Reading, Watching, Listening / 30.06.2024
Byung-Chul Han, Jim Jarmusch and Homeboy Sandman meditate on life within modern capitalist society.
Another month, another modest list of the best things I have been reading, watching and listening to recently, presented for your enjoyment. Last time out, I mentioned I would be self-publishing an essay on the cinematic and political significance of the Barbie and Poor Things 1-2 punch. As a reminder, the impetus for my writing this piece was my frustration with the vain, self-congratulatory dismissal of Barbie, namely on the radical left. In case you missed it, I dropped it recently, right here on Baklava Bolshevik. Please read it and tell me what you think.
Currently, I’m working on an essay on George Miller’s latest film, Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga, to be published in Arena (September issue). I think I have some compelling threads to pull together on the film that I haven’t seen as the focus elsewhere. If you haven’t already, catch the film on the biggest screen you can before it leaves cinemas for good. And to whet your appetite, check out my friend Peter’s excellent piece, tying Furiosa into the broader history and mythology of the Mad Max series. I’ll try to notify you when and how my writing on the film becomes available.
Without further ado, here is the fourth edition of Reading, Watching, Listening.
Reading: ‘Psychopolitics: Neoliberalism and New Technologies of Power’, Byung-Chul Han
In his 2014 book Psychopolitics, Byung-Chul Han examines the nature and operation of neoliberal power in the contemporary world. Han, a South Korean-born German philosopher and cultural theorist, has garnered significant interest for his incisive critiques of modern society. Perhaps the most famous of these is 2010’s The Burnout Society, arguably the best diagnosis of the now well-known notion of ‘burnout’ within late modernity. Han’s work addresses themes ranging from digital culture to the commodification of emotions, always sharp to the subtler, more insidious facets of power’s functioning.
In Psychopolitics, Han moves beyond the increasingly stale terrain of Foucauldian ‘biopolitics’. The French philosopher Michel Foucault’s concept, which analyses the regulation of populations through biological and institutional means, has become a mainstay in academic discourses of power. Indeed, it provides valuable insights into political economy if deployed as a facet of a more total system of thought (Marxism, for example). However, Han argues that this framework alone is increasingly inadequate for understanding the nuances of contemporary neoliberalism, where power operates not straightforwardly through overt coercion but through seduction, manipulation—even self-exploitation.
As such, Han levels his critique from the historical standpoint of neoliberalism, the present political and economic paradigm, extinguishing everything outside of market-driven approaches to governance and individual conduct. Neoliberalism, Han asserts, has transformed how the powerful exercise their control. Rather than disciplining bodies, it seeks to optimise and exploit human potential, turning individuals into self-regulating entrepreneurs of their own lives. This shift necessitates a new understanding of power dynamics, which Han terms “psychopolitics”.
Psychopolitics encompasses the notion that, under generic conditions today, power primarily operates through psychological means. In under 90 pages, Han meticulously unpacks how technologies, particularly digital media, play a crucial role in this transformation. In the age of Big Data, algorithms, and ubiquitous surveillance, people are not merely subjected to power but are active participants in their subjugation. By now, it is passé even to mention that social media platforms, for instance, capitalise on the human desires for recognition and validation, restructuring behaviours and distorting self-perception.
However, this core insight that capitalism has come to incite its subjects to consciously and subconsciously reproduce their oppression should be seen in the tradition of the best Marxian social criticism (such as that of Marx himself). Han contends that the incessant demand for transparency and connectivity—foundations of the digital age—entrench neoliberal power structures. Surveillance is no longer only a top-down process; it is internalised and self-imposed. We willingly share our data, our preferences, and even our intimate thoughts in the name of connection and convenience. This voluntary surrender of privacy, of which we are all guilty, makes psychopolitics influential and pervasive.
One of the most welcome aspects of Han’s work is his departure from the aforementioned Foucaldian biopolitics. Simplifying greatly, traditional forms of power, as Foucault elucidated, operate through commands and prohibitions—the “Should”. These structures were explicit, external, and often met with resistance. Working class and oppressed people were always aware of the boundaries and limitations imposed upon them, sparking collective defiance and rebellion. Han contrasts this with the present freedom of “Can”, a product of neoliberal ideology’s creed of limitless potential and self-optimisation. This voluntarist illusion that dictates how people relate to themselves also intensifies and replicates the individualistic subjectivities dominant under capitalism.
I should note that Han’s focus on the psychological aspects of neoliberal power is undergirded by capitalism’s concrete structures and circuits, from the profit motive to the police. But unpacking the mental dimensions of capital’s hegemony need not distract—or indeed detract—from the pressing requirement to challenge and overturn its physical architecture. To this end, Han develops a sketch of what resistance to psychopolitics might look like, advocating, for instance, for secretive silence to counter capitalism’s pullulant demands for self-disclosure. While each is somewhat thin due to the book’s brevity, Han articulates a number of alternatives to the internalisation of psychopolitics. It’s a punchy, accessible and universally relevant piece of philosophy rendered in Han’s renowned, pleasantly aphoristic style.
Watching: ‘Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai’ (1999), dir. Jim Jarmusch
This year marks the 25th anniversary of Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai. As such, the Thornbury Picture House celebrated by screening this signature work from American indie director Jim Jarmusch. I had a lovely time attending the screening with a good friend. I’ve long appreciated Jarmusch’s work, but this is one of only a few of his films to have eluded me. Ghost Dog immediately etched itself into my mind as an instant favourite. I found Forest Whitaker’s performance as the lonesome yet dutiful titular Ghost Dog to be riveting. Whitaker, winkingly and all the while soulfully, embodies a character who is both saved and martyred by his adherence to an ancient ethic in a modern world.
Ghost Dog, an African-American hitman living in a fictionalised Jersey City, abides by the samurai code from Hagakure: The Book of the Samurai—despite his entanglement with the Italian-American mob and friendship with an ice cream vendor who only speaks French. This cross-cultural narrative evokes a universal humanity, which Jarmusch previously considered in Night on Earth (1991). Here, Jarmusch forces us to confront the melding of diverse cultural elements endemic to modernity, making Ghost Dog’s journey reflect on identity, honour, and the passage of time.
The film is scored by RZA of the Wu-Tang Clan, featuring his trademark hip-hop production, now enriched with Japanese flute melodies and chimes. RZA’s score is integral to the film’s atmosphere and reflects Ghost Dog’s inner world and the cultural synthesis that he embodies. The music isn’t a mere backdrop; it’s a narrative device that deepens our understanding of Ghost Dog’s character and the philosophical framework guiding his actions. Jarmusch’s use of intertitles with quotes from Hagakure further enhances this cultural cross-pollination, grounding the film’s story in a blend of Eastern philosophy and Americo-urban grime.
Jarmusch’s narrative offers a unique perspective on unstoppable generational shifts and the viability of traditional values in a world where “nothing makes sense anymore”. The climactic scenes are a genuinely moving meditation on the sacrifice and martyrdom required to uphold outdated principles in a rapidly changing world. Realising this vision is Forest Whitaker’s sublime performance. He brings deep dimensions to Ghost Dog, capturing the character’s charitable nature, solitude, awkwardness, and unwavering sense of duty.
Whitaker conveys that Ghost Dog is a man genuinely connected to a world that no longer exists. A quiet intensity marks his interactions with the society around him, whether he is tending to his pigeons (this is how he communicates with the mob regarding their commission of hits), executing a mission, or simply walking the streets. Whitaker’s ability to evoke Ghost Dog’s internal struggle and outward calm is nothing short of mesmerising. Each scene is a study of understated power, with Whitaker’s physical performance revealing the layers of a man torn between his code and the world’s increasingly non-negotiable demands.
In this vein, Jarmusch calls personal identity into question. Ghost Dog’s adherence to the samurai code is a source of strength and the cause of his isolation. His identity is a fusion of cultural elements, yet he remains an outsider in every sense. This alienation is poignantly captured through Robby Müller’s (Paris, Texas and Dead Man) excellent cinematography, who frequently shoots Ghost Dog alone against cityscapes or ruminating in dimly lit rooms.
Ghost Dog transcends genre in a way that few films achieve through the manipulation of conventional storytelling. It’s a bleedingly modern yet timeless tale of honour, identity, and the inevitability of (cultural) death. Jarmusch’s film invites us to ponder the value and dangers of holding onto principles in a world that often seems devoid of meaning. We see Ghost Dog’s life as a meditation on the clash between old rites and new realities, solitude and society, and duty and personal freedom.
The film’s climax is particularly resonant. As Ghost Dog meets his fate, we can contemplate the costs of his unwavering adherence to the samurai code. It’s a reminder that those who cling to traditional philosophies may find themselves isolated and, ultimately, sacrificed in a world that has moved on. Yet, there is a nobility in Ghost Dog’s steadfastness, a purity in his commitment to his chosen path. Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai is a journey into the heart of being human, holding onto our values, and facing shifting social realities and the relentless march of time with dignity and grace.
Listening: ‘Rich II’, Homeboy Sandman
Anyone who truly knows me will know that I love the music of Homeboy Sandman. At first glance, Sandman, whose birth name is Angel, might look typical as far as “old school” rappers go. Hailing from Queens, New York, with a devotionally poetic lyricism and penchant for classic boom-bap-infused beats, one can intuit why—despite a 16-year rap career—Sandman remains in the underground. In many ways, Sandman’s music does fall firmly within the region’s holy hip-hop traditions. But his significance within the genre lies in how he lovingly and commandingly innovates upon hip-hop's history's lyrical, rhythmic, and instrumental hallmarks.
Born to a Dominican mother and a Puerto Rican father who was first a heavyweight boxer and later a lawyer, prior to his musical career, Sandman completed a Bachelor of Arts at the University of Pennsylvania. To my knowledge, this makes him one of the fewer than a handful of rappers to hold an Ivy League degree. Indeed, he turned down a scholarship to study law to pursue his rap career. But this trivia would fail to be interesting if it were not apparent that hip-hop listeners should be grateful for Sandman’s choice—lest we have been forced to go without his ever-growing, singular catalogue.
Sandman’s relatively comfortable middle-class upbringing and prestigious education could hint that his music betrays an aloofness not found in the genre’s roots. After all, rap’s creation being in resistance to and under conditions of poverty and disadvantage is arguably its most notable characteristic. Yet, Sandman is one of hip-hop’s fiercest moralists, and while his soapboxing style is didactic at times, a distinct and wry playfulness ensures that it rolls as smoothly as his measured vocal delivery. Nowhere does this careful but bold instruction of his listeners manifest as diaristic and personal as his recently released 2024 album, Rich II.
The new record, a sequel to 2023’s terrific Rich, finds Sandman teaming again with Mono En Stereo, the original’s little-known but highly esteemed producer. Mono, whose real name is El Richard Moringlane, is a fellow New Yorker named “one of the sonic architects of vintage New York rap revivalism” by Jon Caramanica, The New York Times music critic. The third collaboration between rapper and producer (Mono also entirely produced 2019’s Dusty) sees the partnership take flight, soaring across jazz, funk and rock samples that would submit even the more elastic mainstream MCs.
Instead of fruitlessly grasping for the nostalgic, we find Sandman at his most imperial, conquering each luxurious, multi-phased instrumental with the kind of seamless precision that can only result from an unencumbered commitment to craft. Eschewing Queensbridge grit entirely, the two create a sound ringing with summery warmth and optimism. Mono’s production is so catchy and lush that it lends Rich II an inexhaustible reservoir of repeat listening. Through the prism of unflinching and ceaseless introspection (“self-reflection’s non-negotiable”), we are treated to Sandman’s most ebullient and hopeful meditations yet.
On the introductory track, Sandman pronounces, “You all about a buck / And play it by the book / A lot who might agree”. The clear implication is that Boy Sand embodies the opposite pole to that of commercial rap music. The following song, People, is the album’s first complete statement, chronicling Sandman’s bemusement with humanity’s obsessive self-negation. It comes in many forms, be it the notion of distinct races (“Start believing in that people attack people / Stop believing in that people attract people”), resignation to the status quo (“The future is now people / Holy crap, holy smokes, holy cow people”) or simple vices, from smoking to alcoholism. Despite existing within this ooze of contradiction, Sandman insists that we all have a soul—we can know so because in hearing People, we have all come to listen to music to feed it.
Rich II gives us a glimpse of a Sandman now unwilling to lapse into the tongue-in-cheek misanthropy of previous records like Extinct, on which he laments that “all the cool people have died”. However, at the heart of this disgust with a humanity seemingly resigned to accept endless debasement has always lied the yearning for a better life, reflecting the total value of being human. What we hear more frequently from Sandman today, though, at the ripe age of 43, is a plea to realise our present condition is not fixed. Right on the heels of People, Sandman rattles off several suggestions for how to escape the confusion he just emphatically decried:
Say hello to people in the street ‘cause I’m sociable
Try to keep it God based
Nothing to gain coin
Either read or write, two sides of the same coin
Be on time if I have a place to go
Think lots
Drink lots of H2O
Give to the needy, read graffiti
Honour all my peace treaties
Should I come across fears then face them
When counterproductive thoughts arise, displace them
Work on being more open
Hold doors open
So other people can walk thru
Continue to work on not automatically looking over every single woman like I was taught to
Coming in at a tight 27 minutes, Rich II is a promising addition to Homeboy Sandman’s already expansive oeuvre, underscoring the rapper’s voracious desire to improve himself, his music and the world around him. Sandman may outwardly appear to hail from a life of opportunity seldom afforded to most of his peers in the rap game (although to be sure, he holds his more challenging experiences with race and class close to his chest). But his lyrical virtuosity exemplifies the genre’s true spirit when devoted to expressing humanity’s endless trajectory of Becoming. In his words, “Hip-hop is about who you are, not what you have. It started off with people that had nothing. In the South Bronx, people didn’t have nothing. You couldn’t be proud of your clothes, you couldn’t be proud of your schools. All you could be proud of was who you are and what [talents] you had”.
Please listen to this brief, boisterous album. I share Sand’s bitter frustration with a world that seems stubbornly inclined to overlook one of contemporary hip-hop’s finest and most profound practitioners. And do let me know how you find any of these humble recommendations. Until next time.
I thought of attaching my last.fm grid for the past month to each of these newsletters going forward. Here’s what I listened to most in June 2024:
Thank you kindly for your precious time and interest.