Tuesday, March 1, 2011
The Sky and The Sea
She said "what do I want? Of course I want Sky!." This is where we differ, as, for my next act, I will be the sea above all. It's the sea who has had men leaping to it in agony and knowing only then both the victory of their small strength and the enormous insignificance. I would be an engulfing and terrible sea with deep black pits and azure awells, a mass of insatiable convoluted systems, vibrant life and prehistoric secrets which, from the surface is serene and simple, even lifeless. My incomrehensible magnitude will be made of parts which I know both as intricate and intimate pieces of my identity, and as foreign and unattainable as the moons cold reflection on my glinting skin. I was coming to begin to realise, and to accept and to know in me, the horribly inescapable circularity of the universe, the perplexing and perverse aporia of a self-perpetuation beyond the feeble wants of human hands. And we do: we all suffer the same.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Dangerous Emotions
"You will be identified as thin-skinned and moody; in reaction you will identify yourself as civilized and sensitive. You will barricade yourself in that preposterous condition known as self-respect."
Alphonso Lingis
Alphonso Lingis
TRASH HUMPERS
http://www.trashhumpers.com
I decided to go with my main man-the delectable Mr Aporia-to a screening of "Trash Humpers" at the Factory in Marrickville as apart of the Underground film fest on Saturday 11th September, not exactly knowing what to expect, and certainly not prepared for the vomit-restraining throat-ache upon our thankful exit. I knew of Harmony Korine by reputation only, having seen a trailer or two of Kids and Gummo but never indulging my (possibly exterior) inner wanker enough to dedicate an afternoon to finding parts on youtube-so it is possible that I set myself up for a gross shock to my own sense of self-worth and understanding of the very fabric of my relationship with the meaning and purpose of cinematic horror from the beginning.
The initial (unrestrained and vocal) reaction from the audience as a single entity was shocked, but prepared snickers and then open laughter at the sight of three geriatric degenerates humping trashcans and causing general mayhem in a parking lot under an eerie street lamp. And so it begins-these three characters (not that they can be called 'characters' exactly) repeat these acts of performing blow-jobs on tree branches, jerking off leaves, eating dirt and defecating on houses. The initial reaction which I had to the experience of viewing such material in a cinema setting was an extreme and overwhelming disgust at my own laughter- a sentiment which could be felt in the almost instantaneous quelling of laughter from my fellow audience members. Korine seems to have created a physical reaction from his audience where a painful realisation of the tragedy of the material which we find so hilarious becomes self-disgust at the mere meaningless of it. This soon becomes the tool of the film (which is not ones) horror.
With a complete rejection of plot or character development, narration or any opportunities of recognition or empathy, the only thought which would occupy my mind during the 80 minute screening (apart from checking the time 10-15 times) was that there was not a chance that I would be exiting the theatre having gained anything at all from the experience. Two days later I'm certainly not ready to face the ringtone samples available on the Trash Humpers website. So apart from the obvious mocking of Korine at the desperate need for audiences to endure the merciless exercise of a film-makers ability to alienate and torture viewers in the quest to find meaning out of something so obviously meaningless and absurd- how did a film which appears to purposefully drain itself of the right to artist credibility become something I need to write out of my system? Any attempt towards a linear understanding of the film will definitely prove fruitless and frustrating.
The film evolves around three "characters" who have no discernible personalities, or identity, even the fact that they are elderly is questionable, as their costuming seems to purposefully reveal bodies which are almost youthful, in comparison to the heads which are clearly severely deteriorated with old age. The constant presence and interaction of the three "protagonists" with nostalgic symbols such as childrens play toys, nursery rhymes and push-bikes makes the most evident statement of the film-the decomposition of the human body in old age to its infantile state in the physic and mental sense. The "trash humpers" exist without connection or reliance on the presence of housing, societal structure, family, health, food or the restrictions of the law. They could easily be seen as a glimpse of a mere underclass suffering at the expense of the American Dream, however, Korine is concerned with the American Nightmare, and not with any counter-culture (organised or other) in any typical sense. The horror and tragedy of this focus is where "Trash Humpers" becomes something completely different.
The most haunting aspect of the film is prominent in the extent to which we are relentlessly immersed in this existence, with our reality beyond the space of the theatre diminishing rapidly as the film continues until it is dubious that a safe return to normality is possible. The activities of the trash humpers worlds are alienating and shocking, and if not for the roles of three other degenerates, it is possible that the film would be absolutely pointless. One maid-costume-wearing homeless poet who seems to possess some intelligible talent is murdered by the three primary subjects without purpose or consequence after reciting a poem which outlines the pleasures and purpose of humping trash as an anarchic act which ironically protests the commodity fetishism of consumer culture. A second character is shown entertaining the three subjects with crude racist and homophobic jokes which have an obvious of purposeful lack of meaning and tact, highlighting the senseless and feeble ignorance of both the value of the poets words and the stupidity of the mans jokes as equal in their effects on the three characters.
In the final ten minutes of the film, it seems Korine finally relents in offering the (exhausted and possibly hateful) audience a chance at feeling something possibly related to empathy or an identifiable "emotional understanding" of two characters amid this viscous and overwhelming mood which is so new to his audiences capacity. The female character, whilst drunk and alone, is heard making the desperate (but rarely legible) claim "I don't know what I'm doing, Lord. You're 'sposed to be guidin' me", before stealing a baby and playing with it like a doll in her desperation, to the horror of the audience. A second character driving a car waves at a neighbour before ranting about the dread of conforming to church, a job, children and the restrictions of family life.
As I exited the theatre and began to listen to the (almost entirely) just plain confused and cheated responses from my fellow audience members, I did feel as though I had just escaped a Clockwork Orange-esque torture-cinema, however, I couldn't get the last ranting man driving the car out of my head. "I'm free, and I bet you when they're dyin', I'll just be gettin' my second wind. I feel like a new man, like a young boy".
I decided to go with my main man-the delectable Mr Aporia-to a screening of "Trash Humpers" at the Factory in Marrickville as apart of the Underground film fest on Saturday 11th September, not exactly knowing what to expect, and certainly not prepared for the vomit-restraining throat-ache upon our thankful exit. I knew of Harmony Korine by reputation only, having seen a trailer or two of Kids and Gummo but never indulging my (possibly exterior) inner wanker enough to dedicate an afternoon to finding parts on youtube-so it is possible that I set myself up for a gross shock to my own sense of self-worth and understanding of the very fabric of my relationship with the meaning and purpose of cinematic horror from the beginning.
The initial (unrestrained and vocal) reaction from the audience as a single entity was shocked, but prepared snickers and then open laughter at the sight of three geriatric degenerates humping trashcans and causing general mayhem in a parking lot under an eerie street lamp. And so it begins-these three characters (not that they can be called 'characters' exactly) repeat these acts of performing blow-jobs on tree branches, jerking off leaves, eating dirt and defecating on houses. The initial reaction which I had to the experience of viewing such material in a cinema setting was an extreme and overwhelming disgust at my own laughter- a sentiment which could be felt in the almost instantaneous quelling of laughter from my fellow audience members. Korine seems to have created a physical reaction from his audience where a painful realisation of the tragedy of the material which we find so hilarious becomes self-disgust at the mere meaningless of it. This soon becomes the tool of the film (which is not ones) horror.
With a complete rejection of plot or character development, narration or any opportunities of recognition or empathy, the only thought which would occupy my mind during the 80 minute screening (apart from checking the time 10-15 times) was that there was not a chance that I would be exiting the theatre having gained anything at all from the experience. Two days later I'm certainly not ready to face the ringtone samples available on the Trash Humpers website. So apart from the obvious mocking of Korine at the desperate need for audiences to endure the merciless exercise of a film-makers ability to alienate and torture viewers in the quest to find meaning out of something so obviously meaningless and absurd- how did a film which appears to purposefully drain itself of the right to artist credibility become something I need to write out of my system? Any attempt towards a linear understanding of the film will definitely prove fruitless and frustrating.
The film evolves around three "characters" who have no discernible personalities, or identity, even the fact that they are elderly is questionable, as their costuming seems to purposefully reveal bodies which are almost youthful, in comparison to the heads which are clearly severely deteriorated with old age. The constant presence and interaction of the three "protagonists" with nostalgic symbols such as childrens play toys, nursery rhymes and push-bikes makes the most evident statement of the film-the decomposition of the human body in old age to its infantile state in the physic and mental sense. The "trash humpers" exist without connection or reliance on the presence of housing, societal structure, family, health, food or the restrictions of the law. They could easily be seen as a glimpse of a mere underclass suffering at the expense of the American Dream, however, Korine is concerned with the American Nightmare, and not with any counter-culture (organised or other) in any typical sense. The horror and tragedy of this focus is where "Trash Humpers" becomes something completely different.
The most haunting aspect of the film is prominent in the extent to which we are relentlessly immersed in this existence, with our reality beyond the space of the theatre diminishing rapidly as the film continues until it is dubious that a safe return to normality is possible. The activities of the trash humpers worlds are alienating and shocking, and if not for the roles of three other degenerates, it is possible that the film would be absolutely pointless. One maid-costume-wearing homeless poet who seems to possess some intelligible talent is murdered by the three primary subjects without purpose or consequence after reciting a poem which outlines the pleasures and purpose of humping trash as an anarchic act which ironically protests the commodity fetishism of consumer culture. A second character is shown entertaining the three subjects with crude racist and homophobic jokes which have an obvious of purposeful lack of meaning and tact, highlighting the senseless and feeble ignorance of both the value of the poets words and the stupidity of the mans jokes as equal in their effects on the three characters.
In the final ten minutes of the film, it seems Korine finally relents in offering the (exhausted and possibly hateful) audience a chance at feeling something possibly related to empathy or an identifiable "emotional understanding" of two characters amid this viscous and overwhelming mood which is so new to his audiences capacity. The female character, whilst drunk and alone, is heard making the desperate (but rarely legible) claim "I don't know what I'm doing, Lord. You're 'sposed to be guidin' me", before stealing a baby and playing with it like a doll in her desperation, to the horror of the audience. A second character driving a car waves at a neighbour before ranting about the dread of conforming to church, a job, children and the restrictions of family life.
As I exited the theatre and began to listen to the (almost entirely) just plain confused and cheated responses from my fellow audience members, I did feel as though I had just escaped a Clockwork Orange-esque torture-cinema, however, I couldn't get the last ranting man driving the car out of my head. "I'm free, and I bet you when they're dyin', I'll just be gettin' my second wind. I feel like a new man, like a young boy".
Friday, July 23, 2010
Simplicity
Having a Coke with You
is even more fun than going to San Sebastian, Irún, Hendaye, Biarritz, Bayonne
or being sick to my stomach on the Travesera de Gracia in Barcelona
partly because in your orange shirt you look like a better happier St. Sebastian
partly because of my love for you, partly because of your love for yoghurt
partly because of the fluorescent orange tulips around the birches
partly because of the secrecy our smiles take on before people and statuary
it is hard to believe when I’m with you that there can be anything as still
as solemn as unpleasantly definitive as statuary when right in front of it
in the warm New York 4 o’clock light we are drifting back and forth
between each other like a tree breathing through its spectacles
and the portrait show seems to have no faces in it at all, just paint
you suddenly wonder why in the world anyone ever did them
I look
at you and I would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world
except possibly for the Polish Rider occasionally and anyway it’s in the Frick
which thank heavens you haven’t gone to yet so we can go together the first time
and the fact that you move so beautifully more or less takes care of Futurism
just as at home I never think of the Nude Descending a Staircase or
at a rehearsal a single drawing of Leonardo or Michelangelo that used to wow me
and what good does all the research of the Impressionists do them
when they never got the right person to stand near the tree when the sun sank
or for that matter Marino Marini when he didn’t pick the rider as carefully
as the horse
it seems they were all cheated of some marvellous experience
which is not going to go wasted on me which is why I’m telling you about it
Frank O'Hara
is even more fun than going to San Sebastian, Irún, Hendaye, Biarritz, Bayonne
or being sick to my stomach on the Travesera de Gracia in Barcelona
partly because in your orange shirt you look like a better happier St. Sebastian
partly because of my love for you, partly because of your love for yoghurt
partly because of the fluorescent orange tulips around the birches
partly because of the secrecy our smiles take on before people and statuary
it is hard to believe when I’m with you that there can be anything as still
as solemn as unpleasantly definitive as statuary when right in front of it
in the warm New York 4 o’clock light we are drifting back and forth
between each other like a tree breathing through its spectacles
and the portrait show seems to have no faces in it at all, just paint
you suddenly wonder why in the world anyone ever did them
I look
at you and I would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world
except possibly for the Polish Rider occasionally and anyway it’s in the Frick
which thank heavens you haven’t gone to yet so we can go together the first time
and the fact that you move so beautifully more or less takes care of Futurism
just as at home I never think of the Nude Descending a Staircase or
at a rehearsal a single drawing of Leonardo or Michelangelo that used to wow me
and what good does all the research of the Impressionists do them
when they never got the right person to stand near the tree when the sun sank
or for that matter Marino Marini when he didn’t pick the rider as carefully
as the horse
it seems they were all cheated of some marvellous experience
which is not going to go wasted on me which is why I’m telling you about it
Frank O'Hara
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
