Ernest Alba's Blog

Forcing the Hand

Socrates is forced to commit suicide after being convicted of teaching subversive material to his students- the same philosophies and doctrines he had been teaching for thirty years.

I don't know if you have noticed, but some time ago I changed the title of my blog. It had read "MIT Physics Student - Ernest Alba's Blog." It now says what you see above. That is because I am no longer studying physics. After a miserable semester in which I dropped one physics class and will fail the other, I have realized that something is wrong. I do not like physics. I can not make sense out of physics. It is utterly incomprehensible in more than small, strongly concentrated doses. Despite knowing that I do not like it, I still feel as if something very dear to me is slipping from my fingers. When I once had a firm grasp on it, had it tightly wrapped in my fingers, clutched close to my chest, now I see it fluttering away in the winds of time and destiny. Now, all I hold are the empty dreams of a meaningful life.

I'm beginning to do what I promised myself I would never do and what nearly everyone does. Settle. I'm making compromises with life. Throwing in the towel, on the condition that I am allowed to fight again, though with Frazier instead of Ali. When as a child I said, I will be an astronaut, as an adult I am saying, I will be an astronaut's best friend. It is a hard and depressing ordeal to have to accept one's limitations. To look in the poet's mirror and see one's limits and see that those limits have been reached. I've reached my limits, and I'm backpedaling. Taking the trodden path that had appeared to lead to a dull, unremarkable destination when I enthusiastically rejected it for the dark, treacherous path upon which the distant twinkling light of what I knew to be a golden mecca lit the way.

To be sure, I have not settled for an undesirable future. I am settling for the life of a writer, an anthropologist, and a human theorist. I will remain a scientist to some degree, using the tools I have gained and continue to gain here at MIT to analyze, contextualize, and hypothesize about fields much different than physics but still complex and largely unexplained. I have switched majors and am pursuing a degree in women's studies. This is an emerging field in anthropology that many, including myself, believe will prove to be meaningful in the global society that is also emerging. Perhaps not as fundamentally meaningful as physics, but still worth exploring.

Perhaps the path I am now being forced to take will eventually round a corner and lead to that destination of fulfillment and meaning - that golden mecca. Or perhaps the fulfillment and meaning isn't in the destination but in the journey. Whoa, that's Dr. Phil deep.

Peter Boyle dies at 71

One of the funniest movies I've ever seen is Mel Brooks' Young Frankenstein. It was an important film in history for many reasons beyond its sense of humor. One of them was Peter Boyle, the man who played the creation itself. It was my first exposure to the actor. I will never forget that song and dance number in which a stiff, lumbering giant tries to tap dance. That was comic genius brought out through a man that I began to see then and there as a great actor.

I was reintroduced to Peter Boyle when he guest-starred on an episode of the X-Files entitled "Clyde Bruckman's Final Repose." It is my single favorite X-Files episode (I've seen them all) and it is mostly because of Peter Boyle's performance. He falls into the character so completely that for those forty minutes Peter Boyle IS Clyde Bruckman. Few performances come to mind that are as purely enjoyable to watch. Take a scene where he shows Moulder a letter he received in the mail. The unique thing about Clyde is that he is psychic. By touching objects that belong to people he can gain insight into their character and see into their future. Moulder asks him who the envelope is from. In the most queer way, Clyde closes his eyes in apparent deep meditation, taps the envelope to his forehead, and says in a voice that can only be described as "Dracula after being kicked down there," "The killah!" He is, of course, being heavily sarcastic since he has already read the letter, and it is pretty clear from what he wrote that it is from the killer. All of the other nuances in his acting build into a great character that is a joy to watch and learn about. It is little wonder that he won an Emmy for his performance in that episode.

Peter Boyle is best known to the public as Raymond's dad on Everybody Loves Raymond. I loved that show, mostly because of Ray Romano's humor and Patricia Heaton's beauty. But Peter Boyle always elevated the comedy to a level Ray Romano would not be able to reach on his own. His talent and experience in acting helped make even the most improbably situations believable. For example, I can't stop grinning when I think of Ray being jealous of his dad's strength - this when his dad is an old man and he's a young man. In this particular scene, he challenges his dad to arm wrestle. His dad makes fun of him, calling him a wimp, telling him he'll beat him. What kind of dad says those kinds of things to his son? Well, a prideful and cruel dad like Ray's dad. His dad pretends to lose (and we totally believe he is losing because he puts on a good act), and when his hand is about to reach the table, he starts counting down from four, and by the time he reaches zero, Ray's hand is on the table, and Ray is looking on in horror. The moment is priceless. Of course, his dad has a heart, too. Boyle plays both sides of this character's personality well, making hilarious moments a riot and emotional moments sweet and tender.

I read in an article a few months ago that Peter Boyle said that his nine years on Everybody Loves Raymond would be his legacy. I remember thinking, is that such a good legacy to leave behind? Well, since 1999 until 2005, he was nominated for an Emmy every single year for his work on the show. And Everybody Loves Raymond certainly made an impact in TV history and was a long-running, extremely successful show. But for all of that, nothing beats seeing Clyde Bruckman talking about Buddy Holly and the Big Bopper in that episode of the X-Files. An episode I'm going to revisit right now.

Rest in peace, Mr. Boyle.

Film Review: Apocalypto

It was a bitterly cold afternoon, the first of the winter. The wind was blowing tiny flecks of snow into my face as I felt my nose turning a bright, numb red. As soon as we opened the door to the theater, a rush of warm, recycled air melted the ice instantly. All that remained was the watery residue of those tiny, icy daggers. Though my body felt instant relief and the memory of the bitter cold started fading almost immediately, there lingered in the corner of my mind the faint remembrance of the long, cold journey from MIT to Kendall Square Cinema.
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As I paid for my ticket, debated getting popcorn (no), and filed into my seat, I still felt the aftershock of that cold night air. But ten minutes into Apocalypto, I was no longer in a theater in Cambridge with a cold wind howling outside - no, I was far away in the steamy jungles of pre-Columbian Mexico, basking in tropical sunlight with the people who very well could have been my direct ancestors. I was watching men hunting a wild boar, naked children playing with the other little critters that run around the jungle floor, and women nursing infants. The main character, a strong, resourceful young man who eventually names himself "Jaguar Paw," lives with his expecting partner, a beautiful, smart, and courageous girl named Seven, his son Turtles Run, and his dad Flint Sky in a small village under the protection of the immensely tall tree tops and dense jungle swaths that offers a wonderful atmosphere of tranquility. That night, there is a story-telling and a dance. Jaguar Paw lays quietly on Seven's lap, listening to the kicks of his unborn son. These first minutes of the film are my favorite. This is what I wanted to see - a glimpse of a people's culture that is rapidly being extinguished. These people that we meet in the first minutes of the film, however, are not the Maya people that we think of when we think of the Maya civilization. These people know nothing of the magnificent temples and pyramids built by the sweat and hard labor of the thousands of peasants that lived in the vast cities of ancient Mexico.

The next morning, a group of warriors comes into the village and kills several of the men, women, and children, razes the village, and binds the survivors. Jaguar Paw manages to lower his wife and son into a small but deep underground cavern before he is captured. The warriors march the captives through the jungle on the way to one of the large Mayan cities. It becomes clear that Jaguar Paw must escape somehow and rescue his wife and daughter before it rains and the cavern floods or they die of thirst. Through his journey, we are allowed to explore the surroundings and the people that made up this epic but little understood civilization. According to many sources, including Mel Gibson, this movie is quite accurate, as they consulted several history books to ensure historical accuracy.

Though some scenes in this movie allow a detailed look at the fascinating Maya culture, Apocalypto is not a historical epic or a docudrama. It is a chase movie set against an historic backdrop. It is possible that this movie will disappoint you if you are looking for something that might more appropriately be shown on The Discovery Channel. Jose and I quickly realized (he more quickly) that we weren't going to get what we were expecting. Barring that disappointment, this film is a greatly paced and involving thriller. I'm relieved that it is not nearly so violent and graphic as Passion of the Christ. The violence is stomachable, though parts of it are extremely graphic and brutal. Examples include a jaguar ripping a man's face off and a heart being removed while the victim watches it being removed from his chest. The sets are beautifully designed, especially the Mayan city. The actors are quite convincing; several are native Mayas that live in Mexico. I'm glad that Gibson has them speaking in Maya. I've long been an advocate of having characters from other countries speak in their corresponding languages not speak English in an accent from their respective countries. It's one of the reasons I disliked Memoirs of a Geisha. Having to sit through Chinese actresses struggling to speak English with Japanese accents was beyond tedious. I'd much rather read subtitles, like I did during Apocalypto.
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The unkind memory that had been tucked into the farthest recess of my mind jumped into the front once again as I exited the room, rounded the corner, and saw through the window the bare, brown twigs of the poor trees stiffly moving in the wind. The journey back was going to be just as long and cold.