FILM REVIEW: Iron Man
SOUL IN THE IRON
The shallowness of this film is purely superficial.
It sets adrift from the familiar superhero doodles’ formula, namely: invincible preternnatural powers (girded in fancy dress) fighting Manichaean battles against freaky villains. But it sticks like a leech to the conventions of the genre (threadbare characterisation, over-the-top plot, jejune jokes) and panders to the ‘juvenile demographic’ with token sex and torture. In doing so it plumbs obscene depths, in which we see ourselves in caricature: magnificently trite and profoundly repugnant.
Tony Stark is half Victor Frankenstein (wanting so much from his creation, but ‘hoist with own petard’); half Mr Hyde (a doolally altered ego wanting nothing from his creator). We see, in sum, a renaissance hit-man designing death engines; firing back – with slingshot brilliance – at each missile his own ‘outrageous fortune’ can manufacture to hurl at him.
But science is pecking away at the chained carrion of this Stark tormented spirit. Trapped in his own private Jericho (‘Plato’s cave’ as a failed state of fatalism) ‘Professor Marvel’ tranmogrifies this mundane wretch into a callow Icarus: a point-device persona lurching up to heaven on napalm-fuel.
By its fatefulness Iron Man actually passes muster as ‘prescience-fiction’. The mother of invention manufactures a fey, feral, ferric, fatidic banshee wailing at the walls that the military-industrial complex has built for its nation-state. As those walls come thundering down we hear an elegy to our lost future as a booming echo.
So, Iron Man is the perfect metaphor for mercenary commerce exploiting evanescent freedom; and the Nemesis of zealotry pitted against venal liberalism. It heralds the new world order of the ‘market state’: where the weak perish in order for the greedy to profit. Therefore, no glory may be won; for there is no good to fight for. The most a hero can do is lead his tribe through a sea of red ink away from the slavery of moral bankruptcy.
As such, the film is an eerie reverberation of McLuhan’s creed that Satan is a great electrical engineer. The Stark panoply extends and assimilates. A ‘Tinman’ trope cursed to continually hack off whatever makes him human and artificially replace it – till he carves out his own heart. Iron Man is a sardonic inversion of John Stuart Mill’s philosophy that art determines ends; while science supplies means. Technology is a full metal straitjacket. A heart-piercing, soul-spiking iron maiden. An iron glove manacling a velvet fist: a shrapnel-ridden heart rusted on to anomic armour. The man in the iron mask suffers a secret identity crisis. Unmasked he is us.

SOUL IN THE IRON
The shallowness of this film is purely superficial.
It sets adrift from the familiar superhero doodles’ formula, namely: invincible preternnatural powers (girded in fancy dress) fighting Manichaean battles against freaky villains. But it sticks like a leech to the conventions of the genre (threadbare characterisation, over-the-top plot, jejune jokes) and panders to the ‘juvenile demographic’ with token sex and torture. In doing so it plumbs obscene depths, in which we see ourselves in caricature: magnificently trite and profoundly repugnant.
Tony Stark is half Victor Frankenstein (wanting so much from his creation, but ‘hoist with own petard’); half Mr Hyde (a doolally altered ego wanting nothing from his creator). We see in him a renaissance hit-man designing death engines, who – through his own slingshot brilliance – fires back at each missile his own ‘outrageous fortune’ can manufacture to hurl at him.
But science is pecking away at the chained carrion of his tormented spirit. Trapped in his own private Jericho (‘Plato’s cave’ as a failed state of fatalism) ‘Professor Marvel’ tranmogrifies him into a callow Icarus: a point-device persona lurching up to heaven on napalm-fuel.
By its fatefulness Iron Man actually passes muster as ‘prescience-fiction’. The mother of invention manufactures a fey, feral, ferric, fatidic banshee wailing at the walls that the military-industrial complex has built for its nation-state. As those walls come thundering down we hear the booming echo of an elegy to our lost future.
So Iron Man is the perfect metaphor for mercenary commerce exploiting evanescent freedom; and the Nemesis of zealotry pitted against venal liberalism. It heralds the new world order of the ‘market state’: where the weak perish in order for the greedy to profit. Therefore, no glory may be won; for there is no good to fight for. The most a hero can do is lead his tribe through a sea of red ink away from the slavery of moral bankruptcy.
As such, the film is an eerie reverberation of McLuhan’s creed that Satan is a great electrical engineer. The Stark panoply extends and assimilates. A ‘Tinman’ trope cursed to continually hack off whatever makes him human and artificially replace it – till he carves out his own heart. Iron Man is a sardonic inversion of John Stuart Mill’s philosophy that art determines ends; while science supplies means. Technology is a full metal straitjacket. A heart-piercing, soul-spiking iron maiden. A velvet fist manacled in an iron glove – raised in dead-weight anger against itself. A shrapnel-ridden heart rusted on to anomic armour. The man in the iron mask suffers a secret identity crisis. Unmasked he is us.
 

Exchange in Beijing

In September 2007, I decided to go on exchange at Tsinghua University in Beijing to further my Chinese language skills. I chose to go on exchange because I believed it would significantly improve my language skills by living in a Chinese-speaking environment. I also wanted to experience something new and exciting that would take me out of my comfort zone. Whilst I had visited Beijing numerous times before exchange, it was always as a tourist. In fact, in all my life, I had never lived away from home let alone in a non-English speaking country. It would certainly be a whole new experience for me.

Initially I had some misgivings for I did not know anyone at Tsinghua University and I experienced some difficulty whilst getting checked into a dorm. The arrangement was that I would be provide with a room, however, when I arrived a week before the semester began, I was horrified to learn there were no rooms left. It was only until 11.30pm at night that the administrative staff realised I was from Melbourne University and a room was already booked for me. As a result, my first day in Beijing was largely spent in panic. To make matters worse, if that was even possible, I was swindled in my second week by a man fixing my bicycle who charged forty times the price of the retail bicycle part. These mishaps really made me question the benefits of exchange.

However, exchange proved to be a significant learning experience for me and I soon learnt to laugh at my misfortunes in Beijing. At first, I was absolutely furious with the bicycle swindler. Yet, in time I could laugh at my own stupidity for spending money on a bicycle part that was more than the cost of my bicycle. I learnt that though there were many swindlers around Beijing, there were also kind people, those who helped me pay for a parcel to send when I was short of cash. I also learnt how to be more accommodating and compromising. I suppose one has to when there were only three toilets, including two squat toilets, on a floor of about twenty-five girls. Sharing a room with my eccentric roommate who took photographs of all the handsome Korean guys on television showed me how lucky I was in Melbourne to have a room of my own, without having to worry about when to get changed or when to switch off lights or even when to wake up in the morning. Exchange made me appreciate what I used to take for granted in Australia.

Spending so much time in China, it was inevitable that I learnt the ways and habits of Chinese, eventually adopting them as my own. I learnt, as the Chinese do, to be aggressive and competitive on the roads. Riding a bicycle in Beijing can be a traumatic experience as bicycles share the same lanes as buses, so it is not difficult to imagine the chaos that eventuates when buses wish to stop, and there are cyclists. Towards the end of my semester in Beijing, I learnt to ring my bell right back at the buses who honked me to get out of the way. I also became aware that gaining weight in Beijing is to be expected as I mastered the art of eating copious amounts of food as the Chinese do, with huge bowls of rice accompanied by meat and vegetables. Additionally, I learnt that when one going out with Chinese people for dinner, and feeling as if I would burst from the amount of food I ate, the Chinese would still claim I had not eaten enough and then force me to wolf down the rest of the food on the table. Furthermore, I found out that the lacks of queues in China are a way of life, and pushing to get to the front is the norm. And if you need to ask a Chinese how long it will take to get to a destination, it is best not to wholeheartedly rely on their response, for when a Chinese person says a place is “not far” to walk, it really means a good twenty to thirty minutes walk.

Moreover, I found that my Chinese really did improve. Using Chinese everyday was such a new experience for me. Not only were all my classes conducted in Chinese, but I also had to use Chinese a great deal outside of class. Meeting Chinese, French, German, Korean and Japanese friends at Tsinghua where Chinese was our only common language greatly improved my Chinese speaking skills. It was strange speaking Chinese almost every waking hour, even to a great deal of English speaking people as they often did not understand me due to my apparently thick Australian accent. This was a nightmare at first; for there were many times I did not know the word in Chinese and made a fool of myself. However, gradually I felt that my Chinese vocabulary was expanding, even learning some Chinese slang. I learnt that when a guy says he is an “airport” in Chinese, it means he is probably very sleazy because lots of girls like to land on him. When someone asks “how many second milk cars do you own?” it means “how many mistresses do you have”. I even learnt how to use the Chinese term for “add oil”, which is equivalent to saying “go” in English. This could be used in almost any situation. When someone is struggling to finish their food you can say “jia you”. When someone is losing in a sports game, you can say “jia you”. When someone is struggling to get up, take a test you can say “jia you”. The real indication that my Chinese had improved was the fact that Chinese shop owners did not feel quite so inclined to swindle me. It was evident that I was no longer the ignorant international student when the item I had bargained long and hard for was practically thrown at me.

Subsequently, I found studying Chinese in Beijing a truly valuable experience. I made so many friends from all around the world, people who I want to meet again, and learnt Chinese in such a way that would not have been possible in Australia. I may have had times when I questioned why I had decided to go on exchange, but the kind hearted man who paid for a portion of my parcel when I was short of cash certainly cancelled out the bike swindler. I believe going on exchange has made me more compassionate about other people’s cultures and customs. It is ironic that at the beginning of my semester in Tsinghua I was counting down the days until when I would return to Melbourne, yet by the end, I was planning when I could return to Beijing. As a tourist I liked the sites, beauty and people of Beijing, but as a student, I loved it.