FilmVomit

The only thing I watched today was my own footage. It’s quite beautiful, and I’m quite pleased. Perhaps someday I will actually make something from it. 

To clarify, I went to a semi-private screening of David Gatten’s work this past Friday- hence the repeated Gatten-related posts. He showed three films- Secret History of the Dividing Line, The Great Art of Knowing, and How to Conduct a Love Affair- in that order. The Great Art of Knowing was followed by a break during which the rest of the audience discussed the first two films. I took that opportunity to sit in the hallway and shake and consider the implications of the work I had been so graciously presented with. I cannot think of any way to address this piece other than in the form of a letter directly to its creator, so you will have to bear with me. Please, feel free to leave off here if you feel so inclined, with the knowledge that the film was good enough that I could not think for a good thirty minutes.

David,
Please know that I mean no disrespect to your other work when I say that The Great Art of Knowing is the most exceptional piece of cinema I have encountered since my first experience with Hart of London or Passage Through: A Ritual. I have not had my faculties so thoroughly removed nor my paradigms so thoroughly shifted since seeing those films.
Your epistemological pondering is, or seems, so thoroughly convergent with my own that I have trouble addressing it appropriately, but I will give it something like a reasonable attempt.
The greatest art of knowing, it would seem, is knowing when an awareness of it is appropriate. There are the hard things, written down in books as a catalogue of information. And there are the soft things, lodged someplace between the diaphragm and the lungs, that you cannot breathe without, or perhaps must breathe in spite of. The contrasts between hard knowledge and soft are endless, and exceptionally permeable- at so many points hard knowledge mingles with soft, in a passionate pursuit of understanding. And yet there must be a line- at which point does hard knowledge no longer play any part? It is easier, of course, to excoriate the hard knowledge from the flesh. Soft knowledge is the flesh itself and cannot be removed.
I am certain that I will have more thoughts on this at some point in the future. Until then, I cannot wring my brain further without doing permanent damage.
With all my affection.
Libi

David Gatten Film

Santosh Sivan has made an almost note-perfect entry into the ever-growing compendium of third cinema inspections into the source, and subversion, of imperialist power in colonial states. The various power dynamics here- between British and Indian, between man and woman, between boss and employee, between man and wife, man and son- tell a tale of delicate balance, and of balance lost.
The primary power dynamic is between Henry Moores and T.K.; the English plantation owner and his Indian right hand man, a Western-educated man who has been occupied, as it were, by British ideals. The interactions between Moores and his wife; between Moores and Sajani, his housekeeper and illicit lover; between Moores and his wife; between Moores and the people of the village, and so forth, all serve to illustrate the same themes to different or lesser degrees.
The themes are, of course, familiar, but only because they must be. There is nothing else for them to be- the occupied colonies are, at a very basic level, all the same. And it is the variation on the themes that is interesting- in this case, an inspection of the damage wreaked by even the most benevolent power. Even a man viewed as gentle, and harmless, is rendered monstrous by his position of power.
And then, of course, there is the film as a visual thing. Sivan as a cinematographer is superb. While at times he is playful to the detriment of the work, generally the film is sumptuous and elegant- quite simply, utterly beautiful.

Before the Rains

This time through was both more and less painful. This perfect little piece of cinema is so achingly beautiful- the subtle colors and the subtle movements, the compositions reminiscent of Edward Weston or of Imogen Cunningham, the pacing reminiscent of nothing I can name save for the beating of my own heart. Like Peter Hutton, David Gatten works in presence and absence- that which is and that which is not. And David does it so very well.

David Gatten Film

I am reminded of Barnett Newman’s Stations of the Cross, the Lema sabachthani, quite strongly. Liminal echoes carry throughout, one foot in public and another in private. The spaces between and behind are well established and forsaken until they are lifted up to the heavens and reborn- and the line that divides here and now from there and then is always wavering- at times more permeable than others.

David Gatten Film

David Lynch has always been… present… in my film consciousness, a sort of hovering phantasm whenever I consider creating anything. Not necessarily his later works, but his early shorts and Eraserhead. The Alphabet is, I think, my favorite of the early pieces. The animation is elegant in its simplicity and the ever-present Lynchian themes are more delicately wrought here than elsewhere. He is a simple man, really, neurotic to the bone about the things that every thinking man is. Children, women, dissemination of seed and of knowledge, power and the loss thereof, waking and sleeping, dying, aging.

The Alphabet

I don’t want to analyze this one too hard, because I enjoyed it so much. I think I was in the mood for cute. There is a lot owed here to other directors and other films, of course- Wes Anderson springs to mind, as does The Dangerous Lives of Altar Boys- and the aesthetic is a familiar one, though not yet entirely worn-out. As a whole the film rests on spindly legs, the threads that tie the segments together are very thin. There is more fluff than substance, but it is rare that music video directors make it in feature-length without feeling a bit vignette-y.
The majority of the charm comes from the relationship between the two boys- Lee Carter and Will Proudfoot- as the rest of the characters are fairly broad caricatures. The moments of childish innocence, Will’s quirky habits most especially, are delightful; and the depiction of kids’-world creativity is dead on. There is something to be said for letting the sheer joy of making something, anything, overwhelm you. If only they had managed to let that joy show through elsewhere, or had gotten someone other than their own characters to write THEIR plot, the boys of Hammer & Tongs would’ve been a bit more on top of the game.

Son of Rambow

I have, it could be said, a bit of a Herzog fetish. I am infatuated with him, truth be told, and with everything and everyone he has touched. My cat is named Kinski, for godsake. And I even hold a soft spot for Errol Morris, though I believe he reached a plateau quite some time ago, because it was Herzog who prodded him into making films.
Les Blank’s film is Herzogian not only in that it contains Herzog, but because it addresses Herzog as a Herzog character. Werner speaks of throwing himself onto a cactus for the cast of Auch Zwerge haben klein angefangen because he said that he would; and of the perils of grown men not cooking their own meals; and of how in this life only cooking can replace filmmaking, or perhaps walking on foot. And he reveals himself to be no different from Steiner or from Aguirre. His assertions can vary wildly from one moment to the next, but they are all true, even as they are contradictory- that is the nature of Herzog. Truth can be found only in the moment. There is neither past nor future, truly.

Werner Herzog Eats His Shoe
(If you should choose to watch this, please be sure to set it to ‘original size’, otherwise the pixilation makes it nearly unwatchable. Smaller is better.)

Georges Schwizgebel animates by painting on glass. Hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of paintings that morph, one into the next into the next. Jeu, with its Escher-feel, is the most geometric piece I have seen from him. But everything that I have seen from him is a beautiful circular carousel ride. Circuitous without becoming redundant. It feels, somehow, like a trance-song, intended to put one into a state of sublime bliss.
I would dearly love to see this piece on film, because digitally the textures are lacking and it feels like the depth of the paint is not captured. When I first saw La Course à l’abîme it was possible to see the shadows on the brushstrokes, and I have a feeling that this would be true of Jeu as well. But when something tastes as divine as this on a digital projection, it would be pure serene ecstasy to see it projected on film.

Jeu

The stereotypes here are writ broad and large, but there is at least a bit of heart beneath and behind them. The performances of all of the women are quite stunning, and there are many opportunities for the cliché to surface that are not taken. Visually, however, the film is rather uninteresting- the focus is on storytelling rather than on aesthetic- which leaves me quite disinterested after a time. Things that could be taken advantage of, especially the out-of-frame space, are largely neglected. Overall, though, the story is engaging enough and the performances are compelling enough to make up for most of what is lacking in the aesthetic.

Casa de los Babys