"La Jetée" by Chris Marker; Last Year at Marienbad" by Alain Resnais

Time and memory

Dope-ass Movie Posters

I love not only the image components, but also the visual quality of text/alphabets from the other languages. Films from top down: More, Last Year at Marienbad, Downhill Racer, The Girl on a Motorcycle, Boom.

PJ Harvey "This is Love" by Sophie Muller

Sometimes all it takes is a one camera, one take performance, one white fringe-sleeved tuxedo, accessories, a good haircut, and PJ HARVEY!!! Of course, just discovered this video was created by my all-time favorite music video director, Sophie Muller. Still kicking ass.

"I can't believe life's so complex, when i just wanna sit here and watch you undress..."

yes

Scriabin Etude Op.8 No.11 performed by Horowitz

This Scriabin piece performed by Horowitz is what I have to get me through today. Thanks to them both for their genius and sensitivity. I love that this video piece is a page by page read of the music. Absolutely beautiful. There is something about reading the music while hearing it played, by a prodigy no less, that is so moving. I love seeing Scriabin's rhythms, the change ups, in visual form. We can hear, relative to what we are seeing, Horowitz's touch--there is no one who has his touch and sensitivity and interpretation and ability to communicate his interpretations with transcending nuance. Makes him my all time favorite pianist, especially when he plays Chopin. And we can also see in the sheet music, as in any piece I love by Chopin or Scriabin, a full load of flats and black keys. That one bar rest one line from the end of the piece, so bad ass.

Doing "Dark" in Music Videos; Jay-Z feat. Swizz Beatz "On To The Next One" Directed by Sam Brown

Above, Jay-Z feat. Swizz Beatz "On To The Next One" Directed by Sam Brown; The Cardigan's "Losing My Favorite Game" Directed by Jonas Akerlund; Director Chris Cunningham Montage...

American pop videos can make "dark" look cartoony or pretty pop commercial clean as in Jay-Z's new video. That trancy chant in the song though is dope (for the vid). And I looove for some weird reason, the image of the speaker chords. I mean love it. Also like the "Rorschach test" images. Some interesting imagery speckled throughout, but meaningless because of the lack of visual story and build, just random intercutting. A few changes during the breaks, but otherwise no climax. Drones on. The attempts at darkness makes me reminiscent of Jonas Akerlund's gothic or "sick" sensibility in pop form in his videos (see recent entry/post of Prodigy's "Smack My Bitch Up"), and Chris Cunningham's twisted vision. Those Swedes and Brits do dark well. Though Sam Brown may be British, it's definitely not his sensibility, in addition to the collaborating artist being Jay. There were several versions of this Akerlund/Cardigan piece. One where she's decapitated. One where she brushes herself off and walk away unscathed (guess which market that one was for). Chris' work sometimes is unbearable to watch, too gross. But images always compelling, so I posted a trailer, the "best of's".

What I do love about the Jay-Z video is the immediacy of sound quality relative to image movement/action... of each shot, object, setup. Things drip, things fall, camera moves towards, pulls back, tracks sideways, wind blows, cloudshapes gush, etc. And the simplicity of shapes relative to stark black and white. There is a sense of drama within each setup. Too bad they don't build to anything. But the visuals definitely enhance the song. The edit is fantastic. Solely listening to the song, with the persistent chant, is a little crazy making.

Ravens, Personal Mythologies and the New Year

The other night, I learned of a friend's unexpected death, and I found myself baffled more than anything else. If 2009 had taught me anything, is the weariness of death. I was weary. Sadness developed a callus and I was becoming desensitized. I couldn't commit to the sadness anymore. But it had transformed into an anxiety, of the unexpectedness, the out-of-your-control surprise of death. Any second could be the last. And I had a mind-boggling image of every living being on this earth, on that long line to shed this mortal coil, to decay into the earth... I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

The year started with a beloved aunt committing suicide leaving behind 2 beautiful teenage sons. And then more death. And more. Old friends, teachers, acquaintances, even public figures that loomed large in my imagination. I couldn't catch my breath.

"I had not thought death had undone so many.
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet."

I couldn't believe they were all gone. In the earth. Eaten by maggots. While I could still see their faces. Hear their voices. I mean, I can't believe T.S. Eliot, who wrote and spoke such profound poetry, no longer walks the earth. I mean, I can't believe Donny Hathaway, with that voice that is so embedded in my breathing life, no longer breathes. I can't believe Marlon Brando, so alive onscreen, no longer has a heart that beats. I can't believe all those bodies mangled in war, from images of the Vietnam War to those who die daily and senselessly in the Middle East, were someone's children, someone's mother, a life that inspired another, that struggled to eat and be loved, came to being to be tossed like butcher's trash. I can't believe war had assassinated my grandparents so long ago and that my mom had experienced such loss at so young an age, loss that I had feared as a child (and still do). I know my grandparents are dead - I've never met them. But still I rack my brains, how is that possible? They walked the earth. They taught my mom things in her short 6 years of knowing them. How are they gone? And why am I baffled when I've never met them? Death baffles me. What is the mechanism of this disbelief?

Today is the birthday of my auntie, our matriarch, who passed away last September. New Year's Day is and will always be associated with her. I think of her whenever I see or hear crows. When she was alive and crows were in our midst, she would chase them away and yell at them with urgency. If we heard them "caww" in the distance, she'd raise her hand to god and speak in tongue with a fury. She taught me their association with death. When she passed away, I thought, she was wrong. There was no crow omen to foretell her passing, that was until we were at the cemetery and lowered her coffin into the ground... high above, the voice of one crow squawked, once, loud and clear, a single voice which filled the skies and echoed melodiously. The sound swept the air, washed the skies. I looked up, didn't see the bird, but its voice rang loud. I looked around - no one else noticed. Everyone's eyes were fixated on the hole in the ground. I looked up again at the clear blue sunny sky, looked at the tall trees, and took flight.

Unlike my aunt, who chased crows away, I embraced them. Birds and their feathers, have always come to me in incredible ways, in my time of need, and given me signs. They are my messengers. They tell me to trust. To have faith. That I am taken care of. That all is ok. They remind me that I am more than my body's identification. And when I heard that beautiful voice on the day of my aunt's burial, I laughed at the cosmic significance of it all. She was right. They are messengers of death, but not in the way she thought, and one must have the courage to fly with them.

So back to a few days ago, a few days shy of the new year, the morning after I heard about the death of a friend I hadn't seen in about a year, my last death in a string of many for 2009... it was a brilliantly sunny winter morning, my father excitedly rushed into my room. Look at the front lawn! What is it, I ask perturbed at the intrusion to my melancholic state. Pull open your shades! I pulled the string, the blinds went up, and I couldn't believe my eyes! My dad gaped with boyish wonder and uncontrollable gleeful laughter. It was unlike anything I'd ever seen. It was miraculous, biblical. The entire ground before my eyes, our deep front lawn all the way across the street to our neighbor's front lawn, was covered with small black birds. On closer examination, they were pear-shaped ravens. Black feathers shimmering blue. Then a dark frenzied cloud would sweep through, depositing more of these jet black birds on the ground, pushing forward the ones before them into the air. Frenetic waves kept sweeping through. The air and ground, filled with black wings reflecting brilliant sunshine. The ravens energetically pecked away at the ground (what were they pecking at?), beat their determined wings in the air (where were they rushing to?). My dad and I couldn't make sense of what we had never seen before and watched in awe. The birds kept sweeping through, dumping more birds, sweeping through. They moved with great speeds and great numbers filling the space before my eyes. I thought of Hitchcock's "The Birds". I thought of the locusts in the bible. And within a minute, they were all gone. The cloud lifted and dissipated. Not a single bird before me. What could this mean?

It freaked me out. My first thought was, is this the omen for the new year? 2009 had taken so many... how would I stomach 2010 if this was the case? I took a few days. I meditated last night as time shifted to the new year, soon after, running into a good friend where I spent New Year's eve. And I heard the words come out of my mouth as I told her about the birds to her amazement, as I discovered for myself their significance, as I heard myself define them... it was a great cloud that lifted. As that one great bird that took flight from my aunt's graveside funeral did, an army swept through. The ravens washed away all the souls of the last year in one collective sweep, carrying them off, the way a violent summer storm will clear away the hot and sticky, the muddled heavy air, and provide comfort, new air, clean and light, to breathe. A purification. A Kali yuga. She was witness to my realization and waves of chills ran through me. The magnitude of the realization is not something I can put into words, but it was a moment of connection, of complete faith. How had I forgotten the compassionate messengers of my life? My winged friends. My fear of death had blinded me to what I had always known. I had forgotten to trust. Even the miracle of this raven's event in the moment couldn't shake that fear that freezes. It took the stillness and introspection of the last few days to pry open that space of remembering.

In my brief read about these black birds at the wee hours of this morning, I discovered that what I had seen were all young ravens, and that ravens hold a prominent place in the mythologies of different traditions. Of course. They are highly intelligent, having the highest aviary IQ, and capable of manipulating and communicating with other animals for their purpose. All in addition to what we already know about these birds, as consumers of carrion, vehicles for transformation. In mythology, they are often equated to the trickster god, holding a prominent position in the hierarchy of deities, as god of the crossroads, among them, Ganesha (Hindu), Elegua (Santeria).

Bridging life and art, I think about the importance of props to an actor, per Uta Hagen. And the satisfaction of having symbolic images, or objects, patterns that we rely on as anchors in dramatic storytelling on stage and on film. It's something we can follow, a baton, something grounding, so that we can see changes relative to that anchor. It can be a phrase, spoken, or in music, "themes." Then "variations on theme" are track-able, and thus, clear and moving. It's so clear in art, and I am thinking a lot about the unconscious palate of symbols we can create in our lives, that myths have done consciously for collectives/societies over time (a diminishing and disconnected practice in modern society). I think it is important to think about what the symbolic components are, and the function of our own personal mythologies, make it a conscious function, to create conscious rituals around them to celebrate and acknowledge them. Images, memories, objects that we find, create, connections to. Religious icons. Mantras. Elements in nature. Anchors. A system-ology we link up to, that we create, a language, a filter through which we interpret the vastness of the universe. It is a conscious practice of something small, local, with the understanding that it is a key or microcosm, for the greater cosmic model. Through these "symbols," we can tell the story of a life. Today provides the opportunity to acknowledge one of my personal symbols, my winged messengers, and a conscious acknowledgment to the function of symbols in storytelling. Personal symbols are something I know so well through my parent's stories of their lives, but this past year, it has lived in the forefront of my imagination, connecting its importance in my life and as dramatic device in storytelling.

Last night, after I broke meditation, I was able to hear the teachings of my most cherished beloved guru, David Life, co-founder of Jivamukti Yoga. He said, make death a small thing, of no importance, no big deal. Have the courage to make yourself die, and fold that into life, so it's one and the same. I think about the cartoon-like images from Mexico's Day of the Dead celebration, colorful dancing skeletons. The dressing up and party that is Halloween. Martin McDonagh's uproarious graveyard comedies. Kali's skull-beaded necklace. I hope through the practice of my art and storytelling, that through my personal mythologies, I can practice this... making death small, a celebration of life.... so that they are little birds that fly in and sit on my front lawn for a moment, then fly away, that eat and shit and soar through wind. Small, banal and miraculous.

Bruno Aveillan

Love the wispy-ness of light and texture, the impressionistic washes, shallow/varied/distorted fields of focus, and sensitivity of Aveillan's stills and moving images. Nice collection of them in this Louis Vuitton advert.

Al Green Altar

Does it get any better than Al Green's live performances in the early 70's?
NO.

"The French Connection" by William Friedkin; "The Hurt Locker" by Kathryn Bigelow

In terms of a script, I can't imagine it was exciting on first read, but as a film that emerged from it, a director that knew how to "use" New York City, and as a result of its on-the-ground research with participation from those the film was about, "The French Connection" is a film that has what most films after the 70's lacked, character. Perhaps filmmaking has mirrored the changes in New York City's landscape, textured to corporate plastic, a wild west to gentrification.

Learning from Friedkin's commentary on the film's DVD, the film was mostly "stolen," meaning, no setups, no extras, available light, no permissions, using the city itself and the folks on the streets - to create the scenes. It was an "induced" documentary, so to say, and borrowed from Friedkin's experience as a documentary director prior to this film. He kept the shooting pace brisk, one or two takes. He had friends with cars block the roads to cause a traffic jam on the Brooklyn Bridge for 15 minutes!!!! He shot handheld using wheelchair dollies on subway platforms without permits. In our post 9/11 New York, these things would be impossible. He also "orchestrated" high-speed driving scenes on New York City streets, in the famous car-subway chase scene, with pedestrians and civilian cars on the road! I wouldn't recommend this last one at all. He's lucky no one was killed. But I celebrate this film in the tradition of rogue filmmaking, that is, after all the research and prep work had been done. An ode to rogue filmmaking.

I also miss what now feels like an era of onscreen giants of textured small characters, the anti-heroes, Hackman, Schneider, Hoffman, Pacino, Deniro. The films oozed with character. The city, oozed with character. Perhaps the city and the films' production process required that touch of danger, instability, unpredictability, for that "character," the "edge," so to say.

The color scheme is beautiful and perfectly captures winter in New York, how the quality of light moves through the cold air and reflects off brick and steel, all the angled shapes of the city, the cold blue environmental hues, the sunset colored yellow of the sun at all hours of the day, the hard angled light. And any film with elevated subways in it, is an instant for me, as I grew up on it, next to it, under it...love everything about them for life. They make me feel warm and fuzzy.

For me, an interesting dramatic question that the film raises: what happens if the main character remains unchanged? In strict dramatic principle, there has to be a change. But it seems like in this film, from beginning to end, Gene Hackman's character remains unchanged. It is just increasingly revealed to the audience, the extreme extent of the character's blind obsession. Perhaps though, the point of the film is that nothing changes. It didn't bother me in this film. The ride and the cat-n-mouse plot is riveting enough. But it's a question that seems to comes up a lot. When character doesn't change, but they are put through a plot wringer for the duration of the film, is that, for lack of a better word, ok? Is it satisfying?

Another example, this year's "The Hurt Locker" by Kathryn Bigelow, was that. The bomb defuser played by Jeremy Renner, is a bit crazy, obsessive, one-note. Each bomb he defuses is more and more dangerous, but he remains unscathed, unshaken, a bad-ass to a point of cool, except when he cracks for a dangerous moment and leaves the protected military compound. I was on the edge of my seat because of the increasingly nerve-wracking complications of each bomb scenario; but also the fact I believe, that this world was wildly out of my realm. Is that what made it interesting? Because it was a new world, a new language of warfare that I previously wasn't fluent in? It kept me busy while distracting me from the fact that there was no character-driven dramatic arc? Because I found that in speaking with others, one friend wasn't so taken by all the bomb stuff because the character never changed, and another who's in the military spoke of all his buddies who hated the film because they were distracted by how unrealistic the military stuff was. In this film, I enjoyed the ride but didn't feel completely fulfilled at the end. It was a thrill ride in the way some really good fluff action films go (except this was supposed to be based on our current situation in Iraq). So as a story device, with each increasingly "insane" and dangerous bomb situation, where there are increasingly more lives at stake, more obstacles and less probability that the defuser would survive, we explore the extent of the character's singular pursuit and obsession. That's the point of the story - character doesn't change. He's that extreme.

Then for this film and for the former, can we draw the conclusion that this challenge to classical dramatic character-equals-plot arc, points the film's theme in another direction?... is the unchanging character then symbolic of the conditions in which that character thrives in? The police vs. criminal pursuit absurdities. War begetting more war insanity? Nothing changes. Is that the message of these films? And are they satisfying timeless expressions of that theme?

"Up In The Air" by Jason Reitman

"Up In The Air" was up in the air. There were a lot of interesting "we're born alone die alone" variety themes in the film, including how technology furthers that reality, and funny moments. There's the commitment as a fear of living and dying theme, and love can save us if we can find it theme. But I think the tone of the film was way off. It felt too cutesy like it was trying to be a household comedy in that "Juno" or Hollywood holiday-season-film kind of way with its happity boppity soundtrack, without that dire-dilemma-as-absurd-comedy irony that "Juno" or Jacques Demy's "Umbrellas of Cherbourg" had, the bright colors and happy tone contrasting with darker issues of social-convention-challenging pregnancy. This film needed more grotesque realism like that of the Coen Brother's "Fargo"'s picture of the midwest and David Fincher's "The Fight Club"'s unrooted corporate/modern world alienation. There were a lot of heavy issues addressed, but ultimately were so watered down by the try-to-please-everyone genre, having too many themes of equal weight, and George Clooney's coolness, that the film felt wishy washy. A weak directorial effort, because I think the material could've been there but one theme needed to be more of a singular driving force, with a decidedly darker ironic aesthetic vision. Clooney also, his whole body language was too movie-star confident. I think his character had a confidence, but not that cool. As unbound as his character was to geographical space, his world still existed in the confined seating of an airplane seat and all the public spaces his body moved through throughout his traveling business life. Clooney, the at-ease actor, became a distraction. The one detail that I thought was so appropriate was Vera Famiglia's satin blouses. Yuck. I hate them with a passion. And I found they so perfectly expressed the world she portrayed. All we needed to also see was a shoe with a bad clunky heel on it. Ick.

[Aha! After writing this entry, I discover, Reitman also directed "Juno"!]

"The Road" (Cormac McCarthy) film by John Hillcoat

This film can best be described as Vittorio De Sica's classic, "The Bicycle Thief" gone horror movie. It is a dark, in a "the horror the horror" sense, exploration into the heart of man in a post-apocalyptic setting. A father struggles life and death for his and his son's survival – and it triggers a whole series of moral dilemmas which tug at the question of 'what is the meaning of man?' 'What is the meaning of life?' The film, (I've not read the novel) offers no solutions but suggests that for the most part, we live in darkness and hell.

The story's plot hinges on the father's desire to take his son south, to coastal Florida, as if there's a promise of something different, of some hope for survival. Perhaps sunshine, warmth, safety, some food, perhaps other "good guys". But as the film unravels, we begin to get a feeling that it is also a senseless pursuit. That either they'll never reach this destination, or they'll get there, and it will be as bleak as where they've come from, and possibly another destination will have to be conjured. That's what we do to survive. Have a goal. A destination. Out there...and thus requires a journey. We seek and create roads. There doesn't seem like much purpose to their lives, just survival and a sense of a destination, and one day is as bleak and dangerous as the next. The struggles don't change. There's never a feeling of safety. And despite this, there's something internal, a will, a desire to survive, a hope for a future. Hope. Future. Two words that seem so absurd as we journey this "road" where everyday is wrought with the question of whether it will be their day to die, and the anxiety of 'what will be the quality of that death?'...by murder, cannibalism, torture...as images of Francis Bacon's carcasses and Hieronymus Bosch's hell on earth - are conjured.

A precise and weighted device in the story is the gun with the 2 bullets. It's as much a character in the film as the father and son. It's the gun that the father has meticulously taught his son to use, that if they were caught...one bullet for father, and one for son. In every second of the film, they have the choice to exist or not. And yet they remain, and struggle, and experience horrors, and suffer. And still they remain. Many had given up, as embodied by the mother character, or gone mad. Stubborn emotional and psychological hardiness and luck is required for survival. And this father has all the determination in the world. His purpose is his son. It is the symbol of his humanity: to do whatever it takes to protect his son. He is a "father." It defines him. Gives purpose for his own survival. The contrast though between he and his son is that he'll do whatever it takes, even at the expense of losing other aspects of his humanity. His son is the reminder of that which is innocent, compassionate, which transcends the brutal material realities. This dialogue between father and son about morality and goodness and what is required to maintain one's humanity, is the investigation of this film, even though it could've been addressed with more depth. I don't think one side of the argument wins over the other. It is in the active dialogue in the context of each dilemma, where this "humanity" is defined.

The film did not let up in its intensity, even in it's dark and dirty color scheme. Scene after gut-wrenching scene, shot after dusty desaturated shot. And as much as I'm a fan of narrative arc, I didn't mind that this film stayed on one note. The exploration kept me riveted.

After viewing the movie, I discovered that John Hillcoat also directed "The Proposition" which I hated with a PASSION, for this one-note reason. The film was a flatliner, superviolent, and for no reason, saying nothing. Dusty and bleak. Buncha white men playing cowboys and barbarians in the deserts of Australia. And with nothing changing, EVER, Nick Cave's soundtrack was a kind of hell on earth experience. Whatta jerkoff, I thought of everyone involved. I had just watched a buncha white men masturbate onscreen and call it art. I left the theater early and angry. But even as I watched "The Road" and thought the entire time, nothing's changed, the same dangers and violence, a moment of respite when the father-son find food and take a bath, but otherwise stakes remain the same hi value, the kind of dangers, the same quality throughout, I was riveted by the journey. I wonder whether I would've judged the work differently if I knew that this was "The Proposition's" director. Actually, had I known, I wouldn't have even seen "The Road."

There is a paranoia throughout the film where everyone fears they are being followed to destructive ends. But the ending offers a glimmer of hope in that one can be followed and pursued by those who want to help, by that which is good. But that glimmer is but a whisper in the world that surrounds, of darkness. But it is enough.

Kenna "Freetime," Directed by Tony Petrossian; Prodigy's "Smack My Bitch Up" by Jonas Akerlund

Prodigy - Smack my bitch up
Uploaded by bebepanda. - Watch more music videos, in HD!

Kenna/Petrossian's Video, cool conceit. Reminiscent of Prodigy/Akerlund's xxx-rated classic.

N.A.S.A project: "Spacious Thoughts," featuring Tom Waits & Kool Keith, directed by Fluorescent Hill.

Sooper Dooper

Richard Foreman's "Idiot Savant"

EXPERIENCED this at the Public Theater yesterday matinee... Spectacular piece of theater. So inspiring. Conjures French Theater of the Absurd, and Beckett, but very very different. Very stream of consciousness. Very in the stream. Wading. Wading. Wading. Quack quack (If you know the play, you'd know why I'm quacking). Form=function. And a delight for the senses, meticulous execution of audio, visual, prop components, and razor sharp timing. What a gift to be able to experience Foreman's work directed by the man himself. The play is definitely a practice, an experience. I can't imagine another director taking this play off the page as a blueprint. The logic of the idiot savant, is so thorough, and not a color or detail extra. Willem Dafoe was amazing, breathed LIFE. Every single action, so clear, so motivated. Even though he was playing a character inside his own head. Again, the logic, clear all the way through, so so connected. It's a piece of theater that in one sitting, inspired so much for me as an actor, but moreso, as a director and writer. The possibilities! QUACK QUACK!

Mati Klarwein

Haven't been in a verbal space, so no written entries in a while. Love what painter Mati Klarwein's conjures. I'm in the expansive state of his images, and the corpuscles. Except, his takes form. Mine is all still a messy milky way in my head. If only I can have the perspective of seeing Two Olive Trees, above, as I do, a whole form, a painting, with leaves tickled by the wind, as opposed to being stuck in the shade and tangle that clutch and struggles at the base of the trees. Klarwein obviously also did the Miles Davis' Bitches Brew cover, one of my favorite of all time, if not my most fave. Obviously he also did Santana's Abraxas cover, piece titled Annunciation, above. Love his take on Hendrix. Also above, Astral Body Awake. It's been awhile, but I think it's time to take a journey, at this transitioning time in my life. Hmm, then again, as a Sagittarian, when is my life not in transit?

Maison Martin Margiela Wedge Ankle Wooden (but not wood) Boots

Saw this gorgeous shoe in person today. Phenomenal architecture. I would like to create a film in homage (and a bank savings fund) to this shoe.

Blonde Redhead's "23" Directed by Melodie McDaniel

Blonde Redhead - New Music - More Music Videos

Love this throwback to experimental films.

Bjork "Oceania"

Bjork my heroine. A song instrumentally constructed entirely of human voice. Timeless, epic, haunting. Video, not her best, but the song is unforgettable. Funny, I always thought it was a love song. Maybe I was projecting. But it's about the creation/evolution of the ocean. A love song of a different sort. But as big and sweeping as I had imagined, or as I was projecting I guess. I see no difference actually between these two kinds of loves.

Fleetwood Mac "Angel" & Documentary

Noisettes "Never Forget You" and "When You Were Young"

Beautiful voice. Great style. Gorgeous gorgeous gorgeous.