Art

Points of Light

Internal archive coming soon. In the meantime, this review can be found at Journal.fyi.

Thinking Again and Supposing

Diaries

A Home for Wayward Boys

I lived in a home for wayward boys for a period in my adolescence. The ramshackle manse stood solitary in a remote field of rubble and weeds. No pedestrians came to that corner of Toronto, and if some lost driver were ever to find themselves in the vicinity, they would immediately roll up their window and turn away. The land upon which that structure once was left to fall into ruin now emits a permanent stink.

Chasing Numbers

Apply to Concordia. Send pitches for the Wolfgang review. Read Gravity’s Rainbow. Read Hegel. Go to the gym. Try not to think about money. Apply for jobs.

E–’s First Class of the Semester

In the VA lunchroom before E–’s first class of the semester. Lights low, plastic furniture, quiet, only a few scared-looking art students with their heads down. I can’t lose the momentum of the APCON piece. One really needs to be constantly sending pitches if publishing is going to work—multiple every day; for the Wolfgang review, for whatever. Publish it anywhere, so long as it’s somewhere. But if I don’t write it first, is it a work of art? Or is it just hackwork?

On the via negativa

My goal right now is to respond to V–’s email, and to send the pitch to at least one more magazine.

On the Occasion of Checking my Inbox, or, Why Phones Aren’t Allowed at Work

Sometimes one can be so drawn into the pleasure of their sensing-body that we might be mistaken to lapse into idyll, for it is then that Life will remind you of your own facticity. The scorching ray of an all-seeing eye falls on you, and you are brought crashing into an outline of yourself. Who we have been anchors us, a Protestant fetter that privileges one to carry it to this day.

An Impossibly Remote Possibility

I learned that F– engaged in some heavy petting with the blonde lady who is constantly at work, frequently drinking with some new man. Late night, after the shift, a group of them went to the bar across the street. I wonder if it happened in some shadowy corner, away from the eyes of others; or if they went to the bar for a shot, and, exhilarated, he leaned in. No such thing has ever happened to me. F– has a girlfriend, also his landlord. The man lives on Easy Street.

First Memory of Forming Words

Idea for a portfolio piece: a short work, almost like a chant, all rhythm, mostly questions. Give it some form, but its function is to list everything I know, everything I’ve ever wanted to learn, everything I’ve ever asked myself. Give it a kind of chronology, make it also a story of coming-of-age. The questions compound. Start with writing Jack and the Beanstalk in kindergarten (first memory of inscription); then copying out Narnia; then writing stories and poems to express my sex- and power-fantasies. The poem I wrote about 9/11, “The Usurpers.” The Republic for my birthday, age 12. Musical father, visual mother. Both proletariat. Philosophy is the ultimate calling, and I studied it all on my own. Feel how it felt to be on the outside.

Insufficient Funds II

The second (?) time this year I had a transaction declined for insufficient funds. I like that it’s a “coffee bar” here. Has the same set-up as a bar, serves alcohol—although, I will say that this shade of green is not a pastel…

The Rain Theory

What are we going to research for the APCON piece?

What’s Happening With M–

What’s happening with M–? I felt bad right away, and now I’m worried. My reflex is to fear that she’s going to fall in love. I the specimen am sick with constant self-loathing; but egotism, seemingly the contrary of that basic condition, grows from the same narcissistic seed.

Windows Closed, Dust Inside

Put off seeing M–. Woke up around 10 with a heavily congested nose. Windows closed, dust inside. Dozed for another hour…then went to the cafe on Mont-Royal. One coffee not enough. Beauty everywhere. Fuck it.

Action de Grâce

Slept on the couch because too depressed to go to bed. Only left the house late. How am I going to find a new job? Don’t have what it takes to go out looking. I don’t have what it takes to go on. You must go on. I can’t go on. I’ll go on. I deserve something better: I deserve a job that doesn’t make me wish I were dead.

What my Voice Reveals

When I gave my order to the Olimpi-bro, I could feel the girl in front of me’s surprise. My voice reveals something that my visage doesn’t. Inwardness, infinite inwardness.

Palestine News

Pulled into a sickening loop with Palestine news. Pulled into posting in a manner that is unbecoming because of how pointless it is. Everything seems pointless.

Girls at O

I should be putting skin on the bricks when I’m applying for these jobs, but my shoes are too uncomfortable. In my 20s I had a lot of promise because I came from nothing. Now in my 30s, the expectation is that I would have built on that experience. I’m building on salted earth.

The Most Popular Haircut

Crazy night last night with D– and M–. We went to…oh, there goes my focus…Back at the green bar. Fired. No job, no obligations, nothing to do but sit around in this cafe. I should be applying for jobs, of course, at every single moment of existence wherein I am not employed, but…my brain is too fuzzy to come up with an original phrase. I’m just repeating the same thing over and over.

I Must Cut Down the Narrative of my Body

In the Beneath Language story, all the work around “adjacency” needs to be cut out. There might be something there, since I’m trying to describe the adjacency of my body—being around people, but separate with them as an important aspect of the narrative of my body. Like when I would go to the library at Concordia, sit down at those desks next to 5000 other students, all of us simultaneously pigs at the trough and little workers in the machine; and I would repeat Kierkegaard’s maxim to stand apart inwardly. It’s okay to line up like just another peon, because inside of me a beautiful soul is glowing.

Nothing is an Excuse for Writing

Woke up sick and sneezing. No energy, no motivation. Felt like I got everything out yesterday: enough of an effort with the writing for class, with the job interview, meeting up with D–, etc that I am excused in a break. A job interview justifies my break in looking for a job; the writing justifies my break from writing; being sick justifies not going to the gym.

Notes on Mounds

This cafe life I’ve forced myself into is gruelling. Sometimes I have zero appetite for talking; and yet, I love a cup of coffee. Hot, bitter, mellowed-out to a nice tan with some milk.

Immanent Critique of The Exorcist III

In Erin’s class, we were assigned to do an “immanent critique.” I watched The Exorcist III that week and tried to do an immanent critique of that film. It’s not very good. Following A.S. Hamrah’s advice, I typically do not summarize plot or give easily-accessible information about the film (I’m not a columnist in a newspaper, but a writer on the internet, where all information is parallel). For whatever reason, I did the opposite here. Typically when I write about a film—which I have a lot of experience doing—I talk about the latent motivations of the filmmaker, what the narrative represents; I try to point out striking examples where we can see formal or narrative elements revealing the film’s underlying motivation. Movies are carefully-engineered weapons whose interests are, ultimately, against our own; we should exercise great caution when dealing with them, and seek to understand the precise manner in which the movie has been designed to corrupt us. What follows is an attempt to write about The Exorcist III (like everything on this website, this is a piece that I return to often).

Halloween is One Year

Wake up feeling terrible. Halloween is one year. What progress have I made? Had sex with three girls, none of whom I respect. I’m as alone as ever, making no progress on finding my way in the world. This is not to mention the professional woes—no job, no job; a deadbeat!

A Single Rotation of the Moon

There is that idea in Cave of Forgotten Dreams that societies and cultures that do not have writing live outside of history; ten thousand years is the same as a single rotation of the moon.

Life is In the World, Not Synapses

Rally, relational pacing.

Perfect Italian-style Foam

At F. The new guy here is talking about Ezra Pound with one of his regulars. I already didn’t like his attitude or look: it’s disappointing to me that one of the original Italian cafes is now recruiting scruffy millennials. I have a training shift for a full-time job as a server. The indent of the saucer where the cup sits is filthy; the bottom of the cup is filthy because the grill of the espresso machine is filthy. Despite this detail, I will concede that the milk is perfect Italian-style foam.

It’s the Question of Everything

It’s all hopeless. No prospects. Everything going downhill.

Taking a Crack

Taking a crack at the Western application. By God, it’s all impossible, LOL!

Working for Zionists

At my new job, I saw the cute girl that I saw at O several months ago. Didn’t talk to her. Too cowardly. She has nice rosy cheeks and a round face. She was studying something related to theology. A domain that I respect, but it’s a bad sign that she’s at the Israeli restaurant.

Notes on Morning Regrets

The story becomes something else when it moves into a closer analysis of class society (the Hegel class’s society). It’s unfortunately a bit disconnected. If we can get it to the point where it’s doing a serviceable job of describing the characters and social dynamics, then I can add in—more hallucinations? We need something to bring us back to the morning where the narrative begins.

Birthday List

• Sugar
• Cheese
• Red onion
• Mushrooms
• Tomatoes
• Spinach
• Mozzarella
• Flour
• White onion
• Radishes
• Tahini
• Greek yogurt
• Butter
• Dill
• Lemon
• Parsley
• Chili flakes
• Cucumber
• Pepper
• Canned whole tomatoes
• Dried oregano

A Good Opportunity

How am I going to talk to the girl next door…I can say: I was so wasted the other night, I could barely speak—but it was so nice to talk to you, to learn a bit about you—it was the nicest birthday gift of all. It felt like God smiled on me; it felt like the clouds parted, and an angel floated down on a crepuscular moonbeam. Not just because she is a smiling, cheerful beauty; but because something happened. From out of the entropic chaos of the world; from out of the constant, impersonal movement of the city, a figure clarifies. Vibrations cohere and become corporeal. I want to learn more about her.

Frozen

Here I am at Cafe D, back in this pit of raw concrete, and the tall beauty that I asked so many people to help me find is here. I had to track down C– just to get her name, with which I did nothing. Learned that his mother died. Will I have the courage to approach her? After having hyped it up so much? I can’t ask her out right now, I can’t. She will immediately perceive how fucked up I am.

Everyone has the Advantage

Unbelievably depressed this morning. I should go back on welfare. I will never have a woman again. I am nothing but failure; a being constituted entirely by failure and rejection who will never amount to anything else. I give up. It’s hopeless. I give up. Fail, constant failure without end. Rejection without end; rejection compounds rejection. An inescapable loop that I will be stuck in forever. Nothing will get better, everything will only get worse. No prospects other than this diary, which I would set on fire if only I had the motivation. I am alone and I will always be alone with nothing but my failures to keep me company, and maybe the brief warmth of this diary, if I ever get around to setting it on fire. Nothing to look forward to. I feel bad that my cat and my roommates have to suffer my presence. I would never dare, I would never presume to inflict my presence on an intimate relation.

Birthday Failures

The party itself was a failure. Many of the people who said they would attend did not; there were a few new friends, but attendance in general was down from last year’s Christmas party, my high watermark. The food was unexpected and greeted without relish. The cookies all had the same texture, but at least they were sweet and buttery enough to get snapped up.

The Ecstasy of Optimism

A bit of encouragement from the world hits the brain like a chemical injection. The ecstasy of optimism. A good lead, a possibility: an interview that went well, at a nice little restaurant, for an employer whose standards I recognize as being at least on par with my own. Hope. Hits like an amazing drug. It feels like I’m floating on air. Of course there’s a storm-cloud, which is the fact that I have not so much as done a trial shift. He has infinite options, just like she does. Still: when I left, I rushed around the corner and fell to me knees on the asphalt. Facing Mecca and the low metal fence of socialized housing block, I said a prayer of thanks.

Pay Attention, but Don’t Let Me Notice

Infatuated with anyone who pays attention. “I don’t like to talk about myself.” I try to remain mysterious, and I’m proud of this (feminine) trait. I did not realize how easy it is to see through my guardedness. The very sexy blonde immigration lawyer—you know, the one who paid attention to me—she was easily able to uncover my stupid tricks.

The Most Insane Rationalization I Have Ever Indulged In

Two days since I gave my number to the girl upstairs. I paced the landing where our two doors let out for ten minutes before J– took pity on me, knocked for me. When she opened, she was wearing a silk robe and a scarf in her hair; she saw me and looked down at herself as though to say, well, this is how you have found me; and? I didn’t know what to say—it was one of those comedic moments where the head empties itself. At the crucial moment, all my Works decay, and “Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare / The lone and level sands stretch far away.” ¹ She won’t be in touch. I know, because to do so would be too active for the feminine. It would be an explicit admission of interest, and would thereby negate the feminine power of mystery. I know the power of mystery very well. When I told her that it was nice to talk to her, she agreed, and I believed her…I believe her now. But she has other things to do. She is not going to be so forthright in signalling her interest. She can’t—structurally, logically. It makes no rational sense. If she calls me, if she texts me, that would be her activity. She is a woman—she is not going to be the active one, and nor should she. It would be a weak, un-lady-like move, and she’s not weak. I don’t even want her to: I want her to signal passively that she is interested, but I want to be the one to initiate things. I am a man, after all, even if a pathetic and wretched one.

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1. Shelley, Ozymandias. Accessed online.↩︎

First Day at D

Work last night was intense. Reminded me of some of the fun jobs I’ve had, except that it doesn’t pay as much. There are no private importations on the list, but the service is at a high level so it’s okay.

Christmas List

• Mom: tote, chocolate
• D–: W beers, book, chocolate
• R–: cliff bars, W beers, O shirt
• N–: socks, chocolate
• C–: Pantone mug, chocolate, record (?)
• J–: Knotty boy, McK shirt

First Day of Snow

First day of snow. Suddenly the winter we were waiting for has Become. No longer just an extended spring, but winter—season of snow.

Prayerful Insertions of the Name

Sent the letters. Today is about receiving feedback from S–, and about working on the story. Morning Regrets has become The Path to Self-Consciousness (it still has both and neither title: the first is just the filename; the second is a working title, but it’s not appropriate for the story’s aesthetic mode). I’m still working on integrating those prayerful insertions of the name into the computer. The narrative will end at the moment of sending her a message. Wow. It should have been on Twitter, the website that I actually use; but it’s more funny that I had to use an adapter to pipe my message into another communication protocol. I used Messenger to slide into the DMs of an Instagram account. Hard to convey how funny that is. You can’t make that sort of thing up, so why would anyone ever bother trying to? I will never understand claims to fiction invented whole cloth.

Bring the Piece to the End

Writing and working, a very strange combo. The job is taxing my ability to memorize things. I need to remember all the recipes for the cocktails, as well as the menu. The floor plan is simple, but also needs to be memorized. And I need to remember how to do the job. That memory is in my muscles, thankfully, which are bigger than my synapses. All the language, the vocabulary. What else? Cleaning is easy; everything else is hard.

More Spring for the Present

A bunch of girls at CG speaking English loudly. To some extent, things have taken a turn for the better. Next step…girlfriend?!

I Can’t Devote Myself

Standing at the bar adjacent to the espresso machine at O, a place I’ve never stood before. It’s typically for friends of the baristas; in this case, it’s a “liminal zone,” where I stand, waiting, until a better spot emerges. It does allow me to see behind the bar in a way that I definitely don’t like. I don’t like Contemporary pants: sweatpants with elasticated cuffs and cargo pockets—the pants people think are appropriate to wear to work. This counter ought to be strictly reserved for friends because I, the public, should not have access to this sight.

What Does Sense-Certainty have to do With Anything?

The story is about a guy who says the name of a girl he likes into his phone 3 times; and on the third time, her name appears.

Operation: Rescue C– from Trinidad

Spoke to C– yesterday afternoon. He is doing much worse. Now, going to Trinidad will have the quality of a rescue operation. Now there’s a higher calling than just lounging around.

Power, Recognition, Presence

Went to McK, felt foolish for thinking I still had a connection to the place. I wanted to give J-L one of their shirts for Christmas as a token of me, a sign of an accomplishment that I was proud of (holding down that job for about 3.5 months). The place is so massive, institutional, busy, powerful. My time there didn’t make a dent, even though it made a huge dent in me.

Christmas Party

• Unsalted butter
• Malted milk powder
• All-purpose flour
• Plain, unsulfured baking molasses
• Orange x 2–3
• Ground coriander
• Whole nutmeg
• Green cardomom
• Granulated sugar
• Ginger
• 750ml dry red wine x 2
• 750ml ruby port
• Raisins
• Almond slivers
• Allspice
• Phyllo

The Plan is to Chill

Post-party. Weak. My body, but also the event itself: weak. I need to get my application packages together, because I’m about to lose my chance to work on them! Plus, I have no time to shop.

Certain Themes Re-appear

I can sense that I’m approaching the limit of what I can accomplish with the Morning Regrets story without a long lay-off and/or some help from outside of me. Obviously more could be done to make it cohesive overall; certain themes that appear in the beginning need to re-appear. More could be done to make the topic of sense-certainty relevant to the rest of the story. Religion, God versus woman, love and loneliness, waking up in the morning—how it feels to be so objectless. Without meaning! Blah blah….

Dreaming About Computers on the Train

On the train to Ottawa, then to Toronto. What a difference this mode of transport makes. The staff are attractive and in a good mood. The other passengers are also attractive—more so than on the bus, certainly. I can hear the gay laughter and chattering of one of the girls behind me. The bus is so angry and unhappy. I remember some of those early rideshares: they felt like world-historical events, honestly.

Double-hand-shake

At PR. J– was being very touchy as he asked me about my holidays, about my family. Double handshake, laid his hand on my shoulder, and even cupped my face. I like coming here because I feel seen—but he still gave me coffee in the tiny cup—and he’ll still charge me for the larger size. WTF!

What Else Makes me Feel Bad?

Nightmare service. So many fuck-ups. Now I just feel terrible. At IdG for a beer. D– has lost her respect for me…I’ve lost face. Will I even keep this job? Who knows. The insult added is that the stakes, the fuck-ups, are fractional compared to the past. In the past I’ve had real responsibility; huge groups in the palm of my hand; an international reputation to uphold….

Proofread All my Documents

Head still swimming. Entire inner world destabilized. Went to the gym yesterday, somehow. A miracle, really. Felt quite weak on the overhead press, and generally un-co-ordinated, but I managed to do eight exercises. Four sets of dips, very long rests. One steam / cold plunge.

Sick in the Nose

Very sore from the workout. Feel bloated and sloppy. Not taking enough time to care for my body. Not enough time for self-care. I’m here at CG, I feel sick, but it’s in the nose, not the lungs. Too cold, with the window open at night. My lips are chapped. I’m not taking care of my mouth, face, skin.

Notes from E–’s Writing Workshop

• The hegemony of ASL
• Grammar of signing is on the face??
• We the Dead (book)
• Diagrams for when you’re stuck
• Self-publishing a book
• February 6: bring some material?
• Look for motifs in the shared document?
• What paths does the writing give?
  • Are they the intention of the writer?
• A time of mediocre thinking
  • That’s what has led us to Gen A; illiterate
  • My back is killing me. I did deadlifts earlier, and we don’t have chairs…
  • She’s bothered by a review

What I Should Actually Do

Back at PR, caught up with my friend. Crush is not here. Good/bad? Who knows.

The Story of Me

I’m afraid to go back to PR because the force of my attraction to that girl is just breathtaking. I want to imagine a long life together. She has a boyfriend—plus, I’m the client. Impossible to puncture the membrane; or, at least, ill-advised folly. I bet we would be happy together: I can tell that we would.

Drunken Ramblings from the Bishop

Having a real drink at PR?! Funky playlist, girls with their arms showing. Did I get close with A–? Who knows—all I know is that I can’t ask her out five minutes after some other guy. But—I think she’s very cute; I think she thinks I’m cute—we chat well, etc; she doesn’t know everybody…

Pony Dreams

Sick—did fuck all this week. Today I got an email that I was accepted into the University of Western Ontario. The financing seems very generous. The guy said they were impressed—by The Truth is Haunted, and that dogshit throw-up from FMST 222?! Wow, LOL!

My Mind is Empty

The one girl is too young; the other is too powerful.

The Narrative Repeats, but Differently

The newsletter project should have an automated (“AI”) component. The narrative is frozen in time, repeats from one year to the next, but modified.

The Weird Opening

1. There’s nothing connecting the “weird” opening [of the Thanksgiving piece] to the rest of it.

New Notebook

New notebook, new occasion to complain about how lonely and sad I am.

Large Yellow Onion

• Celery
• Pepper
• Chicken
• Carrots
• Parsley
• Green onion
• 3.5 lbs russet potatoes
• Red onion
• Banana
• Large yellow onion
• Tomato paste
• Garlic

Bret Easton Ellis, but Consensual

I have this feeling of being emotional, but not knowing why. Is it truly sourceless—or am I guilty about not going to the gallery? Or do I feel bad because I had to contact R–? Or is it lingering food poisoning? What do I want to do, really? Just walk forever? It’s so nice out, after all…maybe I should just—go for a walk on the mountain. What else do I have to do in this shitty life…February, lonely. Or—just shoot me. D– is very annoying, and her callousness hurts my feelings.

Notes on the Gamification of Love

Surprised to be greeted by name at the PR cafe. Funny that this cute young girl I see at the gym, with the SLEEP shirt, now walks in. Everyone both lives in the neighbourhood, and hangs out here. She’s very stylishly attired, and with a very cute, fey boy. The milk in this cappuccino is making me nauseous. I like how every accoutrement here is on theme—that’s how I need to do my place. Pick a theme, make sure all the colours match. Re-do the floors.

Increasing the Odds

Failed to ask out A– again—spoke to the guys at PR about it a bit, and had a beer—now back to just being alone, I guess? Comme toujours.

What I Gave Up for Lent

Saw C– leaving with some man on Valentine’s Day. Then, later heard them fucking; then, he left at the same time as me, early in the morning! REJECTED! (Me not him.) Feels bad. It makes me feel worthless, in fact. I am a piece of garbage. She’s not interested in me. No woman is. They’re just not interested. How did I ever manage to score a woman—any of those times I did? I fooled them, perhaps. Now I’m damaged goods. There’s no hope for me. I can’t be with anyone. I’m a pathetic loser. I will never be happy. I’m broken.

A Pretty Girl Laughs

Nothing to look forward to. No meaning. No life. No future. Only memories. Circling the drain. No prospect of happiness. I feel happy when I make a pretty girl laugh. It makes me feel whole again. The best part of my week is Sunday, when I have the chance to make a pretty girl laugh.

Like Chekhov

The difference between faith and Enlightenment is contained in the difference between D– and myself. “Ethical non-monogamy” as a high-tech solution to the problem of lack of roots (family).

Pros and Cons of UWO

Do I really have something so smart to say? Yes, I do, because it’s easy and even hacks can come up with an original idea. I have something very profound and important to say about the nature of technology, media, art, society. It would be gratifying. Smarter, and even less happy.

Ritual and Sacrifice

The proposed solution is to not change anything. If you feel like you are making progress, why change? We know from exercise science that shock and constant variety are bad. You need to settle in, find a rhythm and pursue progress until the end. The only reason to change is when you have stopped making progress, or if you need to focus on an under-developed area.

Generations and Worlds

Going to see Les jours parfaits with A–; her response (“cringe, interminable…”). Meanwhile, I’m over here relating intensely. Communication across generations and the disjuncture of individual worlds are themes in the film. Is there something new in the world, or has my perception of the phenomenon (aging) changed?

What I’m Building Towards

I love how high up the counter by the window at O is. Yesterday I had a terrible crash during training: no energy, no more sugar to keep my going. I have to return to basic principles. Walking is a process of putting one foot in front of the other. I am nothing like these famous writers I read, or the ones I’m competing against. I haven’t put in enough time! My craft is nowhere near as good. Needs more STORY. A narrative with twists and turns. Maybe a perspective more interesting than my own. The K– story—that’s what we’re building towards. Everything else is practise.

Technical Assistance for the More-than-human

Last week, when I was helping E– with technical assistance on his new project, I allowed the rusty water to spill beyond its strict confines (whose pristine white is sacred to all print lovers). E– graciously saw it as an aesthetic element in its own right.

Untitled

Why do I write in this diary? And to what end do I say that this counts as putting my life on the line?

Untitled

Monday

Music

On returning to the places of one’s youth

I went to a rave at The Silver Door (Torn Curtain / Drones Club / Cyberia) last Saturday, the first time I’ve been there in a long time. The event was called Bubble Bath x Service de Garde. Listed DJs include Ma Sha (NYC) and Martyn Bootyspoon. Mr. Bootyspoon is a mainstay of the Montréal underground whom I have seen before.

Total cinema

The Lady Vanishes

This review was originally written in 2009 for a blog I kept called Total Cinema.

A Serious Man

This review was originally written in 2009 for a blog I kept called Total Cinema.

Where The Wild Things Are

This review was originally written in 2009 for a blog I kept called Total Cinema.

Flesh

Hipsters never change, it seems. FLESH was made in 1968, and appears filled with clichés to my diluted cultural viewpoint. I feel like I’ve seen the same brand of Tennessee Williams-influenced kitchen sink drama a thousand times; I feel like I’ve heard a thousand liberal jackasses talking about sex and the body like it’s 380 B.C.E. FLESH’s sense of realism is largely the result of its independent aesthetic, with untrained actors appearing more comfortable posing nude than delivering lines; shots are often empty, meaningless, or uncomfortably filled with extreme close-ups; there is unconstrained nudity and the sexual politics harken back to Ancient Greece. All of these things have become standards for any sort of hipster “art” (cf. Xavier Dolan); to appreciate Paul Morrissey’s film requires the effort of putting it into context and ignoring the 21st century “free radical,” whom I hate.

Husbands And Wives

HUSBANDS & WIVES (1992) 

Le Cercle Rouge

LE CERCLE ROUGE / JEAN-PIERRE MELVILLE / 1970

Blast Of Silence

BLAST OF SILENCE is a comic-book film made in 1961, predating the hard-boiled grit of Allan Moore and Frank Miller by almost 30 years. The visual composition, the psychotic narrator and the general plot, are all elements taken from old Hollywood film noirs, and comic books, a medium actor/director/writer Allen Baron worked had worked in previous to this, his debut film. Classic elements are exagerrated and taken to cartoonish levels of violence and psychopathy, paralleling in a distinctly American way, the trends being developed in France’s cinema by, most notably, Godard, with BREATHLESS (1960). These two films share much in common, though Baron says it wasn’t for at least two more years that he had the opportunity to see it.

Im Not There

How hard can it be to make a Bob Dylan biopic? Todd Haynes doesn’t try with I’M NOT THERE (2007): it’s fiction, with six separately-named characters representing “the various moods of Bob Dylan,” set in a world coloured by the same sort of subtle fantasy as Terry Gilliam’s BIG FISH (2003); but more absurd, in fitting with the stream-of-consciousness poems that are Dylan’s lyrics. It’s an inspired tribute to the man, but the blend of real details spoken of in song and memoir, with fiction, makes me uncomfortable. Is it not disrespectful to the man to show his accomplishments as celebrity and artist, as fiction? Does it not devalue the greatest claim a man can make – that he was real?

The Sting

It’s incredible to me that films as magically, charmingly perfect as THE STING exist. Incredible as it is, it makes absolute sense that Hollywood was the exporter of films that concentrate on mass public appeal through the highest standard of quality, made real by the American film industry’s boundless coffers. While the international and independent cinema was defined by auteurs, talented individuals assembling crews to create their vision, the studio system was about the “production.” It was about producers assembling all-star crews to work together to create a vision. THE STING does not approach perfection because it is confidently, professionally directed by George Roy Hill; or because it has an exceptionally plotted, lyrical script by David S. Ward; or because its actors created archetypes exploited almost 40 years later; or because of its score, or the beauty of its sets: THE STING approaches perfection because it has all of these things: each aspect of the film, from the beautifully painted title cards to the theme (Scott Joplin’s classic piano rag “The Entertainer”) to the editing, are all produced with an attention to quality born of a multi-million dollar film industry, the biggest the world has seen since the beginning of the film industry.

The Wild Bunch

Peckinpah’s existence is a mysterious one: how did he come to make films? Is he considered a laughing stock, or an embarrassment? I’m inclined to guess the latter, since many of his films are large period-pieces, obviously expensive to produce. So far I haven’t seen anything from Peckinpah that can be considered entertaining. His films have their place in history, certainly, but it is a entirely academic, and not altogether meritable. He was an undeniable innovator of the craft: key elements of his style have been adopted as standard in Hollywood action-suspense-thrillers (and television!) of the past 20 years. This will be seen as a good thing by fans, and maybe for these fans Peckinpah will entertain, but it is my opinion that Peckinpah and all those who imitate his style, are the jocks of the film world. Peckinpah is particularly crude, and, I’m fairly certain, stupid. Despite the banal, utterly insipid movement he spawned, the worst of these film-jocks has a producer to, presumably, keep him from embarrassing himself and the studio. THE WILD BUNCH was released by Warner Bros, and in it Peckinpah gives us a moronic, brutish view of the world that the worst of his imitators can not begin to rival. Where, I ask, was the producer on this film? It was shot on location – a prudent necessity taken by Peckinpah to get away from the studio’s watchful eye? Was there no-one around with enough aesthetic sense to realize that they were participating in a travesty?

The French Connection

William Friedkin started out as an art-house filmmaker in the mid-60s, and was inspired to make THE FRENCH CONNECTION after Howard Hawks expressed dislike for his work, telling him to “[M]ake a good chase. Make one better than anyone’s done.” Coming out of art cinema, Friedkin had doubtless been exposed to European films, and the influence of the New Wave in France shows as a gritty realism typical of America, an influence manifesting itself in the style more and more films of the day were being made in as the America’s “new wave” took hold.

The Bellboy

Jerry Lewis’ directorial debut THE BELLBOY predates Woody Allen’s first “real” film TAKE THE MONEY AND RUN (1969); both comedies draw influence from the slapstick of Charlie Chaplin and silent comedy, and both make well-crafted films with intelligent undertones. THE BELLBOY is the only thing I’ve seen from Lewis: I don’t know about his career before, or after 1960: I can only draw parallels, and there are many.

Fahrenheit 451

Its science-fiction look may have aged badly, but Truffaut’s first film in English is interesting, even though it fails in many ways. The story, taken from Ray Bradury’s 1953 novel, is well-suited to Truffaut’s general style. Science fiction stories, speculative in nature, are well suited to bold aesthetics, and FAHRENHEIT 451 delivers: the colours are bright, the costumes and set-pieces remind us that in the ’50s and ’60s the Nazi jackboots must have still been a fresh memory, influencing the speculative genre further towards symbolic, exaggerated imagery.

Sawdust And Tinsel

I just watched CRIES AND WHISPERS (1972) recently, another Bergman film, but from 20 years later. There isn’t any real change between the two, besides maybe a loss of optimism, but the primary difference is development. Every film I’ve seen from him reminds me of the theatre in the way the drama is structured. SAWDUST AND TINSEL does not fail in this respect, even going further and reminding me of the theatre literally, with its characters.

Mishima A Life In Four Chapters

Once, a year or so ago, a friend of mine lent me a book called “The Sailor Who Fell From Grace With the Sea,” written in 1963 by Yukio Mishima, the subject of Paul Schrader’s opulent Lucas/Coppola-produced extravaganza. I never read it, but now feel compelled to seek it out amidst my teeming stacks.

Days Of Heaven

DAYS OF HEAVEN is another film touted by many as brilliant, evidence of genius, a masterpiece, that I can’t seem to get. It’s not that I hate the thing – it undeniably has its moments, and its style certainly has presence, but it is overbearing: this is the key factor that keeps superstar director Terrence Malick from true greatness (to my mind, at least). Despite its image’s beauty, DAYS OF HEAVEN has no hold, no hooks; it is unaffecting.

Butch Cassidy And The Sundance Kid

Previously in this series, I spoke about how fantastic George Roy Hill’s THE STING was. Prior to this marvellous example of Hollywood production, the director worked with the acting duo of Paul Newman and Robert Redford on this film. While not quite reaching THE STING’s perfect standards of excellence, BUTCH CASSIDY excels in all aspects, just like THE STING. It is an artfully created, deceptively charming film, written and directed with the same amount of sly intelligence THE STING would be four years later.

Traffic

TRAFFIC is not a bad film, although the only immediately apparent topic to discuss is its production – and any film that rests entirely on its production is hardly a film at all. TRAFFIC has three stories, each filmed with its own distinctive colour filter (though if you watch the bonus features on your Criterion Edition DVD, you will learn that there is much more to its colours than simple camera filters): the parts in Mexico are in overexposed, burnt-looking sepia, and Michael Douglas is filmed in blue. This sounds a lot more impressive than it really is: the effects are relatively subtle – too subtle, even. Soderbergh could really have benefited from watching Godard’s PIERROT LE FOU. The decision is a radical one, but its execution is not.

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