Arts & Film

Dir. Aleksandr Sokurov Ah, these Russians and their long, occasionally ponderous, often visually stunning films! (See: Andrei Tarkovsky’s Solaris.) A visual and technical tour de force, with all 96 minutes shot in one take (the third take of the day’s shoot, I’ve read), Russian Ark was oddly spellbinding. It’s not like there’s much of a plot, but the visuals are sumptuous - especially the Great Royal Ball of 1913, which has great music too - and it certainly held me in my seat. Was there a meaning to it all? I guess if you must find one it’s that the Hermitage in itself contains not only great art, but the whole of Russian history, from the time of the Tsars to the present day. But since feeling is first we forget the lack of narrative and focus on the pure aesthetic beauty of some of the shots. On the way back, I had the happy coincidence of reading a Richard Schickel interview where he said while critics tend to think verbally, some of the greatest films are imagistic and don’t lend themselves nicely to verbalisation. He was talking about Kubrick movies, but I think it applies to Russian Ark too.

Dir. Lloyd Kaufman A documentary about Troma Entertainment’s attempts to sell their films in Cannes. I love the schlocky nature of their films (The Toxic Avenger, Cannibal! The Musical, Tromeo and Juliet etc.), which is why I went to watch in the first place. Quite revealing about how hard it is for independents to sell at Cannes, and the enthusiasm of Lloyd Kaufman - the founder of Troma - and the Troma Team is infectious. Self-promotion at its best. I loved the moment where Quentin Tarantino says hi to Lloyd - shows Tarantino’s video-geek origins. Doug (who plays Sgt. Kabukiman in the films) really does come across as super-obnoxious - I kind of understand Scott McKinlay’s rage at him. And I know it’s supposed to be part of the cheap feel about the film but I wish they didn’t keep making jokes about Lloyd turning off the camera at important moments, and actually let the camera run.

Dir. Tom Peosay Tibet: Cry of the Snow Lion, one of the few films I caught at the 2004 Singapore International Film Festival, was an extremely moving documentary on the plight of the Tibetan people - it made me really sad. I liked that they showed the supporters of Tibet to be a wide, varied group, including many Asians, not just the stereotype of New Age hippies. Indeed, the most embarrassing moment would be the scenes of the mosh pit in the Free Tibet concert; but somehow, I’ve never heard a more affecting singing of “Losing My Religion”, if only because in the context of the film the lyrics take on both the original, metaphorical, end-of-one’s-rope sense and the literal. To see the grief in the monks and nuns, to hear their descriptions of the tortures endured, and to see their determination to remain non-violent despite it all… all very moving. Makes me wonder whether those Tibetans who ran the now-defunct Rising Moon restaurant in Harvard Square had stories to tell.

Dirs. André Heller and Othmar Schmiderer Was sollen wir sich bei einer, der Sünde nicht sehen können, fühlen? Okay, it’s been a while since I spoke German, so perhaps best to phrase it in English: what should we feel about one who could not see sin - especially a sin as grievous as Nazism? The camera in the documentary Blind Spot spends almost all 90+ minutes on Traudl Junge, Hitler’s secretary, and it’s a testament to how compelling her story is that Heller and Schmiderer never need to show anything else to keep you watching. There’s so much to hear in her story: the idea of the banality of Hitler’s evil; Junge’s guilt over naïete; and her blow-by-blow recollection of the final days. That recollection accelerates the film’s pace in the final half hour, and since I’ve never heard much about Hitler’s bunker before I found it utterly fascinating. The part where Junge describes Hitler calmly testing cyanide pills on his dog Blondie, a dog he loved, because he was suspicious of Himmler (who had given him the pills) at that point really captures the mix of banal evil and hysterical paranoia in the Führer.

Dir. Kirby Dick and Amy Ziering Kofman I bought a ticket to Derrida because the premise sounded great: is there any way to do a documentary on a major deconstructionist without him inevitably deconstructing the process of filmmaking as it’s going on? And, just as I expected, there were a lot of moments where Derrida commented on the whole oddness of the filming process. Which, of course, led to a lot of meta-filming, with a camera filming the filmmaker filming Derrida. (Actually, at one point we see a shot of the camera following Derrida, then we pull back to get a shot of that second cameraman, so there’s a camera filming a camera filming the filmmaker filming Derrida.) Derrida says sometime in the documentary that the process of winnowing down hours of footage into an hour-long (his word; the film actually runs to 90 minutes) documentary means the documentarians are in a sense being autobiographical - they reveal themselves in the footage they choose to include. Which made me think of the idea that each text - this documentary, in this case - contains its own means of deconstruction, which led to me thinking about things in which each fragment contains a picture of the whole. What is the word for the latter phenomenon? Another question that springs to mind: I think it’s useful to remember that all documentaries are artificial settings, of course (I suppose that’s the quest of Nick Bloomfield et al when they insert themselves into their documentaries), but is there a modern audience that doesn’t recognise the artifice of the situations, and the impossibility of removing the documentarian’s own biases, even in supposedly objective texts? Don’t we recognise this as we read, say, the columns of William Safire in the New York Times? (This should not in no way be taken as approbation of Safire, who as an editorial columnist often displays the lovely ability to blithely ignore facts.) It’s not like the deconstruction is complete - nowhere in the film is it mentioned that Kofman was Derrida’s student. Anyway, back to the documentary: my watch-watch test (i.e. how long it takes before I check my watch to see how much time has passed, which I tend to do when I’m bored) clocked in at about 45 minutes, which is pretty damn good for a documentary.

Dir. Michael Winterbottom There’s no way to review this one fully objectively. For one, when I saw it on screen I’d actually already seen it before, albeit in a very dodgy bootleg, so this was a second impression. Next, I’m a club kid at heart, and I really do love the history of club culture, of which the Hacienda is a big part. And so, when I was writing about Britain for Let’s Go, I actually requested to cover Manchester so that I could go to the site of the Hacienda (which had shut down the year before) to pay homage. I suppose it means something that a few of my friends from America e-mailed me just to say “I saw 24 Hour Party People and it reminded me of you”. And lastly, after two films in a row about different forms of evil, I really needed a break, and this was just perfect.

Dir. Pier Paolo Pasolini I watched this as part of a Pasolini retrospective in the 2003 Singapore International Film Festival, and I should note that the very idea of a Pasolini retrospective is great, even if the Powers That Be insisted on cuts that meant one of the films (The Arabian Nights) had to be cancelled. On to Pasolini’s version of the Boccaccio classic. I didn’t really like the Ciappelletto story that is one of the two framing stories: yes, I understand, in Pasolini’s version Ciappelletto (Franco Citti) makes the sacrifice that allows the northern usurers and the Church to glorify him and thus prolong their control over the masses. But the Marxism seems a bit overt, and I don’t like being beaten in my head with overt politics (this, incidentally, is my objection to most Michael Moore films - I think he ends up only preaching to the converted). Certainly I thought the class criticism was subtler - and thus better - in the two consecutive stories of Caterina, whose lover, the rich Ricciardo, is merely forced to marry her when they’re caught having sex, and Elisabetta, whose lover is killed by her brothers because the lover is a poor labourer. And of course any sprawling text like the Decameron allows for a wide treatment of various subjects, which Pasolini does very well, full of warmth for the characters - the story of the nuns taking turns screwing the gardener could be read as Pasolini’s take on church hypocrisy, but then the subject of oversexed nuns has been popular since mediaeval times, and it could also just be seen as a really funny story. Actually, the bawdy sex bits in the film were all great, with a sense of play that I thought felt true to the spirit of Boccaccio’s text and to the spirit of mediaeval literature.

Dir. Pier Paolo Pasolini I watched The Canterbury Tales on the same day that I watched The Decameron, which I really enjoyed, and by comparison this was a bit disappointing. Both the Canterbury Tales and the Decameron I think occupy a similar spot in their respective country’s literary history, and indeed share a similar format, with people in differing occupations tell tales. And logically Pasolini works in a similar way here as in The Decameron (which he had made a year earlier), letting each story just pick up when the previous one ends. But something seems lost in the pacing, and in the end it seemed some tales came across better than others. Perhaps as an Italian, Pasolini was more familiar with Boccaccio than Chaucer? The framing device here is Chaucer sitting around his desk, looking busy, which seemed quite weak. Chaucer is played, of course, by Pasolini, and I suppose I prefer the gung-ho painter of The Decameron to non-participant of The Canterbury Tales. And the bad dubbing of the Italian actors detracted further from the enjoyment of the film.

Dir. Pier Paolo Pasolini There were moans in the theatre during the torture scenes; there were gasps during the raised-fist scene; there was a stunned silence at the end. All the sounds seemed entirely appropriate: how else to respond to Pasolini’s dramatisation of the Nazi-Fascist regime that ruled in Salo in 1944-45? Salò, or the 120 Days of Sodom reminded me of Lord Acton’s dictum that power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely. And if you didn’t flinch at the last scenes, I worry for your sanity.

Dir. Aku Louhimies Probably the most Hollywood-like of all the films I’ve seen so far. In part this is because the film itself is about Iiris (Minna Haapkylä), a film buff whose references are all to English-language films (Taxi Driver, Gilda, Star Wars, Bridget Jones’ Diary, etc.); in part because, really, other than the Finnish language, this is standard, albeit well-executed, romantic comedy fare. (Let’s see - crazy embarrassing mother? See Bridget Jones’ Diary. Perfectly handsome suave boyfriend with whom it just doesn’t click? See Sweet Home Alabama. And yes, I know *Lovers and Leavers*probably precedes the Reese Witherspoon vehicle; the point is that they all draw on the same formula.) This movie really depends on the audience’s own knowledge of films: we understand the characters’ actions only because of the film’s references to so many film conventions. Let’s put it this way: on the way back home I bumped into my brother and he asked me about the film, and the first adjective that came to mind was “pleasant”.

Dir. Buddhadeb Dasgupta About Lati, a prostitute’s daughter who wants to be a student but whose mother wants to marry her off. I thought it was interesting to watch an arthouse Indian film that was set in a small village rather than a bustling city, for a change. I must say the description I got from the Singapore Film Festival guide made me expect a much more depressing film than it turned out to be - was expecting one of those ’life is awful for women’ pictures. Dasgupta does a good job of balancing the terrible nature of life for the women in the brothel - there’s a nice scene near the end where silently the camera just goes room to room and we see the sleeping awful customers and then the saddened prostitutes - with the idea that life isn’t completely hopeless… Trouble occurred when something happened with the film reel near the end of the show, which meant the organisers had to summon someone to fix the problem. I was sitting near the door to the projection booth, and I was kind of disappointed that it had to be unlocked i.e. there wasn’t a projectionist inside. I know, I know, there aren’t necessarily always projectionists inside anymore, but I like to make believe, Cinema Paradiso style, that we all live in a world of old-school cinemas. Of course, Singapore has hardly any single-screen cinemas anymore so even a two-screen cinema like Jade is old-school here.

(Luaka Bop) “Crossover” is usually a pejorative term in the world of music, but the women of Zap Mama do it with class. On A Ma Zone, Zap Mama may have abandoned the pure a cappella of earlier albums, but they still have voices to contend with. Founded by Marie Daulne, a native of Zaire raised in Europe, this Brussels quintet reflects the eclectic cosmopolitanism of both Daulne’s upbringing and their home city, with lyrics in French, various African languages and English. Elements of African tribal chants and Pygmy song blend seamlessly with Daulne’s incredible lead vocals, which flow easily from breathless pixie to soul sister. But A Ma Zone should not be consigned to the world music section of record stores. It’s a pop and hip-hop album, and it markets itself as such, down to Martin Ledyard’s hip stylised cover art. “Songe"and the impossibly beautiful “Call Waiting” both blend in the stuttering backbeats of ’90s R&B, while the

Dir. Joel Katz The first half of an interesting documentary double-bill, together with The Tramp and the Dictator. Both films explore the background behind an art work, in this case, the song “Strange Fruit”. I remember the first time I heard “Strange Fruit”. It was the Billie Holiday version - her voice on the tip of heartbreak; the stark, specific images; that beautiful, spare piano. I’ve since heard many of the other versions cited by this documentary, but it’s the Holiday version that’s seered into my mind. It wouldn’t be my song of the millennium (as Time magazine called it) but it’s close. Lynching - how could anyone be so inhumane? I remember seeing the photos from the “Without Sanctuary” exhibition - they just break your heart.

Dirs. Kevin Brownlow and Michael Kloft About the courage necessary to make a political film: Charlie Chaplin’s The Great Dictator. The film was one of Chaplin’s best pieces (not as good as Modern Times, but still great), but the documentary had the Turner Classic Movies sheen on it. The efforts to show the corollaries (and differences) between Chaplin and Hitler struck me as laboured - being born within the same week shouldn’t mean anything beyond being a coincidence. I found myself agreeing with its premise, that sometimes you have to deal with horror through humour, but not necessarily with its claims about the power of film. (“Here was this huge artist standing up against this gargantuan monster” says a critic - I think Stanley Kauffman - at one point.) Which is the point where I randomly quote one of the great funny movie lines, “Don’t be stupid be a smarty come and join the Nazi Party!” from The Producers. Back to the movie - there’s a lot of questions raised about appeasement versus the necessity of making waves sometimes, and we’re reminded of the old saw that Hollywood as a business is really very conservative, in the sense of trying not to upset anyone. The clips from The Great Dictator itself are great, but then why wouldn’t they be?

(Astralwerks) In a time where it seems groups are being forced to put out full-length albums with more songs than good ideas, the Beta Band’s The Three E.P.s, puts together three out-of-print EPs and reminds us of the value of that long-neglected format. No room for self-indulgent extraneous songs here. Each one of the three (Champion Versions, The Patty Patty Sound, and Los Amigos Del Beta Bandidos) is a perfectly-formed condensed collection of four songs; together, they point to a firecracker of talent ready to explode. Reminiscent of Gomez’s Bring It On in its American roots music-inspired sound, the first Stateside release from this Scottish indie favourite showcases the band’s diverse range of influences from Muddy Waters to the KLF. Stephen Mason’s delicious breathy voice and bluesy acoustic/slide guitar work combine perfectly with the bass and the occasional harmonica to form killer tunes like the opening “Dry the Rain” and “Needles in My Eyes”. Calling to mind Beck, the eclectic pastiche effect of songs like “The House Song”, which mixes a snaking bass line over turntable scratching and sampling, keeps to the lo-fi sound. All in all, a heady brew of swamp music from the land of lochs. A-

If a group can be named as ‘influential’ in the ephemeral scene that is club music, Meat Beat Manifesto would fit the bill. Perhaps they’re not immediately recognisable names like Fatboy Slim or the Prodigy, but the cognoscenti know they were there first. Their seminal 1989 single “Radio Babylon” was perhaps the first major breakbeat/jungle song, so spectacular it was sampled by both the Prodigy and the Future Sound of London. Meat Beat Manifesto songs appear on both the Chemical Brothers’ mix CDs. And yet, for all that, Actual Sounds and Voices prove, in the end, a disappointment. As an Englishman in California might say: Bugger, dude.

(Epic / Independiente) From the liner notes that mimic the cheery tone of cooking how-to books (including a recipe - and photos - for a dish featuring the titular ingredient) to the constant use of retro samples, circa 1950 or so, this new DeeJay Punk-Roc (hint: he’s neither) album is laden with archness. The ironic appropriation of the past of lounge meets big beat, the cheesiest form of electronic music – trés 1990s, no? This merger does produce hugely danceable tunes, like the opening “I Hate Everybody” or “Dead Husband”, with the Brooklyn-born Punk-Roc putting his large beats to infectious good use. Mindless shameless fun, but one tires soon of the repeated use of unusual speech samples to open songs, and ChickenEye sorely lacks a standout moment of throw-your-hands-in-the-air dancefloor epiphany.

(Astralwerks) ‘Cassius’ are, as the booming voice that starts off the album informs us, ‘in the house’, and you’d better believe it. 1999 is no Prince remake (thankfully), but another release in the French disco house genre that entered the global consciousness last year with the enormous success of Stardust, Daft Punk, and Bob Sinclar. Cassius consist of ace French producers Boombass and Philippe Zdar, and while this is their debut foray into house, their experience as DJs (Paris’s Respect is Burning; London’s Basement Jaxx) and musicians (Motorbass and La Funk Mob) shows. The album’s delectable pastiche of 4/4 beats, cut-up vocals and instruments, and funk-tinged deep bass (even the Foxy Brown theme gets sampled) creates some of the most massive tunes to hit the dancefloor, including the storming single “Cassius 99” with its shout-along layer of Donna Summer’s “Love is Just a Breath Away” vocals. There’s an edgy feeling caused by the precise pruning of the synths and vocal samples midway, and this collage effect both reinvigorates old samples (Gwen McCrae’s voice on “Feeling for You”) and draws you into new songs (“La Mouche”). It’s not all uptempo, though. Cassius’s clean, even sparse, beats shift into low gear occasionally in tunes like “Nulife”. No pre-millennial tension in 1999: the French have made fun in dance music respectable again. This last tango in Paris has legs. A

You know Bryan Ferry has always loved doing cover versions. On the Roxy Music lead singer’s first two solo albums (These Foolish Things and Another Time Another Place), he imbibed casual-distant cool into such songs as “Smoke Gets In Your Eyes”. As Time Goes By goes even further back in time, revisiting the fundamental things in the form of old jazz standards, including Cole Porter tracks (“Miss Otis Regrets”) and of course the title track. The problem is, the album doesn’t swing. Ferry’s winking suaveness would seem perfectly suited to these tunes, but instead Ferry merely comes across as an oddly restrained lounge singer, tired of singing the same songs for the umpteenth time. There’s none of the gusto or the delicious abandon of his other covers, and the minimal production on the album doesn’t help matters: the horns never are quite brassy enough, and Ferry’s voice sounds muted at points. Instead of being languidly wistful, as one presumes he intended, “Falling in Love Again” and “Where or When” is merely sluggish. Perhaps we’ve heard these standards so often it’s hard to be excited by these decidedly ordinary interpretations. Still, Ferry’s voice remains rich and true; on that you can rely. B

By Helen Fielding Friday March 3 1½lb (v.g.; resembles v. intellectual tome, in manner of Henry not Helen Fielding, once the cover is taken off. Also, cover removal allows male reviewer to preserve semblance of being macho). Number of times faux-Bridget style intro must have been used in other publications by the time this review is published: probably 500 (ugh). Alcohol units consumed while pondering previous fact: 1.