Category: Film

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Brief Interactions

So Emily, BC and I went to see Good Night and Good Luck tonight. Eh. It didn’t seem to have much to say that was new or even pertinent–historically or artistically–but it was nicely shot, just ultimately forgettable. Unlike the interesting film by Sokurov that I saw earlier, Moloch, about a dreamy weekend in the alpine retreat with Adolph and Eva, and friends. Presented as a straightforward linear narrative, no one seems to really communicate. Instead, the film is a series of brief fragmented interactions. In one amazing scene, Adolph lectures Eva like a madman, a truly terrifying figure, and she responds by playfully kicking him in the butt as he bends over. He then chases her around the room in his undies. His madness remains something that she sees directed at the world, and she just ignores it, the Final Solution just an impediment to intimacy with her führer. The interview with Sokurov on the dvd was just silly, though. Some artists, especially artists who make such powerful works, should keep quiet. Mark Twain said that keeping one’s mouth shut and being thought of as stupid was preferable to opening one’s mouth and confirming it. Well, Sokurov spent the first 20 minutes talking about why he couldn’t tell us what his movie was about, and the remainder of the interview discussing why the soundtrack and dialogue had nothing to do with the film. Nyet, Sokurov, nyet!

So anyway, at the restaurant after the movie with Em and BC, this guy walks by, kind of a big hunky older biker type with a long beard, very handsome, and I smiled and said hi, not because I knew him, but he reminded me of a plus-sized version of my friend Eric, whom I like and don’t get to see enough of. He smiled, walked by and then turned around and said, “You seem really familiar, do I know you? What’s your name?” I told him I was Chris and shook his hand and told him no, I didn’t know him and he went on his way, perhaps perplexed by all the warm familiarity that I was projecting his way. I don’t know why I’m writing about such a stupid mundane encounter, but our brief interaction seemed framed by a potential for intensity that we grappled clumsily and hastily to acknowledge and understand. “Who are you?” I wanted to answer, “Someone who could love you,” but realized that being there with my boyfriend necessarily precluded such a response, and off he went, forever.

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Judy, Already?

I know you’re all going to hate me for this. But whenver I hear Judy Garland sing “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” from Meet Me in Saint Louis, I want to weep hysterically. I have absolutely no defense against holiday sentiment, and despite the endless complaints and articulate denunciations of the crass commercialization of Christmas, it’s like I’ve been waiting all year long for Judy’s velvety voice to assure me that from now on our troubles will be miles away while we make the yule-tide gay.

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Flux

Yesterday afternoon I watched The Innocents with BC, based on Henry James’ The Turn of the Screw. The film is about a governess, Deborah Kerr, who believes that the children in her care are possessed by the spirits of the deceased former governess and valet. We get to see the ghosts, but are never convinced that the apparitions aren’t entirely in the head of the governess. She sees the children’s innocent play as increasingly sinister. When she kisses the boy, it’s alarmingly on the verge of becoming passionate. The dialogue cleverly empahasizes ambiguity, with the housekeeper admitting to having seen a ghost, but then saying “I know what I saw” when asked for confirmation. The governess is inexperienced, this being her first job–perhaps a metaphor for her sexual innocence. She first sees the male apparition at the top of a tower, the female one at the lake, like Freud wrote the screenplay, and further suggesting that we’re seeing the longings of the erotically repressed. It’s really a brilliant film, in stunning black and white Cinemascope, too, with so much queasy psychological depth to mull over.

Last night my brother made gumbo for his wife Keith’s birthday, burning the roux and everything. My sister found a recipe for a Texan-Italian cake, celebrating Keith’s cultural heritage. There is a community for every food, evidently. Which reminds me, not that this has anything to do with anything, but the other night I was talking to BC and Philip about my “last taste” obsession, and I wonder if anybody else does this: When I eat, I scope out the situation and eat around what I anticipate to be the last bite, building up to a sort of taste-bud crescendo. With tempura, it’s always the shrimp that’s last, typically preceded by the broccoli. I can’t put down a bag of Barbecue-flavored Low Fat Baked Kettle Chips before finding the chip that has the most barbecue powder on it. Both the sight of it and the taste give me the sense of finality that I seem programmed to need.

I wrote my first art review, for Stretcher. It should be coming out in the next few weeks. I’m very sensitive to what a work of art is communicating, but generally tend to make statements, grand unsubstantiated claims or biases, and am not very good at elaboration, so getting past 50 words was brutal. I ended up writing in a style that I thought contained my voice, and then grabbing a thesaurus to make it sound grown-up. You’d be surprised by how many synonyms there are for “experience” and “shape.”

BC and I made plans to visit his family in Illinois in early December. We’ll be flying to Moline via New York, stopping overnight to see the Fra Angelico show, meet with Mr. Gallery Director and take pictures of the space. The gallery has expanded since February, so I may need to alter my proposed installation. We won’t have time to see anybody, but I’ll be back in March for a longer stay.

I’m growing my beard back. Flux, a constant state of flux–that’s the state that I’m going to reside in for a while.

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Sadists and Masochists at YBCA

ThorNYC treated our fair city this evening to a screening of clips from Hollywood films portraying s/m. Luckily, BC and I got to the Yerba Buena Center a little bit before show time, so we were able to finally meet our presenter in the flesh, and expand our vision of Thor beyond the 1″x1″ depiction that we’ve been communicating with in this here corner of cyberspace. What is it with sadists? You’re all so cute and sweet. I suppose that’s part of the point of Thor’s presentation, that the mainstream generally hasn’t depicted s/m’ers in a very realistic or complex way. The roles and behavior associated with s/m make it a subject ripe for parody or exploitation. The dynamics are so close to theater. I thought of Russo’s The Celluloid Closet and about how anything out of the majority’s sphere of experience is treated as something dangerous or funny. You either laugh or scream, but rarely are given an opportunity to understand it. One of the more interesting s/m themed scenes from a recent (non mainstream) film was in Mike Leigh’s Naked, where the supposed landlord takes control of the house in his little undies and has sex with one of the roommates. Their respective dominant and submissive natures come together in a spontaneous and extreme sexual encounter. She is badly shaken by the encounter but burbles that it was the most intense experience of her life. The treatment hovers between the absurd and frightening, but the exploration of a different side of her sexuality is eagerly embraced and enjoyed. Philip joined us for the show, and for dinner afterward, as ever attired suitably in black. BC and I wore black and blue, our own event-inspired fashion metaphor.

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Little Bunnies and Their Bunnywarmers

I’m a bit high this morning. BC and I had a great talk last night, after seeing the incredible Wallace and Grommit: The Curse of the Wererabbit with Reese and laughing our furry white tails off. It seems that we’ve both been a bit down, he from not working, me from lack of forward momentum and the tedium of having to spread the cost of production of the work for my New York and San Francisco shows next year over months and months to avoid going into debt. We tend to shift responsibility for each other’s happiness on the other, and neglect looking after ourselves and then get resentful when things get frustrating. Is that codependence? Avoidance therapy? Anyway, we reached a new level of communication and have squeezed our way past another barrier to a deeper commitment. Realizing that Chris wasn’t the one who was making me unhappy, it occured to me that I haven’t produced anything new this year, well, of substance, and maybe that had something to do with it. Well, it’s like I fell into the pot and am floating in delicious stew of ideas. I feel a need to work with the single image. I’ve printed four new single-image works for the New York show, and really like them and want to do more. I have a great idea that won’t get me into any man trouble, that addresses the male form directly and abstractly, but with no abstract imagery, or the male form either. Puzzled? Stay tuned.

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Capote and Reese

Peter, BC, and I, since it was such a beautiful day, decided to forego being a part of it and bond in the dark instead, at a matinee of Capote at the Empire. Philip Seymour Hoffman is brilliant in the lead role, effectively capturing Capote’s mannerisms and voice without veering into charicature. He conveys Truman Capote as someone simultaneously charming, sleazy, and manipulative, projecting all for equally emphatic and opposing responses. The film focused on the part of Capote’s life when he researched and wrote In Cold Blood. He never fully recovered from the intensity of the experience, and the book ended up being not only the first of a genre called the Nonfiction Novel, but Capote’s last complete book. By focusing on this period, I think the filmaker has made a powerful statement about artistic process–how one’s expression can be propelled by sheer desire–for fame, wealth, to communicate, break new ground–incredible talent, and manipulating one’s moral life and others to make it happen.

Speaking of manipulating others, Reese has decided that he wants a pony tail and an earring. As I listened to myself saying, “Reese, you need a haircut,” I heard another voice saying, “Chris, you are one of those parents who is saying to his child, ‘You need a haircut.'” The two voices ended up battling it out without Reese’s help at all, and the final harmonious if not completely manipulative duet sounded something like, “Reese, ponytails are so completely uncool, and not even retro. How about a trip to the stylist for a fabulous pre-teen makeover?” He didn’t buy it, shaking his unruly boyfro at this truly unhip soccer dad.

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Birmingham: Visit with Friends

I made my way to James’ new digs in Crestwood, a gay bachelor pad seamlessly woven into a comfy middle class milieu, that he shares with two other dudes. Aside from the guy sleeping on his bed when I arrived, he’s also seeing a Russian dude who lives down the street whose name sounds like “florist” without the “fl,” and a “fuzzy bear guy.” James, now waiting tables and moonlighting his prodigious talents as wigmaster and costume designer, is never far from mass quantities of physical attention. Indeed, he yawned frequently at dinner, prompting my question, “The guy on the bed?” and his affirmative nod. James’ status as a fugitive from justice is near an end, so soon he’ll be able to visit California again without the fear of being apprehended. James and I have gone years at a time without keeping in touch, but we share a connection unhindered in the slightest by distance of time or space. In high school I felt obliged to accommodate his attraction to me, and let him advance his talents upon my person one night. I wasn’t terribly interested, but at that age biology rolls along independent of thought, and roll along I did, for something like 3 hours. His interest, knowledge and dexterity astounded me, but I was saving my heart for Potsie, who, unbeknownst to me at the time, was to toss it out the winder and onto the freeway shoulder where it would be flattened with the other road kill in the coming months.

Susan and her daughter Casey, who is a dead ringer for Reese Witherspoon, came over for a brief visit with my mom and dad, and then they swept me away to the Cedar Post Restaurant for eggs, grits, sausage, and biscuits, and then a drive around town. The town that we grew up in, Susan and I, is called Pinson. Its recent incorporation as a real city, with a mayor and everything, was prompted by Birmingham’s annexation of nearly every surrounding township. Unfortunately, Pinson’s status as a city has been accompanied by a complete loss of civic visual identity. The charming old buildings downtown were bulldozed to make way for shopping plazas that have already gone bust. Triangle Park is still there, but with no context since they widened the highway. The Old Rock School is now just the face of a megachurch called the Rock Solid Church. Attaching a new building to the old mimics the vernacular use of field stones to face the sides of buildings or foundations. I suppose it’s nice that they saved the old rock school, but my attachment to community and place seems to be a quaint romantic and outmoded alternative to progress and convenience.

Anyway, Susan is a neo-gothic heroine who slaves away at two minimum-wage jobs to pay the mortgage on her trailer and support her two kids and decidedly less ambitious husband. She has a brilliant wit and is a writer of extraordinary talents, yet her novel remains unfinished. Often times when I visit her, I listen to her richly embellished and ornamented tales of life in Pinson and dread the moment when she says, “Well, I’d better get on home…” I have yet to meet her husband, well, since he said he’d kill me and all, but he seems to have mellowed since the divorce, remarriage, and his wife coming out, and maybe next time we’ll finally get to connect. He told Susan of his fears that she was probably going to up and leave him and run off to San Francisco with me. She’s Cinderella in that trailer, with absolutely no idea that in San Francisco she would be a queen.

April, whom I visited later in the afternoon, is, I think, one of the great southern beauties, with an uncanny resemblance to Ricky Lee Jones. We sipped wine on the veranda of her beautiful old brick house near Highland Park, and swatted mosquitos while talking of our impending middle age and various ailments.

I was deeply humbled by my visits with James and Susan, and how hard they have to work, and how much real talent lies fallow due to the distractions of survival and the lack of creative outlet. April seems very comfy and happy, with a doting husband, great kids, and solid teaching career.

Next Chapter… The Men of Pinson Valley.

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Another Night at the Movies

Philip and I saw Wong Kar-Wai’s 2046 tonight, the baroque follow-up to his minimalist (by comparison) In the Mood For Love. 2046 was much more complex visually and thematically, with a lot more dialogue and practically every beautiful Chinese starlet. The characters stumbled through passionate and painful love affairs, each unable to shake his or her past or to connect fully in the present. The future, represented by a short story told within the film, seemed to hold the promise of something out of the reach of our frustrated lovers. At one point the narrator says something about how love is no good if not experienced in the right place or time, and the attachment that each character has to something lost or not possible illuminates this idea extensively thoughout the film. I preferred In the Mood For Love, for its gestural lushness and simplicity, but am left with much to think about after 2046. A perfectly balanced pas de deux, these two films.

Philip and I moseyed on over to North Beach for gnocchi and panelle afterwards, a nice stroll through Italian Disneyland and throngs of tourists. I like hanging out with Philip because he’s always so calm and pleasant. I bet my blood pressure goes down, too.

Not much else has been happening except seeing lots of movies. I did meet with the new dealer Tuesday, and it looks like I will be having a show in San Francisco next year, but I have to pop into the gallery when I get back from Alabama to measure the space and talk about scheduling. Rather than showing a particular series, I’m drawing from 4 series of works that I haven’t shown yet, going back to 2000 or so, eager to juxtapose all of these disparate ideas and styles.

Tomorrow I’ll sadly put away my white shoes and white belt for the season. Y’all don’t forget to do the same!

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Mr. Grant

I’ve been watching the second season of The Mary Tyler Moore Show, and thinking about Mr. Grant a lot, why I love him so much, and why he frustrates me. His charm is that of hugggable paternal figure, a stern manager whose gruff manner can’t quite camouflage the tender-hearted interior. I identify with Mary, having moved to the big city trying to make it on my own, and her attraction to Lou’s guidance. It’s the eyebrows, those lush dark chocolate bars above his eyes framed graphically by the encircling salt-and-pepper crown, and the round piercing eyes below that lock me in a tractor beam of longing. The other day Ted poked him repeatedly in the belly and I was insanely jealous. His suits never wrinkle and are cleverly contoured to reveal nothing of the sensual playground hidden behind the Worsted/polyester shell. In my imagination, I strip the façade away, slowly revealing the wild voluptuary who insists, “Call me Lou….”

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Alone, and Having a Swell Time

Big Chrissy and The Deanosaurus have abandoned me for the evening, so rather than going out with friends or doing something intellectually or culturally stimulating, I decided to just be with me and have a mellow evening at home. I’m so easy to get along with, and I don’t have to change my clothes or wash my armpits. Our date began with Wong Kar-Wai’s pretty lousy first film effort, As Tears Go By, with maybe a few brief glimpses at a different director cowering under John Woo’s shadow, but generally little indicating the genius about to sweep filmdom with his dynamic emotion-based editing and disjunct color-saturated longing. But it was nice just being with me, and not worrying about disappointing my date or struggling to contextualize such a humdrum film. Me and I then cooked ourselves pesce all’aqua pazza, a fiery southern-Italian fish dish well-suited to the chilly evening and our flaming dispositions, served over some crusty old bread, and accompanied by a salad and some of the finest watermelon this side of Jefferson County. Now we’re finishing up our wine and giggling as we paw each other playfully before bellybucking our way towards a blissful close to the evening’s festivities, knowing full well that this is the month that The Miracle of Morgan’s Creek, Preston Sturges’ masterpiece (forget what they say about Sullivan’s Travels, this is it), and Naked are coming out on DVD–bookends of independent filmmaking brilliance. I’m the only one who could possibly be turned on simultaneously by my Eddie Bracken imitation and David Thewliss’ abjection… Oh Coco!