Last night I watched a UK doc called Wagner and
Me, the me being British actor and personality Stephen Fry. He loves
Wagner’s work and in the film he visits Bayreuth. Besides talking about what a
shrine the place is for him, he asks the inevitable questions about whether our
assessment of art should be affected by an artist’s behavior, politics, or, in
this case, anti-Semitism. Fry is Jewish, so he embodies this conflict in some
ways. He doesn’t focus on the serial adulterer side of Wagner’s personality—so
we assume that doesn’t necessarily affect whether or not we like Wagner’s work.
I know a smattering about Wagner: the big rousing tunes, the long mythic Lord Of The Rings-type operatic saga,
his professed need to build a completely new theater to perform his new work
in, his anti-Semitism, and his Gesamtkunstwerk concept—a creative form that
embodies all the arts. But I was hoping to learn a little more, so I rented
this doc.
Wagner’s work was notoriously loved by Hitler, though of
course Wagner had been dead for decades before the little guy came to power—so
Wagner didn’t write work supporting the Nazis or encouraging the Holocaust. He
can’t be blamed as being a supporter or collaborator. However, in a famous essay
that Wagner wrote before he became successful, he railed against Mendelssohn
and another Jewish composer who was very, very popular at the time. No doubt
there was professional jealousy involved, as these guys were both wildly
popular and had found patrons to support them. Wagner, meanwhile was getting
himself deeper and deeper into debt, and at one point he found himself on the
wrong side of a revolution (though a side we might politically agree with) and
was forced to immigrate to Switzerland for many years.
After his years in “exile” he returned, having conveniently
made friends with the wife of the new King Ludwig II. The King was a madman who
was extravagant and rich beyond imagining. Below is his castle, which was the
inspiration for the one in Disneyland. The castle itself was based on a
fantasia of what a medieval castle might look like—but this was the mid-1800’s and
no one was building medieval castles anymore! Not only that, it was a
simulation of something, a physical manifestation of a historical architecture
style that had never existed. Perfect for Wagner though, as this castle has now
become a kind of archetype of a fairy tale castle and Wagner was all about
embodying German mythology and archetypes in his operas.
Can I offer that this cozying-up–to-the-wife-of-the-crazy-king-thing
might be viewed as a craven means of securing arts funding (pretty sleazy
actually), but really how different is it from the schmoozing and ass-kissing
that goes on today? And it worked. Wagner got himself out of debt, began completing
his Ring cycle of operas, and securing a suitable venue in which they could be
performed.
Most of us musicians and composers don’t have the hubris to
think that a completely new venue should be built to accommodate our artistic
dreams—though there are indeed visual artists who have had museum wings and
structures made to accommodate their work. More often we look to existing
venues (concert halls, ballrooms, bandshells, basketball arenas, and re-purposed
industrial buildings) and hope to find our work performed in the one that will
showcase it in its best light. Wagner is the exception to my rule that we tend
to tailor our art to these existing and available venues.
Wagner wanted the orchestra that would play his work to be
both larger than usual and hidden. That might seem a contradiction, but he had
his reasons. He wanted expanded brass and bass sections to accommodate the
bombast to come, and he hid the orchestra in order to submerge the music—at
least visually—more thoroughly into the total work. To his credit, he also
wanted the performances to be less elitist than opera had a tendency to become.
He was annoyed at the extra-musical behavior that often took place during opera
season—the socializing, gawking, and gossiping. To emphasize the more
egalitarian aspect of his theater he eschewed much of the Rococo decor and gilt
that often covers opera venues. This was to be serious—a shrine, a people’s
temple, set isolated on a high grassy hill.
Though I view his hubris at insisting on a purpose-built
venue as the exception as far as composers go, I realized while watching the
doc that there are indeed recent equivalents—Celine Dion, Elton John, Cirque du Soleil, and a handful of other Vegas shows have had venues specially built to
accommodate their needs. Lion King and Spiderman on Broadway in NYC are others—the
amount of remodeling and construction that went into the theaters where these
shows run effectively makes them into new purpose-built venues.
I find this slightly disgusting and unfair. I tend to
believe that part of the challenge of any artistic endeavor is to find a way to
work within the limitations and physical restrictions that have been given to
you. That’s part of the game—to acknowledge the rules and context but then come
up with something totally new within that world. Maybe there’s some creative
jealously here—I convince myself that ignoring the rules is easier than
accepting the restrictions as given; that ignoring them isn’t playing the
game. (What rules one might ask?) To propose impractical projects might be the
mark of a visionary, but one wonders if the huge effort and expense to realize them
necessarily guarantees an appropriately increased level of audience experience.
Think of Jeff Koons’ locomotive that he proposes suspending by the barely
solvent LA County Museum. Sometimes yes, bigness is indeed part of a piece—but
scale is not a sure-fire guarantee of a great experience.
Back to the question of whether or not we can allow
ourselves to like someone’s work knowing they might be a despicable human
being, hold abhorrent views, or possibly be a complete pervert. Do we care that
Picasso may have been a bad father and mistreated all his wives? Not
particularly—we tend to separate his work, or at least our judgement of its
quality, from his private life. Do we care that the poet Elizabeth Bishop made
excuses for the brutal dictatorship in Brazil? Does that invalidate her work?
The composer Gesualdo
murdered his wife. Mussorgsky
was an alcoholic. The composer Henry Cowell went to
prison for molesting young boys. Caravaggio killed a man over
a game of tennis! And the contemporary painter John Currin goes against
most of his peers and often espouses conservative Republican political views.
Actors and singers have a harder time separating themselves
from their work. Mostly because physically they are their work—to a large extent their bodies are what we see and
hear in their work—it becomes hard to separate them from what they do. As a
young man I found both Charlton Heston and John Wayne intolerable based on
their political views (though I’ve managed to watch Wayne’s John Ford westerns
lately). I’m suspicious of Scientologists—Beck, Cruise, Travolta—but they seem to keep their wacky cult leanings out of their work. More than a few
country singers hold pretty radically conservative views and sometimes it makes
it into songs like Toby Keith’s “Courtesy of the Red White and Blue”. Ted Nugent is just a crazy person,
period. It can be confusing.
And if we do sometimes judge someone’s work based on their
extracurricular behavior, is the reverse then true? Does being a good and kind
person make your work better? Most certainly not. The painter Jacques-Louis
David promoted the overthrow of the monarchy during the French revolution—something
we tend to empathize with. A lot of his work was propaganda; his political
beliefs were very much entangled in his work. Here is an unfinished work
depicting the provisional government forming at an (indoor) tennis court:
Though we might agree with his politics and instincts, do we
give him extra artistic points as a result?
Picasso’s “Guernica”—an act of political protest—is given
high marks. But imagine if instead of depicting the pain and horror of the
civilian bombing of a Spanish village, it depicted civilians being bombed by
the Allies in Dresden or Berlin. The painting might not look all that
different. Imagine what our architectural taste would be like if Hitler had
decided to promote an industrial-inspired Bauhaus aesthetic rather than the
romantic imperialism of Speer. Would modernism have been suddenly abandoned as
a project?
Wagner’s anti-Semitism is not inherent in his work, I don’t think.
Though his operas evoke a sense of the deep roots of Teutonic culture and
therefore encourage a pride of that culture, it isn’t exclusionary. So, we can
compartmentalize here if we want to. Picasso’s work doesn’t espouse bad
parenting. Currin’s paintings of grotesque nudes don’t promote the Tea Party.
Caravaggio doesn’t excuse murder in his paintings. Similarly, Fry concludes
that Wagner’s work should be judged solely on its merits, and he suggests we
view and hear it independently from his personal views.
I ran across this video on the blog 3 Quarks Daily. It's not just the murmuration that is incredible, it's the editing of this little piece—such as the choice to include the viewer's giggles at the end, echoing their stunned reaction.
Until The Light Takes Us(2008), is a documentary about black metal music culture in Norway that’s quite good. You don’t have to know much about, or even like the music to be drawn into this film. It seems that the impulse of the original black metal bands, who had a miniscule following, was in part, to defend Norwegian culture—at least as they saw it. They saw the Americanization of their culture as a terrible thing and something to fight against. When the first McDonalds came to Norway, they shot at it. Similarly, they felt that Christianity imposed upon true Norse culture and mythology (i.e. Odin and Thor)—quite reasonable, in a way (I was rooting for them, at this point).
The documentary describes the rise of the black metal scene. One guy, Gylve "Fenriz" Nagell, was the first to wear “corpse” makeup.
Another artist, to make a statement, burnt a church that was built over a pre-Christian sacred site.
One practitioner compares the scene’s music and art to that of Edvard Munch, another Norwegian, which isn’t a big stretch. Both Munch and artists of the black metal scene express parts of their culture that are generally kept tightly bolted down.
Although, they aren’t all necessarily “nice” guys. Burzum frontman, Varg “Count Grischnackh” Vikernes, is interviewed in prison (a prison with very homey curtains it seems!), where he is serving 21 years for murder and several church burnings. He describes the murder, quite matter-of-factly, in the film. It’s a chilling scene, as he comes across as articulate and disarmingly mild-mannered, explaining that their music is a way of defending Norwegian culture and heritage.
The press portrayed the black metal scene as purely Satanist, which it was not. But, it was the press’ branding of the scene as Satanic that caught fire (oops). Soon, everyone accepted this as truth and as younger bands came into the scene, they claimed to be Satanists. These kids burned more churches than ever before, and also put up 666 graffiti. It all spiraled out of control—not that there was much “control” from the start.
What began as a not totally unreasonable impulse to defend Norwegian culture, (though I’m not defending the burnings and murder) was perverted by the media. This perversion encouraged a far more deeply disturbed youth to emerge, badly copy, develop and act out in sad and meaningless ways. The “evil” thing that was preached against in press, was, in a way, encouraged to come forth and manifest.
A friend wrote to me, “David, didn't something vaguely analogous happen with American skinhead bands back in the day—I mean, decline of western civilization one day? Didn't [west coast punk groups] groups like TSOL launch entirely banal attacks on suburban ennui, but looked like skinheads with some window dressings, got written up as white supremacists, and so began a generation of surf Nazis?”
One can see how forms, not just musical, that trade and dabble in dangerous, disturbing images and provocative actions—even if these images and actions are not the main focus of their intent—run the risk of being perverted. There is, it seems, a great likelihood that potent images and actions will be used for other purposes. Not just likelihood, one can almost predict that powerful memes like these, like some strong medicine or drug, will inevitably be repurposed. It’s almost as if there really is a dark world, and upon entering, one surrenders some control—or at least maintaining control is extremely difficult. Someone like young Vikernes, disgusted by the bombardment of commercial images he saw all around him, decided to resist not just a little, but completely reject the whole package of how other people accept the world. He, alone, struck out into remote and barren territory, as he described, “to find the truth in a sea of lies.” Again, I’m sympathetic to the resistance to the McDonaldification of his country—most of us simply cave in and accept that this is the way things are going to be. It takes a saint or a maniac to reject the status quo, and maybe the two are flip sides of the same coin.
Going at this alone is a solitary quest, in a dangerous landscape, taken, in this case, without a guide. One would be tempted to say that maybe Odin, Thor, Wotan and the rest of the Norse horde, might have been summoned—but maybe these Gods or archetypes are too powerful to be confronted by an amateur. As with Voudoun, chanting, LSD and many other arts and practices that reach parts of us that we often don’t touch, it might be wise to have a professional along who knows where the dangers and pitfalls lie.
“The truth is hidden, under grass, under rocks, in a hidden trail, a forgotten trail in the forest, you know? And when you find these trails you will stumble, you will get branches in your face.” -Varg Vikernes
Additional quotes from others in the scene:
“He is like an angel lost in a dark universe.”
“It’s out there now [black metal]… anyone can have it… it’s like a brand now.”
I had a dream the other night in which the production designer of a documentary about a farm family was presenting me with some color swatches to view. All of the color swatches were dull colors—beige, pale blue and a muddy, off white. The idea, as the production designer explained it, was to make the entire setting, the farmer, his family and their home, look “better.” It was decided that the clothing and environment should be contained within a proscribed color universe. To do this, they would dye all of the farm family’s clothes, empty the rooms, repaint the walls, remove all of the knick knacks and utensils around the house and even alter the color of those in order to create a somewhat duller but more unified world.
This aspect of production design is common in fictional films. David Fincher is famous for color coordinating the rooms of his protagonists—for example, their clothes, furniture and walls might all be varying shades of bluish gray. Other movies might use this technique to confine flashbacks to golden warm tones while others might choose to unify the colors within the setting by meticulously coordinating wardrobe pieces, or even curtains and furniture. This can be obvious or subtle. For example, it’s fairly common for a white shirt to be dyed down to an off white during production of a film so it does not pop or glow too much against the background. You might not notice any of this art direction at work, but it’s there.
Anyway, many of these design elements were going to be applied to the documentary in my dream. Once the clothes, house and other items were all coordinated to depict a color-muted universe, the stuff would be put back exactly where it had come from and the family would be allowed to resume their normal daily lives.
In the dream I thought to myself, “This is very clever. Visitors to the farm family will immediately look like garish outsiders with their loud clothes, sporting colors that will inevitably clash with the toned down world of the farm. The sense that the farm is a world unto itself would, therefore, subtly be reinforced.” This seemed, in my dream analysis within the dream, like a pretty cool idea. Leave aside, as I did in my dream, the issue of whether this is a perversion of the notion of a documentary.
As my thoughts within the dream drifted, a disturbing thought arose. “What about the vegetables?” I realized, being a farm, that there would inevitably be bright red peppers, rich green leaves of kale and chard, and a variety of colorful fruits that would be brought from the farm into the house or barn. I thought to myself, “What about those? The film people wouldn’t re-paint vegetables would they? Nah, that would somehow be crossing a line.”
I purchased Jay-Z's book, Decoded, via Amazon Kindle to read on my iPad. I was mostly interested by the mosaic/collage/multimedia aspect of the book—which turned out to be less impressive than advertised.
A couple of weeks ago, I updated my Kindle iPad app, along with a bunch of other apps. A few days later, I was discussing my upcoming music book with Adam, from McSweeney’s. I wanted to show him the way the video excerpts were inserted into Mr. Z's book.
The videos from Decoded are at the beginning of each chapter—a feature I like because they don't interrupt the flow of reading. In the videos, Jay-Z sits at a desk and tells us that rap is poetry. It's nice to see him step out from behind a persona, but as far as extra content goes, it is less than hoped for. How about a tour of Marcy Projects (a subject explored in some of the chapters)? With multimedia implemented throughout the book, I thought he could have done much more with it. Regardless, there is good stuff in the book—and it has a nice cover too!
Anyway, in my attempt to show Adam the videos, I discovered that they were all gone—in their place was a message that this content was not supported on my iPad.
It seems that, once again, Amazon has removed purchased material from our devices. I suspect Apple had a hand in this as well. Apple has consistently sabotaged their competitors’ apps and software that allow you to sync other devices with their own. Then, all of the sudden, apps that once did X and Y suddenly don’t perform those functions anymore. In most cases those apps were free—so it is hard to complain too much. Although, some of the free apps contained magazines, books and other content, like Decoded, that I purchased and though they may not have been very good, I paid for them and they were mine to keep! They came to my house and ripped pages out of my book!
I love reading on these devices, as I travel a lot when I tour. They allow me to easily have access to, and read the newspapers and magazines I subscribe to... but these "fuck you" gestures to us, the consumers, reminds me of the nonsense the record companies got up to—and a lot of good it did them!
Last week I was in Lido, adjacent to Venice, where the annual Venice Film Festival is held. I had been invited to be on the jury and, naively thinking it would be a kind of summer holiday—Venice and movies? Why not?—I agreed to participate. It was hugely enjoyable—Marco Mueller, the festival director, and his team gathered an amazing selection of movies for the competition—it was almost too much of a good thing for us on the jury, so many of the films were worthy.
We watched 23 films in about 10 days, which actually meant 3 films a day on many days, as the opening and closing days were just one film each. There were some breaks—time for local wine and Venetian cuisine—but in general time was tight. I did get to spend a couple of days exploring the art Biennale, which is still up.
I reserved some bikes, as Lido, the island where the festival takes place, is absolutely flat and has few canals. There's an abandoned hospital complex at one end, completely open, WWII bunkers, and even a farm down at the far end of the island.
Most of our time though was spent watching movies, along with the public, sometimes with the filmmakers, actors and producers not too far away.
We were pledged to secrecy, a policy that Jury president, Darren Aronofsky, articulated at our first meeting. He had some previous experiences with leaks and rumors when Black Swan had its debut a year ago, so our meetings after many of the movies were intentionally set apart from others and we never had our big jury meetings at restaurants, as other patrons might overhear our comments.
The jury was a wonderfully mixed bunch; Darren, already mentioned, director Todd Haynes, actress Alba Rohrwacher (I Am Love), theater and film director Mario Martone, director Andre Techine, Eija-Liisa Ahtila, a fine artist who works in film—and myself. Surprisingly, we agreed on most of our choices and favorites, and though there was some dissension, there were no absolute splits or divisions—no animosity.
The choice of winners was hard—there were some great films that could have been included and hopefully those will not vanish or remain obscure for long. Though we tried to be objective, it is a subjective task. Despite claiming we were not prejudiced against popular films or big US productions, we ended up with a pretty artsy selection—very rigorous films that play by their own rules, which we felt all did so beautifully once that world and its rules were established. Many of these are not "easy" movies and I hope we didn't pick them because we thought they were "deserving" or would get overlooked otherwise... or to show how refined and arty we are.
Here we are, at a particularly difficult moment— happily resolved—though I look pretty annoyed in this photo! Maybe I was just squinting in the bright sunlight. (Thanks Alba for forwarding this.)
Here are the winners:
The Golden Lion Award—A re-imagining of Faust using much of the original German text by Russian director Aleksandr Sokurov. I met the actor who played Mephistopheles, the devil, after the awards ceremony—he was a dancer, not an actor and used to play in a band. Sokurov made an impassioned speech at the press conference in which he pleaded for more state and foundation support for the arts and humanities, saying that if we lose our deep culture we are nobodies, nothing. He ended by saying, and this could be a bad translation "We don't need the audience, the audience [the public] needs us!" It bordered on arrogance, but he's certainly got a point.
After the awards he got calls of congratulations from Putin, the first of which he didn't pick up, so Putin called again! Word has it that he said the same things to Putin—that without support, much art and culture will not survive.
The Silver Lion Award went to People Mountian People Sea by Shangjun Cai. It's a film that follows the lead character's descent into Hell in search of the killer of his brother. We see a side of China most of us have never seen before—junkies, shantytowns, illegal mines and a criminal underclass—so not surprisingly this film was not announced in the running until it was certain that the director and the film had made it to Venice. Even so, the first screening was cancelled due to glitches in the download of the film file from China, the second screening was interrupted by a fire scare in which the theater was evacuated and the third screening was interrupted as well, for technical reasons. One might be tempted to look for a conspiracy...
Special Jury Prize (effectively 3rd place) went to Terraferma by Emanuele Crialese. This was the most accessible and popular of our selections, a film that deals with changing economics on a small volcanic island off the coast of Italy and the influx of African immigrants/illegals. A timely subject and beautifully shot. Many of the "actors" were real fishermen and recent African immigrants who had gone through similar experiences. One of the main actors, an older man, is, in real life, a clown. The young male lead was worthy of a prize, though we decided early on to "spread the wealth" and not double up prizes.
Best actor went to Michael Fassbender for his work in Steve McQueen's Shame. As with his work with McQueen on Hunger, Fassbender goes places most actors wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole. This film is about a sex addict, so you can imagine. Carey Mulligan is surprising as well, miles from the sweet girl we've come to know in recent movies.
Best actress went to Deanie Yip for her role in A Simple Life, a film by Ann Hui. In this film she plays an aging woman (much older than the actress) who is cared for her doting son in a Hong Kong retirement home.
The Marcello Mastroianni Award for best new young actor went to Shota Sometani and Fumi Nikaido for their roles in Sion Sono's Himizu. This film, as Todd said, captures the violent mood swings and alternately inflated and deflated world of adolescence in a way that is sometimes crazy, sometimes brutal and sometimes funny. The film also reflects the increasing disaffection and alienation that young Japanese feel for their elders and their government, especially in the wake of the tsunami and the nuclear events that followed.
Best technical award went to Robbie Ryan for his work as DP on Andrea Arnold's new radical reworking of Wuthering Heights. If you've seen her previous films, Red Road and Fishtank, you know she has strong visual ideas and Ryan has been instrumental in realizing the varying looks in all of those. This one, set on bleak moors of England, was stunning.
Best screenplay went to Yorgos Lanthimos and Efthimis Filippou for Alps, Lanthimos' film about a secretive group who offer to substitute themselves for the deceased for grieving parties. Anyone who has seen his film Dogtooth (which I loved) will know what they're in for. Fairly affectless acting and lots of serious ideas about identity, acting, and some very dry humor as well. Pretty much unlike any film you've ever seen.
Here are some of my favorite quotes from our jury meetings. Maybe I will reveal the film and author of the quotes later. Maybe not.
“It gives the point of view of the occupied, using the visual codes of the occupier.”
“A film in a straightjacket.”
“It is an autistic film.”
“I liked his head shape in profile.”
“It keeps stroking the same spot.”
“It's about what is visible and what is hidden.”
“Messy, combustible and out of control.”
“It captured my bad LSD experience very well.”
“ET as the ideal Italian woman.”
“A chicken leg, well done.”
“In Italy we have problem with the mother.”
“A fairytale in reverse order.”
“The bum stroking represented a kind of contact with nature.”
“The end of the world happens every time somebody dies.”
Will Oldham and I wrote songs for director and writer Paolo Sorrentino’s new film This Must Be The Place. Needless to say, that Talking Heads song is in the film as well, in various versions, one of which is a live performance by my band and me. The film stars Sean Penn as a version of present-day Robert Smith of The Cure—an aging rock star who still wears makeup and dresses all in black.
They had a screening in NY recently, but I didn’t want to see the film in rough form, as I figured they’d eventually want me to be present for some public screening when it was done. I offered that they could pick a later screening for me to attend. They picked Cannes—whoa.
I flew Thursday night, arriving the day of the screening. Took a nap, got up and showered, dressed all in white (they said it was OK) and headed towards a rendezvous with the rest of the film people. In the hotel elevator on my way to meet up, two guys entered that looked like private security, but something was off. Their outfits were impeccable, perfectly tailored to their trim physiques—a little odd for cops. Their patches, upon closer inspection, said Beverly Hills Police. I thought to myself “this is probably a precursor of the unreality to come.” I walked to the hotel down the road and in a room were the sound editor, the picture editor, the DP the American line producer, the many Italian, French and Irish producers, Paolo the director, some LA agents and of course some of the actors.
The sound editor advised me that he had been asked to make the live performance of the song “bigger,” and he hoped I wouldn’t be shocked by what they’d done. I’m glad he prepared me! When the song started during the screening, it was more or less as I remembered us playing and recording it in Detroit, but then, as the camera pulled back and you saw more of the “audience,” the sound got bigger and you could hear audience members shouting and some singing along. I bought into it. I believed the crowd was actually that excited and rambunctious, though I knew they were not. They did a good job with the mix to create that illusion, but I wondered how he did it, as none of the extras sang along during the filming.
The sound editor said he was working on another film in London and had about 35 actor/performers on hand in a recording studio, so he threw up a karaoke version of the song and asked them all to sing along. He’s from Sarajevo, and said he was a refugee during the war. His family was totally mixed—Serb, Croat, Muslim—and thus didn’t fit into the emerging post-war situation there, where each of these ethnic groups are now more or less assigned to their own region. What was beautiful about that place before it fell apart was that families like his weren’t uncommon—families in which all the ethnic groups were represented and were cool with one another. Now he’s pretty much permanently relocated to London.
The other songs, the ones Will and I wrote, were meant to be demos that a young character, a singer, hands to Sean’s character, who listens to the CD sporadically as the movie progresses. This conceit wasn’t all that apparent, or so it seemed to me, but the songs did get heard, in bits and pieces, providing a kind of emotional commentary along the way—which was what Paolo intended.
Anyway, back to the screening ritual. There were about 20 town cars lined up at a side door of the hotel, and we were assigned specific cars—Paolo in #1, Sean in #2, me in # 3… These cars drove the 10 blocks or so along the seaside promenade up to the festival building, where crowds, a red carpet and security awaited us. There were no quickie interviews on the red carpet as one sees at the Oscars. This red carpet was carefully managed by a couple of men in formal suits. As if we were being choreographed or conducted by these guys, they directed us using hand signals to face one bevy of photographers, and then, by making a turning motion with their hands, let it be known that we were now to turn to face the photographers on the other side of the runway. Then they used other gestures to herd us a few meters further down the runway, where the same dance would be repeated. Eventually this conducted procession was led up the stairs, and we were directed to stop at various levels and once again turn and face the photographers. Then we entered the theater where there was applause for Sean and Paolo, as a voice of God spoke their names and the title of the movie for all to hear.
Our names were on our seats, so no confusion there. In the row in front of us was Pedro Almodovar, who has a new film in the festival, and we all said hi.
After the film, the lights came up and the applause started—and didn’t stop. The audience stood, as did we all, and a man with a video camera appeared in front of me, shooting Paolo and Sean receiving the applause. It went on and on…is that common here? Does it mean they REALLY liked the movie? On and on it went. I look around, beginning to fidget. Oh, there’s Rosario Dawson in the row in front of Pedro—wow, she’s gorgeous—and oh, that’s Jane Fonda, and there’s some Hollywood exec whose face looks familiar. A publicist motioned for me to go congratulate Paolo, which I did and then I tried to invisibly step to the side so the attention can go back to him.
Eventually the applause died out, and we began the parade back to the waiting cars. Inside the theater women in matching brown outfits confine the audience to their seats while we filed out into aisle. They did this by standing along the sides of the aisle, all holding hands with one another—like some strange feminine cult. They said nothing, smiling, but only a little.
Outside the security was more robust—burly men in gray suits formed a phalanx between us and the photographers, who were no longer confined behind the barriers. As we slowly advanced (and the sound system segues from Saint-Saen’s mysterioso Aquarium movement from The Carnival of the Animals—we were the animals, I suspect—into the Talking Heads version of the title song), this human barrier advanced in front of us, physically pushing the photographers back. The photographers were used to this I guess, but inevitably one or two tried to squeeze in one more snap, and the pushing became a little more forceful. At one point I was distracted as one photographer was somewhat violently shoved back in with his own kind. He slipped to safety behind a barrier.
How did all this feel? Umm, slightly surreal to be sure. Not to be taken too seriously. Flattering, yes—the ovation, of course—but even that might be taken with a grain of salt. This is show business after all, and even the audience is a willing participant in the show. That might sound cynical—their enjoyment and appreciation of the film was largely genuine—wasn’t it? But the cars and the security and the red carpet—it’s all engineered to pump up the glamour and distance the “creators” from the “consumers.” The latter is something I’m a little uncomfortable with.
One works on these things (movies, songs, whatever) often alone, or with relatively small groups. The cast and crew that were present during the couple of scenes I was on set in Detroit was small, and there’s almost no glamour during that creative production phase. The contrast with what happens here is simply hard to imagine, though who would deny that it isn’t flattering? Seductive too, I’d imagine—it’s easy to see how this monster could get a grip on one’s sense of reality.
Onward. Into the cars again and down to a large tent set up down the beach. The entire beach was covered with these white tent things. You can’t see the sand in this town—there’s the promenade, the tents and then the water with its luxury yachts floating nearby. The tents are all party spaces, clubs and restaurants, aligned one after another. A security gal at the tent asked who I was, and looked for my name on her list. I told her my name, and one of the producers jumped in and told her I’m “OK.” Inside girls in VERY short skirts offered everyone champagne. The same group as before gathered in the tent, but we were supplemented by even more invitees. I chatted with a few folks—the head of the Venice Film Festival, whom I met just recently—and then headed to the back area where I was told we folks from the movie are to go. I chatted with Judd Hirsch and his agent. He plays a Nazi hunter in the movie. The women in skirts brought out raw oysters. I heard that Luca, the film’s DP, and some of the crew (production design, costume, etc) are shooting a low budget movie in Napoli, so they would go back to work the next day, just like me. He did an amazing job on this film.
Many American directors and DPs have a habit of covering a scene to death, shooting every angle and approach as a hedge, since they often don’t have a preconceived concept of how each scene will look. I’m generalizing of course, but I think the factory approach of much American filmmaking encourages this, as do the producers who can then have scenes re-cut if they don’t get a good test result. Luca and Paolo didn’t do that. They pretty much knew how each scenes shots would piece together, so, although there was certainly coverage, it wasn’t excessive. Their approach is generally cheaper too, and though I heard the budget bloomed a bit, I suspect it was still done fairly efficiently.
I made my way to the back room, behind the back room, where Sean and some others were sitting around a giant low table chatting. He was engaged in conversation with a tall woman with bleach blonde hair—a singer, I think. She said hi to me after a bit, but I didn’t catch her name. I sat next to some business guys, and we slurped more oysters. Someone ordered a cheeseburger and fries! Courtney Love waltzed in and plunked herself close to Sean, who was at the far end of this massive lounge table, but he didn’t seem to pay much attention. She spotted me and shouted something about “I wish it went for more money!” I didn’t know what she was talking about at first, but then realized she was referring to some of her late husband’s LPs that she donated to Creative Time, an NY arts organization, for a benefit auction—among them were some Talking Heads LPs, I was told. She moved to our end of the table and began to engage with an agent sitting on the other side of me, as well as some other folks—carrying on about 3 conversations at once, all at high speed. She mentioned to the agent that she was clean, except for sleeping pills sometimes and something else—cigarettes? Wine?
She doesn’t look as botoxed and surgically enhanced as I suspected, at least based on recent photos, but when she put her hand on my knee (we’ve never met before), I figured I’d better go. So, when she was fully engaged with the agent, I slipped off, saying I needed the toilet.
I walked back to my hotel along the Croisette (the promenade), which was packed with people. On the other side of the street were luxury shops and soon another screening would be letting out. Some people in the hotel lobby recognized me from the live video feed from the festival screening and shouted “bravo.” In my room I read a New Yorker article on my Kindle about the crazy expansion of the NSA post 9/11, which I think I blogged about at one point, and then I fell asleep. It was a little after midnight, and I wondered if the party would be getting more interesting now.
I went to London this week to do a couple of days of press and promotion for Ride, Rise, Roar—the concert doc on my last tour that Hillman Curtis directed. One piece I did before I got there, for the Sunday Times Magazine, will come out this weekend, and they have a headline that apparently quotes me saying, “Simon Cowell is the Antichrist.” Ah, the British press, always taking the high road. The Times, lest one forget, is owned by a Mr. Murdoch, and was once a venerable, though incredibly stodgy, paper (WSJ—your days are numbered). They were so reserved, in a British sort of way, that they didn’t run news on the front page—ugh, too garish and unbecoming! How Times have changed. I was sent an advance copy and had a jolt—Did I really say that? It doesn’t sound like something I’d say! Then, hours later, I seemed to remember saying something like “The Sex Pistols are not the antichrist [a reference to one of their lyrics]; Simon Cowell is the antichrist.” By which I meant to convey that the devil will not arrive in an obvious way—as a snarling beast or as an anarchist rebel, that would be too easy—but as a smooth corporate dealmaker. I didn’t read any more of the article, so I have no idea what other mischief they may have stirred up.
After two days of almost non-stop talking, I had a full day off (though in the evening there would be a screening and I would do a Q&A afterwards). I decided to try what are referred to here as Boris Bikes—a bike hire system (the mayor of London’s name is Boris) that was recently installed. It is modeled after the French Velib system. Barclays Bank is a sponsor (Boris sold naming rights of the program for £25 million, officially naming the system Barclays Cycle Hire) so they get prominently placed ads on the mudguards and bag holder. Would a US bank do the same? One Goldman Sachs exec’s bonus would probably cover a whole city’s worth of these things.
Anyway, here’s how they do—and sometimes don’t—work.
They have hundreds of these stations in central London, with most stations only a few blocks from one another. There is an online map, a print map and a downloadable PDF that shows where they all are.
There was a station behind my hotel, so that’s where I went first. If you are a subscriber you have an electronic key, which is sent to you, and you insert it into a docking point and a bike is released. If you are a foreigner or “casual user,” as I am, you go to the touch screen, agree to terms—as you would on any online purchase—swipe your debit or credit card, and you’re given a simple number code, which will unlock the bike from the holder.
£1 for 24 hours, no charge for the first half hour and then charges that ramp up after that. This is to encourage fairly short trips—all of mine were, it turned out, under 30 minutes, so I wasn’t charged for time. Hundreds of pounds if a bike is not returned.
Of course, if you’re riding out of the current coverage area in the central city you’re screwed. But presumably the system will expand to Hackney and Shepherd’s Bush. You soon get the concept—that you are meant to drop your bike near your destination, and then pick up a new one at that station when you make your return trip. If both trips are under 30 minutes there are no charges. That afternoon I made 5 trips—hopping from gallery to museum to lunch joint, and it worked with only a few hitches. All legs of my trip were under 30 minutes.
The bikes themselves are sturdy (as you’d expect), with only 3 gears—London has few hills, so it turns out 3 gears is plenty. There are fenders and mudguards, a bell, and front and rear lights that work automatically—powered by a turbine on the wheel hub. They’re heavy beasts—so carrying them up some stairs to a bridge, as I did, was a thing, but on the roads I kept up with the folks on their own bikes, so didn’t feel at a disadvantage.
Problems—yes, there are some. The first time I tried to rent a bike at the station near my hotel it couldn’t read my card. A local arrived, and it didn’t read his stick either. I called the help line to alert them, and the next day it was working (I walked a few blocks to the next station the first day). Usage patterns generate their own set of problems. One station near an art gallery I went to in the Mayfair district was full—there was nowhere to leave my bike, and the clock was ticking! This happened again at another station (Barbican) and I had to once more seek a station a few blocks further away. Likewise, I’ve heard that some stations are more popular than others, and all the bikes are quickly taken. In Paris and Montreal there are trucks that ferry bikes too and fro to remedy this situation. I heard that in Paris no one rides up to the Sacre Coeur in Montmartre, but once there everyone grabs a bike and rides down the hill, so the station at the top is continually running out of bikes. The bikes have fat tires, so street bumps are cushioned a bit. One bike I had needed some gear adjustment—though it still worked. None had flats and all were clean and in good shape.
I saw lots of locals riding them—it’s becoming an accepted way of getting around here. While I was there the weather stayed dry, so I was spared dealing with the British rain. I have a feeling the locals are always prepared with collapsible nylon rain ponchos always ready in their bags. It was incredibly efficient—London traffic, despite congestion pricing, is still painfully slow at some times of day. The streets wind and meander, so a bike is often as fast as a cab, and way faster than the tube or a bus on shorter trips.
One night while I was here I went to have dinner with some friends in Stoke Newington, a charming village-like neighborhood that hasn’t changed much, as there is no tube station nearby—so it’s not convenient for commuters. On the advice of my friends I took the bus back to my hotel (number 73 all the way). I went upstairs, and sitting in the front, 2 seats ahead of me in the almost empty bus, was a man a little older than me (my estimate) with a big gray beard and a scraggly fringe of gray hair. The minute I took my seat he recognized me, and soon after began to chat, in between swigs of a massive bottle of Pepsi. He volunteered, “I’d like to express my creative thoughts, but I’m mentally ill,” conveniently dispelling any questions or doubts I might have had on the matter. I replied that a piece of paper and pencil is all one needs, to start with anyway. But he wasn’t sure. Then he said he liked “keyboard rock,” and I must have looked a little puzzled as he clarified himself —“Emerson, Lake and Palmer.” I don’t know their music, so I didn’t really have a way to engage on that matter. He seemed like a nice man, not scary in any way, though I’d lay off the massive quantities of Pepsi if I were him.
In the afternoon I rode up by Primrose Hill to The Museum of Everything—which is somewhat what it says it is. On the way I passed what from a distance looked like either a decrepit Disney ride or a massive outdoor opera set.
When I got closer, some folks told me it was an abandoned “mountain range” that used to be the habitat for some mountain goats—it was part of the London Zoo. They said it was “listed,” meaning it’s a landmark, and that I might catch a glimpse of some warthogs around the corner—I didn’t.
The Museum of Everything has only been open a short while. Previous shows focused on “outsider” art, an interest of mine, so I was aware of this place tucked behind a public library. The current show is of the collection of Peter Blake, the pop artist best known for collaborating on the Sgt. Pepper cover. He collected old circus banners and posters, elaborate embroideries by a war veteran (my personal favorites) and old sideshow and funfair paraphernalia—lots of it. Great place.
In another few rooms were displayed amazing dioramas by Walter Potter of posed stuffed animals—not tigers and bears, but squirrels, frogs, mice, dogs and cats—all set up in hilarious domestic scenes: playing badminton, boxing, having a picnic and lounging at a pub. One giant diorama called The Peaceable Kingdom had cats, mice and dogs all hanging out comfortably together.
At a gallery in Mayfair there was a show of Cindy Sherman’s new work—wallpaper with pictures of her on it, of course. The outfits were hilarious—a mish-mosh of oddball costumes and ill-fitting items found in someone’s closet. The scale of the images would have been imposing, and even uncomfortably overwhelming, except that possibility was undercut by the fact that is was, well, wallpaper.
The Serpentine gallery in Hyde Park had a show of videos by Philippe Parreno. One featured a Chinese kid and some imaginary friends made of scratches of the film emulsion that reminded me a little of Donnie Darko (one of the imaginary friends was a human size bunny). Another video recreated Paul Fusco's photos of people who turned out to watch the train bearing Bobby Kennedy’s body go by after he was assassinated. These photos were taken from the train in the mid-sixties, and the video recreated the clothes, hairstyles and cars of that period. It was moving to watch for me—the mixture of black and white folks who turned out, men standing in grassy fields, kids sitting and staring, all watching a slow moving train go by. But there was no wall explanation, so I wondered if I was the only one who knew what this was supposed to be in reference to. One had to know the original photos as well, or so I imagine. The Londoners couldn’t possibly know what it was meant to depict, even if the leaflet at the gallery entrance told them—most folks don’t read those. What’s the thinking here? Were there stories behind the others as well?
At the end of this 10 minute film the window blinds raised on motors, and we saw artificial snow falling outside the windows—a lovely effect, as it looked almost, though not quite, real, but not sure how it relates to the videos.
At the Tate Modern there was a room of Soviet Russian posters. This same room had a show of Soviet avant-garde magazine designs from years earlier. Most of the posters were made in the late ‘20s and ‘30s when Stalin came into power, and they were chilling—though once again, one had to know a little to understand why they were so creepy. These were plastered up everywhere at the time—in every little village—to encourage Stalin’s drive for industrialization and the collectivization of the farms. This latter drive was unbelievable in its cold-blooded ruthlessness. It’s estimated that 30 million died of starvation as a result of this effort, especially in the Ukraine—the farming and breadbasket that fed the rest of the Soviet Union.
Here is a poster encouraging the hounding of Kulaks—roughly middle class farmers who were not wealthy by any means. These folks were driven off their lands, and the state took over and ran things as badly and inefficiently as one can imagine. I’m not entirely opposed to the state narrowing the gap between the very rich and the horribly poor, but this was the gutting of the middle class. The poster, called “Drive the Kulaks off the Kolkhoz!” is attributed to Sergei Ivanov in 1930.
Looks a little anti-Semitic, would you say? Nice shirt though! This was 1930—well before Hitler’s rise.
Then up to the Barbican center where there was a survey of 4 decades of Japanese fashion design. A large exhibition—it occupies 2 floors (but it could be even larger), as some of these folks have done such radical stuff and have left such a radical legacy, that it’s hard to absorb it all in a survey like this—but it gives a taste.
They did point out that Kenzo, Issey Miyake, Rei Kawakubo and Yohji Yamamoto—some of the early innovators—brought the Japanese aesthetic of not revealing the body very much to Western fashion—a strange idea at the time. Their clothes weren’t tight or conventionally sexy, rather they were floppy and baggy, with the wearer semi-hidden in a kind of fabric cocoon.
Of course there were other more formal and material innovations as well: clothes made of bamboo, clothes made entirely of one piece of fabric, clothes with extremely subdued color palettes. Sort of conceptual clothes that don’t always flatter the wearer in the normal sense, they were more like artworks in a way. They didn’t reveal their charm or beauty immediately, in fact some looked ugly the first time you see them.
A younger generation—Jun Takahashi, Tao Kurihara, Fumito Ganryo, Matohu, and Akira Naka—have loosened up a little, with some body hugging zones and more bright colors, but the formal and material innovations haven’t stopped. Here’s one made of what looked like a plastic news printed top and shredded documents for a skirt:
It looks like something made from recycled materials in Africa, but I’m sure it cost a fortune!
Another outfit included a matching parasol/hat and large bulbous things around the hips, like Victorian bustles turned slightly to the front.
Some of this younger generation of designers attended St Martins College of Art and Design here in London, but they moved back to Tokyo to begin their practice—an interesting amalgamation of cultures at work.
Last night was the screening of the tour doc Ride Rise Roar, and I did my flogging-the-product-bit by doing an on-stage Q&A with writer Paul Morley after the film ended. It was held at the Ritzy cinema in Brixton—a lovely old converted music hall with a bar/lounge upstairs. There was a satellite truck outside and about 47 cinemas round the UK had simultaneous screenings (projected digitally—not so expensive as it would have been with 35mm) and the Q&A was beamed to them live as well.
Elly (La Roux), whose show I’d seen at Terminal 5 in NY, came by with some of her pals—she lives close by, as is the studio where she’s working on a new record. We chatted about tour disasters. I was flattered.
Went to Antony's show last night at the renovated Alice Tully Hall at Lincoln Center, which was part of Jane Moss’ White Light Festival—a performance series more calm, Catholic and spiritual than most. This show featured Antony with the Orchestra of St Luke’s, as well as Thomas Bartlett from Antony’s band on piano. The sound in the renovated theater was spectacular. Congrats to Diller Scofidio + Renfrew on their work there; as well as turning what was a socially dysfunctional lobby into a real and vibrant space where some people seemed to be hanging out who weren’t even going to the concert.
The arrangements were by different people, and Nico Muhly described his contributions as being sometimes difficult, but always sight-readable. This was a practical consideration, as Antony toured this show (without the accompanying film) around the world, and at each stop needed to rehearse and perform with a new local orchestra. With limited rehearsal time, the arrangements had to sound good given the time allotted. And last night, they did—some were atmospheric, establishing a slowly shifting ground over which Antony could pour out his heart.
The music portion was accompanied by a film called Mr O’s Book Of The Dead by Kazuo Ohno, a groundbreaking Japanese Butoh dancer who passed away earlier this year. This film, something I’ve never seen before, was contemporaneous with the wild films by Jack Smith made in NY in the ‘60s. Here is a production snap from Smith’s Flaming Creatures.
Apparently, Ohno and Smith didn’t know one another’s work, but the results were remarkably similar. It made one think that this primal dress-up and cavorting style was in the zeitgeist—a case of parallel evolution, one might say. As if it had to appear at that moment, in different spots around the world. A response and evocation of something that was expressed in exactly this way, and now what exactly that was is not obvious to us…though one can see the lineage that extends to Antony pretty clearly.
Here is Ohno (though this is not a still from Mr O’s Book of the Dead).
For those who associate Butoh with the cosmic elegance of Sankai Juku, the troupe who perform semi-naked, covered in powder as if slowly enacting some deep profound and ancient ritual, the group in Ohno's film would be a shock. While there are white-powdered bodies in both, the group in the film also sports tacky women’s clothing and wigs, and in one scene cavorts in a pigsty—the style is a radical departure. And though sometimes profound, more often these Butoh groups evoke the chaos, repulsion and horrors of postwar Japan. Elegant, it’s not; groundbreaking it was—which is why I suppose Antony wanted to bring it to the attention of his fans, and on Halloween Eve no less! It’s a way of showing where he comes from as well.
Anyway, I can’t speak to the other programs in the festival, but seeing this one made me feel that the old, weird (and beautiful) New York that one often hears eulogized so often, as if it is a thing never to be seen again, is still with us.
Not too much to say, but there are lots of pictures.
Visual chaos:
Woody contact paper options — from the paper market street:
A mysterious device — for displaying flowers I suspect:
A painting in a Buddhist temple on the 3rd floor of what looked like an office building. Many, many eyes — hands with eyes in them, a little skull and a calm center with neatly trimmed facial hair:
A series of shrine objects outside the Gwangju Folk Museum. A minute earlier there were a bunch of school kids playing with the va jay jay…ignoring the penis.
An improvised parking space holder (the log so it won’t blow away):
And a tiny fragment of a video by Seoul artist Kim Beom, shown at yet another biennale — the 6th Seoul International Media Art Biennale! What a mouthful! It was a good show though. This video was of newscasters being made to say, via clever editing, things about hair combing and various mundane activities:
