I detested the way he treated his daughter. I detested his failures.

After the movie, I felt disappointed. The short amount of time spent with Randy the Ram, I thought, wasn't enough. I wanted to know more about him and I wondered why the film makers didn't want to present more.

Finally, one interpretation that I thought was deliberate was the metaphor of Randy the Ram as the US. In the final wrestling match of the movie and the final scene, Randy has a rematch with the Ayatollah -- a wrestler who wears a head dress and menacingly waves -- what looks like -- the Iranian flag. Twenty years prior, Randy the Ram confidentally destroyed the Ayatollah. Now, during the rematch, it's left to the viewer to interpret what's happened. It's somewhat clear, however, that the outcome that has been determined, that Randy the Ram once again wins, is not how the match is going to end.