Stand back hussies! You
Fear me for conscience sake. But stay and
Watch me watch, from the hood, the roof.
We go through tissues, dreams like forever,
But merely seconds pass. Then, more.
Each time, it’s the outlook from where you stand.
Today, a gas station at dusk. She’s buying
My cigarettes. I am prepared for
apocalypse.
I
(Photo: provenance unknown.)
No, not at all.
The mindfuck is that we can touch and see and hear beauty. We confuse the sensuous apprehension of the quality with the way it makes of feel: happy. At least, often. Nota bene: Not everyone is obsessed with the world’s appearance. But I am. When beauty is the thing makes you most happy, you can take steps to ensure you have some, even a bit, wherever you go.
A materialist, you say? Yes indeed.
Heading north, to school. No filter.
Most of us, plebs in behavior if not at heart, allocate the arts to Special Places: concert halls, museums, homes of the rich. Moments before sleep, we may rest assured that art is safe, somewhere. When not overwhelmed with the quotidian, and resting, justifiably empty-minded, we are too lazy to seek out art. As Donald might say: “Sad!”
Happily, I have words to indicate otherwise. Many words! They ball up and fall over themselves uglily (as DH Lawrence liked to say). Hence, a picture:
Two nearly ordinary men, at work aboard The Surprise, take advantage of their relative privilege to make music. Their choice this afternoon, Boccherini’s Musica notturna delle strade di Madrid.
Thus, we witness the art of film-maker Peter Weir. With a literary work as a backbone, he builds a handsome drama. Period music lends authenticity, emotional excitement and coheres the work. In two scenes, without words to explain, Weir shows music to be a source of joy and kinship. Think on that.
Master and Commander is not merely a film. It is modern art. We may enjoy it in the comfort of our living rooms, alone or with a like-minded fellow.
We have no reason to doubt that art is missing from our lives.
Have you seen a parhelion today?
“Sun-dog” by Abulic Monkey is licensed under CC-BY 2.0
Most commonly spied in late afternoon high clouds, these concentrated patches of sunlight look like a haphazard rainbow streak. The technical term is parhelion; parhelia in the plural. It is always a lucky day when I happen upon one.
Friday night’s movie was “Synecdoche, New York” (2008). Saturday night’s, “Birdman” (2014). Serendipitously, both films feature a theater director making his Broadway debut. Unlike the jaded Joe Gideon, these first-time directors are uncertain, out of place, angsty, struggling. The (in)famous Charlie Kaufman wrote and directed Synecdoche. The improbable Spaniard Alejandro González Iñárritu, Birdman.
In such a juxtaposition, the two stories bumping around the brain, I naturally compared the characters, pitted them against each other, let them duke it out. Who is the more compelling director, thinker, individual? Is it Caden Coutard (Phillip Seymour Hoffman), the upstate nebbish who can’t seem to complete his opus? Or Riggan Thomson (Michael Keaton), the pop entertainer attempting “serious” art? Surprisingly, at least for this longtime fan of PSH, Riggan Thomson easily wins the contest.
Caden Coutard, like a sad Don Quixote, slowly succumbs to his bizarre reality, ever attempting to rearrange the characters and story, to realize his vision — never succeeding. Truly, Coutard’s got no chance against the pugnacious, wiry, vibrating director Thomson — who fights battle after battle: with his daughter, his aggressive lead actor, his girlfriend, a vicious theater critic, his manager — and his own delusion — to successfully achieve his vision.
The stories are so similar! For one thing, Riggen and Caden both are clinically insane. In Birdman, Riggan hides his insanity; it’s a personal secret. He fights it. He contains it. The tension in his character plays out in alternating scenes of normality and nuttiness.
But in Synechdoche, Caden’s craziness, which at first seems like amusing fecklessness, soon bleeds into every scene. He glumly accepts hypochondria and depression. He acquires an analyst. As the story grinds on, his confusing reality builds to a series of nasty emotional crescendos. We get emotional violence, yes, but no tension. Caden’s crazy attempt at directing his life and his play should be mysterious and interesting, but it’s more like a weird carnival ride. Caden looks perpetually confused:
Furthermore, Synecdoche’s characters lack motivation. Why did Caden’s wife leave and never speak to him again? Who knows why, on her deathbed, his grown daughter remains convinced he’s a murderous homosexual. And how in the hell does this benumbed little director from Schenectady win a MacArthur grant?
By contrast, in Birdman, even the supporting characters have nut-like backstories motivating their actions. (The recovering-addict-daughter, the commitment-seeking girlfriend, the cost-conscious producer.) As for Riggan Thomson, he is determined to be an intellectual force, to rise above his cheap fame as a Hollywood action hero.
The best stories include an element of humor, an unexpected flavor to round out and humanize the characters. A serious film, Synechdoche’s attempts at humor tend to subtle ironies, and many fall flat. Even the clever title — a trope declaring Caden’s homely Schenectady stands for the whole of humanity — makes no sense. The film primarily takes place in New York City, not Schenectady. The most amusing irony: Caden’s awful wife, a painter, makes very tiny pictures. People flock to view her work under microscopes. That’s funny. But when Caden ends up achieving transcendent joy cleaning her Manhattan toilet, he is merely pathetic. The burning house, the skin diseases, the slowly aging cast members in Caden’s play — they are curious. But definitely — not funny.
Truly, Birdman’s knockout punch is its sense of humor. Iñárritu carefully packs in a clutch of comedic scenes: a stage-weight “accidentally” nearly crushes an irritating actor; vapid entertainment reporters pepper Riggan with lame questions; Riggan, in his skivvies, marches through a Broadway crowd.
Clearly, the more compelling director is the one hot-footing it around to the front of the theater, recovering from his rookie fuckup, still waving a gun.
And in the end, both men seem to give up. But they do it in wildly different ways. In his finale, Caden — a fatigued and befuddled old man — relinquishes his director role, his play unfinished. Or wait, somebody else will finish it?
On the other hand, Riggan’s climactic on-stage act is violent and destructive and senseless — powerful. With it, he is propelled, ironically, into mega superstardom! His producer is ecstatic! The only question is: how will Riggan top THIS act?
Watch ’em both. What say you?
” … God damn! Well I declare! Have you seen the light? …”
Surely you’ve heard the light, as music, and felt it too — without looking at anything particularly — lovely. Music, unlike words or visual art, is not beheld with the eyes.
Unlike all other forms of art, music fills a segment of time. It starts, it ends. While it lasts, we feel, maybe even understand, beauty. Poets such as Stéphan Mallarmé argue that music, perhaps because of its ineffability, is the most powerful of the arts.
It is not for nothing Jean-Paul Sartre’s Antoine Roquentin, in his deep funk, clings to a melody. Music is his last refuge, all that is left for him to love.
Glorious, glorious sky! Ineffable.
