8.11.2005
tsai ming-liang's the wayward cloud
i often find that my greatest problem, artistically, has more to do with vocabulary than with form or content. meaning that it's neither inspiration nor technical prowess that tends to trouble me, but iconography (and its process of generation). my ideas formulate and my skills are what they are, but finding the right forms for them is a horse of a different color.
in this regard, taiwanese (technically malaysian) filmmaker tsai ming-liang is an important source of inspiration. i can think of no other filmmaker working today with a vocabulary as fine-tuned and idiosyncratic as tsai. his world expands into three dimensions on account of a stubborn sense of reduction, resulting in a near-empty world populated only by the objects of his most tender concerns. every element in a tsai film bears the warm glow of obsession. in the tradition of yasujiro ozu, his work finds its momentum on account of the parameters he puts into place, rather than in spite of them. the films that result appear as slices of a single narrative, building upon one another in a slow state of expansion.
tsai's most recent film is the wayward cloud, the third installment in a quasi-series which began with 2001's what time is it there? and continued with a little gem called the skywalk is gone in 2002 (which, FYI, is included as an extra on the region 1 dvd of goodbye dragon inn). much fuss has been made regarding its status as a sequel to what time-- and, make no doubt about it, the wayward cloud's potent mix of provocations will certainly ruin that film for many. you see, the not-quite couple from what time is finally united in the newer film, thus abolishing a certain fantasy of "impossible love," among other things. and both characters have found work in the porno industry this time, to boot. tsai-regular lee kang-sheng (arguably my favorite living actor) becomes a bona-fide porno-star, whereas quasi-love-interest chen shiang-chyi works in an adult video store.
(plot-wise, i won't say anymore. as far as i'm concerned, the ideal way to experience this film would be with a decent understanding of his previous work, and as little info regarding the plot as possible)
the wayward cloud is not so much a sequel to what time is it there? as it is a synthesis and extension of nearly all of tsai's major themes... the erotic, water-logged landscape that drenches most of his work is reconfigured as a widespread drought... the left-field musical outbursts of the hole return with greater absurdity... the lurid kinks of the river are pushed to audacious extremes. even tsai's strangest thematic element, namely the watermelon-as-love-object bit in vive l'amour, resurfaces in strange and amusing ways.
with nearly every trick in his bag on display, tsai essentially begins thinking out loud. his trademark long-takes and restrained performances remain in tact, but the smooth, unifying sensuality he last explored in goodbye dragon inn is nowhere to be found. this is tsai at his loosest and most vulnerable, and possibly his most brilliant as well.
the film remains on the offense from beginning to end. his typical art-house understatement is shadowed with garish song and dance routines, blurring the lines between boho ennui and hysterical sentiment. tsai's trademark slow camera is doubled by the long-takes of hardcore pornography (perhaps the only arena wherein such cinematic duration is typically endured?). if he has previously concerned himself almost entirely with cinematic humility, the wayward cloud reverses his usual logic. it is a film of great violence-- aesthetic, ideological, emotional and physical violence-- that throws both author and spectator into an unreasonable state of uncertainty. it is enormously intelligent and deeply juvenile at once, and it will undoubtedly alter the way in which his work (past, present and future) will be both apprehended and comprehended.
something i find very distinct in recent film-making is the way that certain films generate complexity on account of their overtness. the wayward cloud (in a manner not unlike claire denis' trouble every day, for example) moves always in the direction of ecstasy. a scene that begins with an obvious, metaphorical provocation extends beyond its initial meaning, acquiring the physical OOMPH of an utterance. tsai is a sinewy filmmaker; he stretches things (tensions, gazes, actions, attention-spans). and he applies his hand to atrocity as well. tugging away, he finds an excess in content. an appendage to the obvious. there are a number of ethically questionable moments in the wayward cloud. a convincing argument, for example, might be made in regards to its considerable potential for misogyny. but i love it, nonetheless. tsai's tenderness clings tightly to his rising pitch. his viciousness remains lugubrious, but never hateful, pushing his project ever further into those zones of great complexity where one finds laughter, tears, and cum.
in this regard, taiwanese (technically malaysian) filmmaker tsai ming-liang is an important source of inspiration. i can think of no other filmmaker working today with a vocabulary as fine-tuned and idiosyncratic as tsai. his world expands into three dimensions on account of a stubborn sense of reduction, resulting in a near-empty world populated only by the objects of his most tender concerns. every element in a tsai film bears the warm glow of obsession. in the tradition of yasujiro ozu, his work finds its momentum on account of the parameters he puts into place, rather than in spite of them. the films that result appear as slices of a single narrative, building upon one another in a slow state of expansion.
tsai's most recent film is the wayward cloud, the third installment in a quasi-series which began with 2001's what time is it there? and continued with a little gem called the skywalk is gone in 2002 (which, FYI, is included as an extra on the region 1 dvd of goodbye dragon inn). much fuss has been made regarding its status as a sequel to what time-- and, make no doubt about it, the wayward cloud's potent mix of provocations will certainly ruin that film for many. you see, the not-quite couple from what time is finally united in the newer film, thus abolishing a certain fantasy of "impossible love," among other things. and both characters have found work in the porno industry this time, to boot. tsai-regular lee kang-sheng (arguably my favorite living actor) becomes a bona-fide porno-star, whereas quasi-love-interest chen shiang-chyi works in an adult video store.
(plot-wise, i won't say anymore. as far as i'm concerned, the ideal way to experience this film would be with a decent understanding of his previous work, and as little info regarding the plot as possible)
the wayward cloud is not so much a sequel to what time is it there? as it is a synthesis and extension of nearly all of tsai's major themes... the erotic, water-logged landscape that drenches most of his work is reconfigured as a widespread drought... the left-field musical outbursts of the hole return with greater absurdity... the lurid kinks of the river are pushed to audacious extremes. even tsai's strangest thematic element, namely the watermelon-as-love-object bit in vive l'amour, resurfaces in strange and amusing ways.
with nearly every trick in his bag on display, tsai essentially begins thinking out loud. his trademark long-takes and restrained performances remain in tact, but the smooth, unifying sensuality he last explored in goodbye dragon inn is nowhere to be found. this is tsai at his loosest and most vulnerable, and possibly his most brilliant as well.
the film remains on the offense from beginning to end. his typical art-house understatement is shadowed with garish song and dance routines, blurring the lines between boho ennui and hysterical sentiment. tsai's trademark slow camera is doubled by the long-takes of hardcore pornography (perhaps the only arena wherein such cinematic duration is typically endured?). if he has previously concerned himself almost entirely with cinematic humility, the wayward cloud reverses his usual logic. it is a film of great violence-- aesthetic, ideological, emotional and physical violence-- that throws both author and spectator into an unreasonable state of uncertainty. it is enormously intelligent and deeply juvenile at once, and it will undoubtedly alter the way in which his work (past, present and future) will be both apprehended and comprehended.
something i find very distinct in recent film-making is the way that certain films generate complexity on account of their overtness. the wayward cloud (in a manner not unlike claire denis' trouble every day, for example) moves always in the direction of ecstasy. a scene that begins with an obvious, metaphorical provocation extends beyond its initial meaning, acquiring the physical OOMPH of an utterance. tsai is a sinewy filmmaker; he stretches things (tensions, gazes, actions, attention-spans). and he applies his hand to atrocity as well. tugging away, he finds an excess in content. an appendage to the obvious. there are a number of ethically questionable moments in the wayward cloud. a convincing argument, for example, might be made in regards to its considerable potential for misogyny. but i love it, nonetheless. tsai's tenderness clings tightly to his rising pitch. his viciousness remains lugubrious, but never hateful, pushing his project ever further into those zones of great complexity where one finds laughter, tears, and cum.
j.k. huysmans, against nature
i have mixed feelings about j.k. huysmans' "french decadent classic" against nature...
first and foremost, it is one hell of a weird novel. it's not really even a "novel," actually. it is literally an account of the indulgences of a fussy, rich reclusive. its ever-changing series of literary and aesthetic oddities have more in common with a contemporary mix tape than with much of the "realist" literature of his time. huysmans follows his own, boundless appetite from thrill to thrill, with complete indifference to conventional narrative. historically, i've got to admire the punch it must have packed when released. moving casually from the perversions of petronius, to the fantasy world of gustave moreau, to the cultivation of fake-looking breeds of flower (one of the book's finest and oddest moments), huysmans brings forth an epic of (mostly) unapologetic, masturbatory indulgence.
reading it in 2005, however, many problems i've learned to expect with 19th century literature arise. des esseintes-- huysmans' fickle, peculiar anti-hero-- is as unpleasant as he is fascinating. his aristocratic sense of entitlement, occasional tendency to characterize things according to national/ethnic stereotypes and rampant misogyny are all bitter pills of the era he was borne out of. but beyond that, there is an assumed sovereignty that runs throughout the book, and occasionally overwhelms it. des esseintes' idiosyncratic tastes definitely distinguish him from his surroundings, but they often seem constructed to maintain such distinctions. his arrogance as an individual-- rather than his (more interesting) desire, libido or sense of curiosity-- propels his endless discoveries. huysmans writes like he's got something to prove.
des esseintes is also a melancholy figure, and his sadness is, frankly, pretty dull. throughout the novel, he constantly resorts to a vague, spiritual longing far less interesting than, for example, his pre-psychedelic flower garden. huysmans contradicts his own, defiant amorality by insisting on the temporality of des esseintes' various novelties. and an old cliche sets in-- his technicolor porno world needs a god stuck into it, and the sun ain't gonna shine anymore. which would be fine, and even interesting, had the book dealt with such longing as something other than the logical extension of its author's own expansive hatefulness. by book's end, i no longer felt the desire to shower myself with his bling-bling of yester-year, and i didn't feel like following him to church either.
first and foremost, it is one hell of a weird novel. it's not really even a "novel," actually. it is literally an account of the indulgences of a fussy, rich reclusive. its ever-changing series of literary and aesthetic oddities have more in common with a contemporary mix tape than with much of the "realist" literature of his time. huysmans follows his own, boundless appetite from thrill to thrill, with complete indifference to conventional narrative. historically, i've got to admire the punch it must have packed when released. moving casually from the perversions of petronius, to the fantasy world of gustave moreau, to the cultivation of fake-looking breeds of flower (one of the book's finest and oddest moments), huysmans brings forth an epic of (mostly) unapologetic, masturbatory indulgence.
reading it in 2005, however, many problems i've learned to expect with 19th century literature arise. des esseintes-- huysmans' fickle, peculiar anti-hero-- is as unpleasant as he is fascinating. his aristocratic sense of entitlement, occasional tendency to characterize things according to national/ethnic stereotypes and rampant misogyny are all bitter pills of the era he was borne out of. but beyond that, there is an assumed sovereignty that runs throughout the book, and occasionally overwhelms it. des esseintes' idiosyncratic tastes definitely distinguish him from his surroundings, but they often seem constructed to maintain such distinctions. his arrogance as an individual-- rather than his (more interesting) desire, libido or sense of curiosity-- propels his endless discoveries. huysmans writes like he's got something to prove.
des esseintes is also a melancholy figure, and his sadness is, frankly, pretty dull. throughout the novel, he constantly resorts to a vague, spiritual longing far less interesting than, for example, his pre-psychedelic flower garden. huysmans contradicts his own, defiant amorality by insisting on the temporality of des esseintes' various novelties. and an old cliche sets in-- his technicolor porno world needs a god stuck into it, and the sun ain't gonna shine anymore. which would be fine, and even interesting, had the book dealt with such longing as something other than the logical extension of its author's own expansive hatefulness. by book's end, i no longer felt the desire to shower myself with his bling-bling of yester-year, and i didn't feel like following him to church either.
mitchell akiyama, small explosions that are yours to keep
an album i'm enjoying lately is mitchell akiyama's small explosions that are yours to keep, which i found via the infinitely useful and illuminating aquarius records website.
the album's combination of avant garde electronics and humble acoustic flourishes makes it a welcome addition to a growing crop of warm electronica-- best represented by albums like matmos' the civil war or the books' the lemon of pink. but whereas those records were quirky and surprising, akiyama's is contemplative and even. for something knee deep in glitchy embellishments, small explosions is remarkably smooth and lyrical. akiyama avoids several "electronic" stereotypes-- no goofy samples, no abrasive cutting, no illusions that anyone would ever dance to it, and so forth. instead, it builds slowly, with a cinematic sort of grace. string, horn and laptop take turns in the spotlight, and there is no self-consciousness about the fusion. slowly--often very slowly-- the moods change alongside the instruments. the title track, with its precise orchestration and handsome composition, has a bit of the other-worldly charm that makes the music of moondog so strange and singular. it's not often that a recent album points in that sort of direction.
all in all, it's the perfect reading music for my nightly train ride-- drowning out annoying chatter, keeping me awake, and providing a soundtrack to my brain's activity. a more appropriate soundtrack for such a brain might be one accompanying a benny hill skit, or some such thing. but a boy can dream, can't he?
the album's combination of avant garde electronics and humble acoustic flourishes makes it a welcome addition to a growing crop of warm electronica-- best represented by albums like matmos' the civil war or the books' the lemon of pink. but whereas those records were quirky and surprising, akiyama's is contemplative and even. for something knee deep in glitchy embellishments, small explosions is remarkably smooth and lyrical. akiyama avoids several "electronic" stereotypes-- no goofy samples, no abrasive cutting, no illusions that anyone would ever dance to it, and so forth. instead, it builds slowly, with a cinematic sort of grace. string, horn and laptop take turns in the spotlight, and there is no self-consciousness about the fusion. slowly--often very slowly-- the moods change alongside the instruments. the title track, with its precise orchestration and handsome composition, has a bit of the other-worldly charm that makes the music of moondog so strange and singular. it's not often that a recent album points in that sort of direction.
all in all, it's the perfect reading music for my nightly train ride-- drowning out annoying chatter, keeping me awake, and providing a soundtrack to my brain's activity. a more appropriate soundtrack for such a brain might be one accompanying a benny hill skit, or some such thing. but a boy can dream, can't he?
