Posted in poetry & verse, Uncategorized
[go to http://bit.ly/covid-ode for film version]
Volatility’s up, my stock’s gone down,
My net wealth’s slipped right under.
I’ve been stitched right up, rolled slam flat
by a juggernaut of a side-wīnder.
*
I’m now unemployed.
I’m now dumbstuck.
I stare into a void.
The cobra has struck.
*
This cough and this fever are making me wonder
if I have succumbed to life’s final blunder.
Inflamed, distressed, feeling cells ript asunder:
I’m being crushed by an awesome anaconda.
14 Tuesday May 2019
Posted in poetry & verse, Uncategorized
Tags
Nothing to do with film, everything to do with the world:
NOSTALGIA
Make America great again.
Make America dead great again,
even,
Make America dead grateful again.
Make grateful dudes deadheads again!
MAKE THE GRATEFUL DEAD GREAT AGAIN!
[credit for sparking this train of thought must go to Jason Scorse who posted an online comment on the YouTube 5-hour ‘jam only’ compilation of The Grateful Dead 1971-1983: ‘Make America Grateful Again.’ I felt this needed fleshing out.]
23 Wednesday Jan 2019
A photograph offers us the ‘brutality of fact’, in Francis Bacon’s phrase. A photograph of a face, unembellished, without make-up, face on, is known as a mugshot, and is commonly associated with the prison portrait, quite as much brutal as factual. Mugshots do differentiate faces, but also lump people into an undifferentiated mass of the irredeemable.
A painted portrait by contrast, while it often seeks to record the facts of a person’s appearance, does much more: it can humanise or personalise the subject, granting them a human identity; it seeks to give them if not eternity then permanence of a kind in paint, which is a material that can be so lasting. For technical reasons, a photograph on the other hand risks being unable to match that permanence even if by lighting, film stock, backgrounds, and a mastery of the technical possibilities of the camera, a photograph can have its own way of giving the subject a human personality that the viewer can respond to.
Ken Jacobs, the distinguished avant-garde film-maker, with a superlative catalogue of film experimentation and achievement to his credit – one of New York’s finest, you could say (and still with us) – photographed his friend Bob Fleischner in 1989. In 2009 he used this material to make one of his 3-D Eternalisms, as he calls them, Bob Fleischner Dying. It is 2 minutes 42 seconds long, in colour, HD video, silent naturally. By good fortune, rather than languish in some corner unseen it is available on the internet [see below], or five excerpts are, but since each is 32 or 33 seconds along, a total of just over 2½ minutes, we have the whole piece available.
What makes it special? How is it done? Two still images of Fleischner taken from slightly different angles are stitched together in a rapid sequence some 30 seconds long. This is a lot of still images. Watching it you want to know, “this is crazy, how is it done?” It makes you gasp at the illusionism involved, it reinvents animation. You think it is just still photographs, but the whole is far too alive for that since the nose wobbles and the head bounces, and the screen dances. This is movies reinvented.
The face shown is full on, the skin wrinkled, the hair greying at the temples, dark sockets for eyes. A mugshot? In fact the very opposite, not the brutality of fact but the poignancy of fact. Fleischner had been cameraman on Jacobs’ Blonde Cobra made in the early 1960s, and in 1989 was dying. Not only that but he was doing so at the same time as Jack Smith, the delirious star of Blonde Cobra, and maudit film-maker of the film maudit par excellence, Flaming Creatures. Jacobs wrote of his film portrait: “Bob allows his sick and fading image to be caught in stereo photography,” and in an interview he referred to the “close witnessing of Bob’s death” and the fact that it so disturbed him. [For these quotes see the Electronic Arts Intermix site: www.eai.org/titles/bob-fleischner-dying and ‘A Critical Cinema 3: interviews with independent film-makers by Scott MacDonald.]
The film therefore is nothing other than an elegy for his friend: “the man of mystery, so banal in some ways, so unexpectedly ‘on’ when the situation demanded.” You do not need to know all this background to appreciate the film except perhaps that Fleischner had been Jacobs’ companion-in-arms while he was alive. Yet the important point about the film is the way it shares with portraiture in painting a common denominator through the ages. Its subject is human mortality, the way portraiture preserves humans that are now vanished, about the decay of flesh (Rembrandt, below left), about the skull beneath the skin (Velázquez, below centre) and about capturing not so much a likeness as a texture of flesh and bone (Francis Bacon, below right).
Jacobs’ film seeks to join this illustrious company in extending the parameters of film to “come onto the nervous system” in the way Francis Bacon wanted to do in his portraits. He gives a much more precise and illuminating description of what he was doing than I have been able to do above, in describing his ‘Nervous System Performances’: “Using short film sequences projected as a series of stills, the Nervous System operates on the temporal and spatial differences between two near-identical film-frames that are often only one frame apart from one another in filmic sequence.” Latterly his particular preoccupation has been with seeing in 3-D. He writes [www.kenjacobsgallery.com/ two-eyed-paintings/], “The Nervous Magic Lantern came about after working twenty-five years with two stop-motion projectors side by side that held near-identical film-frames for long periods of time and overlapped their separate images on the screen via a spinning shutter.”
There is one other dimension that needs mentioning, that of memory. The photographs were taken in 1989, but it is only twenty years later that Jacobs makes Bob Fleischner Dying, as if it needed that length of time to gestate. First that allowed Jacobs to discover how to make it, as if the science needed to catch up with the art, which it did in twenty years. But second, the film illustrates a commonplace human experience: coming to terms with the death of a friend can take time. On his own admission Fleischner’s dying had disturbed Jacobs. In recording the moment, in getting inside it, almost in getting under its skin, Jacobs perhaps finds an accommodation of a kind with the experience that had eluded him for twenty years. In a way it constitutes a resurrection for Fleischner.
To watch the film search ‘Ken Jacobs with Eternalisms’ on Vimeo and next search ‘Bob Fleischner Dying’
Other entries in this series:
20 Tuesday Nov 2018
Posted in film noir, gangster films, painting and photography, Uncategorized
We are six minutes into the film, when the hitch-hiker gets into the back seat of the car, his face in dark shadow. By this stage we know a great deal about him. We have seen one killing told in bits: feet, car number-plate, dead victims, no faces. These are all ‘accidents’ of the hitch-hiker’s persona. So do we then get to see his substance, namely his face? Well, we get it at one remove when we are shown a photograph of the man on the front page of a newspaper under the headline, “Be on the lookout for this man!” and we learn his name, Emmett Myers.
Next, we see another killing, same pattern: shadow of hitch-hiker on road, car pulling up, hitch-hiker getting in (but no face) then night, a dead body being rifled, hitch-hiker’s feet walking away, car driving off. It turns out that this is all overture to the main event: away from home on a fishing trip, Bowen and Collins are planning to stop in Mexicali. They should have, but chance decrees they drive through it and out of it, chance metamorphosing into fate. The camera dissolve shows feet, then cuts to headlights, the silhouette of a hand hitching a lift, the car coming to a halt, the hitch-hiker getting in. (Note that by this stage it is not ‘a silhouette’ or ‘a car’ or ‘a hitch-hiker’. We are being forcefully told how this drama is going to unfold.) In a front view we see Bowen and Collins, with the hitch-hiker in the back, his face still in the dark. Bowen offers him a cigarette, and in reply a gun in close-up comes into view, glinting in the light. Only at this point do we get to see the face, the soul of this demon: the camera dollies in onto the hitch-hiker’s face moving into the light.
Pulp fiction at its sharpest. A man’s feet introduce us to someone who is always on the move, the part standing for the whole. But it is a cheap shot too, since you only need to do one take of a man’s feet standing by the side of the road. The concept gives speed and low cost, essential B-movie film-making. Second, you show his face except you don’t since it is in the dark. The close encounter only comes when you show the face harshly lit up as he moves forward on his seat. It’s kinda mean, to put it in mild terms. This is chiaroscuro film portraiture that grabs the attention.
This is how The Hitch-hiker begins, a quintessential black-and-white film from 1953. The face moving into the light is the idea probably (but who can be certain?) of Nicolas Musuraca, a high-quality film-noir cameraman. Hats off possibly also to Harold Wellman credited with ‘photographic effects’. The synecdochic opening, plunging you into the story even while the credits roll – as near to in medias res as you can get – is the work (probably) of the director Ida Lupino, one of the very few pre-feminism women in Hollywood playing a creative role behind the camera. It feels telling to me that ‘The Kings of the Bs’, an excellent anthology of material about Hollywood B-movies published in 1975, does not even mention Lupino in its list of directors. Definitely Kings not Queens.
Back to Emmett Myers, robber, murderer, hitch-hiker, into whose clutches the innocent Collins and Bowen fall. In the Westerns of the 1950s – I think especially of Budd Boetticher’s cowboy universe – the decent hero outwits the bad man. But this is a film noir, not a film blanc. Myers has complete mastery over Collins and Bowen, not just physical because he has got a gun and they have not, but psychological: he has the evil brains and nerve to bend the two innocents to his plans, and refashion American manhood not in a heroic but a Satanic image. Musuraca and Lupino let the camera revel in the situation.
Lupino directed five films between 1950 and 1953 but then went into television. More’s the pity, she could have been a contender.
Although the titles at the beginning credit the screenplay to Ida Lupino and Collier Young and an adaptation by Robert Joseph, IMDb says Daniel Mainwaring wrote the story for the film uncredited. If this is true, he is a link to Musuraca since both had worked on Tourneur’s Out of the Past (1947).
One intriguing sequel to the film is this. When I saw Myers’s face I thought I recognised it. Only when I spotted that he was played by William Talman did things click into place. Talman became well-known on TV as Hamilton Burger, the hapless DA who is regularly outwitted by Perry Mason in the TV series. (Mason was played by Raymond Burr, himself turning over a new leaf like Talman, having previously been the terrifying heavy in Anthony Mann’s Desperate and Raw Deal.) In the TV series, Talman’s face becomes familiar and therefore ordinary, so it took Lupino’s innate intelligence to see what his face could really convey, and Musuraca’s brilliant lensing to fix it on film.
-The film is on YouTube in a reasonable enough albeit imperfect copy: go to https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8UqbNhnArJ4&t=962s
-Lupino’s credits as a film director include:
– Two other posts on film portraiture from 2018 are at 15 April and 3 May 2018.
18 Thursday Oct 2018
Posted in silent cinema, Uncategorized
Italy is rich in its cities and towns. I had never heard of Pordenone, a small to medium town an hour or so north of Venice on the plain fronting the Dolomites, until I was persuaded to come to its Giornate del Cinema Muto or Silent Film Festival, an Italian gift to the world but this is yet another attractive Italian place. This Italian richness comes also from their food and their ice creams, and from their architecture, for which they have a special genius.
Duomo by day . . .
. . . and by night
Look at Pordenone’s Piazza San Marco with Duomo facade and bell-tower (above), and the mediaeval Gothic town hall, at the core of the historic centre (below), a portion of which was lost to Allied bombing in December 1944.
But also striking was the Piazzale 20 September, a broad square with a hospital for war wounded put centre stage (see at end). This is a piece of Fascist-era (I think) architecture, with a resounding inscription: quo fata trahunt retrahuntque sequamur; quicquid erit, superanda omnis fortuna ferendo est (which being translated reads: “Where Fate keeps leading us, let us follow; whatever it will be, all conquest comes through endurance”). This is iron-clad, golden-era Latin by Vergil, the poet of Roman imperialism, who like Fascist-era architecture is in our present time suspect but whose time will surely come again. Just as good is the newly built Teatro Verdi in which the majority of the festival’s films were shown, an imposing modern building of clean lines and curves.
The Pordenone Festival had several themes, two of particular interest to me: the silent films of John M Stahl, and a scatter of Scandinavian films. I found myself being drawn to the idea of reputations, how they are received and built and knocked down. Here are five thoughts:
1 John Stahl is a forgotten film-maker, undeservedly. In the new book, ‘The Call of the Heart –John M Stahl and Hollywood Melodrama,’ Charles Barr, one of the co-editors, argues that his strong association with melodrama and the ‘woman’s film’ is a key to this neglect. “Those mainstays of popular cinema are no longer the object of critical scorn or indifference, but Stahl has until now hardly benefited from this welcome change in attitude.”
Bruce Babington and Charles Barr, joint editors of ‘The Call of the Heart’, leading a discussion on the merits of John Stahl
What is more, Stahl died too early to feature in Kevin Brownlow’s ‘The Parade’s Gone By’ (1968) or to be lionized as one of the Hollywood long-distance auteurs such as Ford, Hawks, Hitchcock, Walsh and others.
It probably made it harder that the genre he worked in was melodrama which I once thought of as an acquired taste, but as I have got older, I find I have acquired it and can now accept that narrative implausibility can be trumped by dramatic impetus. I think Robert Bresson himself was not immune to the seductions of melodrama in which the ordinary is rendered as extraordinary; at least, his Diary of a Country Priest (1950) can be seen through the lens of melodrama, and his first film, The Angels of Sin (1943), which is set in a nunnery, even more so.
2 Ernst Lubitsch’s career has a different trajectory. The filmgoer in the radical 1960s could read about his reputation and his fabled ‘Lubitsch touch’. Consider the verdict in Georges Sadoul’s ‘Dictionnaire des Cinéastes’ published in 1965: “An able man who even when he was vulgar never lacked verve and know-how.” To me it all felt old-fashioned at the time, and in several decades of rather desultory contact with his films, I have not found Lubitsch to be my glass of tea. A screening of his Forbidden Paradise (1923) in a pristine print and with beautiful musical accompaniment of violin, piano and percussion was a chance to overturn my prejudices. It did not do so, although the rest of the audience was positively enthusiastic; my embarrassment was deepened by the fact that the screening was attended by Lubitsch’s daughter, Nicola, now an elegant and vivacious elderly lady who, in a separate session, reminisced with engaging stories about her father and her life. I felt I should treat her father better than I could bring myself to do.
Nicola Lubitsch with David Robinson and Jay Weissberg (on right), the Giornate Director
Nothing risks suffering from shelf-life like comedy. Forbidden Paradise is about Catherine the Great of Russia’s love affairs. A revolution was going on in the background, entirely free of violence; the Imperial soldiers were kitted out like a chorus line in over-the-top uniforms; the lord chamberlain advising Catherine (Adolphe Menjou) was a forerunner of Sir Humphrey in the TV sitcom, ‘Yes, Minister’. It was as if Lubitsch hid reality behind a veil of lightness for fear of confronting its tragic quality. This is a perfectly tenable position, if not my own, and it is a reflection on our present time that Lubitsch should be coming back into fashion. Reputations rise and fall, and rise again.
3 I did not feel that the reputation of Jacques Feyder was enhanced by a showing of his L’Atlantide (1921) torpedoed in the middle third of its narrative by the dreary décors of the secret city of Atlantis and even more so by the casting of Napierkowska as the Queen, who was definitely lacking in the femme fatale department. Georges Sadoul wielded the knife in describing her acting as ‘très 1910’.
4 The fourth reputation I had to revise in my mind was that of Gianbattista Tiepolo (1696-1770), the painter of walls and ceilings in churches and palaces to enhance the illusion of heavenly space. I went on the bus tour to the nearby town of Udine to see the Tiepolos in the Diocesan Museum created from the archiepiscopal palace. Most extraordinary was the waiting room where his technique could be studied close to, and the throne room where a remarkable version of the Judgement of Solomon
was painted on the ceiling. Like other great painters, he had the technical mastery of sky, light, fabrics, faces and flesh, and allied these gifts to compositional brilliance, taking Renaissance perspective to a more elevated level.
the angel appearing to Abraham’s wife Sarah
Tiepolo is closely linked to the flourishing of baroque architecture, another taste I have had difficulty in acquiring. I sense that fifty years ago his reputation was perhaps not as stellar as it is now and he provides another example of the fickleness of human taste. In our present culture of hyperbole, he has become an adornment.
staircase in the archiepiscopal palace
5 Like painters, filmmakers have to adjust to the ravages of time, a process which brings us back to the festival. Its purpose is to ensure that silent films get exposure, since without it they are never going to receive the critical judgement and appreciation due to them. Without the work of archives and the exposure of their labours at events like the Giornate we would be deprived of the opportunity of seeing the Scandinavian films of the silent era. We know about Hollywood before the coming of sound, about German Expressionist cinema, about French masterpieces of the time, about silent Hitchcock in the UK, but alongside these must be put the dramatic masterpieces coming out of Scandinavia. A film-maker like Victor Sjöström from Sweden made remarkable use of landscape and setting, and in Körkarlen / The Phantom Carriage (1921) one of the great ‘bottle or bible’ narratives, silent or sound; Carl Dreyer from Denmark was represented by his Prästänkan / Parson’s Widow (1921), a delicious comedy that turns powerfully poignant by the end. But there were other film-makers as well. I especially liked Walter Fürst’s Troll-Elgen/The Ghost Elk (Norway 1927). One hopes that further opportunity can be given to showing these Scandinavian films, since their reputation is only going to grow.
*
I do not quite know why but being in Italy always prompts in me bizarre reflections, so I must conclude with them:
item 1: why should the grand Hotel Villa Ottoboni accompany its breakfasts, held in a grand breakfast room, with relentless europop? The mighty are fallen.
Item 2: I need a decent bowl of decent muesli to set me up for the day. In this same hotel, the best cereal they could offer was coco-pops – but fear not, it was labelled brazenly as ‘muesli’. In the country that produced the two greatest writers on the gap between the appearance of power and the reality of power, namely the Roman historian Tacitus and the Renaissance thinker Machiavelli, what you read is not what you get.
Item 3: from the outside and in the news Italy appears to be a single unified country, but the reality is that it is fissiparous. I spotted two sets of graffiti on motorway bridges: ‘Basta Italia, semi Veneti / Italy go to hell, we are Venetians,’ and then later ‘Basta Roma, basta tasse / Rome go to hell, we’ve had enough of taxes.’ Despite these sentiments, Italy is still one country, so perhaps the solution to this problem is to conclude that while Italy’s appearance is of a divided country, in reality the country is unified by its dislike of central authority.
The Piazzale XX Settembre: the date records the capture of Rome as the culmination of Italian unification in 1870.
‘The Call of the Heart – John M Stahl and Hollywood Melodrama’ is published by John Libbey Publishing (see http://www.johnlibbey.com). It is distributed by Indiana UP, and is available on Amazon. It covers all his films and I have contributed the essay on Stahl’s The Keys of the Kingdom (1944).
14 Tuesday Aug 2018
Posted in Bresson, God, literature and film, resurrection, spiritual cinema, Uncategorized
This film (see previous entry) continues to stick in my mind. At the end of July I attended a service at St Paul’s episcopal church at Port Townsend, in Washington State (tip of NW corner of USA, looking out on Puget Sound). My Anglicanism is very much Catholic But Reformed, but this Rite 1 communion service was emphatically Protestant, very much focussed on the Word. Just like First Reformed I thought. The church even looks a bit like the one in First Reformed.
Subsequently I dreamt up a Stem of Bernanos, like the stem of Jesse:
15 Friday Jun 2018
Posted in artists' film, avant garde, Brakhage, Uncategorized
Tags
Brakhage, gamelan, Goldberg Variations, John Cage, Sonatas and Interludes, Takemitsu, Tiberghien, Vimeo
Short films on Vimeo – there’s a lot of them out there. Some are even good, and you can ‘like’ them, and choose to follow the filmmaker. But, to make a generalisation, very few of these film-makers have thought enough about ‘form’.
Form can be imposed at two points: the editing bench springs first to mind, which is where Eisenstein, the author of the celebrated ‘Film Form’, placed a particular emphasis. But it can also be imposed in the camera, at the moment the film is being shot. This is Stan Brakhage’s major contribution to film aesthetics: even if he did not discover it, yet in view of the magnitude of his corpus, it is where the idea was most explored.
Now compare music. The same challenge exists: how do you impose form on a sequence of sounds? Western music answers this differently, since it has some eight or nine centuries of history behind it (assuming, arbitrarily I concede, a starting-point of Gregorian chant). Those centuries have been used to explore expressiveness of effect, but also to explore expressiveness of means. Composers have asked themselves questions about how to juxtapose notes, sequences of notes, sections of music – as it were, words, sentences and paragraphs.
Film is 120 years old, but has it concerned itself with these formal questions? Not nearly enough, because film is assumed to be made from representing persons, objects, dramas. It is not: it is made from frames and shots and sequences.
Music is made in the head, in itself, of itself. Film can be made in the head, but for the most part it is made from what is in front of the camera. It may be made ‘in itself’ but it is assumed mostly to be made ‘of something else’.
This train of thought is prompted by hearing the pianist, Cédric Tiberghien, perform John Cage’s ‘Sonatas and Interludes’ at Snape in Suffolk on 12 June. This is music made in Cage’s head, seemingly outside the Western tradition since he took his inspiration from Eastern philosophy and the sound of Eastern music. He wanted to break the listener out of the expectation which he or she brings to the music, in order to enlarge their understanding of the world. However, Cage did not jettison Western music. For a start he used the pianoforte – and then radically amended its sound world by the idea of the ‘prepared piano’.
This ropey image shows the piano prepared by the insertion of screws, nuts, bolts etc. between the strings to alter their timbre and make the piano sound more percussive, a process which Tiberghien said took him five hours. As we peered into it before the concert began, someone said, “Isn’t that fabulous?” – before she had even heard the noise the piano would make. Then someone commented, “Look at those screws. It’s hard to get that kind these days.” When I took this photo, someone asked, “Did you get a photo? People will never guess what it’s of.”
Secondly, the title ‘Sonatas and Interludes’ looks to Western compositional tradition, an AABB structure going back to 17th/18th-century sonata form, at least for thirteen of the sixteen sonatas. It is in the interludes particularly that Cage breaks away from this (which is why they are interludes). And the overall structure is a formal one: sonatas 1 to 4/interlude 1/sonatas 5 to 8/interludes 2 and 3/sonatas 9 to 12/interlude 4/sonatas 13 to 16. Listening to it brought to mind Bach’s ‘Goldberg Variations’, whose ‘thirty variations reiterate the harmonic implications of the same bass in thirty different forms’, so that when at the end the opening melody is brought back, we hear it differently. It feels cyclical.
I think cyclicality is a part of the Sonatas and Interludes. I read that it starts and ends in G major, although in my musical ignorance I could not hear that, except subconsciously perhaps since when the piece came to a close you could feel a sense of a journey completed.
So, is hearing the Goldberg Variations a cerebral exercise, and hearing the Sonatas and Interludes an ‘emotive’ one? No, since they are both cerebral, and both emotive. At Snape, in a darkened auditorium (where I could not read my notes to give me an intellectual way into the piece), I listened transfixed to the sounds, the clusters of sound, and each of the twenty pieces, and experienced a direct communication across the darkness from the pianist’s hands to my brain processing what my ears were hearing. This was underlined by the softness of the sounds as a result of the dampening and detuning provided by the piano being ‘prepared’. The result is much more piano than forte.
This served Cage’s purpose well. Drawing on ideas he had read in the work of the Indian sage Coomaraswamy, he wanted to convey eight ‘emotions’ (humorous, angry, fearful etc.) that led the novice to a ninth state, that of tranquillity. I could not hear any of the eight emotions, except perhaps anger, but you get a strong feeling of tranquillity being the core of the piece, its purpose and its effect. Again, Cage (I think) rejects the Western idea of ‘programme music’ for an ‘atmosphere’.
Sonatas and Interludes therefore looks both east and west, an idea confirmed by Cage’s very helpful comment that the bell-like sounds are from Europe and the drum-like sounds – metallic, wooden, dampened, detuned maybe – are from Asia. This is what makes it such a major work, straddling a divide between east and west, a bold attempt at global synthesis, suitable it may be considered for a country that had just fought a major war on two fronts, Europe and the Pacific – and had won. The USA was opening itself to the world, in effect was de-isolating itself.
Cage is therefore very much of his time, and it is also true that his originality allowed him to be fascinated and seduced by an Asian sound world, notably the gamelan orchestras of Indonesia. After Cage came the Japanese Toru Takemitsu, a master of ‘Japanese sound’ influenced by French musical impressionism, Debussy, Messiaen and others. And his rain music evoking rain-drops on water, patterning it to the eye, and resonating it in the ear, is very close to the sound world of the Sonatas and Interludes.
So, it was a wonderful concert. But as someone interested in film, I was envious: why cannot our film-makers do something like this? Take Brakhage’s Text of Light (1974, 67 minutes). This is an abstract film composed entirely of light patterns, but any sense of form eludes me. You can admire its textures and their variety, and the idea that “All that is, is light”, but where do you enter this work, where do you leave it? In defence, Brakhage might invoke the idea applied to Sonatas and Interludes, that Cage is “following a system, but he has no idea where he is going” (see James Pritchett in ‘Six Views of the Sonatas and Interludes’ at http://rosewhitemusic.com/piano/writings/six-views-sonatas-interludes/), but this is admirable only up to a point, for where is the system being followed?
So, going back to Vimeo. Too many of the films I have been looking at feel too experimental, too random. There may be virtue in jettisoning Western ideas of order, tradition, proportion, a classical architecture as it were, but as I watched and admired these films I longed for those ideas to be brought back. But because film has not got all those centuries behind it, it lacks the grounding which Cage had in launching his experiments.
10 Sunday Dec 2017
Tags
angel appearing to shepherds, Francesca Vanke, Giorgia Bottinelli, Norwich Castle Museum, Rembrandt
You could make a film of the Life of Christ based on Rembrandt paintings and etchings. Here is ‘The Angel Appearing to the Shepherds’ from 1634 (when Rembrandt was 28) etched and engraved, plus some drypoint. One of his larger etchings, by the way, but still only 26 x 22 cm.This episode from the Nativity of Christ, often portrayed rather statically, is here full of movement, movement which makes the moment seriously exciting. Naturally it contrasts brightness with shadow and darkness, Rembrandt’s speciality. In order to enhance the brightness round the angel, he has enlarged the piercing in the cloud and filled it with putti. Pity really, as I could have done without them, and I feel it breaks the Rembrandt rule of making the ordinary extraordinary. Instead he makes the extraordinary more so, thus achieving a diminishing return. However the shepherds are terrific, and the animals too, achieving a gothic level of fright. Overall the effect is of a fantastic landscape in which a fantastic event occurs.
What a contrast to the 1651 etching ‘The Flight Into Egypt: a night piece’ (13 x 11 cm), in which the darkness presses in on the Holy Family as they flee from King Herod. Seventeen years on, at the age of 45, Rembrandt has a fuller sense of the sombreness of the ordinary world, a world that remains extraordinary.
I learnt all this from ‘Rembrandt: Lightening the Darkness’, Norwich’s current contribution to civilization. It is an exhibition of the significant holding of Rembrandt etchings in the Norwich Castle Museum, running until 7 January 2018. It has a good catalogue by Giorgia Bottinelli and Francesca Vanke too.
09 Thursday Feb 2017
Posted in Uncategorized
Tags
A recent ‘Spectator’ competition invited readers to submit a poem about a politician and an item of clothing. I entered but didn’t win so my parvum opus went unpublished in the illustrious pages of The Spectator, so I publish it here. In case non-British readers were not aware, the media made a stir in the autumn of 2016 with a picture of PM Theresa May wearing leather trousers.
CZAR VLADIMIR
Being Russian, he’s out-and-out iconophile:
fur hat, fur trim, leather jacket’s his style.
Vlad the Terrible, when it comes to shootin’;
His apparel proclaims we are dealing with ‘Putin’.
What’s more, there’s a rough side to Vlad the Scary –
he loves his bare chest, all hairy and bear-y.
Clothes are needless: he wallows in snow,
embracing a tiger to show how he’s macho.
Bomber jacket commands, ‘Bomb’em to hell!’
Children . . . Women . . . All who rebel.
His boyars must know they’ve lost the plot when
Vladimir trumpets, “Make Russia great again!”
Now, Trump’s jacket was made out of leather,
May’s trousers ditto. It prompts questions whether
they got the idea from the Vlad’s bear hide.
But it is faux. He is foe too, not on our side.
(c) Tim Cawkwell / Feb. 2017
22 Tuesday Nov 2016
Posted in Antonioni, Italy, metaphysical film, surrealism, Uncategorized
Tags
Antonioni, Camus, De Chirico, Donato Totaro, Ferrara, Morandi
In Antonioni’s La Notte, Giovanni (Marcello Mastroianni) is in his study, aimless as usual, much as he drifts throughout the film. When he bends over his desk, a painting is visible on the wall behind him, not just any old painting but one by Morandi.
Giorgio Morandi (1890-1964) is famous for his obsessive painting of grouped bottle and vases, an idea which preoccupied him all his life. He lived in Bologna, down the road (well, 50 kilometres) from Ferrara, where Antonioni was born and brought up. When Antonioni left home it was to go to study Economy and Commerce at Bologna University. There he began to develop his interest in art and theatre which led him to the cinema and Rome.
Did he encounter Morandi’s pictures during his time in Bologna? And in doing so, did he connect them with the paintings of Giorgio De Chirico, whose brief sojourn in Ferrara from 1915 to 1918 led to a number of his key paintings? If there is a metaphysical school of painting, De Chirico and Morandi are its most notable figures. But what connects them? De Chirico’s troubled reality is populated by architecturally strong but unadorned buildings: arcades and porticoes, such as Bologna is thronged with, especially attracted him, and in some of the Ferrara paintings the brute majesty of the Castello Estense. These townscapes are depicted with strong if colliding perspectives, and by their unexpected juxtapositions, they produce a surrealism before Surrealism. In the streets and piazzas figures are silently frozen in time. Morandi’s bottles and vases are in the ‘still life’ genre but stillness is an absent quality. He paints them so that they jostle with each other as if they were not always comfortable in each other’s presence. I have always thought of them as people, or at any rate objects with distinct characters of their own.
What connects the two painters? De Chirico turns the urban scene into a still life; Morandi takes stillness and sets it quivering. So, in that respect they contradict each other. On the other hand the atmosphere of the paintings in both feels melancholic, and often unsettled, even troubled. The ordinary aspect of things and of places is replaced with something spectral in De Chirico’s case, and in Morandi’s with something disconcerting. Both take everyday reality and make of it something strange, and it is in this I believe that they earn the title of ‘metaphysical realists’.
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Film criticism has for some time now made the connection between Antonioni’s visual style and Metaphysical Painting, and I am especially grateful to Donato Totaro for alerting me to the echoes of De Chirico in Antonioni’s films.
While Antonioni’s film-making mindset was forged by the neo-realist films being made around him, and the intellectual atmosphere in which they were created, from the beginning his feature films looked for a different appearance of the world than the purely realist one. When filming interiors, he was very attentive to objects as adding a specific tone to a scene, and when he was filming places, or rather spaces, he wanted – and found – a new photographic language to depict people within them. There are echoes here of the exploration of perspective by Italian Renaissance painters whereby people were placed into a grid of lines. Antonioni sees the world if not geometrically then as planes and shapes to which his figures must conform themselves, rather than the other way around.
Can we speak of Antonioni as an exponent of metaphysical cinema because he was drawn to the metaphysical painting of De Chirico and Morandi? This feels insufficient. Nor is he ‘metaphysical’ in the sense of Bresson, Tarkovsky or Kieślowski, to take three important names who all look beyond realism for a spiritual realm. (See my essay ‘Kieślowski before Kieślowski’ at: http://www.timcawkwell.co.uk/kieslowski-before-kieslowski.) However, Antonioni’s metaphysical cinema is close to the concept of ‘metaphysical rebellion’ that Camus proposes is the proper position for artists of all kinds, as articulated in his book L’Homme Révolté / The Rebel, published in 1951. This rebellion is a “necessary blasphemy against the created order” which disputes “the end of man and of creation”. In Antonioni this did not produce revolutionary rage as it did in some, but it did produce a deep melancholy about human relations and human purposes. This attitude allowed him to distil something essential about the twentieth century.
