This summer, the cinetrix read. Books. I know, right?
For a variety of reasons [shitty economy, fear of pedagogical atrophy], I opted to take on a second course this semester, in addition to teaching my usual two sections of intro to film. All sophomores here are required to take a 200-level lit course, regardless of their major, so of the offerings on the books I opted to teach a section of the conveniently vague "20th and 21st century lit" class to a bunch of aspiring microbiologists and electrical engineers in the honors college. Whee!
As some of you might recall, my initial plan was to fill the syllabus with literary works that were later adapted into movies. That way we could talk about form, adaptation, and the challenges inherent in turning words into images. And I could also schedule some optional screenings, which cynically I hope will translate into good evaluations down the road. Bread and circuses, people.
But the subject and period still seemed unmanageably broad until midway through the summer, which is when I decided to focus on coming-of-age stories. [I thought it might be too hostile to actually call the class "Grow up," so that'll be our little secret, OK?] In addition to reading literature about movies--"Ave Maria," "Down in Front," "Big Red Son," "The Belle as Businessperson," and so on--the kiddies also will be subjected to WASP angst [Robert Lowell, Anne Sexton, The Ice Storm and Girl, Interrupted], repressive religious environments [Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit and Persepolis], and the collision of music and male arrested development [The Commitments and High Fidelity].
Those of youse who don't consider these texts to be lit-TRA-chure can kindly keep quiet and reread the line about aspiring microbiologists above. Everyone else, I'll keep you posted as the semester unfolds.
Oh, and I also wrote an instructor's resource manual for the second edition of Timothy Corrigan and Patricia White's textbook The Film Experience--or, as I like to call it, "1,001 Teaching Tips I Pulled Out of My Ass." As is the way with all things publishing, we're still working on page proofs long after we were supposed to be done. So the less said about that the better.
All of which may explain why I wasn't able to slip off to the movies until a couple weeks ago. About which, more TK. Right now I should probably reread Breakfast at--wait, you mean the George Peppard character is actually gay and Holly's kind of a prostitute?--Tiffany's.
