Well Christopher Wheeldon may name himself the leading contemporary choreographer working in balllet, but after last night's performance of "C. to C. (Close to Chuck)" by ABT, I would have to say Jorma Ela is along with William Forsythe far beyond him. It was gorgeous, haunting, deep, and almost perfect.
Set to a score by Phillip Glass that was composed as a musical portrait of his friend, the painter Chuck Close (who has done numerous portrait of Glass), the piece also transcended the feedback loop that its premise suggested. Yes, the piece had a beautiful backdrop designed by Close (that paid homage to his self-portraits wearing glasses) and yes, the pianist who commissioned the piece orginally, Bruce Levingston, was on stage playing the very difficult music (whose second half moved beyond what one expects of Glass with its staccato rhythms). But Elo's choreography had its own meanings that yes, may have spoke of Close's physical condition (he is wheelchair bound) but also expressed the possibilities of partnering, with beautiful transitions, and individual expressivity in movement. The piece was also about the potential of movement itself. And so it glided away from Glass telling Close how great and important he is and vice versa (and also it avoids Elo telling both of them how great they are).
Ir began with a startling image of dark figures in barely lit circles, dressed beautifully by designer Ralph Rucci, appearing like whirling dervishes waiting to move. A figure came on stage to take off their jackets, revealing bare torsos for the men. The figures remained still, bathed in pale light. The dervish movement did not come until the end when three couples twirled, the man holding the woman aloft while he span. The curtain comes down as they are still dancing, giving the feeling that this movement is perpetual, endless.
Beautiful lifts were abundant in this dance. A few remain with me: the man stands with his arms stretched behind him, his fingers almost touching his lower back; the women then laces her leg through this loop that the man has created, and he begins to lift her. Startling. Another was a lift when the male moves onto one leg and continues to hold his partner aloft, further suggesting that they are unified. They have become one dancing unit.
The men in ABT are amazing. Jose Manuel Correno was exciting in Stanton Welch's "Clear"--a dance that really features men's dancing: Paloma Herrera was passed around like a joint and has no place in the dance. In "C. to C." Marcelo Gomes was riveting: he had a solo that began when he was so contorted that he looked like clay before it was formed into a shape. And Herman Cornejo, who has an oddly shaped upper body, is also an amazing dancer. In the final piece last night, "Free Here on Out" David Hallberg was also great--he is a throwback to an earlier era, kind of reminding me of the Peter Martins that I saw in videos from the 70s. He is not massive like Gomes, nor filled with latin fire like Correno, but Hallberg is precise and graceful.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Danspace Season
Last Saturday F and I went to see the Parijat Desai Dance Company at Danspace Project; the previous Saturday we went to see a Japanese troupe Yummydance. Danspace has been programming for years at the gorgeous St Mark's Church and they are in the middle of a great season.
It is always a joy to be in the main room of the Church, which I think they refer to as the sanctuary. It is a beautiful room, with no altar (one sits in the altar space) and beautiful stained glass windows. Its so pretty when the lights go out and one can see light from the street illuminating the windows above the balcony on the other side of the room. The space is bare, simple, without the gaudy embellishments of most churches. One relaxes immediately in this environment, as if there is room for you and there is no clutter, and no reminders of the torment of Christ on the cross or any other bizarre Christian imagery.
It is also great to see dance and only pay $15 for a ticket. Especially when one thinks that I paid $30 for a seat at City Center and had to elongate my neck, cock my head, and twist my torso in order to gain only a partial view of the stage. At the Church the sight lines are always perfect and even though F and I didn't make a reservation, and it seemed as if the event was selling out, we ended up getting great seats even though we couldn't sit together.
Yummydance performed two pieces. The first "tony, and me" was a pas de trois between a puppet, a puppeteer, and a dancer. Their interaction was intense, and sometimes moving. The puppet was very animated (made in part from a cello) and it was exciting to see how it was being manipulated but at times the dance became a duet between the puppet and the dancer as they moved in sync across the floor. The puppeteer almost disappeared.
Bring Me a PPPeach was the second piece, performed by five women. It was a kinetic piece of much rushing, running, and jumping, less concerned with virtuosic movement and precise gesture than in creative pattern and trajectory while maintaining a deadpan expression. The five women were distinctive but also cohered into a unit of energy, and avoided any and all traditions of Japanese ritualistic dance and cliches about how femininity should be depicted. They were rebellious and enjoying it.
Parijat Desai Dance is rooted in the popular southern Indian dance traditional Bharata Natyam, but the company embraces a variety of other forms, including modern dance, martial arts, yoga, and Pina Bausch-inspired danztheatre (and probably other ingredients that I couldn't discern). Remarkably, the choreography is always coherent even as it is eclectic.
The final piece, "Quiet/Fire", was accompanied by live music (amazing to have live musicians included in a ticket for $15): a violinist, two percussionists, a vocalist (who used the vocal percussion style that I think is called Konnakol) and some sort of box that played the drone (they varied its volume). The dancers' movements were from martial arts, and at times one could have thought one was watching a kung fu movie because dancers fought against each other in very stylized fashion but with an intensity that was spellbinding. It was very exciting to watch. All the dancers were great, but Parijat Desai always stands out: she dances with ease and her gesturing is so articulated--at times it appears as if she is slow motion (because her process of movement is so realized and visible) even when as the leader of the troupe she is always slightly ahead of her dancers. Equally pleasurable to watch was Mohan Kulasingam but for very different reasons: his effort was always palpable and his commitment to the movement was never disguised by technique yet he was entirely graceful.
The second piece "Malaysia" was more Danztheatre than Bharata Natyam. the piece brought in the dancers' experiences as immigrants, students, and Asian-Americans, it also brought in some of the rehearsal dynamics of the company. It centered on the two deictics "here" and "there", which began to have two different distinctions--"here" as the United States" and "there" as wherever one came from before and "here" and "there" as designations of a movement within a dance phrase. Mohan Kulasingam's story about how he couldn't go back "there" because of his gayness was particularly moving, and the ways in which the other dancers, all female, but also all displaced to varying degrees, involved him and were attuned to him, was endearing without any sentimentality. The dancers' everyday personalities came through without sacrificing their virtuosic dance personas, and once again Parijat Desai was particularly charming, playing the choreographer who is rather befuddled by her dancers' concerns about their identities and just wants them to learn the steps in the right order. She is a major talent.
It is always a joy to be in the main room of the Church, which I think they refer to as the sanctuary. It is a beautiful room, with no altar (one sits in the altar space) and beautiful stained glass windows. Its so pretty when the lights go out and one can see light from the street illuminating the windows above the balcony on the other side of the room. The space is bare, simple, without the gaudy embellishments of most churches. One relaxes immediately in this environment, as if there is room for you and there is no clutter, and no reminders of the torment of Christ on the cross or any other bizarre Christian imagery.
It is also great to see dance and only pay $15 for a ticket. Especially when one thinks that I paid $30 for a seat at City Center and had to elongate my neck, cock my head, and twist my torso in order to gain only a partial view of the stage. At the Church the sight lines are always perfect and even though F and I didn't make a reservation, and it seemed as if the event was selling out, we ended up getting great seats even though we couldn't sit together.
Yummydance performed two pieces. The first "tony, and me" was a pas de trois between a puppet, a puppeteer, and a dancer. Their interaction was intense, and sometimes moving. The puppet was very animated (made in part from a cello) and it was exciting to see how it was being manipulated but at times the dance became a duet between the puppet and the dancer as they moved in sync across the floor. The puppeteer almost disappeared.
Bring Me a PPPeach was the second piece, performed by five women. It was a kinetic piece of much rushing, running, and jumping, less concerned with virtuosic movement and precise gesture than in creative pattern and trajectory while maintaining a deadpan expression. The five women were distinctive but also cohered into a unit of energy, and avoided any and all traditions of Japanese ritualistic dance and cliches about how femininity should be depicted. They were rebellious and enjoying it.
Parijat Desai Dance is rooted in the popular southern Indian dance traditional Bharata Natyam, but the company embraces a variety of other forms, including modern dance, martial arts, yoga, and Pina Bausch-inspired danztheatre (and probably other ingredients that I couldn't discern). Remarkably, the choreography is always coherent even as it is eclectic.
The final piece, "Quiet/Fire", was accompanied by live music (amazing to have live musicians included in a ticket for $15): a violinist, two percussionists, a vocalist (who used the vocal percussion style that I think is called Konnakol) and some sort of box that played the drone (they varied its volume). The dancers' movements were from martial arts, and at times one could have thought one was watching a kung fu movie because dancers fought against each other in very stylized fashion but with an intensity that was spellbinding. It was very exciting to watch. All the dancers were great, but Parijat Desai always stands out: she dances with ease and her gesturing is so articulated--at times it appears as if she is slow motion (because her process of movement is so realized and visible) even when as the leader of the troupe she is always slightly ahead of her dancers. Equally pleasurable to watch was Mohan Kulasingam but for very different reasons: his effort was always palpable and his commitment to the movement was never disguised by technique yet he was entirely graceful.
The second piece "Malaysia" was more Danztheatre than Bharata Natyam. the piece brought in the dancers' experiences as immigrants, students, and Asian-Americans, it also brought in some of the rehearsal dynamics of the company. It centered on the two deictics "here" and "there", which began to have two different distinctions--"here" as the United States" and "there" as wherever one came from before and "here" and "there" as designations of a movement within a dance phrase. Mohan Kulasingam's story about how he couldn't go back "there" because of his gayness was particularly moving, and the ways in which the other dancers, all female, but also all displaced to varying degrees, involved him and were attuned to him, was endearing without any sentimentality. The dancers' everyday personalities came through without sacrificing their virtuosic dance personas, and once again Parijat Desai was particularly charming, playing the choreographer who is rather befuddled by her dancers' concerns about their identities and just wants them to learn the steps in the right order. She is a major talent.
Monday, October 22, 2007
Wheeldon--Hype
On the 17th, K and I went to opening night of the Christopher Wheeldon's new company at City Center. Everyone was there (we noticed Mark Morris, Caroline Kennedy, Isaac Mizrahi), eager to weigh in on this new venture--he is wunderkind who used to dance from NYC Ballet, became a resident choreographer, and in a few years, he is know considered to be the best hope for contemporary ballet, combining the neoclassical of City Ballet (Balanchine) with the more traditional romanticism of the Royal Ballet (Tudor). Unfortunately, as K noted, sometimes he also wanders into the pastoral terrains of Peter Martins, which is decided not where he should go.
A word about the unfortunate limitations of City Center as a venue. It has the worst sight lines and if you are not sitting in the orchestra, you end up sitting forward, or tilting your head, or pushing to one side of the seat (or some combination of the three) in order to be able to witness the dance. It is not a comfortable place to spend $30 for a seat, which is terrible because this is what I can afford, and I like the Center's programming. But if the event is sold out, every seat in the back is partially obstructed not by pillars but by the layout of the seats and the design of the hall.
Wheeldon may be hype. But there are flashes of his brilliance, but it is not to be found in his pas de deux's. They are tiresome. Though the woman is thrust into the air, balanced precariously, she only becomes an appendange and is denied her strength and her expressivity. She is an appendage. I thought of the feminist (Lacanian) critique of ballet that argued in the pas de deux the woman becomes the phallus. At least in Balanchine, the female in the pas de deux is always the star and the male dancer is a sturdy step ladder that allows her to reach otherwise unattainable heights. Not so in Wheeldon. Yet someone has whispered into his ears that he does a good pas de deux. He included in the program a pas de deux choreographed by my favorite William Forsythe -- a piece of so much tension (with the great dancer Wendy Whelan!) that had little of the athleticism of Wheeldon, but many more times intensity and visual interest. The couple were inextricably linked and unable to disconnect. It was riveting--as Forsythe always is.
Yet Wheeldon included some great pieces that he had choreographed--but at the end of a long night's program. Dance of the Hours was done for the Met and was a sugary, crowd pleaser that showed he had a Balanchine-like sense of geometry that could mix with a Mark Morris like sense of humor. He is not above simplicity and not above overstressing the musical themes for a bit of a laugh.
The last piece Fool's Paradise had the audience enthralled. It was a thrilling to watch and used the elements of stagecraft to full advantage. A rectangular ritualistic box of light, leaf-like paper falling from the rafters seemingly dancing in the wind--both were beautiful accompaniment to a dance that was pleasingly endless in its repetition of phrases and gestures, and appropriately autumnal in it colors and the motif of things falling and light changing . Once again Wendy Whelan was excellent, and Wheeldon is lucky--he has been able to work with the best dancers--clearly he is a favorite among NYCB dancers (perhaps he is a welcome relief from Martins....)though it doesn't seem that Wheeldon has yet to live up to his hype. As K said if he included only his last two pieces plus the Forsythe pas de deux the whole evening would have been much stronger.
A word about the unfortunate limitations of City Center as a venue. It has the worst sight lines and if you are not sitting in the orchestra, you end up sitting forward, or tilting your head, or pushing to one side of the seat (or some combination of the three) in order to be able to witness the dance. It is not a comfortable place to spend $30 for a seat, which is terrible because this is what I can afford, and I like the Center's programming. But if the event is sold out, every seat in the back is partially obstructed not by pillars but by the layout of the seats and the design of the hall.
Wheeldon may be hype. But there are flashes of his brilliance, but it is not to be found in his pas de deux's. They are tiresome. Though the woman is thrust into the air, balanced precariously, she only becomes an appendange and is denied her strength and her expressivity. She is an appendage. I thought of the feminist (Lacanian) critique of ballet that argued in the pas de deux the woman becomes the phallus. At least in Balanchine, the female in the pas de deux is always the star and the male dancer is a sturdy step ladder that allows her to reach otherwise unattainable heights. Not so in Wheeldon. Yet someone has whispered into his ears that he does a good pas de deux. He included in the program a pas de deux choreographed by my favorite William Forsythe -- a piece of so much tension (with the great dancer Wendy Whelan!) that had little of the athleticism of Wheeldon, but many more times intensity and visual interest. The couple were inextricably linked and unable to disconnect. It was riveting--as Forsythe always is.
Yet Wheeldon included some great pieces that he had choreographed--but at the end of a long night's program. Dance of the Hours was done for the Met and was a sugary, crowd pleaser that showed he had a Balanchine-like sense of geometry that could mix with a Mark Morris like sense of humor. He is not above simplicity and not above overstressing the musical themes for a bit of a laugh.
The last piece Fool's Paradise had the audience enthralled. It was a thrilling to watch and used the elements of stagecraft to full advantage. A rectangular ritualistic box of light, leaf-like paper falling from the rafters seemingly dancing in the wind--both were beautiful accompaniment to a dance that was pleasingly endless in its repetition of phrases and gestures, and appropriately autumnal in it colors and the motif of things falling and light changing . Once again Wendy Whelan was excellent, and Wheeldon is lucky--he has been able to work with the best dancers--clearly he is a favorite among NYCB dancers (perhaps he is a welcome relief from Martins....)though it doesn't seem that Wheeldon has yet to live up to his hype. As K said if he included only his last two pieces plus the Forsythe pas de deux the whole evening would have been much stronger.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Elizabeth: The Middle Years
Ok I admit it. The film opened on Friday and I bought tickets online on Wednesday to make sure that I got to see it opening night. And so off we went to Chelsea to enjoy in a room full of gay men, the art of righteously reigning. Many a wish fulfillment was in the air in the cinema, performing a pas de deux with the wafting designer cologne.
I know that the film is called "The Golden Years" but as a 47-year old I have earned the right to call it "The Middle Years." Elizabeth ages, and becomes both herself and the Queen, at once. She settles into her role and melds with it in glorious acceptance of her fate and duty.
But ah the outfits she gets to wear, by "she" I now mean a corseted Cate Blanchett.
The film is operatic, not in the sense that there are arias and recitatives, rather that there are garments and appearances that stop the action as the camera moves ecstatically around the Queen, celebrating her form, her wigs, her ability to be expressive within such constraining clothes. One forgets about the story--who cares that Spain is about to invade--Cate looks marvelous, translucent, fiery. She is in orange, emerald green, royal blue, in metalics (when she is on horse--but not sitting side saddle--to motivate the troops), and then perhaps most spectacularly in flowing white atop a large map of England and Europe. She is purety versus the tainted Spaniards. The England that this Elizabeth lives in has endless light and Spain somehow dark.
The movie sacrifices story to present tableaus of striking beauty, and quite frankly I couldn't have been more pleased.
Cate Blanchett did wonderful things with her voice--she has an amazing tonal range--her chirping soprano can get go quite deep like a contralto, and she can change volume unexpectedly. In this film, the queen ruled through her ensembles and her voice--to provoke her ire was a deafening experience for all near her.
Clive Owen (I hesitate to remark upon his good looks, suffice to say that he looked as if testosterone was issuing forth from every single pore) channelled Errol Flynn in a pirate movie and they were singularly gorgeous shots of him swimming beneath burning vessels with the camera looking up at a swimming horse that had jumped from a Spanish ship. It was impossible not to root for the success of such a roguish, if self-seeking player. Thanks for bringing us tobacco by the way Sir Walter Raleigh. This we needed? I would have been happy with potatoes.
Samantha Morton who might be one of my favorite actresses was a devious, imperious, and proud Mary Queen of Scots. The way in which she faced her beheading with a rebellious posture was a feat of performance that alone was worth the price of admission.
But in the end of course, it is Elizabeth and Cate's movie. This was a contemporary Elizabeth and director Shekhar Kapur couldn't help but to remythologize her. In the film, she is religiously tolerant and refuses to persecute English catholics; after all this thorougly modern millie believes in the rule of law, not in Machiavellian tactics. When Raleigh brings in native Americans to show that he has conquered land in the new world and called it Virginia in the Queen's honor, he states that they are eager to accept her as their Queen, Elizabeth retorts in almost pc fashion, "Don't they have a leader of their own" as if to say she is not eager to indulge in an imperialist adventure unlike the (bad) Spanish and their nasty, cruel inquisition. I suppose that Kapur (himself born into an English-dominated South Asia) is trying to say that England (unlike Spain and Portugal with their empire building) was an oasis of enlightenment in this period of its history before its expansionist tendencies took over.
But perhaps I read too much into all this--this Elizabeth is mythic not actual and as played by Cate the Queen is entirely in control of her myth. She doesn't wait for her closeup--instead she waits for the sweeping long shots that show her surrounded by her court, off on her own slightly, sending out more light than is humanly possible. One wonders if she has supernatural powers to control the wind.
I know that the film is called "The Golden Years" but as a 47-year old I have earned the right to call it "The Middle Years." Elizabeth ages, and becomes both herself and the Queen, at once. She settles into her role and melds with it in glorious acceptance of her fate and duty.
But ah the outfits she gets to wear, by "she" I now mean a corseted Cate Blanchett.
The film is operatic, not in the sense that there are arias and recitatives, rather that there are garments and appearances that stop the action as the camera moves ecstatically around the Queen, celebrating her form, her wigs, her ability to be expressive within such constraining clothes. One forgets about the story--who cares that Spain is about to invade--Cate looks marvelous, translucent, fiery. She is in orange, emerald green, royal blue, in metalics (when she is on horse--but not sitting side saddle--to motivate the troops), and then perhaps most spectacularly in flowing white atop a large map of England and Europe. She is purety versus the tainted Spaniards. The England that this Elizabeth lives in has endless light and Spain somehow dark.
The movie sacrifices story to present tableaus of striking beauty, and quite frankly I couldn't have been more pleased.
Cate Blanchett did wonderful things with her voice--she has an amazing tonal range--her chirping soprano can get go quite deep like a contralto, and she can change volume unexpectedly. In this film, the queen ruled through her ensembles and her voice--to provoke her ire was a deafening experience for all near her.
Clive Owen (I hesitate to remark upon his good looks, suffice to say that he looked as if testosterone was issuing forth from every single pore) channelled Errol Flynn in a pirate movie and they were singularly gorgeous shots of him swimming beneath burning vessels with the camera looking up at a swimming horse that had jumped from a Spanish ship. It was impossible not to root for the success of such a roguish, if self-seeking player. Thanks for bringing us tobacco by the way Sir Walter Raleigh. This we needed? I would have been happy with potatoes.
Samantha Morton who might be one of my favorite actresses was a devious, imperious, and proud Mary Queen of Scots. The way in which she faced her beheading with a rebellious posture was a feat of performance that alone was worth the price of admission.
But in the end of course, it is Elizabeth and Cate's movie. This was a contemporary Elizabeth and director Shekhar Kapur couldn't help but to remythologize her. In the film, she is religiously tolerant and refuses to persecute English catholics; after all this thorougly modern millie believes in the rule of law, not in Machiavellian tactics. When Raleigh brings in native Americans to show that he has conquered land in the new world and called it Virginia in the Queen's honor, he states that they are eager to accept her as their Queen, Elizabeth retorts in almost pc fashion, "Don't they have a leader of their own" as if to say she is not eager to indulge in an imperialist adventure unlike the (bad) Spanish and their nasty, cruel inquisition. I suppose that Kapur (himself born into an English-dominated South Asia) is trying to say that England (unlike Spain and Portugal with their empire building) was an oasis of enlightenment in this period of its history before its expansionist tendencies took over.
But perhaps I read too much into all this--this Elizabeth is mythic not actual and as played by Cate the Queen is entirely in control of her myth. She doesn't wait for her closeup--instead she waits for the sweeping long shots that show her surrounded by her court, off on her own slightly, sending out more light than is humanly possible. One wonders if she has supernatural powers to control the wind.
Sunday, October 7, 2007
I-Be Area
It became the law to go see Ryan Trecartin's video at the Elizabeth Dee Gallery. This happens in NYC sometimes in the Fall--a new film/video/art installation captures the zeitgeist and everyone is told to go--and often for good reason. A couple of years ago, it was the film Tarnation. Everyone went.
So F and I took the crosstown bus on 14th Street all the way to the last stop on the West Side. As F said the meat market now looks like Barney's with the boutiques outdoors. I did want to go to Alexander McQueen, but I knew we had to remain true to our destination.
The video is in the back room, on a large screen, with two large on the left and right wall, so if you sit directly infront of the screen on one of two couches, the images on the screen are partially reflected, but after awhile one barely notices the mirrors. The video is a jaw-dropping experience, funny, frightening, and capturing the exact moment in which people present and sell themselves on line, but videos on Youtube in hopes that it catches fire, and people are convinced that they can upload and download identity. I want to resist making sense of the video and discerning the narrative and the meaning of the video's clever visual effects, but I will admit that I-Be Area is transformative.
Leaving the gallery after watching the 2-hour video (we came in halfway through and stayed to see the beginning), the world had changed. Passerbys looked like they could also have been digital constructions, with profiles where they listed themselves as adoptible, and each was in a reality show where they could be voted off. The colors of the city looked painted on like his studio sets and the building appeared to be facades that could be crushed and smashed as the room and furniture in the film. The kind of meta-hypernarcissism that Tretartin depicts is so much in the air in the last few years of the Bush regime. It is scary and seductive and involving: to think that you can change name, identity, appearance, gender, and enter into some sort of defiant monologue about who you are and what you offer in a video. This is the piece of art that shows more than any other new technology afffects consciousness--what it enables and what it prohibits. Right now, there is nothing like it--it exxagerates the cultural moment and chops it all up and reconfigures it in such a dynamic way.
I left the gallery giddy, disconnected, feeling disembodied, elongated, and as if my face was heavily made up. F and I needed to use the bathroom so we found a nice elegant restaurant in dark colors that helped me come down a bit. But back on the 14th Street bus when people came on the bus they all looked temporary and in transition, on the way to adopting a new persona, flashing their online passwords instead of their private parts.
So F and I took the crosstown bus on 14th Street all the way to the last stop on the West Side. As F said the meat market now looks like Barney's with the boutiques outdoors. I did want to go to Alexander McQueen, but I knew we had to remain true to our destination.
The video is in the back room, on a large screen, with two large on the left and right wall, so if you sit directly infront of the screen on one of two couches, the images on the screen are partially reflected, but after awhile one barely notices the mirrors. The video is a jaw-dropping experience, funny, frightening, and capturing the exact moment in which people present and sell themselves on line, but videos on Youtube in hopes that it catches fire, and people are convinced that they can upload and download identity. I want to resist making sense of the video and discerning the narrative and the meaning of the video's clever visual effects, but I will admit that I-Be Area is transformative.
Leaving the gallery after watching the 2-hour video (we came in halfway through and stayed to see the beginning), the world had changed. Passerbys looked like they could also have been digital constructions, with profiles where they listed themselves as adoptible, and each was in a reality show where they could be voted off. The colors of the city looked painted on like his studio sets and the building appeared to be facades that could be crushed and smashed as the room and furniture in the film. The kind of meta-hypernarcissism that Tretartin depicts is so much in the air in the last few years of the Bush regime. It is scary and seductive and involving: to think that you can change name, identity, appearance, gender, and enter into some sort of defiant monologue about who you are and what you offer in a video. This is the piece of art that shows more than any other new technology afffects consciousness--what it enables and what it prohibits. Right now, there is nothing like it--it exxagerates the cultural moment and chops it all up and reconfigures it in such a dynamic way.
I left the gallery giddy, disconnected, feeling disembodied, elongated, and as if my face was heavily made up. F and I needed to use the bathroom so we found a nice elegant restaurant in dark colors that helped me come down a bit. But back on the 14th Street bus when people came on the bus they all looked temporary and in transition, on the way to adopting a new persona, flashing their online passwords instead of their private parts.
Saturday, October 6, 2007
Michael Clayton on Yellow Fever
After spending hours waiting at my dr's to get my flu and yellow fever vaccine (I am traveling to a tropical country in December), I met B for an afternoon movie. She wanted to see Michael Clayton and I like seeing films on the day they are released (of course I like going to private screenings best of all). The nurse informed me about the yellow fever vaccine: it is live, meaning that she injecting me with a tiny bit of the fever so that my body can build antibodies to the virus. Many reactions to the vaccine were possible, some quite worthy of a visit to the emergency room.
I mention all of this to emphasize that I was a bit agitated upon my arrival to the cinema and due to my disastrous imagination, anticipating that I might have to leave the cinema in order to address any of a number of new maladies inflicting me (I already was suffering from allergies and an on again off again sinus headache). Of course Beth and I sit in the middle of the row, and the showing was sold out (at 4:05!...but then again George Clooney is a star and a sex symbol) and getting out of the row during the film to visit the bathroom--or the emergency room--was going to be near impossible.
Luckily the film was entirely engrossing, if formulaic (as B put it, the reluctant hero fights against the system). I loved the opening scene (no opening credits) with the voice over of Tom Wilkinson (I like that the possibly mad lawyer appears as an acousmetre first) as the camera prowls through a law firm in the morning following a mail room guy, effectively setting up the conflict in the film between appearance and reality and between that which is heard and that which is visible.
The first sequence serves as the opposite to the final scene, in which Clooney sits in a cab, silent. The camera remains steady on his face--after he has done the right thing--to see if there is satisfaction, or remorse at missing out on the big bucks, or even exhaustion. Allow of these emotions compete on his face as Clooney threatens to look straight into the camera, but his eyes manage to dart away at the last minute. The camera lingers on his face too long and then, at last, the credits begin to roll.
Tilda Swinton is excellent as Clooney's antagonist--the chief counsel for the evil corporation. Her character is equally conflicted by her role, but she chooses the wrong path and Clooney must make her pay for this (and since the film is formulaic, she does pay). Many of the scenes with Swinton are her alone, preparing for her public role as a corporate spokesperson. Swinton's character rehearses in the mirror, changing her lines, examines her face and body, and prepares to sound spontaneous and in control, when in fact we know that she is scared to death of what she is about to do for herself and her corporation.
When I watched Swinton acting the part of a corporate spokesperson falling apart, I totally forgot that I had yellow fever.
The next morning I checked my temperature and it was below normal. I do feel achy and painy though.
I mention all of this to emphasize that I was a bit agitated upon my arrival to the cinema and due to my disastrous imagination, anticipating that I might have to leave the cinema in order to address any of a number of new maladies inflicting me (I already was suffering from allergies and an on again off again sinus headache). Of course Beth and I sit in the middle of the row, and the showing was sold out (at 4:05!...but then again George Clooney is a star and a sex symbol) and getting out of the row during the film to visit the bathroom--or the emergency room--was going to be near impossible.
Luckily the film was entirely engrossing, if formulaic (as B put it, the reluctant hero fights against the system). I loved the opening scene (no opening credits) with the voice over of Tom Wilkinson (I like that the possibly mad lawyer appears as an acousmetre first) as the camera prowls through a law firm in the morning following a mail room guy, effectively setting up the conflict in the film between appearance and reality and between that which is heard and that which is visible.
The first sequence serves as the opposite to the final scene, in which Clooney sits in a cab, silent. The camera remains steady on his face--after he has done the right thing--to see if there is satisfaction, or remorse at missing out on the big bucks, or even exhaustion. Allow of these emotions compete on his face as Clooney threatens to look straight into the camera, but his eyes manage to dart away at the last minute. The camera lingers on his face too long and then, at last, the credits begin to roll.
Tilda Swinton is excellent as Clooney's antagonist--the chief counsel for the evil corporation. Her character is equally conflicted by her role, but she chooses the wrong path and Clooney must make her pay for this (and since the film is formulaic, she does pay). Many of the scenes with Swinton are her alone, preparing for her public role as a corporate spokesperson. Swinton's character rehearses in the mirror, changing her lines, examines her face and body, and prepares to sound spontaneous and in control, when in fact we know that she is scared to death of what she is about to do for herself and her corporation.
When I watched Swinton acting the part of a corporate spokesperson falling apart, I totally forgot that I had yellow fever.
The next morning I checked my temperature and it was below normal. I do feel achy and painy though.
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