What is Hollywood, you ask, dear children? A quorum of whores babbling endlessly on about fucking while the bordello is razed for a penny arcade -- Paul Bern

Sunday, October 24, 2010

STOCKHOLM SYNDROME


Kawaii is philosophy. Didn't you know? Kawaii-spirit help us make happy position with consumer culture. But also enigma, because panda is lovable and much scary in alternation.

KAWAII is like good, warm friend who is somewhat sinister.

Like the THINGS that make us happy and not-so in life.

RUBBERNECKING!


1961. Rosi decisively re-invents the Process movie. Salvatore Giuliano is a film where a protagonist, even a story is mere pretext for exploring discharges and flux in a socio-political force-field, in history too. Protagonist-as-ghost, whose non-existence in conventional terms of narrative realist practice, is a structuring absence that makes other, more secret, things appear. The film is relentlessly anti-spectacular, wedging open spaces in its' narrative, even in Narrative itself. Rosi's film and the others that follow are ultimately poetically mysterious, a-definitive, requiring completion, even perhaps, action. 

“The raw material I had to work with when shooting Gomorrah was so visually powerful that I MERELY FILMED IT in as straightforward a way as possible, as if I were a passerby who happened to find myself there by chance.”

"I didn’t want to make a film against “the System,” but about “the System.”

2010. The process movie (Trafik, Zodiac, The Wire, Gomorrah, Che, The Social Network, Carlos) is now the fashionable realist symbol for complexity. These are coffee table movies, laced with moral and factual "demi-biguities" but whose energy, in the final analysis, is exhausting, neatly totalizing. They don't BURN, either. Their factualist fatalism is not earned, not a worldview, but just a style to meet and surpass their apathetic audiences. 

These movies make us zombie-voyeurs of zombie-systems. And what they absolutely can't show is their own fatal complicity in the only system that matters: the spectacle. 

more here: http://semtexfollies.blogspot.com/2010/12/rubbernecking-part-2.html

Thursday, October 21, 2010

FANTASY LABOR


The main reason one is forced to recover the expression 'phantasy' is because 'fantasies' are what two dead and boring huevones decide to ACT on of a night, having conceived them, like their children, after watching one of Zalman King's fulminant erotic dramas.

Let me, in the name of the Marquis de Sade and the Barons Klossowski, be as forceful in my clarity as possible -- if your fantasies are something that can be relieved by merely acting them out, you lack force of imagination.


CALL FOR A GENERAL STRIKE 
against FANTASTIC PRODUCTION!!

STOP WORRYING ABOUT YOUR PENSIONS!

RIOT FOR CHASTE, CRYPTLIKE BEDROOMS!

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

SYNDICATING IN THE DREAM WORLD

THIS looks ancient, submerged, somehow. Something about the beauty of the offsync effect and the 16mm. The 80's was video and MTV, but never this.



Claire Denis: "Our brains are full of literature - my brain is. But I think we also have a dream world, the brain is also full of image and songs and I think that making films for me is to get rid of explanation.
Because there is, I think, you get explanation by getting rid of explanation.
I am sure of that."

Tuesday, October 19, 2010

WHY HAMSTERS?


There's a big bad new aesthetic on the block, bitches.

ANDY WARHOL meets HELLO KITTY

Here's an example:

Additionally, [Celebrity Novelist] has drawn perhaps 5,000 hamsters with Photoshop, Microsoft Paint, and pen/marker since graduating from New York University in May 2005 with a degree in journalism.

When asked, "Why hamsters?" at a reading last September, [Celebrity Novelist] reportedly mumbled something like "I don't care about hamsters" before qualifying incoherently and then saying, "I don't own any hamsters" both defensively and wistfully. But a few months later, during a presentation titled [Celebrity Novelist]'s Drawing Style" at Kansas City Art Institute, [Celebrity Novelist] reportedly orated at length and fluidly about how he likes hamsters "a lot" because "they're the most minimal animal, their heads are also their bodies," adding that he also likes megamouth sharks and toy poodles and, somewhat jarringly, that "ocean sunfish are like hamsters but fish and a lot bigger."


Also: again with the fuckin' hamsters 
you forlorned twee-cliche machine...? 

You know what I'd like to see, is a fist fight between this genius
and TIMOTHY FUCKING CAREY. 


 Somebody set that up. Please.

Sunday, October 17, 2010

SUPERNATURING


One of the first functions
of realism in the cinema
is how the
money spent in the being there
(but never wasted)
upon conversion into image,
is refracted and reverberates
out unto real objects
manifesting or lacking a consequent allure.

This reciprocal charging of the non-space between image and real
benefits both in their natural (essential) poverty.
 
This is the obscure mysticism of money...
Bresson: Getting close to things may be the way to perceive supernatural things. The supernatural is always in reality, it is something real to which we approach as much as possible.

Saturday, October 16, 2010

GENRE RECIPE


You say there's nothing new under the sun...?

Start here: Homely Science Fiction -- a SF of poverty.

Now subtract the science, send it to outer space...add some wacky Ritwik Ghatak framing, now make the protagonists mutes, give them lots of "business". Use cheap radio shack microphones.

Lastly, set the whole thing underwater.

Thursday, October 14, 2010

DE MAYERLING A SARAJEVO


Whenever my hotheaded compadres start bitching about the Putos Gringos or NATO, I offer them another glass of slivovitz, and then I tell them:

It's not Rome.

It's Austria-Hungary.

In other words, a bureaucratic fable of empire rather than an actuality.

and then I say, more gingerly...

When it's gone, you'll be sentimental about it, like everyone else.

Even more than the others.

Wednesday, October 13, 2010

THE NEXT GREAT TELEVISED STRUGGLE


Climate Imperialists..

"The climate crisis is the result of the very uneven pattern of economic development that evolved over the past two centuries, which allowed today's rich countries to attain their current levels of income, in part through not having to account for the environmental damage now threatening the lives and livelihoods of others."
vs. Malthusian Fascists

"But the per-capita figures (of GHG emissions) rolled out by the "climate justice" proponents hide a real elephant in the room that few want to acknowledge and discuss: the huge surge in population growth from about the end of the Second World War, and most of this in developing countries."
The practical solution: use green nano & cloning technology to create Dinosaur Preserves in the tundras where the excess populations can be eaten on the pretext of eco-tourist adventures. These could be shown on the Discovery Channel, National Geographic, etc.

MAITRE D'KARAOKE

Plastic, man, plastic.

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

DANICA PATRICK


Phallustrade: It is an alchemical product, composed of the following elements: an autostrada, a balustrade, and a certain amount of phallus. -- Max Ernst

I don't normally review product, but I found this in the 'Muslim Interest' section of my video store. Impossible to resist.

Nascar Hijab (2007) directed by Wahid R. Jones.

Below is the barely literate text from the back cover of the DVD:

A woman Nascar racer, will fight to wear the hijab in the races, "God's helmet" she calls it, against infidel good old boy racers, and her own very traditionalist father.

She will force to recruit a pit crew of rednecks...and, difficultly, find a sponsor. Who can it be?

Her christian nemesis dares to run her off the track, into a spectacular wreck, when the car catches fire, and her hijab traps her in the burning car, she will tear it off to escape. (May God be Praised!) She grabs the yellow flag from the track official and ripping it off the pole wraps up again. In this, she receives the sincere admiration of many immodest white trash girls when they take the hijab to their own heads in emulation.

At the climax she is targeted both by Nascar track commission and a fanatical Salafist. The matter is settled successfully and they will marry!

Friday, October 8, 2010

THE INVENTION OF THE ART MARKET

 (from the New York Times: Pol Pot explains a joke at his latest Gagosian show.)

For example in 1924 when I proposed the fabrication and circulation of objects appearing in dreams, I envisaged the accession of those objects into concrete existence as more of a means than an end, despite the unusual aspect they might assume. Certainly I was prepared to expect from the multiplication of those objects a depreciation of those whose convenient utility (although often questionable) encumbers the supposedly real world; this depreciation particularly seemed to me very apt to release the powers of invention, which in terms of all we know about dreams, are magnified when put in contact with objects of oneiric origin, truly tangible desires.  -- André Breton

Wrong, comedically so, on all counts! Now...can we please put them back where they came from...? And clean the affected areas with bleach. Thanks.

SO BEAUTIFULLY RETRO...



Well, the Freres Lumiere had their shot. Now it's Melies' turn. The thing about Avatar  is that, notwithstanding all the bells & whistles, it could have been made in 1938, with squeaky Shorin Sound at Mosfilm. A socialist realist picture transposed to some fantastic candyland where Pan is Stalin. This rather fresh bit of product arrives complete with the Problem of the Nationalities, a sweaty-handed respect for Soviet Science, and Techno-kulaks like Giovanni Ribisi who can’t be kind to Mother Russia, er, Earth. The militarized muscle propping up capital, in the end so, so meek. And beautiful blue masses mustered into revolt by the class-traitor in the wheelchair. The only thing missing in this world of hunters, is a tractor, striped with war paint. Everywhere you look, it's an advert for monumentality, like those statues of Lenin or Hussein's crossed sabers. I never thought the fishbowl of Fascist Space could look so beautiful & clean, man! Sign me up.

The movie also is amusingly designed as a Vertovian allegory of its own production -- putting actors at ease about motion capture technology, helping them rise from their crippled & banal naturalism into the kabuki world of The Volume, into the lair of the wizard Melies. 

It's Deep Ecology exported into virtuality. 

In Cameron's world, the digital humane has as much value as the leaf, but less than the floating mountain. And as for the stereoscopic micro-registers of rumble filtered emotion -- Cameron makes Lucas look like Leo McCarey.

Hippie fascists around the world might fade their glazed smiles, unhold hands, & pause for a moment to consider that if James Cameron is the king of anything, it is not of the World or the Universe, but rather the techno-kulaks. And also, that he represents the full sexless firepower of hollywood hegemony, that the natives can only muster bows and arrows against. So lock n’ load!

WHAT WILL IT BE TONIGHT, DARLING...


To the extent that our everyday lives are ruled absolutely by the amoral (paramoral?) forces of commerce and technology, bourgeois morality was forced to set up its' Government-in-Exile in a new scape: 

our phantasies and our images.

A rather dull state of affairs.

Tuesday, October 5, 2010

MEMO TO FINCHER


Hey Dave:

Great job, kid. But you forgot the cardinal rule: If you're going to use CGI, use it expressionistically -- to undermine, you know, the realism. Like I did with whatshername's tits in Eyes Wide Shut...Otherwise ya knocked it out of the park -- where did you find all those vitamin deficient Russ Meyer bimboes -- hubba hubba!

Your pal, Stanley

p.s. myself, I would'a gone with The Homosocial Network -- just to see the Marketing harakiri squirmfest trying to sell that!

“THE CAR DOESN'T MEAN ANYTHING!"


Concerning Lord Love A Duck (George Axelrod, 1966)
(Originally published in Automovilinak, the Czech Edition of Movieline. Translated to English by Frantisek Dolezal.)

A mabusefilm. A defiant, Buñuelian spitball in the face of the Fascist Youth Culture that would engulf much of our world, leaving us eternally frozen, spring-like and banal. To the now-unemployed, unnamed worker-heroes of MGM who decided in a fit of cocaine psychosis to re-release this film: Our eternal thanks!

So what’s up exactly with this duck picture? Axelrod was a brilliant autodidact, a Sturges wannabe, & Bob McNamara’s hipper, funnier, fratboy brother, but the time was out of joint for him. He suffered an infamous piece of exile’s bad luck in Hollywood: The Manchurian Candidate, a perfect match for his sensibility and a scratch too ambiguous for its pop-cultural moment. A cosmic failure in its moment, it becomes the ur-film of “hollywoodbrand” paranoia leaching slowly like battery acid out into the dirty real world; what was surely intended as absurdist satire of the cold war paranoid, made by fellow travellers of the Kennedy Cosa Nostra – in the wacked-out interim transforms into a parallel universe Warren Report. Time is funny that way. Just ask any of the vast army of twitchy, sweaty Bennett Marcoes walking the streets today to explain it all to you.

Axelrod took this dismal sucker-punch and kept on fighting, and this sickly moonchild of a film is the result. If you can stand it, another bit of unheimlichkeit…Tuesday Weld, the female Brando and Actor-Auteur without peer, and for our purposes, the mysterious narrative engine of Lord Love a Duck, publicly declares her own mother dead to the press circa 1970. The poor woman protests that not only is she defiantly alive – her callous, shrewish daughter, in belated revenge for her issuance, has forsaken her not just ontologically, but in the way of finances, too. In the absurd, improbable fictions of Lord Love a Duck, Barbara Ann Greene, future star of Bikini Widow, trying to hide her humbler origins to her mother-in-law, fabricates the death of her father, who in reality is quite well and “lives in Oxnard somewhere and sells things…” Axelrod placed a sinister inside joke in his masterwork that wouldn’t ignite for another four years. Spooky, huh?

Like any good surrealist art object – Lord Love a Duck moves with a precise dream logic which I will only attempt to sketch in the absence of plot. And since the “plot” is nothing but awe for the tacking perversity of female desire -- in other words, the film reveals the secret operation of the world, its Langian heart, (lub-a-dub) usually covered in a veil of cashmere sweaters. The very DNA of the film itself is erotic and masochistic. What makes it truly weird, and perhaps inscrutable, is its odd historicity: this sort of film was only possible in the interregnum, that brief period of the withering away of the Hays Code, where the rules were clear, and thus subvertible, and the coming of Valenti’s user-friendly cooperative of Magic 8-ball Gramscian auto-criticism and self-censorship courtesy of the gringos' much beloved ratings system. You might even suggest that Lord Love a Duck was conceived exactly for the purpose of exploding the contradictions in the code which had bedeviled Axelrod and Wilder in The Seven Year Itch. But there is something tragicomic about this misplaced heroism, because like cold warriors after the fall of the Soviets, the joke was on them, because the negative structures that had made their art possible were gone forever. Now, for a demographic price, you can show anything but imply nothing. Like the useless tut-tutting on cigarettes, the MPAA’s orwellian content warnings (“Now, Griselda, if I have to see another one of them Universal piñatas swole up to bust with Thematic Content, I’ma gonna kill som’body…) merely draw the flies to the shit.

Roddy McDowall is a teen Mesmer figure (the ancestor both of J.D. from Heathers, and Ferris Bueller) who’d seem mildly creepy & despicable except that his only “queer” power, in both senses of the word, is to recognize and affirm Barbara Ann’s ever-shifting desire. His inverted, perverted passivity is weirdly erotic. Yet any supernatural implication of his mojo is carelessly banished by the empty symbolic poverty of the key. Note his look of bafflement when Barbara Ann asks him the unanswerable question: “…what do you get out of it?” And Roddy’s Fordian stare that can’t help but suggest Huw Morgan’s farewell in the colliery elevator in How Green Was My Valley as he replies: “I think of things.” Let’s recap: action as the feminine principle; demonic, passive contemplation (sometimes recognized in this Rabelaisian film as ogling) (1) as the masculine one. Axelrod has been justly calumniated as a specialist in post-war misogyny, a sex-farceur Strindberg, but impotent misogyny and its phantastic, utopian component is always his subject – not his agenda.

T. Harrison Belmont, the movie producer who serves as the “weenie king” of this picture – is another locus of contemplation: “Fifteen Beach Pictures I’ve made. This is the first time I’ve ever been to a beach.” A melancholic realization that is very Axelrod. Belmont watches the orgiastic Antonionian gyrations of the kids on the beach (see, it really is a Beach Picture!) in search of the (his) movie’s star, who is on his yacht next to him, though he doesn’t yet realize it. “Teenage Vampires are a big drag…” mutters his ex-star, Kitten, who is being kicked upstairs into Older Sister Roles: an Axelrod joke that took till 2008, Annus Twilighticus, to explode.

The funniest things in the movie are thrown away like fake jewels – the humor is completely peripheral, and very much in the slovenly, non-linear mode of the old Kurtzman MAD aesthetic. The style rewards re-watching. Like a tracking shot in the midst of a set piece about a drive-in church, which passes without emphasis on a Baez-like gamine listening to the sermon while sitting side-saddle on a motorcycle – this is too obscure to be an actual gag – it’s rather a comic image worthy of Tati. And speaking of Tati, he is also present and accounted for in the echoey comic sound space of the Bauhaus-lite ranch house living room, and in the strange African mask-like high school intercom speakers that carry the fragile cargo of Harvey Korman’s idiotic musings about his flock. Later there is some truly odd gag-wrestling between pseudo-rivals on the beach, as they jockey for position in the neighborhood that is Tuesday’s body. The rival, Bob Bernard, (Martin West) is maniacally pursuing absurdly contradictory agendas – he must chaperone the girls on the beach while seducing the very willing Barbara Ann, so his aggressive use of his body as a physical shield between the weirdly asexual Roddy and the elemental Tuesday W. is hilarious overkill. Later that night, Bob must tear himself away from a half-hearted make-out session with Barbara Ann because he has left the other girls at risk for their chastity, and as he leaves, he struggles into his absurd plaid blazer which leaks prodigies of sand from the sleeve. What does this rich, ambiguous image mean?

Nothing and everything.

As if not semantically burdened enough, 1950s Bob is a marriage counselor with (what else?) mother issues. She is Ruth Gordon, in a shrewd bit of Axelrodian shorthand. In the quest to fullfill her own desire, Barbara Ann is also hung up between two formidable mother figures: her tres louche divorcee mother, (Lola Albright) wearing some vaguely animalistic suit, the representative of chaotic sexuality (Bob: “Your mother is a prostitute!” “My mother is a cocktail waitress”, protests Barbara Ann) and her future mother-in-law who semaphores the lawgiving matriarchal power: “We don’t divorce our men, we bury them.” Of course, just as in real life, it’s no contest, and chaotic sexuality must yield to matriarchal power, as Mrs. Greene tears her own tail off after a brutal humilation in the suburban realm.

But only Barbara Ann can articulate the flailing, spectral nihilism in her and her mother’s life: “You don’t mean anything, and the car doesn’t mean anything, and nothing means anything!” This cry serves as prologue to the dazzling tonal shift into the best scene in the film, where the demonic Roddy leads the frenzied Barbara Ann into the bedroom where her mother lies dead, and then sweetly tells her not to touch anything, for the sake of the insurance, because it must look “like an accident”, not ever like a systemic failure of American, nay, Commercial life; This is pop cultural Marcuse – shining at the last twilit moment this stuff would be visible – of course it’s no wonder nobody got it. The death scene has real pathos, despite being savagely undercut by Roddy’s later bemused characterization of it as having “restored his faith in suicide”. Because it pays off the gag of Barbara Ann’s mother’s face-bending isometric exercises, “it’s called the silent scream…” which turns into a real, final living scream of despair, and finally the suicide, which helpfully eliminates the obstacle to the mixed class marriage.

The promised bliss, however, never comes, because by then Lord Love a Duck shifts into a perfunctory meta-farce of sexual repression and frustrated coitus – a 60’s suburban version of L’Age D’Or where Barbara Ann’s sexual expression now becomes the malevolent focus of the Matriarchal Force that is Ruth Gordon. So, Barbara Ann, taking her mother-in-law at her word (“we don’t divorce our men…” etc.) enlists Roddy in the murderous quest to get herself out of the marriage. By now, Barbara Ann has realized that her sexual satisfaction lies in the perfect narcissism of the life of the movie star, furs and flashbulbs, as promised by T. Harrison Belmont – all prefigured in the strange insouciance of the Godardian title-sequence-as-trailer iteration of the movie’s themes. At the end of the film, Barbara Ann actually becomes a movie star in the Belmont stable, even as Tuesday Weld is driving away in her Buick from all of that into her ironic, iconic apotheosis.




Fellow renegade Bruce La Bruce downplays Axelrod’s subversive re-definition of the Weld persona, but gets the Essence of Tuesday absolutely right: “A modern-day Elektra, Weld negotiated this Oedipal inversion by formulating it not as some petty rivalry between women for the sexual attention of men, but rather as a profound acting-out against the control of a variety of patriarchies, from the traditional family to the Hollywood system to America itself.”(2) Sure as shootin’, it’s Tuesday’s movie, but let’s be clear – it’s George Axelrod’s deft and wicked systems of textual manipulation and surrealist failures of sense that generate a good measure of the punk energy in Lord Love a Duck. It is a Sternbergian film maudit that you could kill a whole day playing the lipstick traces game with. Axelrod knew how to wail the wounds in the American Psyche like Charlie Parker. For us, today, we’re left alone with that oh-so-tasteful Mid-Atlantic freak Sammy Mendes. God help us.


Notes:
1) Rabelais? Yup. The notorious, cosmically meaningless hot-dog scene. And Barbara Ann’s father (The Great Max Showalter’s) lustful drooling at his daughter’s body, and Showalter’s empty, mirthless Cassavetean laughter, and Harvey Korman’s prissy yet maniacal principal; All Rabelasian Grotesques.


2) La Bruce, Bruce, Pretty Poison. An excellent, perceptive primer on La Weld.
http://www.nerve.com/screeningroom/film/tuesdayweld/

NIGHT PEOPLE.


File this one under uncertain pronouncements from the Ministry of New Media:

“Algorithms and social media replacing the work of Publishers & Editors; network socially-generated texts replacing individually-authored texts.”


OK. So, in the bad old media world you only had to convince maybe 5-10 people to give you the money to make a film. These gatekeeping people carefully maintain the fiction that they are careful surrogates for the audience, when in fact, they are just the whorish face of Capital. (Which must, like Voltaire’s garden, grow or die.) So the filmmaker was put into a position not unlike that of the culture worker in the Stalinist era – she must “fool” the authorities into sponsoring the film, which if not complete hackwork done cynically, might possess negligible content vis-a-vis socialist realism, but might connect with the audience, and bring in those desperate roubles for the state. You then must fight, dialectically, with your sponsors, your collective, actors, cinematographers, etc. to get the film you want. This friction is called the creative process. Art needs privations, conditions, etc.; Only a child would argue this elementary conception.

Here’s the story behind that mythic title card in Shadows:  “Presented by Jean Shepherd’s Night People” It’s 1957. Cassavetes goes on Night People, the Jean Shepherd radio show, and, canny populist that he is, says “Wouldn’t it be terrific if people could make movies instead of all these Hollywood Big-wigs who are only interested in business…?”  and then “…if people really want to see a movie about people, they should contribute money. Just a dollar each would do it, if enough people contributed.” So by the end of the week, he’s got $2,500 bucks, enough to start the ball rolling. He went to work, and Jean Shepherd hyped & tweeted the premiere to the prime demographic, the very hip & sophisticated bunch of Night People listeners. About 2,000 people showed up for 3 midnight shows. A lot of these night people walked out, into the night. Humbled, Cassavetes took feedback, spent more money, re-shot and re-edited his film, and came out with his “Mekas” version – the mythic film that invented American Independent Cinema. But then, Cassavetes broke and reconstructed the film once more, out of perversity, or to please himself – and that is the version of Shadows that we have (1). In all, he spent about $30,000, most of it his own money. What is obscured in this story, due to the eventual gilded legend of Cassavetes, is that the action of the Night People was a thing of PURE WHIMSY, one of many channeled prankish happenings available to the supposedly repressed denizen of the late fifties.  Let’s note that whimsy is not one of the acknowledged categories of economic activity. But then, usually, neither is Art.

Now, even today, it’s entirely possible to make a very good feature, with the right resources for 10-20K. So, with crowdfunding, you are suddenly in the position of having to convince 2,000 or 10,000 or 100,000 people to sponsor “your” film. They are your audience, avant la lettre, and so you, like Cassavetes, make representations, promises, you lay out the idea, perhaps even the script for the film, you make an implied contract, you are quite literally “giving the people what they want”. Leaving aside the level of conceptualization (let’s call this mix of vagueness and hyper-specificity, Sky-high Concept Filmmaking) that you would have to achieve to attract your audience before the fact (that is, if you were an unknown filmmaker) because any particular micro-element of your presentation could “turn off” a prospective sponsor. At the very least, let’s say that it would be harder than just saying you wanted to make “a film about people.”(2)  And most importantly, how many “acts of pure whimsy” @ 5-10 euros a pop, can you count on from said crowd before their reserve of whimsy is depleted...?

Like every good pyramid scheme, there is a bit of cynicism underlying crowdfunding. You truly have to believe that a sucker breaks water every minute. There is no reason to suppose that pyramid scams mayn’t be adapted expertly to social media, seeing as, at heart, social networking is a pyramid scheme of attention, which only sometimes involves money. “During a wave of pyramid activity, a surge frequently develops once a significant fraction of people know someone personally who exited with a payout (of attention). This spurs others to seek to get in on one of the many pyramids before the wave collapses.”(3)  And when the wave collapses, then so does the social network, and the cycle repeats on newer, more desirable social networks. 


Congratulations! You have been fortunate, solicitous & diligent enough to be funded. You, as filmmaker, have a few options:

1) You could then, Godard-style, turn around and betray the good faith of your pre-audience and make the film you “really” want.

2) You could slavishly follow “the audience” concept to its dreary end.

3) You could even further involve the audience ad absurdum (“which take do you like, dear sponsors…?”) in the making of the film, somewhat like Cassavetes, when he needed the audience to see what went wrong.

4) Make some interesting process-discoveries that substantially impact the nature of the film as you go, but perhaps leaving your original audience behind. Again, this is also like Cassavetes, but after he had found his way as an artist, which involved pissing Mekas off.  

It seems to me that “social networking” does not easily co-exist with cultural activity. It’s an alternative of negation; You can either hop on the Avatar juggernaut before it crushes you, or as a free exercise of your taste, champion James Cameron, the auteur -- you can’t do both. Cultural production needs a certain sclerotic focusing; a tension – the diffuse nebula-nature of the internet makes for cultural low blood pressure, its blood choked with valium on top of the usual chronic issues. I’m making it sound lame, but maybe this is – somehow -- good. Let people write with water and nothing ever hit a mark, like one of those rubber playrooms where no one ever got hurt. (4) It somehow strikes me funny that manufacturing and surfing a wave or cult of “popular” excitement for an artifact of dubious cultural value -- is exactly what the studios do. We usually, politely, call it showmanship. But usually, you don’t ask people to pay for their “suckering” upfront. With crowdfunding, you’re just nickel and dimeing it.  So, fine then. But be warned, there are no fixed loyalties in the vast ocean of Attention Deficit Disorder. Night People, after all, come and go.

With apologies, of course, for any future Undying Masterpieces of the Cinema created by crowdfunding.

Notes:

1) A few years back, Ray Carney dug up one of these intermediary Shadows – but is, I think, enjoined from showing it around.

2)  Here’s how to make crowdfunding more ludic, and less boring. Let the crowd, if they can agree, like the Kommissars of old, give the filmmaker 5-10 Obstructions (in the Von Trier style) or Material Condtions that she must fulfill.

3) From Wikipedia, Pyramid Scheme entry.

4) Diffusion is an even better marginalizer than the market. Another weird instance – I was talking to someone the other day about Duke Herzog’s Bad Lieutenant. Smart, adequately pop-cultured, mid 20s. He had no idea about the Ferrara film. It’s not so much Ferrara who is vanishing into the ether here, it is cinema itself.

Monday, October 4, 2010

THE LANGUAGE OF MURIEL


The model for all of his apartment movies.

Pillow shots. Also function outside of time. Day then night. Grave a mood?

Discontinuous segments. Time seems “broken” while rhythm continues.

Long takes. Move the moment into a sudden zone of continuity.

Then decoupage – “traditional” reaction shots to convey emotional and plot information. But NEVER in a linear way.

Ambient sound.  Noise of the harbor. Hiss.

Use of flat or warm sound to introduce grace notes of weirdness. Not just in performance but in miking.

Sonic cross-cut – dialogue from one scene pasted over another.

A crossing of the line with a musical hit (synchresis) to emphasize a dynamic shift in the scene. From her time to his time. Also, perhaps to create a v-effect.

Emotional discontinuity. She comes back as if nothing happened.

Wide Shot. Stagy tableaux feel. Then things start to move again. Resnais still does this, even though his camera moves much more. Motions toward or past the camera.

Break up the illusionist character of the scene with interjections – even while the sound makes for continuity.

Shots linked by “parallel” movements rather than “continuity”. Drawers opening. Doors opening. 

Emotional segmentations – closer to “affect spaces” than emotions.  A bit like I fidanzati  in that way.

Breath as punctuation.

The sharp voice – a bark -- with the shot of the back of the head – a powerful effect.

Modulation out of fragmentation: He picks up his coat. Looks towards her. Smiles. Indicates the tension is broken. Another “affect space” has opened up. Then they go into the next bit of business.

Resnais also uses sound cuts, hard, butchery cold cuts – like Godard.  From the guitar music to the wind on the cliff.

The energy of decoupage plus ellipsis: The offcenter close-up of Helene’s hand rapping the window. Then the other woman emerging from the darkness of the already open door.

Music hall meets modernism. Bernstein (theatrical melodrama) plus Picasso.

PROMOTIONAL CONSIDERATION



Buy This Record, Amigos! I'm Not Kidding You.

Thursday, September 30, 2010

GRAPHIC GOES GLYPHIC


We quit the Official Thingified World of Things with its rational lexicon long ago. Away from objecthood into....a un-place where it has become improper to speak even of reification anymore.

This was what Antonioni was so relentlessly after in that fierce middle period from Red Desert to The Passenger:

Antonioni: What interests me now is to put the characters IN CONTACT with things, because what counts today are things, objects, matter.

Giuliana panics not at what the world of objects MEANS, (what you would find in the ordinary expressionist world of Stendhal or Flaubert, -- & of course, Hollywood's) but rather at its' cryptic, occulted non-messages. Because things now have a sort of animal spirit and they chatter incomprehensibly -- rather like Princess Raccoon, if you would encounter her in real life. Communication frighteningly without expression. Grandiloquent Blankness. Strange OMENS of Further Abstraction and Separation.

Marxist unease (Panic!) with the fetishism of the commodity lies with the suspicion that the idea hijacks the scientific and inevitable character of revolution and leads ideology into what is, frankly, animism. The superstitious world of magic, the occult, and the primitive.

Two basic polarities in language that also apply to cinema and to reality:
explicitness and ellipsis. And the spirit-substance halfway in between is The Glyphic, which splits the difference.

Wednesday, September 29, 2010

NECROPOLITANS


Filming something is already a rupture -- it is a ruin in potentia. But it can only become a real ruin through projection-destruction.

Precisely what is impossible in the digital shimmer.

SPEER: The building on the Zeppelin Field was begun at once in order to have at least the platform ready for the coming party rally. To clear ground for it, the Nuremberg street car depot had to be removed. I passed by its remains after it had been blown up. The iron reinforcements protruded from concrete debris and had already begin to rust. One could easily visualize their further decay. This sight led me to some thoughts which I later propounded to Hitler under the pretentious heading of "A Theory of Ruin Value". The idea was that buildings of modern construction were poorly suited to form that "bridge of tradition" to future generations which Hitler was calling for. It was hard to imagine that rusting heaps of rubble could communicate these heroic inspirations which Hitler had admired in the monuments of the past. My "theory" was intended to deal with this dilemma. By using special materials and by applying certain principles of statics, we should be able to build structures which even in a state of decay, and hundreds or (such were our reckonings) thousands of years, would more or less resemble Roman models.

To illustrate my ideas I had a romantic drawing prepared. It showed what the reviewing stand on the Zeppelin Field would look like after generations of neglect, overgrown with ivy, its columns fallen, the walls crumbling here and there, but the outlines still clearly recognizable. In Hitler's entourage this drawing was regarded as blasphemous. That I could even conceive of a period of decline for the newly founded Reich destined to last a thousand years seemed outrageous to many of Hitler's closest followers. But he himself accepted my ideas as logical and illuminating. He gave orders that in the future the important buildings of his Reich were to be erected in keeping with the principles of this "law of ruins."

Godard's own weepy Necropolis of the Cinema is built under the dictates of this pretentious Law of Art-Directed Ruins. And the poor guy doesn't even have one tenth of the amused irony that Speer does.

Orale! Showbiz kids makin'  movies of themselves...yet again.

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

MAYBE PARTYING WILL HELP


Wittgenstein, the siren, led the Inorganic Intellectuals Who Shop at Whole Foods to the heroic barricades of language. A thirty years war ensued. Mostly because it was so EASY. Nobody ever realized that it was a mild civil war between technocratic jargons. Meanwhile, the people (in whose name this battle without consequence was being fought) were long forgotten in the ghetto of images.

Tuesday, September 21, 2010

BANZAI!!


To use a John Milius metaphor:

The public's attention is one of Nimitz's strike forces, a phantom, position unknown, and a blockbuster is a kamikaze attack -- in other words, a move of beautiful desperation.

Between them is the whole ocean.

Asked about the soul of Hollywood,
I would say
That it is
Like wild cherry blossoms
glowing in the morning sun.

Monday, September 20, 2010

BETWEEN THE DEAD


DESIRE FOR A LOST IMAGE

Realism in the cinema depends less on the flaubertian or balzacian -- let's call it homely -- detail than in reference to an entire history of filmic representation. What is Real in the movies is always in strong erotic(?) relation to another image. Implicit in a strong image is the love for an earlier one. The way one can't experience Rossellini, for instance, without hypertexting to Chaplin. None of this is articulable explicitly -- it's never at the level of an "hommage", because such crude obviousness would shatter the dream-signification of the film. And this is no small part of what Barthes calls the Third or Obtuse Meaning in the cinema.



UNCONSCIOUS RECOVERY & COITUS

Moving parallelly into the structures of narrative, pleasure is consummated in the opportunity for the spectator to flex her vast knowledge of the codes and draw phantastic pleasure from the overlays. This is nothing new, really. Don Quixote depends on the same "subversive" tactic (a mocking familiarity with knightly tales) and a flux between the dirty reality and the Don's vast imaginative capacity to distort it. Post-Auteurism is a Quixotic operation in this way. We take an unexceptional factory film and we look between the cracks for ruptures, which give us pleasure.

ANXIOUS AFTERMATH

And this also justifies a low or no-affect position -- "the ideology of cool" -- a conditionally suspended disbelief, towards the ontological status of the narrative. We are the sum of stories we believe about ourselves, but the modern subject can't ever be certain enough about their status to wholeheartedly endorse capital N narratives. The modern subject is paranoid & unconfident -- faced with a semiotic stew in private life where every object and image, like a politician on the stump is making some kind of private appeal to his identity -- the default position of the subject, awash in desire, is fending off affective response.

So Today's artist has to ritually genuflect to the paranoia, and assuage some of that anxiety before throwing the magic dust in people's faces. and letting them dream.

Sunday, September 19, 2010

DEMAGAGARY

How many times do I have to tell you, joto, it's never Fascism if you AGREE with the idea...

VIRALITY


Malinowski: The sole purpose of the EXCHANGE is to draw relationships closer by strengthening the ties of reciprocity.

Communication: i.e. to make common the things of the tribe...

Pasolini: Naturally in the language of advertising as well, the homologizing, and I would say, creative principle is technology which is therefore the absolute supremacy of communication, and thus the slogan is the example of a type of "expressivity" so far unknown. Its premise is, in fact, expressive, but through repetition its expressiveness loses every characteristic of its own, is fossilized, and becomes totally communicative, communicative up to the most brutal finality. So much so that the way of pronouncing it also possesses an allusiveness of a new kind that might be defined with a monstrum definition -- expressiveness of the masses.

Expressiveness as the remains of a sclerotic disease once long suffered...the slogan-image needs only to streamline, discard its excess, & replicate itself, to just live a while longer.

This is CHANGE WE CAN BELIEVE IN. 
Or reversibly, BELIEF WE CAN CHANGE IN.

Tuesday, September 14, 2010

PERIPHRASIS


Debord: The reigning deceptions of the time are on the point of causing us to forget that truth may also be displayed by means of images. An image that has not deliberately been separated from its meaning can add great precision and certainty to knowledge. 

And more laterally...
 
Makers of images must fight the image's own desire to express a cliché or axiom of truth.

Reality is already a prolific forger of crystalline certainties, and these may be undercut by a judicious use of photoshop. In the instance above, the imager, brutalized by the image, which says look HERE and not elsewhere, did not resist sufficiently.

This was the willfully misunderstood point of Errol Morris's film on Abu Ghraib. The truth, the vertovian one, is there in the INTERVAL of the FALSE MOMENT and the TRUE MOMENT, but you must show both in articulation.

Sunday, September 12, 2010

SOFT POWER


Software is an interesting word, isn't it?
In briefest summary, I was writing programs on the SWAC in 1953 at UCLA.  At the time, the SWAC was one of about a dozen computers in the whole U.S.  When I first hoked up the word -- to distinguish programs from hardware, of course -- people said, "Huh?"  I explained that 'soft' meant changeable.   People then and for years later kind of sneered "Software...[pause]...I see..."
Digital turns all cultural durity into software.  I suppose that's what people mean by the New Age.

OSAMA THE SPECTANARCH


So, Osama bin Laden, Georges Bataille, Ernst Jünger, and Guy Debord walk into a bar...twenty seconds later, it explodes.

Detaching Islamic law from the grip of the nation-state and emphasizing its sacrificial nature, Osama bin Laden effectively transforms the militant's obedience of Sharia into an act of sovereignty. The law is no longer embodied in a set of institutions that must be submitted to, but manifests itself in militant acts that possess the force of law in their own right. Yet what makes these acts sovereign, more than their independence from institutional authority, is that they neither claim nor defend any interest, but rather destroy interest itself in spectacular gestures of sacrifice uniting both perpetrators and victims into a single humanity. In other words, militant acts are sovereign because they are spendthrift: deriding the protection that law normally extends to interests of various kinds and instead sacrificing life itself as the ground of all interest. In this sense, the militant act is law-making rather than law-abiding, albeit in the most anarchic of ways.
All true of course, with the slight caveat that the LAW that bin Laden is in submission to is not Sharia, but the Law of the Spectacle.  He is as much a servant of the spectacle as Rupert Murdoch. A guerrilla of separation. And his "followers" want nothing else but TO APPEAR at long last as True Muslims of the Spectacle, even if that means their erasure-in-the-world as carbon based life forms. After all, the militant is always uncertain of his status, his commitment is always in doubt, he might in his heart remain a secret, asthmatic, debauched playboy revanchist. Such things can only be settled by suicide in the eye of the camera.

Friday, September 10, 2010

NOVELISTS GIVE UP DESCRIBING SURFACES AS BENEATH THEM


It's official: 

We don’t need novelists telling us about the surfaces of being a human being. We’re bombarded with surfaces 24 hours a day now.  
 --------Jonathan "Tell em Johnny Boy is Here..." Franzen

The capitulation of the novel to reality television should bring me a sort of perverse joy. However, I suspect this post-modernist stand of principle is just a screen for the slobby laziness of today's novelists. I wish somebody better versed in the nonsense of writers would explain this to me.

Shouldn't it be more necessary for novelists to describe surfaces NOW than ever...?

They could also do worse than start where Gerhard Richter was at in the 60s...

The first time I painted from a photograph, I did so in a mixture of exhilaration and fear, partly because I was strongly affected by contemporary Fluxus events, and partly also because I once did a lot of photography myself and worked for a photographer for eighteen months: masses of photographs that passed through the bath of developer every day may have created a lasting trauma.
 

Thursday, September 9, 2010

HUH...?


Ever since the coming of sound, filmmakers tried in vain to silence the pictures...

Tubbs: So whats going on?
Crockett: As in?
Tubbs: As in there is undercover and then there is "Which way is up?".
Crockett: What? Do you think I'm in so deep I forgot?
Tubbs: I will never doubt you.

Mann's ingenious solution: make the dialogue nigh incomprehensible in its extreme hieratic quality. You might be thinking that this is some pseudo-realist attempt to tackle the argot of these criminal-police tribes that he loves. You'd be wrong. He's been reading his Chion. When people talk in a Mann film it's about the rhythm, the sound of the words not the meaning. He just wants one word here and there to hit you like a stroke on a canvas. The approach to sound design is expressionist in the extreme -- which forces the TV weaned, -- yes, even them -- to fall back to the images, which ever since he's gone Digital, have become more the looser stuff of 30's poetic realism than the slicky-hard rubber style of the early Mann.

Stylized language is beautiful -- it is also more forceful cause it sneaks past the CPU.  

Take it to the limit one more time, etc.

Tuesday, September 7, 2010

SUBDIVISIONS


Sam Wood's movies are koans for auteurists.

Of course, everyone wants to blame Menzies or the DP's for what's good or interesting in them.

But I'm not so sure. And in the case of Kings Row -- the beloved Menziean flourishes are few and far between. The stolid languidity, flat staging, the perverse lack of engagement with the subject, the Wood-en solemnity is running at red-hot blazes. These are things that, for me at least, sustain the strangeness of the object that is Kings Row.

The fundamental energy of Kings Row is studied contempt for the material -- which everyone involved agreed was a major & unhealthy downer --  a Preminger movie in embryo:  incest, sportfucking, murder suicide, medical malpractice, neurosis, and cancer. A dismal swamp, in short.

What's eternally popular about Kings Row is that it takes a rather dim and surrealist view of the medical profession. And psychiatry, in a daring move for the time, turns out to be the perfect tool for repression of ugly community secrets -- voiced by a pair of lovely, damaged hysterics -- while Cummings, the "hero", is a satanic normalizing force.

Wood, not Menzies, emphasizes and undercuts the out-of-timeliness of Cummings in the performance. He is both the pale and false dream of hope, but also a link to an unsustainable past that must die. What's lovely and creepy (eternal...??) about Kings Row is that Cummings looks as if he's in a movie from 1925, while the rest of the movie feels uncomfortable with its perfunctory and modish expressionism. The film is as schizoid as the world it's portraying.

Saturday, September 4, 2010

THEATRE OF SEMANTIC POETRY



Realism (Bazinian and Hollywood's both) in the cinema is like Themersonian Semantic Poetry -- a para-onomatopoetic impulse to capture the "speech" of the world, to use that "language" to reflect AGAINST itself.

It's as if you were forced by some natural law to write in two styles, legalese or Mickey Spillaneisms, and that, even more mysteriously, people couldn't tell the difference between them.

We know it WORKS. But must it?

Friday, September 3, 2010

HE'S NOT THERE

Perhaps, it is HE who throws off the table reading and then disappears in Inland Empire.


Like the politely obstinate ghost that he is, Schroeter keeps turning up everywhere, like Waldo or Bin Laden, working himself into the DNA of the next century. 

COMMUNIQUE FROM LOMMEL



There is no way, unfortunately, to establish the veracity of this for the moment:

I have decided not to make "Frankenstein in 3D" and instead make a musical comedy for the entire family entitled "CHOCOLATE AND GUMMI BEARS".
 My recent change of heart is based on the following revelations:

1. I am at this point uninterested in horror.

2. I never watch my own or anyone else's horror films anyway. I have had fun shooting horror films, but never watching them when they are completed.

3. This is a gift to all horror film fans who hate my kind of horror movies.

4. I have a new found belief in Christian values and family values.

5. Life can be beautiful.

6. I love America.

7. I love Los Angeles.

Thursday, September 2, 2010

THE DYING GAULLIST HAMSTER



Objects being closer than they appear, it's impossible to judge this sort of stuff from any sort of (ironic) distance, but another After-School Special re-make of The Champ, starring a hamster -- that takes cojones, amigo!

THINGS TO DO


1. Eat. 2. Pray. 3. Love. 4. To be determined.

Authenticity is a sort of consumer index, even though it has no objective existence. We desire most to recognize it and rub it over us as a balm when we are feeling the most self-separated in the centrifuge of our lives.

For example: getting caught in the rain might be a minor religious exaltation for the suburban and desperate housewife ---  
it might just mean pneumonia to the gypsy.

ALTERNATE POLARITY


What's great about FULLER is that he always gives his ellipsoidal stories an alternate focus point -- which doesn't quite rise to the force of a subplot, but suggests another parallel universe with a dignity and weight of its own. We can imagine another, perhaps a better, certainly stranger and more secret movie about THIS GUY -- or about Van Cleef in China Gate or Thelma Ritter in Pickup, or Cameron Mitchell in Bamboo, etc. The engine that drives the movie is not necessarily what sustains his interest.

The lost art of the periphery...

Wednesday, September 1, 2010

INTERNAUTS AS NON-SITE TOURISTS



Between the actual site in the Pine Barrens and The Non-Site itself exists a space of metaphoric significance. It could be that "travel" in this space is a vast metaphor. Everything between the two sites could become physical metaphorical material devoid of natural meanings and realistic assumptions. Let us say that one goes on a fictitious trip if one decides to go to the site of the Non-Site. The "trip" becomes invented, devised, artificial; therefore, one might call it a non-trip to a site from a Non-site. (robert smithson)