well… at least i’m trying

is it the thought that counts yet??

the new year is uncomfortable to write

I don’t like 2009 – I can’t get it to look nice when I write it by hand.

In other news, Bataille… gotta finish the thesis. final death run. and so this is what is currently occupying my brain as it fries in the inhumane summer heat.

Where Gilles Deleuze’s treatment of the event is marked by historicity and adaptation, Georges Bataille discusses the event as a no-place of sensation. The Bataillean event is without temporality, and therefore, is as instantaneous as it is eternal. In Bataille’s early writing, he discusses the event in relation to sacrifice, a symbolic ritual used in early societies to reinforce the construction of that community. Communities, Bataille observes, require constant sacrifice in order to be maintained. He also observes that in more recent societies, the sacrificial deaths of soldiers and executed criminals fulfil a similar function, reinforcing the values of that society. War and execution as well as more recently, the character assassination of public figures communicates to citizens that they are part of a community, and also how they should behave. This function, like its origins in human sacrifice, needs to be constantly repeated to ensure the maintenance of that community.

In Bataille’s later work (post-World War II) and particularly in the book Inner Experience, he explores the event from the more immediate, and (to him) less politically motivated perspective of the personal, physical event. To Bataille, these events are death, sex, and occasionally writing. In the “Labyrinth” and “Communication” chapters of Inner Experience, he identifies the inadequacies of language to communicate, especially between physical bodies, and introduces his concept of the Labyrinth to illustrate a necessary antagonism we all feel toward language and its limitations. Bataille has drawn most of these chapters from his earlier essay “The Labyrinth” which is included in Visions of Excess where he observes that we are in constant battle with language, and with ourselves, “a tragic and incessant combat for a satisfaction that is almost beyond reach”. (Bataille, 1985: 171)

Bataille first introduces his version of the labyrinth in his 1935-6 essay “The Labyrinth”, although it is more fully explored in his 1954 book Inner Experience. The labyrinth is Bataille’s blueprint for the complexities and antagonisms of communication as well as for the affection communication inspires. Bataille observes that you are not, if you do not act, and these actions are related to the intensities of affection that one develops. Action and intensity are both inspired by the individual’s feeling of insufficiency, “the positive sense of a tragic and incessant combat for a satisfaction that is almost beyond reach”. (Bataille, 1985: 171) This insufficiency reflects the insufficiency of language, but also, the infection of death in the definition of existence. Bataille discusses death as a spectre one is drawn towards, but also the impetus for communication, as a denial or avoidance of the inevitability of death. The death-event is what motivates us to continue to live.

i think the heat is beginning to seriously affect simple cognitive function. deliver me from the colonies.

MIFF 11: Dead End – Romero, personal gore, and the end of the film festival

“Dead On: the Life and Cinema of George A Romero” (2008) Rusty Nails.

So, this was one of the last screenings of the festival and I went along, innocently enough on that fateful Sunday night two weeks ago. I vaguely remember the film. I was interested to note the independence of Romero’s production techniques. And that he still refuses to move to Hollywood, instead remains based in PIttsburgh. Also it was a bit sad to hear how they screwed up the copyrighting of ‘Night of the Living Dead’ so he never made any money from it.

(aw, dear old man who likes zombies)

But then, and now this is a bit ridiculous, I partially dislocated my shoulder in the middle of the screening, by shrugging, for fucksake. And crept out, trying not to scream, and ended up being escorted out of the area via ambulance.

So, you know, I’m afraid I can’t review the film properly.

The festival itself, well, had its moments, although I think it’s really too late to write a proper wrap up, and this is the first time I’ve been able to type with both hands, and think clearly in two weeks.

Bummer.

So (dubiously) ends the Melbourne International Film Festival 2008.

MIFF 10: Fetch Me My Gun, Love

“Gonzo: the life and work of Dr Hunter S Thompson” Alex Gibney (2008)

When this many people are willing to kiss this much long-cremated arse, it’s liable to put me off someone. A little bit. Hunter S Thompson. I named my cat after him, for fucksake, but this sort of worship, that most of the interviewees in the film are guilty of, is just stupid. I get embarrassed for sycophants on their behalf. Plus, you know, despite their best efforts, he comes across, like so many ‘great’ people, as a selfish, irritable misanthrope on a personal level, mostly because he couldn’t stand the willful ignorance of others, but, he had a strong sense of justice on a global scale.

Watching this documentary made me feel similar to the way I did when I read “Kingdom of Fear”. And I know how this is going to sound, but I am so embittered by it. The no-fun aspect of being part of my generation is overwhelming sometimes. Yes, Thompson had his heart broken as he saw the “high water mark” of the 60s in San Fransisco and watched the tide roll back. Saw the failure of something good, on a fairly epic scale. But at least he had that opportunity to be part of something when the potential for change for the better was still there.

And I’m not going to acknowledge those corporate, ‘within the system’ little initiatives for ’social responsibility’, because that’s very different from something that’s visceral, alive, everywhere, and is people at your door, and down your street. It was there. No matter how ill-defined or hypocritical, and no matter how misguided, there was still some hope back then, or, you know, so it would seem. And not to be overly dramatic, but I can’t really see that anymore. Stuff like what was happening in 60s will never happen again. And certainly not in my generation. Of swine. (Ha ha.) I feel cheated. Prove me wrong.

So the film. Was really, mostly a fairly stock-standard approach to the po-pomo documentary. Very staid. It had the Steadman drawings, some archival footage, some photos. It has interviews with Hunter S Thompson’s friends and both his ex-wives, but, it was more than a little impersonal. It was like the film was confused about whether it wanted to concentrate on his books, his invention of ‘gonzo’ journalism, or his life. It flitted between the three without showing any real insight or depth in any area. It mentioned people like Oscar Acosta (Dr Gonzo) without elaborating and really, that’s more interesting than Johnny Depp as surrogate Thompson, reading out his writing.

There’s no mention of the Rum Diaries phase of Thompson’s life, which, again, is a fairly major omission. The film briefly mentioned the ‘lull’ in Thompson’s writing after both the ‘Fear and Loathing’ books and refused to really acknowledge all the books he’d written after that time. The film began with a mention of how September 11 inspired Thompson to write again, but didn’t come back to that except to draw cursory comparisons between George W Bush and Richard Nixon.

However, I have just read the ‘Hell’s Angels’ book, so I really appreciated seeing Sonny Barger interviewed, sitting there, an old man, with one of those fake voice box things for when you have throat cancer. And, I’ve read “Fear and Loathing: Campaign Trail ‘72″ so it was also kind of exciting seeing what George McGovern looked like, and seeing footage of the actual candidates in action, during those moments in history that I’ve read about. Lots of, ’so now I see…’ type things. But if one hadn’t read those books, and wasn’t interested in American politics, I can imagine the film being rather dull. And for those who had, it didn’t tell us anything we didn’t already know – it just put faces to names.

6.5/10

And meanwhile. I got there a bit early, and there were not many seats left, because it was a sell out session, so I sat in the front row so at least no one big and tall would sit in front of me and block my view. So, I sit down, and the film starts, and this guy, leading a troupe of his friends comes in and just stands there, directly in front of me, with the movie playing. Cause for justifiable homicide. I asked him to move because I couldn’t see, and he yelled at me to move over because he had ‘more people coming along’ (like, why can’t you just split up, it won’t kill you to not all be holding homoerotic footballer hands the whole way through the film). I don’t take kindly to orders. Especially when I made the effort to arrive on time specifically to secure myself a decent seat, while others did not. So I said, “you’re late, get fucked” (I had to keep it brief, I don’t like talking in movies). So note to random fuckhead, if for some strange reason, you manage to make it here: be grateful for the ongoing use of all your limbs.

and further, a question to everyone: has anyone one else had almost constant run-ins with rude trendies during the course of the festival? Mostly it’s just been constant, unbridled talking and random body odour, but this guy was really out of control.

MIFF 9: Forced Labour in the Fashion Mines

“Otto; or, Up with Dead People” Bruce LaBruce 2008

Any film which describes a character’s career as “many years of forced labour in the fashion mines…” gets my vote. Bruce LaBruce has done it again. He’s bitch-slapped more or less every other film at the festival right out of orbit. ‘Otto’ is so fabulous, self-conscious, witty, profound in the most whimsical and non-preachy way. And clever, so so clever – a little bit smarmy, but not enough to put you off. It’s beautifully shot, with changes in filters, colour saturation etc throughout, everything is perfectly designed so that it’s both aesthetic and basic. Sigh. So good.

(tasty roses, aw.)

Basically, Otto (Jey Crisfar – a first time actor) is, or believes he is (and what is the difference, really) a zombie. He totters about, exploring the world as a zombie (or, as the narrator says, a metaphor) and falls into the clutches of an independent filmmaker, Medea Yarn, and her girlfriend Hella Bent. This is one of the many fabulous points about the film, Hella (played by Susanne Sachsse who was Gerda in ‘Raspberry Reich) is stuck in a silent movie. Permanently. LaBruce overlays a grainy sepia on her whenever she’s in the frame. And no one can seem to hear her speak except Medea. The audience is granted intertitles during their exchanges. So funny.

Meanwhile, Otto has been eating roadkill and so forth, because, as he vaguely remembers, he was a vegetarian in life. Although, he does briefly get a taste for human flesh, he’s generally a very compliant, sweet little zombie, who can’t understand why people don’t realise that he’s really a zombie. Aw.

One point – there was way less sex in this film than Bruce La Bruce’s other films, which I guess makes it more able to be distributed, at least through the film festival circuit. It’s not porn, so much like his other films, although that doesn’t really make it any less subversive. And there’s a wound-fucking scene which would guarantee a ban in many countries, one would have thought. It makes the one in Cronenberg’s ‘Crash’ look extremely tame.

Anyway I appreciated the kind of Bataillean aspect of the film, you know, the sex, the death, the blood, and so on, but I also enjoyed it as another near-perfect satire from a hero of mine. (What I’m trying to say is that you’ll probably like it even if you’re not completely twisted.)

9/10

MIFF 8: ‘Bend it like Beckham’ got brutal

“Fighter” Natasha Arthy (2007)

By now I really really needed my fix of martial arts, having been largely deprived ALL festival. So I saw this on the program, and on a whim, booked myself to go along. So it’s a Danish film about a girl who wants to do Kung fu, but her dad won’t let her. And this will somehow upset her brother’s engagement. And so the story unfolds with what Bill Bailey might term “a tedious inevitability”. This film has taken so much from ‘Bend it like Beckham’ that it actually borders on plagiarism.

*spoiler alert*

The film is not nearly as good, or as charismatic as ‘Bend it like Beckham’, but it does have its charms. For a start, the girl who plays the main character, Aicha (Semra Turan) is hypnotic. And it’s worth sitting through the rather turgid aspects for some of the fight scenes toward the end (all the martial arts scenes were choreographed by Xian Gao, of ‘Crouching Tiger…” fame, who also played her Sifu). And there’s this cool bit when she realises the repeat dream she has about facing a masked figher is actually herself. (Yes, I thought it would have to be corny and ridiculous too, but it wasn’t.)

I do have a couple of other major complaints though, first being that I don’t know what it’s like in Denmark, but here, I have been to heaps of martial arts competitions with lots Muslim girls competing. The more devout girls even go so far as to wear their hijabs under their competition helmets. So I don’t think it’s really that big a deal. And I note that the director is not Muslim, so it all rings a little false to me, but hey, feel free to correct me. The second, is that large Danish red-heads (ie. the love interest) are really unattractive and should stay away from kung fu.

6.5/10

And in other news, I got a little tipsy at bloody st jeromes last night and missed ‘Diary of the Dead’ (the new George Romero) that I was supposed to go to. Whooops… My decision was influenced by the fact that everyone I talk to says it’s shit. Not to panic, I’ll source it some other way

MIFF 7: Down on the Farm

“La Rabia” Albertina Carri (2008)

In an understated attempt at irony, one of the main characters of ‘La Rabia’ is wearing a World Wildlife Fund jumper with the “save the pandas” slogan during a pig slaughter. That sort of sets the scene for the film. It is histrionic, and boring, and the graphic slaughter scenes will really only upset adamant vegetarians, and hypocrites. (They are relatively humane, ordinary farm slaughters, no torture involved.) What makes the film bearable is the beautiful (if not somehow dystopic) landscape and amber-glow lighting.

Other than that, the film is populated by dense farmers, fucking each other, fighting each other, and thinking of ways to insult each other’s children. A nice effect, actually, is quite often, when the little boy is scared, or doing something that could get him in trouble, the soundtrack of his breathing claustrophobically surrounds the audience. It makes the film sinister. And, I kept expecting something really brutal and awful to happen, but it never really did. So long as they don’t hurt the ponies or the kittens, I’m fine.

The director utilised intercut ink on watercolour animations, which was quite a nice effect, especially when they were more abstract, but I don’t think they really resonated with the story enough. It’s a bit like they were thrown in there because they were a nice effect, without enough consideration for how they operated in the film as a whole. The stocky kid is annoying and distracting (Bill Henson has nothing on this film, I’m really surprised it wasn’t banned), and overall, the film has a sort of patronising attitude toward country life. And feels very much like one has seen this rustic rural film (and a million others) a million billion times before.

5.5/10

MIFF 6: Bill Pullman is watching you from the confines of his neck flab

“Surveillance” Jennifer Lynch (2008)

Now, as a rule, I encourage the children of directors to then become directors. This system brought us Roman and Sofia Coppola. However, the important thing to remember about the Coppola kids, is that they do their own thing, have their own style, and really just hastle dad for some funding. Jennifer Lynch, on the other hand, has pinched her father’s money, actors, plot and cinematography. So, really, “Surveillance” is a not very good copy of a David Lynch film.

*spoiler alert* (I’ll try not to say too much, it would really wreck what was good about the movie to reveal the main twist)

Bill Pullman (David Lynch mainstay) is looking pretty old and portly these days. The trademark half-smile thing he does is a little bit lost in voluptuous neck fat. Meanwhile, his co-star, Julia Ormond (also in David Lynch’s ‘Inland Empire’) purses her way through some very unflattering lighting, her wrinkles give it ‘real’ness. (Something one assumes will be avoided in a semi-pseudo-surrealist film.)

Anyway, so the film centres around the investigation of a multiple homicide. Which is one of many the killers in question seem to have committed. The witnesses are interviewed, a child, a ‘junkie’ girl (who looks very not junkie) and an extremely dodgey policeman whose partner was killed during the incident. The film feels stilted, especially at first, it’s as though the actors are trying to get used to something uncomfortable. There are a few great oneliners, including my person favourite policeman says: “what, they didn’t hire you on the spot?” (sarcastically to junkie girl) who replies: “no, we weren’t applying to be cops”.

Lynch Jnr builds up this huge mystery, through the stories of the three characters, with Bill Pullman observing from another room where surveillance cameras are fed. Once the film hits its stride it travels along quite nicely, if not a little too much like a Lynch film (though not as good). But then, there’s this big plot twist, which is supposed to be all clever and unexpected, but is really the thriller equivalent of ‘and it was ALL a dream’ (my hatred of which discussed earlier in “Night and Day”). The film is dropped on its head, and totally fucks it up for Jennifer Lynch. It will probably be another 15 years before she’s brave enough to make another film. That’s fine with me.

Also, title, “Surveillance” is really not appropriate to the film. Most of it has nothing to do with being watched and it’s certainly not where the plot lies.

6/10

MIFF 5: No Fluffy Penguins (well, maybe just a few gay or deranged ones)

“Encounters at the End of the World” by Werner Herzog (2007)

I hate documentaries, and although I want to go to Antarctica, I have no interest in the shows about wildlife there. So I was a little hesitant about Herzog’s new film. So, I only went along when my original plans for the evening had fallen through. And, I must say, I am so glad I went.

(this is the volcano that you want to keep your eye on if it erupts, so that you make sure that you see any large bits of rock coming toward you, being filmed by a tekkie, riot-proof camera)

*spoiler alert… again*

Herzog narrates the film himself, much to the amusement of me, and everyone else. There’s something about sarcasm in a thick German accent that makes it funnier. And to my great relief, Werner announced that he was allowed to make this film, “even if it wasn’t about penguins”. In fact, he seemed to have a little bit of a hang up about the penguins thing, because they were mentioned, fluffy ones, even, in the idyllic misconception people might have of Antarctica. Later in the film, Werner goes to visit a penguin researcher who “doesn’t like talking to people much these days, but would make a special effort” so Herzog “tried to keep the conversation flowing” by asking him about whether there were gay penguins, or whether any of them were deranged and thought they were Napoleon. Um, what?

Also, look out for the “filmmaker, cook” who talks about the importance of keeping the faux icecream flowing to avoid a riot, and the “Philosopher, Forklift Operator” who talks about Homeric epics. Oh yes, and the scientist/diver who likes science-fiction, and guitars, and is in a ‘pensive’ mood and the chimp enslaving a goat at the start. Basically, everyone in Antarctica is a little bit weird, and is made more weird, by Herzog’s interrogation, and bizarre and singular camera work and editing. I can never quite put my finger on what it is about it that makes it so distinctive, but Herzog’s style is so easily recognisable.

Oh yeh, and look out for the super boring, long-winded linguist found lurking in the greenhouse at 1AM. I wonder what he was doing there…

8.5/10

MIFF 4: Desert Middlemen, Barefoot Fighters

“Ashes of Time Redux”, Wong Kar Wai, 2008

It’s fair to say I got pretty excited about the prospect of a new Wong Kar Wai film. Excited enough to entirely overlook the prominent use of the word REDUX in the title. Whatever. I had never seen “Ashes of Time” anyway. And, more importantly, none of the people I excitedly TOLD about the ‘new’ Wong Kar Wai pointed out this to me either. Now I’m paranoid there’s some sort of laugh at erin being spazzy conspiracy.

So Wong Kar Wai. What a champ. He has the singular knack of corralling all the most beautiful boys in Hong Kong and making them be in a film together. Also, my heart swells with nationalistic pride at the cinematography of Christopher Doyle. Bitching colouration. Who gave that man a filter? The fight scenes are awesome, deliberately overexposed, grainy, and silhouetted in places. And totally different than other Hong Kong cinema. And then, there’s Leslie Cheung. Hong Kong cinema’s answer to Johnny Depp. Complete with the cheek bones, wry smile and appropriate levels of facial hair. But he jumped off a building about 5 years ago. So that sucks.

But you know, ‘Ashes of Time’ is Wong’s early work. And, well, it ain’t no 2046. It is a really traditional piece of Hong Kong cinema in some ways, especially with the unrequited love + costume drama + swordsmen aspect. It is, however, still really really good. Sometimes, when I see a film by Wong Kar Wai, or Jim Jarmusch, or Sofia Coppola, I wonder a little bit why other people bother.

Then, I came out of the cinema, and I overheard some dick saying, “that was a bit arty farty, I didn’t know what was going on”. This is why I hate people. Also, this is why I ban talking about a film until half an hour after you’ve seen it.

7.5/10

MIFF 3: Film Triad

“Triangle” (Tie saam gok) by Ringo Lam, Johnnie To and Tsui Hark (2007)

Now, if it was meant to be funny, then that makes this film quite a bit better. I’m going with the assumption that it was, and actually I’m fairly certain the ending was intended to be hilarious. The film was beautifully executed, some amazing camera angles, and I always love that extra vivid colour-saturation. And I loved the concept of each director making 30 minutes of the film in his own style. Problem was, those styles were more or less indistinguishable.

I would have been much more impressed if they’d each chosen a slightly different film stock, or one used digital, another super8 or something like that. Or perhaps, while each had the whole script, each didn’t know what the others had done, or something. There was way too much continuity, basically. Also, and now I know I’m pushing my luck, but I really like martial arts, and there was none, sigh, in a Hong Kong gangster movie. I was really looking forward to a decent fight scene. Not to worry, that new one with Jet Li AND Jackie Chan is coming out soon.

Now, I have another major complaint, although it really has nothing to do with the quality of the movie. Why is it trendy these days (and this seems to have spiraled out of control in the last couple of years) to have a shoulder dislocation scene in every damn action film. It is really the only major category of film violence I can’t cope with, because I’ve had a couple of shoulder dislocations, and you don’t mess around with that stuff. So I dunno who started it, or when. But this is my official request that this new trend cease immediately. I disgraced myself in the cinema by having to cover my eyes and ears. How embarrassment.

Anyway, I did enjoy ‘Triangle’. The mobile phone gags were great.

6/10

MIFF 2: Down and Out in Paris and Seoul

“Night and Day” (Bam gua nat) by Sang-soo Hong, 2008.

Before I go any further, I would like to point out that I went to the George A Romero Question and Answer session on Sunday night. It’s not really worth mentioning beyond that, because the interviewer was a bit incompetent and the crowd was comprised of embarrassing sycophants. All questions were either “I’m a film student, and…” or “can you please sign my night of the living dead dvd?”. Also, no one with a brain beyond first year really cares about ‘genre subversion’. But it was lovely to see the grizzly old zombie master in (distant) person.

So until today, I had the impression that all Korean films were good. Well, not really, but pretty close. This one was a little bit average, though admittedly, not entirely without its appeals. It had some really lovely camera work, and I did appreciate how the camera seemed to get bored of the main character, Sung-nam Kim and would wander off. There was one bit, where it followed water draining in the gutter, which sounds really vomit-inducing, cliche like, but somehow wasn’t. It did explain a lot about weird mating rituals with the giggling and had some strange, unresolved homoeroticism going on with a character called Mr Jang. I dunno what that was. And quite effectively represented a kind of outsider feel that comes with being plonked in another country without being able to speak the language, or have any instinct for the culture. (The whole time I was watching it, I was thinking, my god, you CANNOT go out in public looking like THAT in Paris. You just can’t.)

‘painter’ in paris

Actually what struck me, was the lack of interaction with the locals in this film. Sung-nam Kim finds himself in a Korean boarding house, accepted into the local Korean community. The interactions with French people are limited to shop assistants and a bizarre exchange outside the airport. The real cultural clash occurs when he meets a guy from North Korea, and accidentally (sort of) insults his ‘great father’ (Kim Jong Il).

But so, in the film, it would seem every character announces that they are a ‘painter’ and talk about their art (and Van Gogh’s actually) in this really conservative way, as though the last 100 years of art never happened. This was particularly distressing for me, given my penchant for Korean art, it’s a mecca for the posthuman and new media. Not decorative painting. Also, I really really object to unannounced ‘dream sequences’ in films, by way of plot device. They are a cheap, bad storytelling ploy. More or less always. And they fuck my respect for the film, ‘but it was all a dream…’

Plus, there were some truly outrageous misogynist aspects, moments, and so on and forth about the film. I’m really not sure whether they were self-conscious, pointing out how awful it all is, but I suspect not. I’m not certain whether the filmmaker wanted us to be outraged. Or whether it was supposed to be just normal.

To be honest, for a lot of the film, I was just bored. And I really wanted the giggling to stop.

4/10

Patrick Bateman saves the day for Late Capitalism: The Dark Knight

In the new Batman film, ‘The Dark Knight’, the Joker is the worst kind of unstoppable evil, according to American tradition, and also Michael Caine. He doesn’t care about money, he pursues the sensation of experience. And wants everything to be fair. What a bastard. Don’t forget that, he says to Harvey Dent “in chaos, everything is fair”. Shoot him! Shoot him!

*spoiler alert* (not huge, but just in case of complaints)

Conversely, Batman is the best funded crime fighter in town, with a range of gadgets, innovation and technology that the cops haven’t come up with yet. Like, the Joker does well to almost totally screw him, with no money, and no man power, against this huge corporation. And, he’s played by Christian Bale, in a reprisal (he has limited range, it probably wasn’t on purpose) of his earlier role as Patrick Bateman, the all-American psychopath, in Mary Harron’s film adaptation of ‘American Psycho’, originally a novel by Bret Easton Ellis. (The novel is a thousand times better, but the film is still slightly interesting.) Anyway, in ‘The Dark Knight’, Christian Bale has even gone for the same hair cut. Not to mention the character name similarity. One suspects Bret Easton Ellis may have known what he was doing, but it’s amazing that it’s come full circle to this extent.

I guess what I’m trying to suggest, and without being overly, you know, conspiracy theorist (i think it’s offensively obvious) is that “The Dark Knight” is a metaphor, America vs anyone who irritates them and has no money. Or, in other words, Christopher Nolan (and Warner Bros) are pro-Iraq and Afghanistan invasion/occupation. (Yes, I know, I’m surprised because of why?)

The film itself, is not too bad (if one manages to ignore the offensive politics, and one can’t seeing as one is being blugeoned with them for like, two and a half hours) from at least, a formal perspective. The opening sequence is damn cool. And the geek within thoroughly enjoyed the surprise appearance and fabulous effect of two-face, and the metal guitar that heralded the joker’s every move.

There were, however, some irritatingly mixed metaphors and bizarre (mis)quotations. Unstoppable force, immovable object? Bitch, please. All I could then think about was ‘The Virgin Suicides’. I dunno if Nolan was going for Lux and Trip in relation to Batman and the Joker. (Now there would be some disturbing fan fiction/porn for you.) And, speaking of the great Sofia Coppola, did anyone else see her, or her doppelganger in the party scene at Bruce Wayne’s house? Meanwhile, the whole yin and yang/doppelganger shit between batman/joker was more than a little forced, and annoyingly pop-philosophical. (Who’s into dichotomies these days?)

Also, the fight scenes are poorly choreographed and the framing of them is even worse. Trust an American director. Shoots the most amazing heist, car chase, everyone in the audience tripping on adrenaline. Then entirely failing at framing a single punch with any success. Meanwhile, Heath Ledger (and i have to weigh in here) is charismatic as the joker, but not exactly genius. Not really deserving of any major posthumous awards, it’s all hype, and the novelty of it. On the other hand, the academy did see fit to bestow an Oscar on Nicole Kidman, so clearly, they have no standards. Or shame.

Personally, If we’re counting up votes for awards given posthumously, I vote Leslie Cheung. He was a better actor AND he was hot.

Nerd Slice is Tasty: Cut Copy at the Forum

Time stands still…

Cut Copy are about my favourite australian band. They make blissed-out druggy nerd/geek/dork love songs. They’re all about being awkward and sweet. And they leave one with a kind of pillowy benevolence towards humankind. And a propensity for general vague and staring into space for a couple of hours afterwards.

Here are two of their best songs:

“Lights and Music” (the birthday song)

“Saturdays” (the telephone song)

Anyway, you get the picture. They took up where fleetwood mac and the jesus and mary chain (among others) left off. And as eliot wryly observed, it’s ketamine influenced electronica.

So they were playing at the forum tonight, and we went. Unfortunately, I entirely forgot my camera. Especially as there was a mystery afoot that needed to be documented…

Now, I have a certain affinity for this sort of music because I’m a big awkward nerd, so what will always shock me, is the presence of the people who would have beat them up in high school at these things. We were already a bit freaked out by the 80s revival of tasteless excess and shiny lycra leggings (ban them now) as we were heading in. But then, we realised that we were surrounded by alpha males, grunting and shoving everyone, and squealing, blue gingham shirt, pearl earring and tiffany bracelet wearing girls preening and acting up.

On the one hand, I wholly appreciate the ironic victory of having these people as fans but it kind of makes seeing them a more complicated proposition than it would otherwise be. At one stage, when they started playing, I found myself standing next to a very tall, very substance-impaired, very slick-haired guy who kept jumping up and down with complete disregard for those around him (dude you’re a shit person). As I said at the time, turns out Patrick Bateman IS here. Then this weird, also substance-impaired bony girl yelled at me about something. Not sure what. Potentially I was standing in the wrong place. Then she proceeded to maniacally dance in a manner than ensured I got elbowed and kneed the maximum possible amount of times as I tried to move away… Anyway, point being, that seeing a band like that, one that makes you feel all warm and gooey, should be a safe space

the mystery though, really is, what the fuck are those people doing there? I don’t understand how they decided in their heads that they liked Cut Copy in the first place. I want to point out that they’re the weirdos you vilified in your adolescence (and probably still do) and they’re not less weird now. They are way more weird. So how about fucking off and leaving them and us to enjoy ourselves. It’s not like we actually ever wanted to be part of the in-crowd.

It’s perverse. You find yourself surrounded by people you’ve made efforts to avoid your whole life.

They dedicated a song to Stevie Nicks. We had a chuckle. No one else really seemed to notice. And they were lovely, and played very well (a couple of hours of cut copy, and this is how i speak) and the singer had tonsillitis, but did an extremely good job anyway. And they had lights in boxes. And a video screen that had fun videos to watch.

If only there were some way to avoid the bullshit crowd… hmmm.

Dear Cut Copy, how are you? i am good. please come and play at my next birthday party… love erin.

that’ll work.

Mark Rothko was a Nihilist Shaman (or, my arvo at the art gallery)

So I thought I had this cool idea for a paper. I went to the NGVI on the weekend, and got a bit carried away with their Rothko (woo! one!). It’s from the red series, similar to this one, untitled, 1958:

Mark Rothko was a magic man. When you look at a Rothko painting in the flesh, why is it so magnetic? I find myself staring at one colour for ages. I can look at his stuff much longer than I can anything else. It’s like he’s some sort of material nihilist shaman. His paintings produce an experience of ecstatic and absolute nihilism. I was already thinking about a kind of bataillean base matter, and thought about nick land’s nietzsche/shaman/maths stuff so it was a small stumble onto Rothko’s aesthetic/material exploration of the edge, or the extremity of existence…

So then, seeing as all I know about Rothko comes from year 10 art class, and all I remember from that is that he slashed his wrists “to the bone”. (I wonder how one does the second wrist, once the tendons on the first are severed.) So I thought I’d do some dodgey wikipedia-y google-y research and see what other people had written. So of course…

Around the time rothko was producing these paintings, he was reading nietzsche, like that was the point of them. Sigh.

So there goes that idea. Dammmmit.

all that killing, and you’re afraid to die: ffrench fucks off the subject entirely

Off with their heads…

So affect has become a dirty word. And platonism is what all the cool kids are doing. The end is seriously fucking nigh, if you believe 28 Days Later. Get the mind and the body back together, in the same space. Oh, wait. They are…

Although most people claim to understand that the body and the subject are not two separate entities, but one kind of, multiplicity, working in a mushy mess. Saying “oh, yeh, I know, of course, yeh yeh, boring”. Ultimately, people still tend to think in these binary terms. Body. Mind. Physical. Psychological. Separate. Opposite. Retarded.

We don’t just think with our brains, we think with our whole bodies. Our brains are just a part of that process. Even the term ‘think’ is erroneous. The symbol of the headless man is even a bit erroneous. But he’s all we’ve got, and it’s always nice to have a bit of irony in the mix.

Patrick Ffrench’s 2007 book, After Bataille: Sacrifice, Exposure, Community is entirely a revelation. Ffrench points the way, like the grim reaper himself, for us to behead the body; fuck the subject off, and start thinking across our skin.

There is an obligation, now, to make something of this. To get rowdy and excited and stupid about an idea. Imagine the possibilities for philosophy without the subject. Imagine the possibilities for screen analysis (only thinking of myself here) within this (to paraphrase Nick Land) libidinally materialist motive. To do away with the subject. There is no end, no limit, to the body that thinks. Really.

This might not sound like a new idea, it sounds like a very old one, because it is. Ffrench’s book is like a tool to reexamine the legacy of Bataille, most refreshingly, outside of psychoanalysis.

so get your shit together.

i have accepted gordon ramsay as my personal lord and saviour

the other day, on tv, Gordon Ramsay said this:

“if it’s your fucking kitchen, then clean it, you lazy cunt”

Thereby ingratiating himself to me no end.

he may be ugly as sin, i don’t care. Gordon Ramsay is my hero. To be honest, he’s also my hero cos i fucking love food. Although, I have been getting inappropriate impulses to march into restaurant kitchens and demand explanations lately, so i think i have to stop watching the show.

I’m watching the american version of his show. now. He’s so fucking cool.

And the old ladies seem to love him wherever he goes. That’s a bit weird.