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4.17.2005

laughing at the big red one 

i'm always perplexed (and usually annoyed) by the amount of laughter generated in movie theatres. i think a certain type of spectator feels an obligatory sympathy for what they're watching... it's as if the preview for hitch will feel "human" inferiority if you don't chuckle at each and every white-men-can't-dance joke, or something like that...

with that grouchy disposition in mind, i found myself alternately annoyed, intrigued and finally impressed with the bursts of laughter that punctuated last night's screening of the big red one, in all its "reconstructed" glory. like many of sam fuller's other films, the handling is often way over-the-top. it occupies a strange middle-ground between tragedy and comedy. this very loaded paradox may well be what excludes it from the kind of critical praise surrounding films like the deer hunter and apocalypse now (which were made at roughly the same time). for my money, the big red one is as strange and dynamic as anything in apocalypse (i'm more convinced of the latter's "goodness" than its "greatness"). but the tone is much trickier, and the brow is a bit lower. and alongside fuller's clashing collage of approaches, humor begins to play a strange part.

i'll use a famous example... early in the film, a young private trips over a landmine. lee marvin then walks up to the private, informs him that he will not die, picks up the soldier's blown-off testicle, shows it to him, tells him not to worry "cause god gave you two" and discards it. alongside this rather shocking little oddity is a long, lyrical shot of the soldier's soot-covered hand moving slowly across the rubble to his crotch. the soldier then exclaims "i've still got my dick!" over and over.

as you might imagine, people laughed. and at first, i found the laughter obnoxious. the shot of the hand impressed me quite strongly, and whereas marvin's wisecrack was a good one, it seemed a conventional excess overshadowing a more important element. but as i thought about it, i became equally impressed with the convention itself. fuller takes a rather humble approach to atrocity, never assumming he's conveying any true "reality" (for example, the film opens with the phrase "THIS IS FICTIONAL LIFE. BASED ON ACTUAL DEATH"). rather than reducing his audience to suffering armchair war veterans, fuller uses the "fun" of the war film itself to arrive at a chilling indeterminacy.

the big red one is funny at all the wrong moments. fuller's approach is occasionally conventional, but he misplaces his conventions. jokes appear where one expects eulogies, sermons or hysterics. it's off-putting to the senses. he creates a hiccup in the space between apprehension and comprehension. and without moral posturing, fuller makes the point when the laughter dies more effective, on account of its emptiness. there is an underlying silence to the film; a sense of what can't be conveyed or comprehended. but rather than cultivate this silence and embellish it, fuller lets it lurk in the peripheries. it pops up in the breath that follows a joke. and it certainly surprises you.

underwear in the films of tsai ming-liang 

tsai ming-liang loves to film people in their underwear. in fact, if there could be a central image surrounding his body of work, it would undoubtedly be that of lee kang sheng in his tightie-whities. underwear is an important obstacle in a tsai film. it stands alongside his narratives, literally marking the halfway point between public and private behavior. it mirrors the strange allure of his characters' struggles. underwear prolongs tsai's romanticism and activates his ennui. lee, in his boxer briefs, is denied the raw appeal of nudity. he can't strictly be viewed as an object of desire. he's got tightie-whites on. he looks ridiculous. his briefs become the flesh of personal vulnerability, reducing him to something more legitimately naked.

kiyoshi kurosawa 

if there's one thing to be said about the current crop of japanese supernatural thrillers-- best personified by the grudge and ring films-- it's that they appear to be, perhaps accidentally, constructing a new genre of horror itself. and parameters are being set accordingly... these films concern themselves with simple cause/effect premises (i.e. watch a VHS tape that makes you die a week later), prompting some sort of official investigation (either by a detective, or an agency, or a specialized protagonist), which inevitably leads to the discovery of an other-worldly atrocity of some sort. the emerging genre is caught between the ghost story and the detective story. and thanks to certain key filmmakers, this formula is not yet formulaic-- it is a useful catalyst.

having recently seen three of his films, i'm inclined to say that kiyoshi kurosawa is clearly emerging as a major force in this regard. with his careful compositions, nihilistic sense of humor and lean philosophical understatement, kurosawa (no relation to akira) is making the sort of intelligent, atmospheric horror best personified by alfred hitchcock or, more specifically, the val lewton productions of the forties (which are also new and exciting to me). his films are at once watchable, beautiful, insidious and subversive.

(MINOR SPOILERS TO FOLLOW, but nothing too bad...)

kurosawa's films generally begin with a categorical inverse of the typical horror plot line, in that there is no experience of the protagonist's psychological (or supernatural) breakdown. kurosawa's universe begins in the aftermath of such a traumatic event. in cure, for example, koji yakusho is not in danger of losing his identity-- it's already long gone. the film's fire-lighting antagonist ironically takes over the role of investigator, pushing ever closer to the protagonist's central lack with incessant, diabolical questioning. he utilizes the logic of explanation typically reserved for a hero. the horror at stake is philosophical rather than psychological. if 2001 best personified the sublime horror of nietzschean "eternal return," than cure does the same for the "socratic method." the villain's endless, empty questioning points to a stubborn and unchanging entropy. there is no remedy for the hero's torment, and the villain's endless taunts emphasize the lack of a psychological identity at all. whereas the typical horror narrative hacks away at a once-coherent individual whole, the horror of cure is in the constructive dimension. the terror is that of a nothing attempting to become a something, instead of the reverse.

doppelganger pushes similar themes in a different direction. here, the protagonist's identity is alive and well, but duplicated in a second form. koji yakusho stars again, this time as a mad scientist trying to mechanically duplicate the behavior of the human brain (via a hilariously broke-ass robot of some sort). yakusho eventually stumbles upon his literal doppelganger-- a subject who is 100% physically "him." but there is no struggle for authenticity, and little spiritual hocus pocus. for a while, the two join forces in a manner not unlike that of cronenberg's dead ringers (a film to which doppelganger might pay a perverse homage). together they seduce a woman, steal parts for the scientist's work, and hire an assistant. the momentum of creative duplication takes center stage, with increasingly bizarre and ridiculous results. kurosawa takes great, goofy pleasure in exploring the parent trap-esque cinematic possibilities of his premise. ultimately, his playful indifference to individuality begins to shape into a comedy, at which point the film lets it all hang loose. by its conclusion, i was both baffled and delighted.

best of all, though, is his recent film bright future. without revealing too much, the film concerns two conspiratorial young friends who work at a factory. one of the two (portrayed by tadanobu asano) has a poisonous jellyfish for a pet, as well as a rather irrational temper. eventually, and somewhat inexplicably, he murders their boss from the factory and lands himself in jail. the free member of the duo is instructed to take care of the jellyfish, which asano has been attempting to assimilate to fresh water. eventually asano's father arrives, attempts a reconciliation with his jailed son, and finds him as elusive as any good kurosawa character must ultimately be. frustrated, he joins forces with his son's friend in attempting to bring asano's aquatic project to fruition.

the emerging impression of bright future is not entirely horrible or humorous. with well-handled computer generated imagery, kurosawa's jellyfish becomes an apt symbol for the curious, inhuman richness that fuels the momentum of his films. again, familiar subjectivity is called into question. but in bright future it is done so almost out of an admiration for the erasure at work. kurosawa treats nothingness and destruction with a great love. as i watched a parade of computer-generated, venomous jellyfish glide along a fresh-water river (one wonders if wes anderson may have been watching the same thing???), i felt a deep affection for the plague being unleashed. like the films of shohei imamura before him, kurosawa's work embodies a kind of warm nihilism. he expresses himself through affectionate gestures of defiance. he reshapes and revitalizes his cinematic universe according to the divine whims of his own deep kinks.

kenzaburo oe, nip the buds, shoot the kids 

this week i read kenzaburo oe's nip the buds, shoot the kids...

it's pretty bleak stuff-- concerning a war-time plague in a japanese village, and the reform school adolescents who are left behind in it. the tone is atmospheric and somewhat allegorical, concerned more with its distinct sense of dread than with plot or even character development. which is fine in my book. oe was only 23 when the book was published, and his matter-of-fact handling of adolescence probably benefitted accordingly. the book thankfully avoids a too literal distinction between adult brutality and childhood innocence, even if that somewhat familiar idea is ultimately at its core.

the best way i can describe it is to compare it to similar texts i found less successful. for example, there is none of the gratuitous sadism and rural paranoia of jerzy kozinski's the painted bird, which is thematically similar. oe's accounts of extreme brutality (and there are quite a few) are far less carnivalesque than kosinski's, and far more convincing. the coolness of his prose has a great slowness to it. it's evenly written, and it's only in reflection that the real horror of his content fully sets in. oe opts more for mood than schematics, and accordingly avoids sadistic glee of any sort.

despite the namelessness of oe's village and its inhabitants, as well as a generally fable-like approach to subject matter, the novel does emerge as a statement of sorts. his emphasis on territory and exclusion, for example, are hard to seperate from the militaristic ideologies of japanese society prior to world war II (not that i have any real right to characterize them). in this sense i also found nip the buds more successful than michael haneke's recent apocalyptic film time of the wolf. in that film, a similar sense of anonymous suffering is conveyed, but it becomes almost too anonymous. haneke dares, rather admirably, to avoid the cliches of personal conflict, but never really finds anything to fill in its place. oe doesn't have that problem. nip the buds is effective as a story as well as an allegory. and i usually hate allegories.

still, i must confess that despite admiring this book, i didn't fully enjoy it. being fairly open to melancholia and dark subject matter, i usually enter such dreary realms with relative ease. but nip the buds is effectively miserable. at times i felt like i was a bit too close to its literary apocalypse. which i suppose is to its credit, in the end, but it certainly wasn't pleasant.

james baldwin, the devil finds work 

i highly recommend james baldwin's wonderful, illuminating non-fiction text the devil finds work. baldwin's book occupies a middle ground between "film theory" and "memoir," without succumbing to either the stuffiness of the former, or the narcissism of the latter. put most simply, it is an account of the experience of watching movies. it is casual in tone, but harsh when necessary. it is nuanced and infinitely insightful, but reads as if it were an excerpt from an everyday conversation. when i consider my own tendency to decorate unoriginal ideas with flowery, pretentious language, it is both humbling and encouraging to read a text that appears so effortless.

the majority of the book is dedicated to what one might call the ideology of the spectator. as an african american (as well as a man attracted to men), baldwin considers the assumptions of a hollywood film in relation to his own (misinterpreted, ignored and occasionally rejected) identity as a spectator. he considers what is lost and gained by his own point of entry, and how the cinematic mechanisms of persuasion operate accordingly. his strategy is multi-dimensional and thorough, though not at the expense of the reader. the magnitude of his observations seem almost to arise without effort. baldwin remains critical and political without ever succumbing to vain sermonizing.

much can be said about the nature of "manipulation" in relation to a work of art. and often, fantasies arise concerning an "un-manipulative" approach to art-making-- one in which the spectator is asked simply to bear witness, make up his/her own mind, and so on. this unlikely scenario is not without its merits, particularly as we are fed the daily syrup of our mediated culture (and blah blah blah). one of the great successes of the devil finds work is its expansive apprehension of the coercive and trance-inducing power of film. baldwin considers the framework of narrative storytelling itself, alongside various-- often "meaningless"-- embellishments, and sets them against historical lineages concerning race and identity. it's amazing how porous his subjects become.

avant garde cinema link 

here is a link to a page containing some interesting, hard to find experimental films from the likes of man ray, harry smith and hans richter. it also contains an interview with craig baldwin, and dali/bunuel's worth-the-hype un chen anadalou. i've only watched one so far. i have DSL and it still took a while to boot up, so proceed accordingly.

georges bataille, l'abbe c 

over the past week, i did two things to my copy of l'abbe c that would make its author proud:

1. i read it.
2. i barfed all over it.

...what better to read as you make war with your worst stomach flu in years than a novel by mr. bataille?? even if this is ultimately an unessential one. the story concerns twin brothers: charles-- an amoral libertine conducting an affair with an enigmatic prostitute named eponine, and robert-- a priest who we are told is unusually pious and dedicated (however, there's precious little in the narrative itself to back up such claims, which gets confusing).

bataille uses this literal "duo" to raise many of his usual dualities-- taboo/transgression, love/betrayal, orgy/sacrifice, etc. a love triangle emerges between the two men and the prostitute, which unfolds in a series of atmospheric, kinky episodes of considerable dread. true to much of the rhetoric surrounding him (especially that of hal foster), bataille writes compulsively. many of the ideas that run throughout his work appear and reappear within the text, and the emphasis is as much on the pleasure of repetition as it is on new discovery. which is fine-- this is part of what gives bataille his strange, erotic distinction.

all in all, i found the novel better in parts than as a whole. and the parts i found most rewarding were inevitably the philosophical bits. unlike similar-minded frenchmen of his era (genet, celine, etc.), bataille often strikes me as uncomfortable within the confines of a "story," however loosely constructed such a thing may be. he's at his best when he's philosophical, or even poetic. but when he's tied to the nuts and bolts of storytelling, he often opts for archetypes and allegories that leave me feeling a bit hollow.

if anyone is interested in bataille, this site is an excellent resource, containing (among other things) a free download of his most famous novel the story of the eye. also, for a more involved inquiry, i highly recommend his non-fiction text erotism: death and sensuality as a point of entry. i wish i had started out with him by reading it. it'd have cleared up a few things a lot quicker. if anyone knows why it's called "erotism" instead of "eroticism," i'd love to hear it. finally, i leave you all with an andre masson drawing of bataille's acephale, which i think crystallizes a bit of the heavy-metal-surrealist allure of him as a figure...

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ten things that once terrified me 

(*** indicates things that still do)

10. the high dive.

9. what would happen to my body if i drank enough jolt colas in a row.

8. that thing that crawls into that dude's ear in wrath of khan. it's still gross. (oh stop pretending you don't know what i'm talking about...)

7. the film version of whitley strieber's communion-- which i still have not seen to this day. its sheer existence was enough to bring on the willies. two of my closest friends growing up had parents who believed quite genuinely in alien abduction. this factor, overlapping with my already overactive imagination (as well as whatever psycho-sexual mumbo jumbo you are inevitably whipping up, dear reader), created a short-lived era in which i was totally terrified of aliens. then along comes this movie-- which is bad enough-- with christopher fucking walken in it, on top of it all.

*** 6. those weird, often patriotic segments they play when a t.v. station goes off the air for the night. cliche as it may be, nothing triggers that uncanny world-is-ending feeling quite like it. the fact that a signal meaning "no more t.v." has the power to unleash a primal sense of my own mortality is rendered no less visceral by its extreme and unforgivable banality.

5. the dance sequence from alice cooper's welcome to my nightmare video.

*** 4. the alien from meatballs II...

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*** 3. when kids would wrap rubber bands around their fingers and make them turn purple.

2. two separate scenes from the 1984 film ice pirates:
A: the "time warp" sequence at the end, in which all of the characters start to age really rapidly
B: the scene where robert urich picks his nose and eats it.

*** 1. sex

j. hoberman's the dream life 

(well, i already broke my pact with myself... this week's book took two weeks. ho hum.)

for the past two weeks i've been reading the dream life: movies, media and the mythology of the sixties by village voice film critic and all-around-good-opinion-haver j. hoberman (or, as i like to call him, J HOBA).

hoberman's book re-traces our most-hyped decade of the recent past as seen at the movies. as a project, the emphasis is more on history than aesthetics. hoberman plays it pretty straight, beginning with the cuban missile crisis (via dr. strangelove, the alamo, fail-safe, etc.) and ending with a rather insightful look at how film reflected upon the sixties from a distance (his analysis of hal ashby's underrated shampoo is particularly fascinating). he keeps things focused almost to a fault, following a protocol of history and socio-political meanings with little aesthetic overlap. his film choices fall in stride, producing some intelligent insights regarding some unintelligent movies (which is part of the fun). i'd have preferred a more incestous brew, but his simplicity keeps things readable and informative. just keep in mind that this book will make you genuinely consider renting films directed by john wayne.

in the book's aftermath, "the sixties" remain as peculiar and enigmatic to me as ever. for one thing, its heroes strike me as a strange mix. whether it's the hippie embrace of charles manson or the avant-garde affection for clint eastwood (then and now), there are some stand-out elements in the peace-and-love equation that strike me as in terrible faith. however, i don't come away from this book wanting to obliterate the sixties either. the sudden bursting forth of ideas and actions that constituted the decades's major events are worth reckoning with. instead, i'm left to reckon with my own generational hostility to the era-- the punk glamour of a skeptical stance towards it, and the glee one finds in its hypocrisy. this is the reactionary emotion that turned jane fonda into such a straw-man perhaps. i wonder about its limits, and what is worth doing with it. and i haven't really thought it through very well yet.

i'm just rambling along, so i'll stop.

quick thought on grand illusion 

my favorite thing about jean renoir's film grand illusion is that it's the only war film i've ever seen without an antagonist. "war," as construed in the film, is not so much a struggle as a predicament. throughout the narrative, characters on both sides of the conflict (world war I) make continuous attempts at an agreeable co-existence. they interact with one another. they act out of a sense of duty, instead of righteous hostility. one gets the sense that war is an awkward fit to them, both physically and psychologically.

in this sense, i think that grand illusion is not only more effective, but also more radical than the "anti-war" films i've come to expect from the 1970's onward. renoir's war is external instead of internal; physical, rather than moral. whereas the wars of coppola, stone, etc. caution society against its own barbaric id, renoir's war is something that could done away with entirely. in this sense, it is fitting that grand illusion is ultimately an escape film. on many levels, it assumes the potential of an exit strategy. renoir's characters are manipulated by the abstract mechanisms of power that give rise to state conflicts. they fight a war which lacks their own fingerprints. they jettison the existential guilt integral to the assumption that "war" is a truism of human existence.

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