View current page
...more recent posts
You may have heard that CBS refused a Superbowl ad from the grassroots organization Moveon.org, because it dared to criticize the President. Where are we living, North Korea? The ad emerged from a competition among independent film and video makers called "Bush in 30 Seconds." The finalists from the competition are here. I haven't seen all of them but my favorite so far is "What Are We Teaching Our Children?" (high bandwidth) / (low bandwidth). In this parody of a junior-high school election debate, kids stand up and enthusiastically attack Bush's sorry record on the War, the environment, the economy, and so forth. Reaction shots from parents in the auditorium show the discomfort so-called adults feel at such bracing exercises of free speech in our current McCarthyite climate. This was CBS's reaction, too. I recommend watching the ads tomorrow and experiencing the exhilaration of still being free. I also suggest sending the links to a Republican friend with the note: "See, we can still do this!"
 I've recently created an "Animation Log," a record of animation projects that have appeared in this weblog or that I am currently working on. Includes found .GIFs, html appropriation pieces, "remixes," goofy kids' art, and my own deeply austere work. |
Political Musings Around the Web, Part Whatever.
"Why do they hate us?" was the big question on many people's lips right after 9/11/01. My stock answer: "Well, how about us having military bases all over the world when we're not actually at war with anyone?" Frequent response to that: "Bases? We have bases?" OK, as belated evidence of my assertion, please read Chalmers Johnson's report. He says we have 700 by a conservative count: it's hard to know for sure because the Pentagon plays shell games--pun intended--with the true numbers. How do you suppose that makes people in base-saddled countries feel? Glad because we're protecting them? But from what? People in their own countries that might otherwise overthrow their governments? Johnson points out the crude indiplomacy of the military's term for the geographical parameters of our control. It's called "the footprint."
I'm not planning to see Errol Morris's The Fog of War, a capital-I important film consisting of interviews with Kennedy/LBJ-era Defense Secretary Robert McNamara. A principal instigator of US escalation in the Vietnam War, McNamara now claims with pride ("No, shame." "Pride, Precious." "No...") that he encouraged low-altitude flights during the fire-bombing of Tokyo--a conflagration that killed more civilians than the A-bombs further south. Of course, he would have been too junior to have that power in WWII. Anyway, no way I'm going to sit in the dark for 90 minutes listening to the self-justifications of that 83 year old pathological liar. Alexander Cockburn makes me feel better about my decision. He says McNamara really got the better of Morris.
Lastly, Cockburn and his Counterpunch co-editor Jeffrey St. Clair filed an amusing, dyspeptic campaign report from Iowa. Kucinich is probably the candidate closest to their views on the war (and mine, FWIW, although our "getting the UN involved" as a solution sounds pretty presumptuous--surely only Iraqi citizens can make that call?). In any event Cockburn/St. Clair aren't Deanies, which makes the following quote more in the nature of an unbiased, general ad hominem slam:
What’s Kerry got going for him, apart from the money of his wife, Teresa Heinz Kerry, who has propelled the sputtered Kerry campaign forward on a sea of ketchup dividends? Not much. Kerry is a chronic fence straddler on issues. Gore Vidal hit it on the head when he remarked that Kerry “looks like Lincoln…[pause]… after the assassination."Yes, that's mean, but does anyone actually buy Kerry's "poor pitiful me, Bush fooled me into giving him a blank check for war" argument? He should just admit he was afraid and went along with the Congressional pack, and then stop running.
Denby used to write terrible, boring, just-plain-wrong film reviews for New York magazine and now he writes them for the New Yorker. He's an earnest chin-stroking type that always holds movies to some ridiculous (or ridiculously conventional) standard of moral responsibility.* Well, it turns out he's also the Bill Bennett of sober left establishment pontificators--a gamblin' man who pissed all his money away in the stock market Bubble. That's pretty funny, but unfortunately he's now written a self-flagellating book about his experiences. Walter Kirn's sympathetic NY Times review is here. A choice excerpt from the review:
Denby, when young and living in California, had been something of a radical, dancing to the Grateful Dead and defiantly pitting culture against commerce, but he'd mellowed into a propertied intellectual who sneakily admired the system for its ability to supply the good life even to those who held it in partial contempt.Now there's someone I want to read about. And here's another quote, the sheer liberal piety of which might lead one to believe the reviewer is Denby's separated-at-birth twin:
As Denby's [investment] pile fluctuates his exact gains and losses are quoted in the chapter subheads, but the chapters themselves are an eccentric mix of often lacerating confessions about his rocky love life and seminarish meditations on capitalism, conspicuous consumption and the psychological roots of greed. His tone can be pedantic, but his intention -- to freeze and analyze the mental gyrations that allow a deep thinker to become a shallow speculator -- is worthwhile and appropriate. Denby even drops in snippets of movie reviews he wrote at the time to help show us where his head was at, but they don't add much. (bolding of inert words supplied)Excuse me, what was that about deep thinking? It's supposed to be surprising that the same person who can find "the good" in one packaged Hollywood movie after another also bought into the myths of the "Dow 10,000" years? It all sounds of a piece to me. I'll take a pass on his hard lessons on love and investing, thanks; it's bad enough that we're still stuck with his reviews.
* Take, for example, his review of the movie Monster, about a recently executed serial murderer. As always Denby finds something edifying and uplifting to justify our attention: "[Monster] is one instance in which art clearly trumps documentary 'truth.' The real Aileen Wuornos is too will-driven to show us more than one side of herself. In the end, you need a sane person and an artist [Charlize Theron] to bring out the humanity in a crazy person." Oh, we do, do we? If the "truth" is that Wuornos was an irredeemable mad dog killer, isn't "trumping the truth with art" the same as sentimentalizing it? Maybe the filmmakers had noble motives for distorting reality, if in fact that's what they did--to make an anti-death penalty tract or feminist bad-girl fable, say. But is the critic's job just to be a mindless booster for good causes? Based on this assessment I'd rather watch Man Bites Dog again and feel some real conflicted feelings, as its psycho hit man protagonist charms me into as much complicity as I can stand.
| SCRATCH AMBULANCE, ETC. Web-only EP! I made the tracks below using, let's just say, a very old computer (and also a turntable, but only on the second track). The first two, "Scratch Ambulance" and "Phil's Revenge," have funkoid beats, while "Monster Scales" is more of an electronic sound piece. More than this I don't want to say. This is kind of a trial run, so any comments on .mp3 quality, downloadibility, etc. are welcome. As for the content, try not to hurt my feelings too much. The 8-Bit Construction Set LP on the turntable was for demonstration purposes only and not used in any of these compositions. Thanks to Mark Dagley for ripping the MP3s from a cassette. Scratch Ambulance. .mp3 format, about 3.75 MB. Phil's Revenge (TM vs Ectomorph). .mp3 format, about 2.5 MB. Fades up. Monster Scales. .mp3, about 1.3 MB. |
The instant popularity of the first Matrix movie inspired not only a plague of clones (Underworld being the sorry latest) but a land-office rush to retroactively claim precedents from the science fiction genre. Critics often cite Philip K. Dick's body of writing as a progenitor for the "things are not what they seem" aspect of the story, and John Carpenter's Dickian They Live (1988) has also been mentioned for its vision of a consumerist sham earth uncovered by a hapless member of the underclass (this little-seen film was recently rereleased on DVD and should be mandatory viewing). For my money, though, the definitive Matrix forerunner is a novel that appeared 40 years before the Wachowskis' epic: the amazing Wolfbane (1959), by Frederick Pohl and C.M. Kornbluth. If "ex-batteries fight in crevices of machine planet" is the pitch, then Pohl & Kornbluth deserve some arbitrated credit.
The action starts on a future Earth that has been hijacked from the solar system and revolves around a tiny sun that barely puts out enough energy to keep the population alive. Believing that Sol has simply lost strength as some form of divine retribution, humans have devolved into a society of Puritanical calorie-counters. Periodically people simply disappear, which keeps superstitious fear running high. Unbeknownst to the humans, their kidnappers are robots--enormous, pyramid-shaped floating beings called Omniverters, who inhabit a dark planet orbiting the same tiny star. The humans who disappear are teleported to this bleak mechanical world and used not as batteries (a ridiculous element of The Matrix considering the meager kilowatts of bio-energy a human could be expected to produce) but rather organic microchips. Eight living brains wired together in series represents substantial analog computing power; when a mind wears out the Omniverters simply harvest another human from Earth.
The protagonist of the story is, for all intents and purposes, a "snowflake," one of those octabrains slaving away crunching data for the Omniverters. Fully conscious, mingling all the thoughts and personalities of its human subcomponents (representing a range of ages, sexes, classes, and geopolitical origins), the snowflake is a highly evolved genius entity that is nevertheless powerless, because the motor functions of its inert constituent bodies have been dedicated by the Omniverters to typing code all day. Until, that is, the snowflake realizes that one digit of its 80 typing fingers is never used, a kind of built-in margin of error. Below the radar of the Omniverters' attention, the snowflake begins tapping out a rogue line of code with that "spare finger," enough command line instructions, at least, to teleport a crowd of naked humans to the Omniverter planet, put them in an enclosed space, and then begin starving them.
From that point forward, these "mice" behave much like the free humans in the Matrix, scurrying around in the tunnels and heat vents of the Machine planet. Instead of recruiting more batteries, however, the mice start breaking things, under the snowflake's omniscient guidance. The big satirical payoff of the novel is learning what the Omniverters are: essentially labor-saving devices (described in ancient tapes that sound like '50s advertising pitches) that have killed their alien master and then spent untold millennia trying to revive his corpse. Despite such touches of McCarthy-era existential bleakness, the book bursts with ideas: the truly mind-blowing collaboration here isn't the snowflake's but Pohl's and Kornbluth's, whose tale remains a potent intellectual drug decades after its writing. Will the same be said for The Matrix forty years hence, I wonder?
Above: Ross Knight at the Sculpture Center, 44-19 Purves St., Long Island City (Queens), NY. On one level, Knight's work takes us back to a moment of not-so-ancient art history when the aesthetic purity of say, Anthony Caro smacked up against the obdurate factualness of Minimalist slabs and cubes. What makes it "now," as opposed to some '60s throwback, is the rickety, slightly forlorn look of the sculptures (yes, that's intentional, and very wry), masking a kind of stealth investigation not just of found materials but found design--in 80s-speak, a "play of real world signifiers" that would have been anathema to all those '60s guys. To plagiarize myself from an earlier article:
Using a limited but highly versatile repertoire of materials—aluminum pipes, corrugated vinyl sheeting, Velcro, paint—Knight erects flimsy, portable structures that are essentially abstract (like classic Minimalist works, they unfold and change as the viewer moves in and around them) but invoke influences ranging across the socio-economic spectrum, from high-tech trade show architecture to point-of-sale advertising displays to the jury-rigged shelters of the homeless. Highly sensitive to context, these constructions change with their placement and angle of view.Several things have happened with the work since that was written. Knight no longer paints the structures but relies instead on the straight-from-the-factory pigmentation of the cut plastic sheets (and it's tinted Plex now, in lieu of the lighter weight corrugated signboard). Also, he's making forays into outdoor sculpture, so the pieces now tread a delicate line between the light, provisional look that's essential on a content level and the practical realities of withstanding the elements. Thus, he buries concrete to anchor the aluminum tubes, uses bolts rather than velcro, and adds tightly stretched guy wires, incorporating these as new elements to his vocabulary, while still keeping that carefully controlled slapped-together feel. One imagines an enthusiastic (or deranged) carnival barker standing within the black & chartreuse enclosure above, exhorting the viewer to enter the gateway and experience more of that particular exquisite blue. Unlike the egomaniacal Richard Serra, Knight doesn't rudely block ingress and egress to a public building, though. You just walk right on through.
I've revised an earlier post about the recently-deceased writer John Gregory Dunne and his hilarious book Monster: Living Off the Big Screen. I'm re-reading the book now and decided to flesh out the information a bit. One anecdote I'll repeat here, for those that don't feel like backtracking. During the on and off writing of the Up Close and Personal screenplay, Dunne and his wife & writing partner Joan Didion tackled a science fiction script, for a Simpson/Bruckheimer blockbuster (never filmed) called Dharma Blue. The plot concerned UFO-related goings-on at a mysterious research facility called Rhyolite. Written into a corner, they decided they need a lesson in current physics to move the story forward. Science go-to guy Michael Crichton's suggested dialogue about string theory cracks me up:
[Doctor, novelist, filmmaker] Michael Crichton has for years been our authority about matters medical and scientific. [I called him and said] Michael, tell me about string theory. "For a piece, book, or movie?" Michael asked. "Movie," we said. "You want to know what it is," he asked, "or do you need dialogue?" "Dialogue," we said, "and we need to keep it simple." "John," he said patiently, "It's a movie." We explained the circumstances. "I'll check some people and get back to you," Michael said.A few days before our meeting with Simpson and Bruckheimer, Michael called back with the requisite information, and helped us put it in dialogue form:
A. Most people think of the universe as having four dimensions. Height, length, depth, and time. String theorists have constructed a theoretical model of the universe with 26 orthogonal dimensions.B. Orthogonal?
A. At right angles...
B. But what does it mean that they're doing string theory at Rhyolite?
A. I think it means they're not doing theory any more.
(a beat) It means that...whatever they're out there to study...may appear to exist in more than four dimensions.
(another beat) It means they could be out there to see what 26 orthogonal dimensions looks like when it hits the real world.
Joe McKay, "Audio Pong" game. The volume level, not the degree of dopiness of the noises coming out of players' mouths, determines the height of the paddles. Some people don't realize this, believing instead that an algorithmic spazz-out evaluator controls the ascent and descent of the rectangles (and whether the ball stays on the court). The players above were real pros, however. Five rounds determines a winner. At Vertexlist in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Below: another McKay piece. The recording light rotates, simulating blinking in real space.
A non-clinical definition of paranoia: you go right past the simplest explanation and look for one that's the most dangerous. In the case of John Woo's film Paycheck, the simple reason why 89 out of 115 critics hated it could be that it's bad. But let's explore the paranoid one. (Spoilers, but this is the type of movie where they don't matter, right?) Paycheck has a point, and the point is this: Pre-emptive war leads to more war, the nasty kinds where A-bombs explode in US cities. This goes squarely against the party line espoused by our chowderhead-in-chief and his gang. And since the majority of the 89 naysaying critics are media whores, they protect and promote the conventional wisdom, aka the party line (such as "everything changed after 9/11/01"). So they want to make sure you don't see Woo's film, that it dies ignobly at the box office, and only a handful rent it on DVD. Whatever their motives, they're wrong: the movie is much tighter than the chase-padded Face/Off (and the pretentious, incoherent Minority Report). Affleck and Thurman are good, the movie keeps you constantly thinking and guessing. And it's fun. Another reason for the critical slam, I think, is that mainstream critics hate "sci fi," as they call it. Until it succeeds at the box office: then they start analyzing it for political portents. I say, both paranoically and simplistically, see the movie, embrace its wisdom, stop Bush.
Afterthought: the film also shows a couple of "good feds" hiding evidence to prevent the Guantanamo-like incarceration of a man they know is innocent. Deep-six that movie!
My recent post on Artforum's bestowing of "new artist" status twice to the same person (in 1992 and again 12 years later) led to some unfortunate bashing of the magazine out in bloggerland. One writer told me in an email that he hadn't read anything good in AF since its September 2002 piece on Robert Ryman. This challenged me to look through a stack of 'forums since that date and find good, or at least provocative, articles. What follows is the first in an on-again off-again series discussing what I found. The posts won't always be "positive" (the one below isn't) but the idea is to have a discussion as opposed to just popping off.
January 2003 issue. (Yes, I know this was a year ago.) Philip Nobel's cover story on a Pierre Huyghe-curated exhibition gives the reader much to react to, even though the piece isn't critical enough by half. Huyghe and collaborator Phillipe Parreno purchased the rights to the Japanimation character Annlee (below, left) from "Kworks, a Japanese clearinghouse" for such things, and then a group of artist friends riffed on this piece of readily-available intellectual property. Nobel accurately describes the little girl Annlee as "sad," but then takes a critical kamikaze dive and declares her a metaphor for the Japanese themselves, citing Takashi Murakami's morose thesis: "Behind the flashy titillation of anime lies the shadow of Japan's defeat in the Pacific war. The world of anime is the world of impotence." Right, as we see in the enterprising Japanese space program in Wings of Honneamise, the bickering-but-always-successful robot-pilot cops in Patlabor, the ebullient gender comedy in Ranma 1/2... Anime isn't just Grave of the Fireflies but tell that to an American critic looking for a hook. (For the record, Huyghe thinks Nobel's interpretation of the project overromanticizes it. "We bought a virgin," Huyghe says, sounding like one of those cold, cold Euro-operators in Olivier Assayas' Demonlover.)
According to Nobel, Huyghe "slightly redrew" the character (see two computer images above right), which is true if "slightly redrawing" means removing her pupils, tilting her eyes the opposite way, giving her a perm, stripping off her clothes, and turning her into a robot ET. Huyghe then asked 14 artists to interpret this "open source Annlee" for a group show that traveled to major museums. Once he created the "freeware" prototype, the artists were stuck drawing her that way, that is, like his digital puppet and not the Kworks original (Nobel refers to the show's "many identical video avatars"). So what's the purpose of buying the brand, bringing the "empty sign" to life through multiple interpretations, and then transferring the copyright back to the character, as Huyghe supposedly did, if you're going to make the brand unrecognizable before the interpretation process even starts? The work has a superficial frisson of commodity art but fails as a meme-propagating business model, parodistic or otherwise. It's the sort of high-concept exercise that gives museum curators goosebumps, but based on the reproductions and Nobel's description I'd say it flopped. And now Huyghe "owns" the idea in the copyright office of artist opinion so no one else can ever do it again, not that they should.
This abstract "Annlee" wallpaper by M/M Paris, sorry for the grainy scan, is great, though:
Rover Anthony Feyer, whose work I only know from the card below, which I received in the mail, is showing at Suite 106 gallery in Soho. I'm guessing this is a digitally manipulated photo. Dear God, I hope it is. It's not entirely clear in the scan, but that's a person in an animal suit in the uppermost vehicle, holding a sign that says Jesus Loves You. I assume it's the eponymous "furry."
Moody Wins Coveted "PreVie" Award
Is runner-up in second category
(AP, January 13, 2004) Artist and weblogger Tom Moody has won a coveted PreVie award, given out annually for the best "prereviews" of Hollywood films.
"It was a three-way tie for 'Best Rant,'" says an ecstatic Moody. "The award committee really liked my review of the movie, The Order. No, not the one with Jean-Claude Van Damme, the one about the rogue priests."
"Prereviews" are an Internet phenomenon, where reviewers describe and opine about films they don't see.
"In an information-blitz society, there is so much data out there about films that one can formulate a reasonably good opinion about them," observes Charles Sheckley, a media studies professor at Virginia Polytechnic University. "Also, frankly, Hollywood films are so cookie-cutter and filled with platitudinous 'conventional wisdom,' who actually needs to go?"
Inspiring many other prereview websites, Joe McKay's "PreReview" was the first, and "still absolutely the best," according to TinselTalk, a Hollywood-watching site. McKay raised a few eyebrows by judging this year's competition, especially since he gave himself one of the awards.
"That was a bit tacky, but hey, it's his site," said TinselTalk's Sherry Flanagan.
Moody was also runner-up for his "Classic PreReview" of the movie Top Gun. Classic PreReviews apply to older films and must also not have been seen by the reviewer.
"Yeah, I'm probably the only person in America that hasn't seen Top Gun. But I wasn't confused when everyone was comparing it to Bush's flight deck stunt. I certainly knew it well enough to review it," Moody said.
New Strong Bad email features different generations of cheesy video games. A Pong-level charmer called "Secret Collect," ye texte-bafed gamme called "Dungeonmaster," the ultra-sophisticated "Rhinofeeder," and best of all, a 3-D vector game called "Strongbadzone." In the last, you use your cybershield to block Strongbad's "perplexing 3-D geometric attacks" and whenever you lose a point, a message appears on the screen saying "YOUR HEAD A SPLODE." Wait a few beats after the end of the email and playable versions of the games will appear. Back off, baby!
Great interview here with Christopher Guest, who plays Nigel Tufnel in This Is Spinal Tap and who directed Waiting for Guffman, Best in Show, and A Mighty Wind. I was surprised to learn that he's a British Lord, his half-brother is Anthony Haden-Guest, and if I can get even more gossipy, he's been married to Jamie Lee Curtis for 20 years. Here's one of my favorite monologues of his:
In Best In Show, Guest played Harlan Pepper, a solemn, lugubrious outdoorsman from South Carolina who bore an uncanny resemblance to his bloodhound Hubert and possessed a talent so absurd that it's hard to imagine anyone but Guest dreaming it up. In Pepper's words, "I used to be able to name every nut there was. And it used to drive my mother crazy. She would hear me in the other room, and she'd just start yelling. I'd say, 'Peanut. Hazelnut. Cashew nut. Macadamia nut.' That was the one that would send her into going crazy. She'd say, 'Would you stop namin' nuts!' And Hubert used to be able to make the sound - he couldn't talk, but he'd go 'Rrrawr rrawr' and that sounded like macadamia nut. Pine nut, which is a nut, but it's also the name of a town. Pistachio nut. Red pistachio nut. Natural, all natural white pistachio nut."[via]
UPDATE: The Guardian's transcript of the monologue is abbreviated. Here's the full text (still missing some "awhhm"s as Harlan thinks of perfectly ordinary nuts, according to Bill):
I used to be able to name every nut that there was. And it used to drive my mother crazy, because she used to say, "Harlan Pepper, if you don't stop naming nuts," and the joke was that we lived in Pine Nut, and I think that's what put it in my mind at that point. So she would hear me in the other room, and she'd just start yelling. I'd say, "Peanut. Hazelnut. Cashew nut. Macadamia nut." That was the one that would send her into going crazy. She'd say, "Would you stop naming nuts!" And Hubert used to be able to make the sound, he couldn't talk, but he'd go "rrrawr rrawr" and that sounded like Macadamia nut. Pine nut, which is a nut, but it's also the name of a town. Pistachio nut. Red pistachio nut. Natural, all natural white pistachio nut.
[The following links are for mp3 d0wnlo4ds at a site called http://www.progarchives.com. Most of the site seems to be devoted to neo-prog, which is 3rd and 4th generation progressive rock bands lamely taking their names from classic prog tunes or the usual Tolkien characters. I had a lot of fun making these love/hate links to old-school (1970-75) prog songs, but I must have stumbled onto a mirror site or "members-only" area that eight hours later could no longer be accessed. Or it may just be bandwidth issues. In any case, if one link doesn't work probably none of them do. Sadly (for me at least), this post may not be here long.
UPDATE: As of Jan. 14, the links are working again.
UPDATE 2: As of Feb. 2006, it appears the site no longer offers these .mp3s for download--ah, progress--so the links below don't work, but if you search the progarchives archive for the band names, you can stream the tracks.]
Gentle Giant - Playing the Game. GG weren't the only British progressive group introducing madrigals, rounds, jigs, and other folk devices into a rock context in the '70s (as well as the expected tricky time signatures, contrapuntal riffs, constantly changing instruments, etc.) but they perhaps went furthest in integrating all of the above into a hybrid form. Very brainy group, apparently fought amongst themselves like cats and dogs. "Cogs in Cogs" and "No God's a Man" are better from this album, The Power and the Glory, but this one's plenty fine.
Gentle Giant - Free Hand. More lovely complex writing, marred slightly by Derek Shulman's over-demonstrative rock star vocals.
Area - La Mela di Odessa. Jazzy and noisy Italian outing, a bit Henry Cow-ish, with a great James Brown funk groove at the end of the track. Demetrios Stratos' Leon Thomas-style yodel may be too much for some.
Caravan - In the Land of Grey and Pink. Veddy British. This is the most folky track posted here; a bit twee, but David Sinclair's Lowrey organ solo is worth waiting for and nothing his cousin, vocalist/bassist Richard (Sinclair) does is ever wrong. He is God. "We'll pick our fill of punkweed/And smoke it till we bleed/That's all we'll need."
Van Der Graaf Generator - Killer. Histrionic but musically amazing. Black Sab meets King Crimson's "21st Century Schizoid Man," with quirky, complicated instrumental passages that just beggar description. Organ, sax, and Peter Hammill's melodramatic vocals are the lead instruments. Full disclosure: this is a song about killer fish.
Van Der Graaf Generator - Man-Erg. A quiet song, also about killers, erupts into the weirdest instrumental break ever written--a kind of demonic horror-movie klezmer. Once you know it you sing it in your sleep, while being chased by monsters. "There stalking in my cloisters hang the acolytes of gloom." Proto-Goth but too passionate for that label, really.
Triumvirat - Triangle. The German Emerson Lake & Palmer. This instrumental track is recommended if you like ELP but not Greg Lake's vocals. The keyboards are as good.
Magma - Da Zeuhl Wortz Mekanik. Talk about high concept--all the Magma albums tell the story of an epic space opera, and they even invented their own language to sing it in. Orff's Carmina Burana and Philip Glass vocalese are big influences, sung over a jazzy background. Someone should put the soprano out of her misery, but this is probably the most sophisticated and least dated of the selections here.
King Crimson - Red. I take that back. This was from the King's heavy metal period, and it's absolutely fucking great.
Yes - Close to the Edge. All 18 minutes of it. We should be very grateful to Vincent Gallo for making Yes cool again, with his movie Buffalo 66. He used "Heart of the Sunrise" from Fragile but this is good also.
Sketches, recently animated, based on the movie Blade 2. Stills/movie review here.
Vigilante or Punisher?
Below is a synopsis, followed by some discussion, of an Alan Moore-scripted story for the DC comic book Vigilante (nos. 17-18, 1985), titled "Father's Day." Moore is the writer of Watchmen, From Hell, and other amazing graphic novels. Poor Vigilante had no legs compared to Marvel's The Punisher, a similar, rival comic from the '80s that is hitting the big screen this year. But Moore's comic makes me wish the reverse was true, and that Moore was still involved: despite its brutality, it has the ambiguous edge of '70s movies.
"Father's Day"
By day Adrian Chase prosecutes crooks for the county but after hours he pursues them extracurricularly as a costumed hero called Vigilante. In an earlier case of his, a man named Carl Linnaker raped his own 8-year old daughter. Chase put him away, we assume (but aren't specifically told), with a little help from the old alter ego.
Now Linnaker is out of prison. The book opens with Linnaker's wife telephoning Chase in a panic. While she is on the phone, Linnaker breaks down her door. Before Chase can get to her apartment, Linnaker stabs her to death. Their daughter Jodie, now 11, flees out the fire escape and upon reaching the street is nearly hit by a car.
The driver is a pot dealer named Fever, ferrying her half-drunk roommate Louise, a prostitute, across town. They are acerbic, sympathetic characters. Learning Jodie is being pursued by a psycho dad, they take her to their apartment.
The next morning the cop-shy Fever goes out for a meeting with Chase to discuss a place to hand over Jodie so the cops won't find Fever's dope stash. Chase shows up in his Vigilante guise. Hand to hand combat and verbal sparring ensue. Ultimately Vigilante agrees not to bust Fever if she'll just hand over the girl.
At the same time hung-over Louise foolishly makes a trip to the store to buy the kid breakfast. Linnaker tails Louise home from the market, knifes her, and snatches Jodie. Fever returns to the flat with Vigilante to discover her best friend and roommate bleeding to death on the floor. Distraught, she vows to avenge Louise.
Searching the back streets for Linnaker, Fever is more savvy than the uptight Vigilante. She has better luck questioning neighborhood people and laughs when his fancy motorbike is stripped for parts while chained to a lamppost. As they continue their search--Fever driving and Vigilante riding in the back after she almost ditches him--she kids him mercilessly about his moral rectitude. One of her girlfriends sees them and asks if he's G.I.B (good in bed). Fever replies "He's OK if you put a bag over his politics." Later, this exchange takes place:
Meanwhile, Linnaker makes plans to drive to the Adirondacks with Jodie, whom he obviously adores. In voiceover we hear him reading excerpts from the tender letters he wrote her from prison, pleading for her not to think of him as a monster. In the car, he frets that her mother has "turned her against him." With the child in tow, he steals a pistol from a gun store, then pushes the proprietor's head through the glass display case.
As Linnaker's car is pulling out of the store parking lot, Fever spots him and Vigilante shoots out his tires. Linnaker flees on foot, taking Jodie with him. Vigilante catches up with him and the two fight. Jodie screams for them to stop. Linnaker drops his gun and Jodie picks it up. Then, surprisingly, she takes aim and shoots, not Linnaker, but Vigilante, in the shoulder. Before Linnaker can grab Jodie again Fever comes around a corner, hits him with her car, and in an act of cold premeditation, locks the rear wheels on her 4WD vehicle and makes a mess of him with the spinning front tires.
At the end of the story, Jodie is taken to the hospital (in shock). Fever kisses Vigilante before leaving town, which she must do to avoid explaining 40 kilos of marijuana found in the apartment with her dead roommate. Chase returns to his flat, nursing his bandaged shoulder, and as he is taking off his costume we hear the voice of the dead Linnaker reading more excerpts from his gentle prison letters to Jodie.
OK, let's count the ways this story is subversive: (1) Vigilante is a peripheral character, and kind of a buffoon (2) Two females, operating "outside the law," are strong, smart, sympathetic leads; the one who survives is cleverer than Vigilante (3) The child molester loves his daughter (4) More troubling, the daughter loves him and uses violence to protect him (5) Just as our sympathies are vacillating because of the daughter's unexpected if misplaced feelings for her father, we watch her become an orphan (as does she) in a spectacularly sadistic fashion. This is played as black comedy. By contrast, the upcoming Hollywood Punisher appears from the trailer to be a typical, by-the-numbers Xtreme Revenge fantasy.
This may be old news to some, but I recently came across a great website, Japander, as in Japanese+pander. It consists of streaming videos of the commercials American celebs who would never sully their images in the States do over there for bucks. Like Bill Murray's "For relaxing times, make it Suntory time," only for real. See Harrison Ford guzzling Kirin beer, or a Labyrinth-era Jennifer Connelly advertising some dildo-shaped container of hair goo. (Requires Quicktime.) Not everyone likes this site; posted there is a copy of a cease-and-desist letter from the lawyer of super-square Leo di Caprio (stuffy Meg Ryan also threatened suit).
Left: my lo-res, "remixed" clip of Rebecca Allen's Kraftwerk video Musique Non Stop, a pop-cultural landmark from 1986. The video was actually completed in 1983-4; Allen visited Kling Klang studios and hung out with Ralf, Florian, et al in Dusseldorf. They shipped their dummy heads to New York and she did the computer modeling at the Institute of Technology there. No slouch, Allen is another pioneer figure sadly overlooked in the Whitney's lousy "BitStreams" exhibition. Check out her website, which now has streaming video of some of her other projects, including the video wall for the Palladium in 1985, Twyla Tharp's "Catherine Wheel" projections, and more recent work such as "Bush Soul #3" (no, not that Bush), where clever science fictional extrapolation manages to overcome the overall new age-y aura.
This is the third in an informal series of posts called "Wireframe Aesthetics." Part 1 (John Carpenter, Tron, Stephen Hendee) is here and and Part 2 (all Tron, all the time) is here.
The following are character descriptions from the T.H.U.N.D.E.R. Agents website. The comic book series, developed by old EC hand Wally Wood, ran in the mid-60s under the obscure Tower comics imprint. A strange synthesis of the DC and Marvel styles with the pervasive acronymania of period espionage stories (U.N.C.L.E., S.H.I.E.L.D., et al) the strip was perhaps too thoughtful and melancholic to survive long. The writing below--Stan Lee meets Hemingway by way of Thurber minus the humor--gives a good sense of the dilemmas of morality and mortality Wood & Co. posed. Here's the setup: "A United Nations team counterattacks the assault on Professor Jennings' lab. Although the enemy is driven off, the man with the greatest mind in the world is found dead. In the wreckage of the famous scientists' lab, however, are several one-of-a-kind inventions," which are worn by the series characters, turning them into flawed superheroes:
THE BELT
What was it about that belt? It was truly amazing. It had powers. It would make the wearer incredibly dense, the density of hardened steel. Muscle power far greater than ten of the strongest men on the planet rolled into one. But only on a temporary basis. And at a cost. The life force of the wearer would be strained. The strongest man could only wear it for thirty minutes before complete exhaustion. Len Brown was the agent of T.H.U.N.D.E.R. who got that belt. Every evil organization wanted that belt...or wanted the one wearing it destroyed.
THE CLOAK
A cloak that imparted complete invisibility with a turn of a switch. But it was more than just the cloak. It was what the cloak hid underneath. To give legs to his aging body, NoMan was actually an android with the brain signature of Professor Dunn. But not just one android. Many expensive androids were made, and the mind of Professor Dunn could transfer into any one of those android bodies in a moment's notice - but only one android at a time. NoMan was human.
NoMan was machine. Torn between the two, perhaps forever.
Androids are machines first, and capable of failure. If NoMan, the combination of man and machine, were to fail without Professor Dunn transferring his mind out, his mind would be lost forever.
THE SUIT
Guy Gilbert makes that suit work. Its mechanism, triggered by the dial on his chest, speeds up everything for Guy. Lightning in a bottle. His top speed is really unknown. While the suit multiplies his speed, it also has a deadly drawback: It also multiplies his metabolism. Every time Guy uses the suit and becomes Lightning, the suit ages every cell in his body. Some people shorten their lifespan by smoking tobacco. Guy has shortened his by wearing the suit. The fastest man on Earth. Running away from his own demise. The faster he runs, the faster his doom chases him.
THE HELMET
The helmet created Menthor. T.H.U.N.D.E.R. was riddled with a variety of enemy agents. John Janus was one of them. Putting on the helmet was a major triumph of espionage, and it was just as great a failure of that same spying. Besides the apparent incredible telekinetic and telepathic powers of the helmet, there were the changes to the wearer to consider. As the helmet is used, the wearer's personality is affected. At first, it only happened when the helmet is worn. But the effects eventually lasted longer. Janus had planned to do great damage to T.H.U.N.D.E.R.; he was an agent for S.P.I.D.E.R., an evil organization. But for some reason, while wearing the helmet, his evil side was suppressed. Good. Bad. How deep inside a man's brain lies the human soul? The helmet can transmit the powers of the mind into action. The helmet seems to also transmute the human soul as well. The wearer can be converted from evil to good. And that has to be the strongest power of all.
Goff alludes to the Twilight Years of the Gasoline Economy we're currently living through (how long will it take Gaia recover after we've burned all the fuel?), and James Howard Kunstler eloquently indicts the unbalanced cities we've built for ourselves in such an economy. A constant theme of his Architectural Eyesore of the Month (page back through all of them--it's worth it) is how the automobile dominates planning priorities, giving us ugly homes, parks, and workplaces. I lived in the Washington DC 'burbs for a few years and it got to be heartbreaking watching developers tear out yet another chunk of forest to make room for some crap-ass subdivision, with big fuel-guzzling houses accessible only by fuel-guzzling autos. I flew over Atlanta recently and felt like crying for the same reason. Our slash-and-burn lifestyle is just nuts.
Nothwithstanding the above (and apropos of the bloodsucking theme in the upper left corner), the most potent issue in the coming campaign should be so-called outsourcing of jobs. Here's an article about CPA firms sending tax-preparation work to India. One might argue that the trend makes sense economically if it weren't for the record salaries upper managers are paying themselves. Keep pushing it, guys, you're really gonna enjoy the view from the lampposts you'll be swinging from in a few years.
Announcing the "Young Methuselah" Award for Longest Documented Period of Emergence by an Artist (This isn't a cynical category, but a hopeful one; because of the art world's perennial boneheadedness, you can still be a "new artist" for a very, very long time.)
And the winner is:
Scott Grodesky, who was the subject of an "Openings" column in Artforum in 1992 (which "introduced the work of artists at the beginning of their careers"), and is included this month (Jan. 2004) in "First Take: 12 New Artists" in the same magazine. "First Take" selector Carroll Dunham tries to account for this absurdity by explaining that Grodesky's work has "evolved" over the past 12 years, so he needs to be reevaluated as a new artist. Go figure.
Runner-up: Judith Eisler, whose first one-person show in NY was in the Luhring Augustine viewing room in 1995. She is also included in "First Take: 12 New Artists" in the January 2004 Artforum. I'm afraid to even look at the resumes of the other 10.
And as long as we're handing out awards, the Sixth Day Award for the Shortest Documented Period of Emergence by an Artist goes (somewhat belatedly) to Jennifer Pastor, the subject of an 1996 "Openings" column in Artforum. She was included in the Whitney Biennial (for many artists a career milestone) exactly one year later. Just keep working, people, none of this makes any sense.
UPDATE: A second runner-up for the Young Methuselah Award, Gareth James, has been named. Please see the comments to this post for a real laugh.
UPDATE 2: A friend of Gareth's says he's still emerging so I guess it's not so funny. The intimidating-sounding blurb for the architecture course he teaches at Cooper Union fooled me into thinking he was already there.
Between Christmas and New Year's Jim Bassett went to LA and environs and kept everyone visually informed on his photolog. All the pictures were taken with one of those cell phone/camera/internet browser combos, and even better, Jim worked out a way to resize and upload them directly to the website from the camera. The picture above is super lush and proves (along with many others) that this method is completely "there" as a photographic medium. Nice work, Jim! The California trip pictures start roughly halfway down this page. Click "older posts" at the bottom of that page to view more. |
At Belvedere Castle we had an excellent vantage point for the fireworks that blew off when '03 changed to '04. The police helicopters keeping us all safe from terror had an even better view of the show. After the Castle several of us rode down the newly-completed bike path that runs along the Hudson, and watched the moon set over New Jersey. Great night. Happy New Year to all.
UPDATE: An animated .GIF with pics of the event, by Kristin Lucas, is in the comments to this post.
| I recently added an archive for my 2003 artwork, which includes some of the .gif animations I've been doing lately. The one below is enlarged from its actual 157 X 175 pixel size, and I'm happy to report it looks OK in Safari internet browsers. UPDATE: I moved the animations (including the one below) out of my Artwork 2003 archive and into a new page called Animation Log).
|
John Gregory Dunne, novelist, journalist, husband of Joan Didion, died yesterday. I highly recommend his book Monster: Living Off the Big Screen. Lucidly written, incredibly dry, it describes the process by which he and Didion adapted the story of TV anchor Jessica Savitch, which eventually became the dumb movie Up Close and Personal. If you want to know exactly why Hollywood offerings, and especially those produced by Scott Rudin and/or starring Robert Redford, are bland and suck, read this book. In real life Savitch's Svengali husband (played by Redford) was a wifebeater with a sick psychological hold over Savitch; barely a glimmer of this survives in the movie. Chapter by chapter, Dunne takes you through the process whereby reality, and a script, is transformed into uplifting, conventional treacle.
During the on and off writing of the Savitch screenplay, Dunne and Didion tackle a science fiction script, for a Simpson/Bruckheimer blockbuster (never filmed) called Dharma Blue. The plot concerns UFO-related goings-on at a mysterious research facility called Rhyolite. Written into a corner, they decide they need a lesson in current physics to move the story forward. Science go-to guy Michael Crichton's suggested dialogue about string theory cracked me up:
[Doctor, novelist, filmmaker] Michael Crichton has for years been our authority about matters medical and scientific. [I called him and said] Michael, tell me about string theory. "For a piece, book, or movie?" Michael asked. "Movie," we said. "You want to know what it is," he asked, "or do you need dialogue?" "Dialogue," we said, "and we need to keep it simple." "John," he said patiently, "It's a movie." We explained the circumstances. "I'll check some people and get back to you," Michael said.Dunne and Didion also start an action movie script, and feel considerable pressure to come up with "whammies"--an industry term for "special effects that kill a lot of people, usually bad people, but occasionally, for motivational impact, a good person, the star's girlfriend, say, or that old standby, the star's partner, a detective with a week left before retirement." After they submit a story outline filled with what they think is the requisite mayhem, director Renny Harlin (Die Hard 2) rejects it, and describes his ideal scenario: "'First act, better whammies,' he said. 'Second act, whammies mount up. Third act, all whammies.'"A few days before our meeting with Simpson and Bruckheimer, Michael called back with the requisite information, and helped us put it in dialogue form:
A. Most people think of the universe as having four dimensions. Height, length, depth, and time. String theorists have constructed a theoretical model of the universe with 26 orthogonal dimensions.B. Orthogonal?
A. At right angles...
B. But what does it mean that they're doing string theory at Rhyolite?
A. I think it means they're not doing theory any more.
(a beat) It means that...whatever they're out there to study...may appear to exist in more than four dimensions.
(another beat) It means they could be out there to see what 26 orthogonal dimensions looks like when it hits the real world.