Friday, March 27, 2009

Political Suicide: Malachi Ritscher, Andrew Veal, and Mecca Normal

Okay, so... there's a Mecca Normal show Saturday night at the Vinegar Factory - and if you're smart, if you're feministically-inclined, if you're interested in local music, and/or if you've never seen them before, as I suspect will be the case with at least some people reading this, you should go. But I'd like to suggest some homework first, pertaining to one of their newer songs, "Malachi." Jean Smith will no doubt preface the song with an explanation or mention it in her talk on "How Art and Music Can Change the World;" it deals with the self-immolation of an American artist and Chicago scene chronicler, Malachi Ritscher (pronounced "Richter"), whom the band got to know in their travels in America. It's a pretty interesting story, which I had no awareness of prior to hearing Mecca Normal's song; I've wanted an excuse to acquaint myself with the backstory, and writing this made a good one. I think readers of my blog will find my researches interesting...

Throughout his life, Ritscher had done much to document (through photographs and recordings) improvised and experimental music in Chicago; a list of some of the avant-gardists to whose recordings he contributed is here (and includes many projects by Ken Vandermark, who plays the Ironworks April 2nd with Ab Baars). Punks may better remember him for his bass playing (with a misspelled name) on the first Arsenal EP (led by Santiago Durango of Big Black - we assume that Ritscher knew the song "Kerosene," about self-immolation as a cure to smalltown boredom). Less Than Jake did a song about his suicide, which you can hear here. Ritscher burned himself to death in 2002, near a highway offramp during rush hour, to protest the US government's direction at that time (the War On Terror, the invasion of Iraq, etc); his "mission statement" for the act can be viewed here, in the form of an internet broadcast he issued prior to his death, and if you're going to click on only one link in this article, let me recommend that one. His self-written obit is here; reactions in Chicago can be read about here; a Pitchfork article detailing his contributions to the Chicago scene can be read here; and a blogger's article about Mecca Normal's song can be read here (also featuring video of the band performing it).

Hearing of Ritscher's death (at Mecca Normal's previous show in Vancouver) reminded me of a suicide that I'd read about a few years ago: a 25-year old Georgia man named Andrew Veal drove across America in 2004, two years after Ritscher killed himself, and after George W. Bush had won over John Kerry in the election that Ritscher refers to in his mission statement, to blow his head off at the site of the former World Trade Center. Leaving no note, Veal's was a less-focused but still apparently politically motivated action that, perhaps, in his choice of location, he figured would speak for itself. He and Ritscher are two recent examples of Americans that have killed themselves in acts of political protest; there's even a small handful of others who chose to die by self-immolation (a horrible, horrible way to go, and a striking contrast to the comfort-centered way most North Americans live). Alice Herz, described on Wikipedia as an "82 year old peace activist," self-immolated in 1965 to protest the war in Vietnam, as did Norman Morrison, apparently her "colleague" (according to Wikipedia, anyhow - a dubious source of information at times, but a useful starting place for reading). Other self-immolations in America - mostly during the Vietnam war - include George Winne Jr, Florence Beaumont, and Catholic Worker Roger Allen LaPorte. A later US self-immolation was conducted in 1996 by a Chinese-American artist/activist who called herself Kathy Change, an act that was apparently a protest against the way things were in America in general, rather than a reaction to any particular conflict or issue. The template for all of these self-immolations was probably the famous self-immolation of Vietnamese Buddhist monk Thích Quảng Đức, who set himself aflame to protest the persecution of Buddhists by the Diem regime in Vietnam. (Rage Against The Machine used a famous photograph of this action as an album cover). There are, in fact, enough political activists who have committed suicide in history worldwide to merit an index for that method of death on Wikipedia; not all of these deaths were intended as acts of protest, however. The line gets blurry in some cases: folksinger Phil Ochs, who hanged himself in 1974 (but somehow doesn't make the Wikipedia list!), was very much an activist and idealist, but his suicide was motivated by despair and depression, rather than any belief that he could bring any good about by killing himself (the poster shown here is part of Mecca Normal guitarist David Lester's "Inspired Agitator" series). Abbie Hoffman, too, was likely a suicide, which no doubt had something to do with despair at the direction his country was moving in, but there's no reason to think he meant his death to change anything on a social level.

There are, in fact, probably millions of other examples, throughout human history, of people killing themselves in political protests that Wikipedia is overlooking; and if we broaden the net to include suicides that are motivated by protests against more local, personal injustices, there are millions more names that can be added to the list. Maybe every suicide contains an element of protest? A. Alvarez, in his study of suicide, The Savage God, writes that in "primitive societies," suicide was a rather complicated form of revenge, undertaken by the wronged party on those who have wronged him or her: "either the suicide's ghost will destroy his persecutor for him, or his act will force his relatives to carry out the task, or the iron laws of the tribe will force the suicide's enemy to kill himself in the same manner. ...Suicide under these conditions is curiously unreal; it is as though it were committed in the certain belief that the suicide himself would not really die. Instead, he is performing a magical act which will initiate a complex but equally magical ritual ending in the death of his enemy."
Malachi Ritscher apparently was, as that video suggests, a man of considerable sincerity and intelligence, who likely was in full possession of his wits at the time of his death; still, hearing about his self-immolation raises a pretty significant question: does it mean anything - is it of any lasting value - that he chose to die in this terrible and terrifying way, or was he deeply misguided or confused about what he was doing? Not only did Ritscher's self-immolation not provoke "the death of his enemy" - Bush and Cheney and Rumsfeld are all very much alive, and comfortably rich, to boot, having evaded all prosecution for their crimes - it didn't even do anything to directly lead to Bush's removal from office; even if the US media had rallied around Ritscher's protest - which they didn't - it's likely Kerry would still have lost that election, and it's equally likely that Barack Obama would have won the subsequent one, based on the growing realization even in the United States of Apathy that the Bush regime was monstrous and criminal. So what point could choosing such a painful death actually have?
While the accidental self-immolation of a homeless Vancouverite (known as Tracey) during our cold spell this winter - and media attention to the same - probably had some impact on the creation of new shelters in the city, this doesn't seem to be an argument for other people trying this method to provoke policy changes; to accidentally burn yourself to death because you're trying to keep warm (and happen to live in a cardboard box) is one thing, but to march down to city hall and douse yourself with kerosene is another. You're likely to be written off as a nut, for one (as was Ritscher, by some); unlike the case with Tracey, the very fact that the act was deliberate gives your enemies a defense against it ("surely no sane person would deliberately do such a thing"). And you're more likely to make people less inclined towards activism, rather than more, by such extremities. Sure, Christ instructs his followers, when speaking out against injustices, to "be not afraid of the cross" (or somethin' like that - I can never find the exact Biblical reference for it, but I think it's in there somewhere - sort of in the spirit of Luke 12); but I am afraid of the cross, thanks, and will dodge it as best I can for as long as I can. I might be prepared to give up meat or join the odd protest march or such, and can admire people (like, say, Daniel and Philip Berrigan) who are willing to endure jail time for their beliefs (which I hope I never feel I have to do), but if being politically active means setting yourself on fire, you can count me out, Jack, regardless of the cause you're selling. I don't think that's an unusual or unreasonable response: certain actions are so extreme that they're more likely to alienate people than win them over, no matter how sincerely they are intended. If Bush and Cheney and Rumsfeld and co. think next to nothing of the deaths of thousands of Americans and tens of thousands of Iraqis in pursuing their political objectives, and the mainstream media and American populus in general are too sluggish and bought off to raise much of a cry against them, what is one more death on American soil of someone who they can always claim is "clearly mentally ill?"

I'm grateful to Jean Smith and David Lester for making me aware of Malachi Ritscher, even if I consider his action tragically wrong-headed. To some extent, I respect Ritscher's choice: to deprive oneself of the many comforts that we are afforded in the west, because one believes it is right to do so, is an admirable and courageous thing, and it takes a lot of guts to set yourself on fire, as an extreme example of comfort-deprivation. All the same, I think one should expect a greater return on the investment than Malachi got; and I wonder if killing yourself as an act of political protest isn't ultimately just a sneaky way of passing the buck: "Someone else do something about this - I'm outa here."

I suppose I should note that a lot of Mecca Normal's recent songs are nowhere near as serious as this one, dealing with considerable wit with Jean Smith's experiences of internet dating. Here's an example, Smith's video for the song "Attraction Is Ephemeral." Actually, I prefer Mecca Normal's internet dating stuff to the "Malachi" song, myself - but the backstory is far less interesting.

By the way, Dave Chokroun's project for the Vinegar Factory show is called The Real feat. The Unreal, featuring Dave on bass (not drums, ala The Sorrow and the Pity) and Jonathon Wilcke on sax. Dave tells me it'll be "mostly free improv, couple of Ornette Coleman tunes, and some highly effective movie themes, which may be presented in a suite called something like, 'Seven Habits of Magnificently Effective Samurai.'" He thinks they go on last...

Post 1000 on Alienated In Vancouver, plus Art Bergmann last night

Art Bergmann with Jon Card at the Summer of Love festivities in Kits, 2008
Photo by Femke van Delft

Damn, man... this is my 1000th posting on this site. I should throw a party for myself.

Upcoming - I hope to speak to Ray Fulber, if he still is keen to talk, about the Lost Art Bergmann CD (see my review in the Straight, and, if you care about Vancouver music, buy this CD as soon as possible; I wrote that review based on three or four spins of the CD, having received it the day before my deadline, but the more I hear it, the more awe-inspiring it becomes). I also hope he'll be willing to comment on last night's concert, which must have been stressful as hell for the guy. For all its brilliant moments - and there were many - the show was a bit more of a car wreck than I expected, though a (voyeuristically) fascinating and perhaps even oddly inspiring carwreck, if such a thing may be tastefully said. (There is also the question of whether it was a contrived carwreck - if Art deliberately decided to push things past a certain safe limit, which is not outside the realm of possibility, though a dangerous way to go about bein' a performer). I somehow had been under the impression prior to the show that Art had stopped drinking; can't say where I got that idea. Performances veered between being chillingly effective and spot-on - Art can still scream like a motherfucker - and embarrassingly ramshackle and halting, often within the same song, with a seething, frustrated Bergmann harrassing poor "ringer" guitarist Tony Baloney (or does he spell that Balony?) or wrestling with the mike stand, occasionally chucking it on the stage in a petulant/ drunken fit. Though at other times he danced, smiled, and definitely seemed to get "into" it, Art often seemed pissed that the band wasn't able to do things quite up to the level he wanted (also throwing a barb at Taylor Little, calling him "John Bonham" at one point); but then neither could Art, who seemed in particular to be having a hard time with the fact that he was unable to play guitar, and given to abusively micromanaging Balony (who should receive an "I Survived the March 26th 2009 Art Bergmann gig" t-shirt for his efforts last night). All of this gave a raw, electric, slightly scary energy to the performances, so that when they veered out of the abyss back towards the realm of showmanship, they were amazing - blood-chillingly powerful, raw stuff. I predict that some reviewers will compare Art to a caged tiger (tho' I've never seen a tiger lie on top of a bar before. I'm told he used to do that now and then when he was playing guitar, too). There was a certain amount of suspense hovering over the question of whether the band would actually make it to the end of the show in one piece, such that it was kind of a relief when it was over... though if Art were playing again tonight, I'd definitely go.

A one-off, eh? (Or so Bergmann and Fulber suggested to Varty). It's a shame: there's a lot of fire left in this guy (and piss and blood and bile, too).

Wednesday, March 25, 2009

Vancity Noir: Jerichow, The Postman Always Rings Twice


Jerichow, which starts its run tomorrow at the Vancity Theatre, is a chilly European adaptation of James M. Cain's The Postman Always Rings Twice. It's been some 20 years since I've read that book, but I have it filed in my mind as an intense bit of hard-boiled crime that you're almost compelled to burn through in one sitting, as it feeds the thrill of transgression like nothing short of Bataille has done for me, otherwise; even Jim Thompson's creepy, misanthropic novels don't make being bad so appealing as this slim book, which works the Oedipal angle much more effectively than anything I've seen Thompson do (...and God knows he tried to work the Oedipal angle into his stories whenever he could; but always, it seemed, as an outsider, looking in on his bad men and theorizing about where they went wrong, judging them slightly and inviting you to do the same; he constructs their dilemmas like he's been consulting a textbook on psychoanalysis down in Lou Ford's basement. Cain strives in a much more straightforward way to invoke the desire of the male reader to fuck his mother and kill and replace his father - simple as that. It works so much better when the comfort of perspective is not granted). The story: you are an ambitious, broke younger man, with a controlling older "boss," who trusts you; but you're very aware of your boss' sexy, unhappy wife. He beats her sometimes, and you can see her making eyes at you. Your mission: seduce the wife, fuck her, take on her problems, "rescue" her from your boss by killing him, and replace him; you and his wife can live off his life insurance (or run his diner or snack food distribution business or whatever - the payday varies from adaptation to adaptation, I believe). Sin, crime, sex, murder: transgression. But will you get away with it? (I make it sound like a subplot to Grand Theft Auto).

The book has been adapted several times before, and I've seen, I believe, both American versions; the first, though a classic noir, has completely faded from my memory, while Jack Nicholson's enthusiastic muff-dive onto sultry Jessica Lange in the 1980 Bob Rafelson film dominates my memory of the remake, almost to the exclusion of all else. It's one of the most shockingly sexy moments in a mainstream American film, and bits of it even appear on celebrity porn sites. Having viewed it, I think, during its theatrical run as a boy - because by age 12, I was going to the movie theatre in Maple Ridge to see films like this, having decided that I liked dramas - I was curious to see if it would seem as shocking when I revisited the film some 20 years later (during my brief "Rafelson period," you understand), when the idea of cunnilingus (let alone star-on-star big-screen cunnilingus, however briefly depicted) wasn't quite so new to me (because at 12, I was completely stunned that such things even happened: the man puts his mouth where?). To my surprise, the scene still packed a punch in my 30's: maybe I just have a thing - okay, I do have a thing - for Jessica Lange... I don't know how well the film holds up, otherwise; Nicholson aside, it doesn't have much in common with the Rafelson that made Five Easy Pieces (or The King of Marvin Gardens or even the Nicholson-less Stay Hungry), seeming, as I recall, more like an exercise in nostalgia for films noir than a treatise on alienated upper class young men, but it might just bear looking at again, and I might just go see it tomorrow at the Vancity Theatre, depending on my mood. (Audience reactions to the mufffdive will be fun to observe, at the very least). Starting at 6:30, it should finish just in time for people to make it over to Richards on Richards for the Art Bergmann show. The film is a late addition to the Vancity's schedule, added to the bill with the initial screening of Christian Petzold's Jerichow, the new German adaptation of The Postman Always Rings Twice .

Whatever else one might say about Jerichow, it certainly isn't an exercise in nostalgia for classic American noir. For one, it's shot mostly outdoors, in bright sunlight, in semi-rural Germany, with none of the visual markings of the genre (strong black and white contrasts, urban landscapes, dark shadows, etc). The hero/antihero, too (Benno Fürmann) is hardly the archetypal noir transgressor, seeming, with his fit physique and close-cropped hair, more like some Euro soccer star than a man scheming on murder. He's almost too good-looking, in a very mainstream, "beefcake" kind of way, for me to quite buy into him being desperate for money, let alone being able to harbour sinful desires; "attractive" signfies "virtuous" in so many films that it's a hard thing to shake. These are not faults, though - a noir doesn't have to look any particular way, subverting genre constraints is always welcome, and the fact that Cain's text can survive transposition from 1930's America to 21st century Germany is a testament to its archetypal power. Thomas, our "drifter," is here a down-on-his luck soldier, returned from Afghanistan (where he learned skills that come in handy at various points in the film, but also earned a dishonorable discharge). Ali (Hilmi Sözer), the concession stand distributor who hires him to drive, is a Turkish immigrant, and simultaneously likable and somewhat pathetic; you sympathize with him, as a basically decent outsider who really is being screwed over by everyone, and at the same time feel a certain contempt for him, as he uses money, force, and cunning to control the people around him. Ali's wife, Laura, played by (I'm told) Petzold regular Nina Hoss, has a certain pale wounded fury to her, mostly restrained; she exudes a vague Lange-ishness, though there is little of the heat beween Hoss and Fürmann that Nicholson and Lange generated in the 1980's film. Your sympathies shift in interesting ways between characters; probably the most interesting moments are between Ali and Thomas, as they befriend each other even while the younger man is betraying his employer.

Don't want to say much more about Jerichow - it's an interesting variant on the story, and I greatly admired the ending, which, despite my familiarity with the book and having seen two other film adaptations (one twice), still managed to surprise me. Noir fans, first year psych students, and those familiar with Cain's novel will find more than enough to hold their interest here.
Of course, you can't really go see it tomorrow without running the risk of missing some of Art's performance, but it runs til April 2nd.

Tuesday, March 24, 2009

Gigs of the week: Art Bergmann, Mecca Normal


I suppose if you haven't gotten your ticket when the Art Bergmann show finally sells out, you can all make your way to see Rich Hope and his Blue Rich Rangers at the Railway on Thursday and cry in your beers with the band about missin' the historic gig (maybe they could do a country version of "The Hospital Song" or such as a consolation; I could hear Rich doin' that...). As of now, tho', I believe, there are still a few tickets for Art's gig on Thursday available via Ticketmaster and such. Art has a very brief interview with Black Lips guy Billy Hopeless in The Skinny (not online as I write, but look here tomorrow and maybe it'll be there, who knows?). I've waited a long time to see Mr. Bergmann perform - tho' I've met him on a couple of occasions, I've never actually seen him live, which I hear is the way to experience him, so I'm stoked about the show.


Mecca Normal, meanwhile - an underappreciated but long-lived, quirky, whip-smart female-fronted duo, consisting of Jean Smith and David Lester, will have a show themed around "How Art and Music Can Change the World" at The Vinegar Factory (1009 E. Cordova St) on the 28th (Saturday), kicking off their 25th anniversary tour. The band's at times wince-inducingly truthful (but very funny and listenable) The Observer, about the horrors of online dating, is a must-spin if you like large doses of intelligence with your rock; I was very pleasantly surprised by how much fun I had seeing them live a couple of months ago, and am lookin' forward to the gig (more on which a tad later). Opening, too, will be a project featuring another one of my fave local musicians, Dave Chokroun, doin' something with Robots on Fire's Jonathon Wilcke. I kinda forget what they're callin' themselves but I sort of expect it to be basically The Sorrow and The Pity with a different sax player.

Meantime, another long-lived local favourite, Nomeansno (who play the Anza on April 3rd) are currently in Japan, maybe tourin' a whiskey distillery. Hope they're havin' fun... Me, I gotta sort my fuckin' tax receipts, mark my student papers, and square away report cards for next month...

Sunday, March 22, 2009

What constitutes hipsterdom, anyhow?

I dunno if anyone cares to enlighten me, but there's a certain term of abuse in heavy rotation these days - hipster - the exact meaning of which somewhat eludes me. The people who use it are invariably "cool" people - people who are, in fact, according to past non-pejorative uses of the term, "hip;" they seem to mean the term to refer to people who are "trying" to be cool, but really aren't. Indubitably there are people like this out there, but I'm never exactly sure who they are, so I can't really comfortably use the term. Do people who use the term actually have a sense unknown to me - akin to gaydar, perhaps- where they can scan the crowd at a gig and pick out the hipsters versus the hip? How do they differentiate? Are they ever fooled? Most troubling: does one need to partake of hipster-like values in order to recognize them in others? Could "hipster" mean, really, people like us?

Or, well... I guess it can't mean me, since I have no idea what the term means...

Wednesday, March 18, 2009

Examined Life, examined at some length (with commentary from Sunaura Taylor)


Movies seldom have moral impact. For all their potential to do so, it is rare that you see a film that alters the way you think about yourself or life, or changes your relationship with the universe in any noteworthy way. Relatively few filmmakers set out with such ambitions, and those that do often fall short of their goal. Not a single life-change was brought about, for me personally, for instance, as a result of watching An Inconvenient Truth, which would be an example of a documentary that strives very much to make an impact; perhaps I've been more aware of the effects of climate change around me, but I'm living exactly the same life as I ever did, have voted for the same people I would have, have bought the same products, persisted in my stubborn habit of walking to work, and so forth. I would be rather surprised to hear that the case was different for many other people (though one would hope it had some impact on policy-makers); such films may be informative, may assure the converted among the audience that they are righteous, or provoke satisfying feelings of fear or outrage, but they don't place much burden on you, the individual; they would probably not be so successful if they did. Similar politically-engaged documentaries on food production, water scarcity, and various unfortunate political and economic situations throughout the world that I've seen over the last few years have also failed to move me to action, despite at times feverish attempts to impress upon me the urgency of their causes; few remain vividly in my memory, and those that do, like Our Daily Bread or Workingman's Death (the DVD releases of both of which I write about here), do so because they are aesthetically remarkable, not because of any radical changes they have wrought upon my lifestyle or consciousness. I watched the mechanical handling and slaughter of animals in Our Daily Bread with fascination - and quite possibly went for a burger afterwards; if the filmmakers intended to move me to change my life, they failed.

Peter Singer in affluent New York

The new documentary on philosophy, Examined Life, opening Friday at the Cinematheque, has provoked at least one noteworthy and demonstrable change in me. Though it does not set out to proselytize about vegetarianism, or any specific cause, and spends very little time, in fact, on the question of food, which comes up only briefly in an interview with the controversial Peter Singer, pictured above, I have eaten very little meat since I saw it this weekend, and none at all since Sunday afternoon (I am not counting fish as meat, note). I normally would have; in the span of time between Sunday and Wednesday, I would have likely partaken of the deaths of at least four chickens, a cow, and a pig. I had no plans prior to seeing the film of switching to vegetarianism; in the last few years, I've dined with vegans and vegetarians, interviewed one passionate raw food vegan (Nathan Holiday of Tunnel Canary - a much longer version of that interview ran in Bixobal #5, which explored his feelings about eating meat in some depth), and at times contemplated the moral superiority of the choice to abandon flesh food; but I know from past attempts to "go vegetarian" that it requires a certain amount of work to switch over, and a certain inconvenience (most restaurant menus have 75-90% fewer food options, and one must think more about what one eats, at least until the choice becomes habitual). Watching the film and reflecting on it (and doing some follow up reading) have convinced me that I have been ethically lax, and that the only proper thing to do was to try again to eliminate meat from my diet. So far, it's working - I feel energetic, alert, and healthy - though I also feel a tad euphoric and strangely "light."

The reason for Examined Life's impact is very simple: instead of trying to engage the viewer emotionally - to scare and threaten him or her to action or outrage - it appeals to the mind, presenting audiences with the thoughts and reflections of nine very different thinkers, most of whom are shown walking through different environments, in keeping with Nietzsche's aphorism that "The sedentary life is the very sin against the Holy Spirit. Only thoughts reached by walking have value." (Maxims and Arrows 34; thanks to The Nietzsche Channel for making it so abundantly easy to search out favourite Nietzsche quotes). True, one person, Cornel West, rides in a car in several segments of the film, but the film achieves a pleasing closure when he finally gets out and walks away. There is some discussion about what constitutes a walk, too - the filmmaker's sister, Sunaura Taylor, is a disabled rights activist who "walks" with the aid of a wheelchair; she discusses walking, help, and individuality with lesbian feminist post-structuralist Judith Butler, as they stroll about San Francisco. The motility of all these thinkers is infectious; one "walks with them," considering their views, and this may well contribute to the film's overall effect.
Slavoj Žižek talks garbage

There are many things to be said about this provocative film. For those who associate philosophy with the painfully pompous or abstruse speech of elitists jockeying for academic position or seeking to mystify themselves - to the ends of creating a cult following or making their arguments unassailable due to the sheer difficulty of figuring out what the fuck they're talking about - rest assured that many of the speakers featured in Examined Life talk in the plainest of English; only one, Alvital Ronell, comes across as being at all aloof and (as some unkind critic has said) "gaseous" in her word choices - which is quite unfortunate, because her comments about the need to resist the easy recourse to fast and soothing "meaning," and to be willing to accept the anxiety of uncertainty as a precursor to actual thinking, are extremely well-placed and valuable. (Slavoj Žižek, the subject of Examined Life director Astra Taylor's previous film Zizek!, is of course also a little difficult to follow, given as he is to odd and sometimes shocking formulations that sometimes sit ill at ease with the viewer, but he speaks with such irrepressible passion and enthusiasm that he comes across as a highly intelligent eccentric rather than a snob). It is remarkable, too, that Astra Taylor manages to weave such a coherent film out of her interviews with nine different thinkers; various themes - the need to resist easy meaning, to avoid romanticized views of life or nature, to behave in an ethical and socially conscious way - emerge again and again in the interviews, with certain words one does not expect to hear more than once in a film of this nature (like "catastrophe," say) occurring repeatedly, creating a sense of interior resonances and cross-references that would lead someone less familiar with the discipline of philosophy shocked at how much consensus there is among thinkers (anyone who has actually spent time in a philosophy department would likely not be deluded thus). The sense of having taken in a cohesive, almost systematic argument, woven together out of the statements of nine unconnected individuals, is so strong and striking it leaves one wondering just how Taylor achieves it. Did she select philosophers whose work she knew could be easily reconciled, to get at areas she was interested in exploring? Did she cue them in certain ways to elicit the sort of statements she wanted? Did she just let them talk and then seek out quotes when editing that could be productively played off one another? Or - least likely at all - did she assemble the film intuitively with no sense that it would all seem, in the end, "of a piece?" I would be most curious to find out (Astra Taylor was unavailable for an interview before the film's release, but she's invited to comment at her leisure if she chooses).

The most interesting question raised by the cohesiveness of Examined Life is whether anything significant has been omitted to achieve it; Nietzsche has also said "the will to a system is a lack of integrity," I believe in the section of Beyond Good and Evil entitled "On the Prejudices of Philosophers" (go look it up on the Nietzsche Channel if you like; I might be wrong). At least one thinker, Peter Singer, mentioned above, is highly selectively represented in the film. Singer is an Australian who divides his time between Princeton and the University of Melbourne. He is most famous for his book Animal Liberation, in which he coined the term "speciesism" - a term I am pleased to see he admits is somewhat inelegant (I am currently reading the book, just distributed in a nice new edition; the film prompted me to do so). Singer's current work, The Life You Can Save, deals with the duty to help the world's poor; Singer has said he gives 25% of his income to help developing countries. You can read his arguments as to why he feels people should give much, much more to the poor on his site, at the top of his FAQ; you will get a sense of his impressive clarity of language and seriousness by so doing, two qualities of his which are very much visible in the film and make his books a pleasure to read.

If you scroll down that page, however, you will also encounter a view he holds that has attracted considerable controversy, on infanticide; Singer believes that "killing a defective infant is not morally equivalent to killing a person. Sometimes it is not wrong at all," a view he elaborates at some length in his works Practical Ethics and Rethinking Life and Death: The Collapse Of Our Traditional Ethics. It is one thing to support abortion and euthanasia, but quite another to advocate killing handicapped babies; Singer suggests in Practical Ethics that parents, perhaps, should be given a one month window after birth to see if a baby should be allowed to live, a proposal that - however solid his argument may seem - intuitively strikes me (and I suspect most people) as a tad grotesque in all but the most extreme cases. Lest you think he means only brain dead infants - which in some statements of his position seems to be the case - in Practical Ethics, he appears to consider spina bifida babies, Downs Syndrome babies, and even haemophiliacs as leading lives that might be best ended, so that parents can get on with the business of having healthier, happier babies that they can better care for.

I won't try to replicate Singer's arguments at length here, let alone engage with them. Suffice it to say, Christians and anti-abortionists have not taken kindly to his views; nor have Germans ill at ease with the awareness of Nazi eugenics programs (that link is to an article, "On Being Silenced in Germany," that you must pay to read; you can also find it as an appendix to current editions of Practical Ethics, which provides perhaps the broadest introduction to the main facets of Singer's work). As you might expect, Singer's statements have also attacted the wrath of many disabled rights activists... disabled rights activists like, say, Sunaura Taylor.

Sunaura Taylor with Judith Butler

Perhaps you begin to sense how curious an omission the film makes. It does not deal with Singer's statments about killing handicapped babies; and it features a substantial interview with a woman born with arthrogryposis - a condition that Singer might well include on his short list of "possible reasons for infanticide" - whose work revolves in part around greater rights for the disabled. Though this woman is herself the filmmaker's sister (which the film doesn't mention, note), she is not asked to comment on Singer's more controversial statements; nor are these statements represented in any way. While these choices on the filmmaker's part admirably set her apart from cheap trends toward controversy-mongering, and are not in themselves problematic - I don't presume to lecture Astra Taylor about being insufficiently intellectually honest, in noting her choices or even querying them; I expect documentary filmmakers to shape their work with craft and care, and appreciate that she has done such a good job here - they leave you wondering at what price the film's cohesiveness has been attained: "What else am I not being told about what these people think?"

Though Astra Taylor was not able to engage with me on this matter, Sunaura Taylor has taken up some of my questions in an email to me (thanks!). Note that she too is an animal rights activist - a facet of her work not represented in the film. Readers are directed to her website to learn more about her - I find her watercolours and paintings of chickens particularly delightful, especially "Self-Portrait Marching With Chickens." She has explained in regards to her paintings that "I am not making metaphors between the life of a disabled person and the lives of farm animals. The connections between the two areas are really in the concept of value- who has value and why? My animal industry paintings are really about exposing the fact that these are individual sentient beings that we treat as commodities in brutal ways. The more ridiculous images of myself with chickens are really just strange stream of consciousness drawings of the things that occupy my thinking."

What follows is from Sunaura Taylor, on Peter Singer and Examined Life.

So, you've asked one of my favorite question regarding my participation in the movie... the Peter Singer question. We actually just screened the film in Berkeley to a large number of my disability studies colleagues and had a great discussion/debate afterwards.

So firstly, it is important to understand that Astra and I are both vegan for ethical reasons. Peter Singer was virtually our hero as child animal rights activists, because of his book Animal Liberation. I became vegetarian at 6. Astra, my brother and I all demanded the family stop eating meat. My parents agreed and my family has been vegan and vegetarian ever since.

So obviously when I got older I was disheartened to hear the things Singer was saying about disabled babies and euthanasia. I DISAGREE WITH A LOT OF WHAT SINGER SAYS. He makes ridiculous quality of life assumptions about disabled people and does not take culture into account enough. Singer is concerned with reducing unnecessary suffering, but he doesn't seem to recognize that much of the suffering physically and mentally disabled people experience is the result not of bodily pain (that is, medical conditions), but discrimination, social stigma, a lack of cultural inclusion, and able-bodied people's often-ignorant assumptions about what it must be like to be disabled and what disabled people are capable and incapable of.

HOWEVER, I also think the disability community has been too quick in criticizing everything he says, often without really reading it and/or taking into account his utilitarian philosophy. He's actually arguing for something very nuanced - he's not just saying all disabled babies should be killed. And I agree with some of what he says - again, what I really find frustrating and offensive are his quality of life assumptions.

Personally I also feel that the disabled community has weakened their position by not grappling with the animal rights issue. You can't just ignore one ethical question, while demanding another be examined... especially when they are so connected philosophically. I agree with Singer that if we are going to give certain right to life rights to severely developmentally disabled people and infants, than it follows that there is no reason not to give them to the animals that we consume in various ways, given their sentience is not in doubt. In my opinion the disability community would get much farther with Singer if they looked at there own biases against other sentient beings. That said, many disabled people are doing this - there is growing emphasis on animal rights thought within the disability community.

Basically I really agree with Singer and like him, and I also really disagree with him. If Astra had only put people in the movie who had never said something she'd disagree with, most likely no one would be in the film. Also many of the people in the film eat meat, but we didn't censor them because they participate in oppressing and murdering animals.

I think Astra didn't have Singer talk about disability for many reasons. Most importantly being the flow and themes of the film. Plus Singer's current work is on the issues he discusses in Examined Life and that work made more sense within the film as a larger whole.

It is complex... A good disabled (and vegetarian) friend said that she felt the scene was troubling because he comes off as being this compassionate and empathetic person. And it is confusing - I think he is compassionate. But I think he also just doesn't understand disability. But certainly I think someone who argues with Peter Singer about protecting the life of an un-sentient human, while eating chicken, has no real argument to base their ideas on.

This is a ramble, but I hope it helps clarify. There is no easy answer.... maybe just to say that all of the most beloved thinkers through history have said some things that many people would disagree with. No one's philosophy is perfect.

I think both Astra and I hope to use this as a way to open up a more nuanced discussion with Peter Singer about disability and in the disability community about animal rights.


(End quote!).

Anyhow, as you can see, Examined Life has proven a thought-provoking film for me. It's a good film to see with people whom you can talk with afterwards, so bring a friend, if possible. I've only touched on a small fragment of themes referenced in the film; there's a lot else going on, which will keep your mind quite happily alert. A bit of background on the concept of the "state of nature," which comes up in the Martha Nussbaum segment, might be useful, if you feel like doing a bit more homework. If my article actually prompts you to see the film, do revisit the site and comment!


Examined Life plays at the Cinematheque (1066 Howe) starting Friday, in alteration with Virtual JFK: Vietnam If Kennedy Had Lived. Examined Life's showtimes are as follows:


Friday, March 20, 2009 - 9:10pm
Saturday, March 21, 2009 - 7:30pm
Monday, March 23, 2009 - 9:10pm
Wednesday, March 25, 2009 - 7:30pm

RIP Natasha Richardson

Okay, so she was richer, more famous, and more beautiful than the people whose obits I usually make mention of, and I haven't seen any film she's appeared in since 1994's Nell; but I quite liked Natasha Richardson and am shocked by her early passing. There was a period when I was really interested in the cinema of Paul Schrader, and she gave excellent and highly memorable performances in what I think of now as two of his best films, Patty Hearst and The Comfort of Strangers; the latter, in particular (shockingly out of print on DVD in North America) is a creepy and interesting adaptation of a novel by Ian McEwan, scripted by Harold Pinter, set in Venice, and also starring Christopher Walken, Helen Mirren, and Rupert Everett. There is a scene in that film where Richardson is luxuriating on a bed, naked, that captured something that one rarely sees in film: the pleasure of a human being at having a body, the almost decadent good feeling one has to wake up. Perhaps if it weren't for that scene, I would not be writing this - but somehow I'm all the more aware of her passing for it. Condolences to her family, famous or otherwise.

Monday, March 16, 2009

The Devil's Rain

...but gee isn't this a unique little horror film (and a helluva way to spend a Monday afternoon, much better than marking student papers). It involves a Satanist battling for control over the souls of his followers in an old-west style town -- one which seems transparently to be the set for a very different film, bein' used after-hours, perhaps. It was made with the participation of the Church of Satan; Anton LaVey even has a cameo! Roger Ebert revealed a lot more of himself than he should have when calling this film "dull" - though his review is amusing to read indeed, and will provide you a fairly accurate, if spoiler-rich, sketch of the story. Dunno about you, but for me, calling The Devil's Rain - it has its own Wikipedia entry! - dull is like calling Bosch's The Garden of Earthly Delights (images also used for the opening credits of the film, so they are hardly irrelevant) "a bit flat." (What's a polite term for a "failure of the imagination?").

Or maybe Ebert just doesn't like watching people melt as much as I do? I like this Braineater review of the film much much more. (I must investigate Braineater's site further. No connection to Jim Cummins is presumed). I mean, how many movies have you seen Ernest Borgnine, John Travolta, Ida Lupino, and WILLIAM SHATNER - William Shatner! - melting in? (And most of 'em have their eyes put out, too!). Ebert complains about how long the melting takes, but for a true horror/ gore fan, that's kinda like complaining after sex that your orgasm lasted too long. Someone should take a stopwatch to the melting sequences in this and compare them to, say, those in The Incredible Melting Man - a terrible film redeemed (if at all) by the poignant, sad, and, er, existentially redolent final dissolution of the titular character (who was on the first ever issue of Famous Monsters I bought, as I recall, back when I was in elementary school). It's quite possible the melting in The Devil's Rain takes longer than the melting in that film. It's certainly attached to a much better, more inventive, more creepily provocative film (even if the main question provoked is a sincerely baffled "What the fuck am I watching?").

I gotta see if Stephen Thrower mentions it in Nightmare USA...

Wednesday, March 11, 2009

Pontypool: an Interview with Bruce McDonald (and an appreciation of Stephen McHattie)

Stephen McHattie in Bruce McDonald's Pontypool


I’ve always liked the films of Canadian filmmaker Bruce McDonald. Hard Core Logo probably remains his greatest achievement - to borrow a construction from Nietzsche, it’s the “Maximum Bruce McDonald Movie Attained Thus Far,” an unmissable, if entirely fictitious, contribution to Vancouver punk lore, based on local writer Michael Turner’s book of the same name. Roadkill and Highway 61 also have a lot of quirky charm, and last year’s The Tracy Fragments was certainly fun to watch (if more for its formal innovations - it’s told in a non-linear fashion on a dizzying variety of partial, varying, constantly changing “sub-screens” on the main screen - than its ultimately rather straightforward story, based on the highly praised novel by Vancouver writer Maureen Medved). The very idea of McDonald making a zombie movie that involves a virus spread by infected words in the English language - a Burroughsian horror film, set (even better) in a basement radio station, for that Rio Bravo "besieged" effect - is appealing indeed.

However, the main reason I’m happy about McDonald’s new film, Pontypool - opening Friday - is that it features the return to a lead role by one of the most under-rated, fun-to-watch character actors working, Stephen McHattie, whom I never even knew was Canadian until recently. Bruce McDonald aficionados and zombie fans will have to indulge me for a paragraph while I enthuse...

The now-grizzled McHattie, born Stephen McHattie Smith in Antigonish, Nova Scotia in 1947, seems to be best remembered (by other folks, anyways) for his performances in TV movies and series. David M. of No Fun (and, uh, Chapters - his next free concert there is on the afternoon of the 21st) tells me that the young McHattie did a terrific job as James Dean in 1976 TV biopic, which I have not seen. IMDB claims that he’s best known for his performance in a Star Trek: Deep Space Nine episode, a series I have never watched; and McDonald, at a Cinematheque Q&A for an advance screening of Pontypool the other week, joked about how viewers had recognized him for his role as Ellen’s psychiatrist/boyfriend in Seinfeld (which I also never watch). More cinematically-minded viewers will probably associate McHattie with small character roles - his memorable thug in Cronenberg’s A History of Violence (the one who gets his face blown off in Viggo’s café), or even as Hollis Mason in a brief sequence in the current Watchmen film (where he’s given very little to do, alas). My own admiration for McHattie revolves around a gritty, neglected exploitation film, shot by British filmmaker Peter Collinson in Quebec in the late 1970’s, called Tomorrow Never Comes. It's only available in a rather bad full-frame DVD presentation, alas; I’ve tried both the US and UK releases, trying to find a cut that doesn’t have an outrageously bad bit of dialogue-dubbing near the beginning, where a character’s profanity is substituted for no reason known to me with lighter curses - the absurd “galdarn” for “goddamn,” for instance - which kind of mars the otherwise profanity-rich film, making it seem like a bad TV broadcast. (Sorry to report, the UK DVD, while appearing to be a minute or two longer, isn’t of much better quality than the US.) In Tomorrow Never Comes, McHattie plays a brain-damaged young man who loses control, flips out on a an unfaithful girlfriend, and holds her hostage at gunpoint in a bungalow while the powers that be (including Oliver Reed, Donald Pleasance, Raymond Burr, and John Ireland) try alternately to talk him down or pick him off. Though Reed and Pleasance are always fun to watch, McHattie completely carries the film, outshining the rest of the cast by miles - he’s both the bad guy (abusive, vicious, unpredictable) and sympathetic hero (betrayed, understandably hurt and angry, and ‘not in his right mind’ - a bar fight at the beginning of the film has muddled his forebrain and the poor guy just can't control himself). For the film to work, we have to be both afraid of him and sorry for him simultaneously, a nifty trick for McHattie to have pulled off. While the dour Reed and German-accented Pleasance (!) are fun to watch, the only performance that nearly equals McHattie's is the snivelling, moaning, pleading, self-compromised self-abasement of Susan George, who actually fares worse in this film than she does in Straw Dogs, believe it or not. It’s a nasty, cynical little movie with a pretty wide misogynist streak, but the psychodrama is compelling, and as exploitation cinema goes, it seldom gets better; LA punks the Flesheaters even wrote a song apparently inspired by the title, which, given Chris D’s knowledge of B-movies, is high praise indeed.

Given McHattie’s talents, it’s kind of a shame that every other role I’ve seen him in is a supporting one. My first question to Bruce McDonald is simply to thank him for casting McHattie in Pontypool as Grant Mazzy, a down-on-his luck radio station shock jockey broadcasting from a Podunk local news station in Ontario when the plague of zombies hits. Neither Bruce nor myself can think of lead roles by McHattie since the 1970's (maybe we're missing something). McHattie, of course, is terrific in the role - he has a rich, deep, gravelly voice, and his expressive face is perfect for the range of emotions (horrified indignation, horrified horror, drunken self-indulgence, desperation, despair, outrage, and even a bit of love and concern) that he channels. He even has a cowboy hat as cool as Bruce McDonald's.

Allan: How did you first start working with Stephen McHattie?

Bruce: I first met Stephen McHattie on a TV show called Emily of New Moon. It was shot in PEI, and he played this mentally challenged farmhand. I was just amazed at what he did with the role, which could have been supercheese, right? But he just gave it a great spin. We became friends, and I worked with him on that, and I worked on him on a pretty funny Michael Turner script called American Whiskey Bar, which we did as a live television broadcast. And he did that, and I worked with him a couple of years ago on a TV movie called Killer Wave, about killer waves attacking America.

Allan: Like tsunamis?

Bruce: Yeah, like - the bad guys detonate nuclear explosives underwater and they're trying to destroy Boston or something like that (chuckles).

Allan: Wow.

Bruce: It's pretty wacky, and again, he was great. I'm just an admirer of his work. I've seen him in stuff and it's like - "Wow, he's great." And we always get along well on set, and when we had this script come up, I thought, "I know the guy to do this," and luckily he stepped up to the plate.

Allan: How did his wife get involved? (Lisa Houle, married to McHattie, plays Sidney Briar, McHattie's boss at the station and eventually his ally in fighting the zombies - or "conversationalists," as McDonald refers to them - more on that in the Straight article on Pontypool, if you like).

McHattie and Houle. Note cowboy hat: McHattie apparently modelled his character's look in part on Don Imus.

Bruce: Well, I talked to Stephen - he's now living just outside Toronto; for years, he was living in Topanga Canyon in LA, but a couple of years ago he moved to Ontario with his kids and his wife. And I showed up at his place to go through the script with him, and Lisa answered the door. I'd worked with Lisa as well in PEI, and she's also a terrific actress. I'm sitting looking at her and thinking, "God, she's perfect for this other character, this Sidney Briar role" - perfect age, great actress. And so I kind of leaned over to Stephen when she was out of the room and I said, "Hey, do you think Lisa would be interested in doing this? Would you consider acting with Lisa?" And he kind of lit up, and he was like, "Yeah, it'll be great!" (For this, Bruce adopts McHattie's gruff growl). He really liked the idea.

Allan: How was that, directing a husband/wife team?

Bruce: It was great. Part of the thing is, Stephen can be, y'know, a very intimidating guy, because he's a powerful guy and pretty serious about his stuff. But what was great about Lisa was, she knows him so well - so there's a complicity there, in their working methods and in their onscreen thing, and also the fact that they were both so excited about it, they did a lot of extra homework about it, in preparation. It was a dream.

Allan: Let me ask you about the film itself, then. I kept wanting to read the film as being a parable about media responsibility: the comments about the response to the plague being a genocide set to elevator music, or lines like, "We were never making sense - we have to shut up or die." It seems like it's a political film, but it's kind of obscure - I couldn't quite fit my mind around its message.

Bruce: Tony Burgess, the writer of this movie (and the novel on which it is based, Pontypool Changes Everything), likes to say that the politics of this movie are "headless." There are politics in there, in a sense - you're right, the references to Afghanistan, or Osama bin Laden hiding out in a smalltown theatre troupe, or the BBC guy referring to the French separatists (whose not speaking English renders them immune to the plague) as "terrorists." But there was no foundational political agenda as such. It was more like, because these guys were in the media, the world as it is could seep in. I guess what I was attracted to with it was the whole playing with language... It seemed to be a very rich, deep - a nice fat vein to hold things in. I think it's open to a lot of interpretations.

Allan: A phrase like "Kill the word that's killing you" - it has a very Burroughsian resonance. Was he in your mind?

Bruce: Oh yeah, sure! I first heard the "language is a virus from outer space" thing on a Laurie Anderson record - and she got it from Burroughs. I'm just sort of now digging into that stuff - Burroughs and the French semioticians. These are all people that Tony has studied. He takes a great delight in language play, signs and meaning.

Allan: It seems like you're moving in that direction, as well, with The Tracy Fragments and its play with film syntax, and now this, which plays a lot with words. Is it something you want to do more of - more experimental projects?

Bruce: I've always been drawn to that. I studied experimental cinema in college, and I was really drawn to that - these movies that were made the way punk rock music was made, movies that were bold formal and personal experiments. I trained as an editor, and I've always admired play with structures and that kind of thing.

Allan: Is there a film you really admire, along those lines?

Bruce: I can go right back to Rashomon or something like that - or Hiroshima Mon Amour, and Alain Resnais, who played a lot with time and memory and space. Film is such a plastic medium that, being an editor, you can sit there and move the past to the future, and vice-versa. Film seems like a great place to play with that - it seems effortless in a certain way. There's a book I really admire, The Collected Works of Billy the Kid, by Michael Ondaatje - again, it's a very unconventional structure; it plays a lot around in time and associations. I like these stories that are sort of more impressionistic than straight-up narrative tales.

Allan: The language play at the beginning of the film - with the lost cat and stuff; is that supposed to, in some way, initiate the virus? The virus comes from language?

Bruce (laughs): I think that's a good interpretation! - that that could be the origin of the virus that ends up in the film, that Grant's little language play results in this... That's a pretty good origin story!

Allan: Does he succeed in saving the world, by rearranging language again at the end?

Bruce: It's funny - Tony and I were working on this script, and we're working in a b-movie structure or genre, in a way; and we didn't want to totally fall into the trap, but there's a great delight at the point in those movies where they go, "Oh my God, we've discovered how to reverse things!" And the idea of finding the word and de-meaning-izing it, shaking the meaning out of the word as the antidote - I thought, "Well, I'd buy that as an antidote."

Allan: Do you follow zombie films? I find it interesting that in the new zombie films, it's no longer a dead person risen from the grave, but a living person who has been infected. Your film participates in that - like 28 Days Later, say...

Bruce: Yeah!

Allan: Are you a zombie movie fan?

Bruce: As much as the next guy, I think - the Romero films made big impressions on me, growing up. I haven't followed all of them - I saw Rob Zombie's movies, and I saw the 28 Days Later movies that I really enjoyed. Some of the remakes, Fido... Yeah, I like zombies. I don't know if Romero was the popularizer of the term, in a way - I think it's become a modern term to include mentally ill people, and people who work at IBM...

Allan: (laughing)

Bruce: You know what I mean? You hear that all the time: "Oh my God, I feel like a fuckin' zombie - I've been staring at the computer all day." If I could speculate - it has grown from its initial, "the dead in search of brains" to something a lot of people can identify with.

Allan: (laughing) Because of work?

Bruce: (laughing): Because of their work, yeah!

Allan: Okay. Last question - I keep hearing rumours about plans to do Hard Core Logo 2.


Bruce: Yeah, we've got a great script. But now Hugh Dillon (former Headstones frontman who plays Joe Dick) has just exploded - he's on Flashpoint, he's on this other show, Durham County, and they've got him seriously under contract for at least the next year. We were planning to shoot it this year, but - it's like, "Allright, we gotta wait til he's done takin' people out!"

Allan: ...So you're going to bring Joe Dick back somehow.

Bruce: Well, right now we've got a way, and now, we're kind of re-looking at it... We want to make it as good a script as we can, and not have the fans go, "Ahh, that's stupid!" It's gotta be great. We have a whole script written and we think it's pretty good, but we have one more concept to consider before we throw the switch...

Allan: I'm really looking forward to it. Any final comments for Vancouver audiences?

Bruce: Well, when I think of Vancouver, I always think of Michael Turner and the freshness and the braveness of his voice. It's this kind of collision of high-end smart with low end "give'r" kind of thing, which Michael has done so well in The Pornographer's Poem and American Whiskey Bar... I think Tony Burgess shares that. Maybe that's why I'm attracted to his stuff...

Allan: Thank you very much, Bruce. I've got what I need!

Bruce: Thank you!


("Go see Pontypool!")

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

My Fucking Neighbours

"Jeezus, could you people come already?"

This young couple moved in upstairs. They must be new to cohabitation, because they fuck several times a night; alas, they have a very squeaky mattress. The guy seems to be quite athletic, maybe even a tad narcissistic, in his self-control; while I seldom hear female moans of pleasure, I do hear him workin' the bedsprings at a fairly rapid pace for twenty minutes, thirty minutes at time - a sustained and disagreeable racket indeed. I find myself rolling my eyes at the ceiling, feeling increasingly cooped-up and stressed-out: "Just get it over with, for chrissake." Cunka-cunka-cunka-cunka-cunka-cunka-cunka-cunka. An unwelcome backdrop for my nights alone, in no way enhancing my 5.1 set up when I try to watch a DVD, doing nothing to compliment the music I listen to or enhance my reading or meals. Eventually they grind to a stop. A few hours later: cunka-cunka-cunka-cunka - "Jeezus, they're at it again."

Mice, bedbugs, the guy who used to live up there and play Johnny Cash's "Cocaine Blues" three times in a day roughly four times a week. Now this. Sigh.

On Eating Pussy

I am unwinding after work, listening to the Gang of Four, and thinking about cunnilingus, wrestling, pinball, and getting fucked by horses. I hope you’ll indulge me if I wander in a few odd directions... Sex seldom surfaces on my blog, but it's time for a bit of variety.

The thing is: when does one get to REALLY have a profound impact on another person's body? Sure, hugging, cuddling, touching - for two people to just hold each other in bed - these are all very pleasurable and relaxing and meaningful experiences, natch. Massage, too. But for a man of peace and intellect - an aesthete, what Robert Stone terms an “athlete of perception;” for someone who does not wrestle, slap backs, or jostle with others in normal circumstances, if he can help it - the most profound and dramatic effect he can hope to produce on another's body while keeping in character is to make someone else come. (I prefer adapting the usual verb “to come” than adopting some silly alternate spelling. I can keep the two meanings separate just fine without requiring a new word, thanks).

Well, that and slamdancing, I suppose. These are the two situations when I contact most radically with the flesh of others: eating pussy and moshing. Really, I’m serious. And I haven’t moshed in months - Nomeansno can’t come soon enough, I tellya.

Do any of y’all know Iggy Pop's "Turn Blue?" His imperative, bluntly stated: "Gotta make somebody COME?" ...I mean, I understand the force of that directive. There is something very satisfying about giving a woman an orgasm, no shit. The bigger the better. It proves ones reality - for someone fairly cerebral, it powerfully reassures one that he is alive, whole, physical in a way that writing, thinking, talking, etc., can't. (Pardon my use of male pronouns here. Women who like to eat pussy are just great in my book; but I’m thinkin’ of MYSELF here, mostly - even while sticking to the second and third person - and the gendered pronoun follows thus). You become embodied in a powerful way: you know you can actually have a REAL IMPACT on REAL THINGS, as evinced by the twitchin' shudderin' pile of ecstatic female flesh below you, and thus can experience and take pleasure in your own reality: “Look what I did!”

I mean, if I were a boxer, a wrestler - even if I climbed mountains or surfed or swam or bungee jumped or such, experiencing my physicality thus - I might not feel this powerful hankering in my jaw and in my soul to eat (and finger: don't forget the fingers) pussy. But I don’t, so I do. It’s also less complicated, at least to someone currently without a gym membership, to find someone who wants her pussy eaten than it is to find people to wrestle with. And the payoff is so much more satisfying - not the defeat of the other, the pinned male body below you - but the sight of the gal lightin’ up like a pinball machine, goin’ DING DING DING DING DING. It’s NEAT! When I think about hooking up with women for sex - God’s truth here - I’m generally more excited about the prospect of making THEM reach orgasm than I am about the likelihood of my doing so. I mean - I can achieve orgasm any old time - just give me a few minutes, and presto. It’s no great feat. Paul Westerberg, back when the Replacements were cool, once answered a question for a pop music interview that his “greatest achievement” was orgasm; part of the reason this is funny is because the male orgasm is no great achievement at all. I mean, hell, I can still occasionally have one at night by completely involuntary means. How hard can it be, if you can do it in your sleep?

Charles Mudede said something memorable in the interview I did with him about Zoo, the very provocative and surprisingly aesthetically rewarding documentary co-written by himself and director Robinson Devor, which dealt with the Enumclaw horsefucking case (which Mudede elsewise writes about here). In short, the film deals with various controversies and challenges that arose after a Boeing aerospace engineer, who went by the pseudonym Mr. Hands, was fatally injured whilst having "receptive" sexual relations with a horse in a barn in Washington State. The full interview was ultimately published in CineAction, though a much shorter version of the article, altered a bit, ran in the Georgia Straight; I had initially titled it, "They Fuck Horses, Don't They," which, alas, they did not go for (a joke that I figure would only work in Vancouver - the name of the local band, They Shoot Horses, Don't They, has more cultural currency than the title of the old movie on which it draws). His quote bears repetition in this context. I had asked Mudede if he thought there was meant to be a class element in his presentation of the various “animal sex people” interviewed in the film. He agreed emphatically, going on to say:

Mudede: I mean, a lot of the guys – if you’re a ranch hand (H.) or a truck driver (the Happy Horseman) or if you come from rural Virginia (Coyote), you’re not in the same class as a guy who is writing code for Boeing. You’re not. And he is, he’s writing code, not just for Boeing, but for Boeing’s secret military interests. So he’s a genius. Nobody wakes up today and starts to cipher and work through mathematical codes of that sophistication, at that level... We’re talking about the leading airplane corporation in the world, and he was a member, an engineer – not just a low one, but a distinguished engineer, for that corporation. So, definitely, he had other issues... And quietly I will say, I always felt this... In that break between him and the others, one could see, because of his technological and intellectual headiness, and the fact that he was a mathematician, a man of the mind – which he is; there’s no other way you can sort out radar code without having a serious mathematical background – the fact that he was a man of the mind may have resulted in his weakness of body! You know what I mean, you can almost see, there’s that accusation, particularly coming from Happy Horseman, that he couldn’t take it, that he was not earthy enough, he was not man enough, he was too much in the head.

MacInnis: That he’s trying to escape from his own cerebral nature –

Mudede: And it failed. It’s something we didn’t get into in depth because there wasn’t enough material, but we did try to hint at that definite sense that it was not classless entirely (as the zoophiles assert in the narration). There were class issues here, and Mr. Hands was a person who was in his head, for the most part. And as for what he was trying to do with his body and the horses, he was trying to find a way to make the body come alive, in a way that he felt it hadn’t done in his work.

On reflection, I think, in fact, that Mudede is only half-right in his theory about what drove Mr. Hands. He is certainly explaining the need for sex, as a way to “make the body come alive,” but he could just as well be speaking about inducing a good G-spot orgasm, or coming in one orifice or another of a fellow human, or being fucked in the ass by all manner of things other than a horse. Perhaps the body comes more fully alive under completely bestial circumstances - or maybe Mr. Hands was too shy or awkward in pursuing beasty ol' sex with other people, more comfortable seeking his fulfillment by other means, or in need of something even more intense than anything he could get from a person - but it’s not just the need to make the body come alive that had him turning to the barn. It was the need to make the body come alive, plus some blockage or excess elsewise. I mean, he had been married, had a child - it wasn’t like he was celibate.

Anyhow, I’m not quite at the point yet where I’m going to start looking for a barn (or a gym, or whatever), but I tell you, folks - I need to give someone an orgasm soon, darn soon. It's been a couple of months now and I'm knotting up inside. Maybe it’s just that I can achieve catharsis, a release of stress, more successfully by vicarious means - “to give is better than to receive,” as they say. Maybe it’s just that the female orgasm is inherently cooler than the male’s, more dramatic, more entertaining to behold. In any case, I tellya, folks: I gotta go down on someone soon, or I’m gonna go nuts. The pent up stress is worse than any Deadly Semen Backup you can imagine... "gotta make somebody COME"...

Montreal Supergroup Plays March 12th at Scotiabank


I've been a bit overwhelmed lately, and not keeping on top of gigs (let alone going to them), but Thursday, March 12th, at the Scotiabank Dance Center is a chance to see some of Montreal's finest improvisers (Jean Derome, Pierre Tanguay, Joanne Hetu, Martin Tetrault, Dianne Labrosse, and others, including Lori Freedman, who I don't think is actually from Montreal) doing a piece by Michel Cote, based on text by Catholic pornographer George Bataille, as well as compositions by Jean Derome, Dianne Labrosse, and Danielle Palardy Roger. It's called Ensemble Supermusique and it's put on by Vancouver New Music, of course. I have enjoyed everything I've been exposed to of the Montreal musique actuelle scene, and hope to have the energy to attend this. (But I'm not making promises - I'm pooped, lately). Free artist chat at 7PM, show starts at 8... excerpt of the Roger piece at the above link...!

Skip The Watchmen

...it's three hours of your life you'll end up wanting back. I read and passably enjoyed the comic series some years ago, and had some anticipation of seeing an ambitious and unusual film; but while the film definitely has pretentions of being deep and meaningful, for the most part - after the first half-hour - it falls completely flat. Whether there is a coherency to its narrative that eclipsed me - a political reading to the film that makes it profound and interesting - I will leave others to decide; none occured to me. What I did notice was that there are many paper-thin performances, long passages that simply carry no dramatic interest whatsoever, completely meaningless bits of violence-for-its-own sake that suggest a rather low level of respect for the audience, and a love scene that is so cringe-inducingly bad (set, alas, to Leonard Cohen's "Hallejulah") that one wonders if Zack Snyder is, in fact, a 13 year old virgin male whose sole experience of sex comes via MTV and porn. I laughed aloud, rolled my eyes, and waited in horror for the three hour mess to end.

Tony Bardach apparently has a cameo - I caught his name in the credits, without having recognized him in the film (as a sleazy john soliciting a blowjob, if memory serves). There's also a pretty energetic and enthusiastic (if truncated and not particularly original) punk reading of Bob Dylan's "Desolation Row" by My Chemical Romance - a band I have previously ignored - that plays as the credits roll; it generates more drama than anything in the film, which is a sad statement indeed. I'd skip this one if I were you - redeem my suffering by learnin' from it: The Watchmen is a waste of your time.

Monday, March 09, 2009

Of Nomeansno: shows in Japan and Vancouver (for starters)


The perfect opportunity for me to get published in Japan finally arose: my favourite punk band, Vancouver's own Nomeansno, are touring there in late March. With invaluable help from the promoter, Bingo of Contrarede (whose great poster for the event is viewable here), a smidgen of assistance from Toshio of Record Base, and much invaluable help from Japanese NMN fan Burekas, of the Nomeanswhatever discussion forum, I managed to get a piece in Doll Magazine - an interview with John, Rob, and Tom about their next planned album (tentatively titled Codename: Old), their recreation plans for the tour (a whiskey distillery figured prominently, and they won't be going to a sento if Tom has anything to say about it), and their associations with Japanese culture. It's in the current issue of Doll, though you'll only be able to read it if you can read Japanese! (Doll, of course, also did a big thing on the Pointed Sticks a few years ago, which included what seemed a decent retrospective of the early Vancouver punk scene, bearing in mind that I can't read Japanese either). Since I had lots of material leftover, and the promoter wanted the extra press, we put something in Disk Union's free mag to boot, using different quotes and pics, which we hope won't annoy Doll too much. Here's wishing Nomeansno a happy Japanese tour! And remember, guys: no one says "o-tearai" any more - just ask for the "toire."

As for those of us here in Vancouver, apparently there are still a couple of tickets left for Nomeansno's April 3rd show at the Anza club, though it's mostly sold out. You can try Bonerattle Music, or - more reliably, it sounds - go through Low Down Dirty Productions and buy your tickets online. The band then plan to tour across Canada, as Nomeansno going east and then turning into the Hanson Brothers coming west (no Vancouver Hanson Brothers shows are thus far planned). The new album is being written on ProTools by Rob, and one demo from it, "Old," can be heard on Nomeansno's Myspace page; a few new songs, which will be debuting in Japan, will probably also be in the Vancouver show, including "No Fun 2010" (which, Rob says, is not about the Olympics) and "Jubilation" -- which, Rob explained, is about the joys of losing everything, finding oneself unencumbered. You're going to have to learn some Japanese if you want to know more, though, folks - I won't be reprinting this material in English, at least not in the forseeable future...

Oh: Hanson Brothers fans might also be interested to note that Slap Shot, the film from whence they take their name, is screening theatrically at the Vancity Theatre this week, as part of their Hockey Nights in Film series...

Saturday, March 07, 2009

Happy Birthday To Me

Al with Birdshit: a self-portrait

It's not that you weren't invited: it looks like there's going to be no movie this year (I played a whole bunch of friends Cassavetes' Husbands a year back, which has to have been the Best Birthday I've Had - thanks again to those of you that came). I'd pitched the idea of commandeering the Rio for a screening of Phase IV, but they didn't write back, and I think I just don't have the wherewithal to arrange something else, at this point. I just want to rest, when I don't have to be doing other things (writing, casino gambling, marking student papers, laundry... stuff like that). Happy birthday to me, anyhow: I'm now 41.

Friday, March 06, 2009

Eggs for dinner

...so I run out of money again, I don't have any curry made, and I haven't thawed any meat, because, as sometimes happens, I'm so busy that I might not get to it and end up throwing it out - something I find well-nigh shameful (aside from childhood conditioning, I figure that it's inexcusable to squander a creature's death; it's bad enough that I eat flesh food, let alone waste it and render the slaughter of a living thing *completely meaningless*). I've no bread left, and though I do have some cup ramen, I've overdone that of late and suffered gastric consequences. What's for dinner, then, Al? In my fridge, beside a wide variety of condiments, I have eggs, hash browns, and onions. Well, there's a meal: so at 7PM I make myself breakfast - a nice omelet, with pesto and cilantro and garlic, plus potatoes and onions. It will suffice, I suppose...

...not much writing this week, but watch this space for a Bruce McDonald interview...

Sunday, March 01, 2009

Brent Butt introduces Miller's Crossing Tuesday

I've been ambivalent about the Coen brothers for some time. There's a smarmy, misanthropic edge to their films that I find distasteful - it put me off No Country for Old Men the first time through, though I've managed to overcome my initial reactions to that film; and it makes it difficult for me to respect or enjoy Fargo or Barton Fink, despite their brilliant moments. (I did get a kick out of Burn After Reading, I admit, as a deserved pisstake on the current state of the US "intelligence" community, but it's nothing I was that enthusiastic about). In fact, of their films, I've really only admired one - their first, Blood Simple - and consider it an act of considerable perversity that they would maul their own film for the "director's cut" DVD release, actually shortening it (assumedly as a kind of gag, since director's cuts are typically longer); as far as I know, the original, proper version of the film is not available on DVD. I initially liked Miller's Crossing, as well - playing Tuesday at the Vancity Theatre, as a Cinema Salon event hosted by comedian Brent Butt - but had a lot of trouble with it after I discovered that key elements (plot, character, even names) were borrowed wholesale from a couple of Dashiell Hammett novels (The Glass Key and I think one other - maybe Red Harvest?). It came as an utter shock to me - I'd seen the film a few times as a teenager, really liked it, and then, in my 20's, read The Glass Key and went, "Wait a minute...;" there are such strong resemblances that I ended up feeling that the film was an act of plagiarism, that it *needed* to credit Hammett's novels as source material.

I've been told that my objecting to the film on these grounds is silly, that it's an homage, and that this was obvious, needing no acknowledgement; and after all - it was argued - I don't object to Yojimbo because it borrows plot elements from Hammett, do I? (I didn't realize when I was told this, by someone over on the Criterion Forum, that Yojimbo was in fact borrowed from Hammett, since I've only read a couple of Hammetts, but I suppose my response would be that there are no samurai in Hammett; plus it kind of pleases me that Yojimbo is not in fact the Ur-text for the whole "Man With No Name" thing in spaghetti westerns, as it is often hailed as being, but merely an adaptation of an idea that originated in America. It seems more fitting that way). It's true that my process of discovery - not knowing until years after first seeing it that Miller's Crossing was derived largely from the works of a writer that it doesn't deign to credit - is part of the reason I objected to the film; maybe if I'd seen it at the time, and seen the Coens acknowledging their debt in the media (as they may well have done), I wouldn't have felt like they'd put one over on me, sold me, as it were, stolen goods. I'd like to be able to get over my objection, because in fact, Miller's Crossing is a great piece of storytelling, has some fine performances (Gabriel Byrne and Albert Finney especially), uses music very well - the "Danny Boy" sequence is terrrific - and, really, does do a terrific job of presenting Hammett for a contemporary audience; it's not because it's a bad take on Hammett that I object to it, 'cos it's a terrific one. I've been meaning to re-visit the film for a few years now; how delightful that I'll be able to do it on the big screen! If you haven't seen this film, by chance, and care enough about cinema that you've read this far... you really should make it out to the Vancity Theatre on Tuesday.