Bill Randall
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Archive for April, 2008


Two Docs on Uganda

Still on the activist documentary, I recall two films on orphans in Uganda. They  number over two million because of AIDS and war, and we all know that cameras love tragedy.

The first film, ABC Africa, began when the International Fund for Agricultural Development invited Abbas Kiarostami to film in Uganda. They hoped to draw attention to UWESO, the Ugandan Women’s Efforts to Save Orphans. Kiarostami, the preeminent Iranian director, went in with video cameras to take some preparatory notes.  He so liked what he shot that he just used it.

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He uses the video camera to meet people and play with kids, and so makes a breezy film that somehow grows in the mind after viewing.  It often shows poor streets and natural beauty shot from cars, and billboards for “Lifeguard” condoms.  In a hospital scene, it quietly glances at the dead.  The film’s centerpiece, however, shows nothing.  Six minutes of darkness, broken only by a match and lightning, let Kiarostami remind us that humans can adapt to anything.

Mostly the film sings. As soon as he arrives at the airport, Kiarostami films a man singing. Women and children sing in groups. Kiarostami intersperses reminders, not lectures, about the problem and UWESO’s solutions.  He also reminds us of our privileged viewpoint.  The film ends by following a white Austrian couple from hotel to airport with their adopted Ugandan child.  The complex situation evokes conflicted emotions, as they photograph this child in his homeland before taking him from it.  Kiarostami ends with a shot of clouds, subtly overlaid with children’s faces, as ephemeral as a video image, or a memory.

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The second film, Invisible Children, began when some American wannabe filmmakers invited themselves to Sudan.  A high-school teacher described it to me as “Road Rules in Africa,” with neither irony nor horror.  When the filmmakers arrive in Uganda, they’re surprised that they can’t cross the desert to get to Sudan. Luckily there’s photogenic tragedy at hand. Locals describe the Invisible Children, fleeing the rebels army’s press gangs at night; the film’s money shot slowly reveals hundreds of children sleeping together in a safehouse. It works as spectacle of nameless bodies, a stand-in for the carnage they never got to film in Sudan.

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The film is just the beginning.  Having looked with classic American innocence, the filmmaker’s very American solution should not surprise. They established a business.  Free screenings at high schools and colleges lead to events where students sleep out at night, emulating the children. It gives an experience film cannot, and prepares viewers to act, not watch.  They sell trinkets made by the children and actively solicit donations.  Fortunately, they have also established schools and scholarships, hopefully a more sustainable solution with long-term benefits.

One could be forgiven thinking it’s all crass, given the commercials on the DVD. They are an NPO, though, and seem to be doing good in the world.  Most films struggle to get seen, much less build schools. Fault the distribution networks of theaters and television, which Invisible Children bypassed entirely. It succeeds by appealing to its viewers’ naïveté.  It also does nothing to disabuse them of it, just their money.  Hopefully, the film and organization render themselves irrelevant by solving the problem.  ABC Africa lacks a structure to do that, but it is also not the film IFAD envisioned.  It’s Kiarostami’s film, and I can imagine watching it for a host of reasons ten, twenty, even fifty years from now.

Imagining Documentary

My friend and colleague Genny Baudrillard invited me to speak with her college humanities class on documentary filmmaking. They have recently watched Spike Lee’s When the Levees Broke, a rich, complex film. So I mostly spoke on photography. A digressive version of the talk follows after the jump.

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More Muracrag Kamihead, Etc

On Wednesday, I’ve been invited to lecture at a small college out in the sticks, so Tuesday’s post will appear Wednesday, with notes on the talk. It’s a pleasant lecture about ethics and the documentary image, not a stern one about cleaning your room. Until then, some notes:

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In the inbox moments ago, Warren Craghead has released another downloadable, do-it-yourself mini of his fine drawings. Time to break out the saddle stapler.

Also, his Postcard project has recently appeared as a blog (link pilfered from Tom Spurgeon).

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The Economist gets in on the Murakami=Warhol kick. May soon become subscriber only. The title, “Infantial Capitalism,” scans well, and the reviewer notes that M.’s a better theorist than artist, but nothing much new save the copperplate prose.

More interesting that the Warhol angle: manga artist Eiji OOTSUKA elevating four-panel cartoonist Takashi MURAKAMI over the gallery artist. This will get even more interesting if Western critics throw their hands up and say, “we don’t get it,” while M.’s work becomes seminal in the East. In a way, it’s moot, because his sources are already that influential, even if his take on them falls away.

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I translated David B.’s “La Bombe Familiale” for a friend ages ago, and I have a book of anime scripts lying around from back in the day.  So the existence of the collaborative translation site Comics Influx came as a pleasant surprise.  Especially nice is how it skirts the scanlation conundrum of people reading and not buying these things (at least the Japanese ones).  (Link trail: Dirk > Katherine Farmar)

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Finally, preparing for this lecture, I’ve been watching When the Levees Broke, which is remarkable for both its restraint and its comprehensiveness. Movies suck at not shoehorning everything into an ill-fitting box, but this one manages to give things shape without distorting the things themselves.

More on Murakami

Good to see more people saying what I have (on this blog & in an article in the new TCJ) about Takashi MURAKAMI not being “Japan’s Andy Warhol,” as Mia Fineman does in a slide essay for Slate . Instead, she compares him to Walt Disney, another master marketer. But Japan already has its Disney, Osamu TEZUKA, another example of a tidy comparison that muddies the water.

Tezuka, Disney, and Murakami all have signature characters; they all founded employed other artists in their studios; they all produced animation. Respectively, they’re a humanist, a fantasist, and an otaku evangelist. Murakami’s the odd one out because he’s trying to change the structures of the fine art market, whereas the others somehow created high art in popular media.

Since Murakami should be judged in his context, I propose that he become “No Irony Art Baron Jeff Otakoons.” Besides the faux Engrish and awful pun, it’s more precise, and includes the last Next Andy Warhol in the bargain. If it doesn’t take off, it’s clear evidence that we’ll suffer Next Andy Warhols for another fifty years until the media finally gets another celebrity artist it can use for shorthand. Murakami’s too Japanese, and too otaku, for that to happen now in the West. Maybe soon.

Finally, moving from Warhol to Disney has troubling implications. It relies on an arbitrary wall between high & low culture. Fineman writes, “For those of us who were reared on the idea that art is a special kind of luxury product—more contemplative, denser with meaning, somehow resistant to the status quo—- Murakami’s radical leveling of art and commerce can be pretty unsettling.” While I (and most Cistercians) bristle at the linking of luxury and contemplation, I can’t relate to the split. For those of us reared on the experience and not the idea of these things, there are multivalent works, some trash, some exalted, all on a level field. A lot of the trash commands high prices in the white cube, while some of the lowest forms reward the most contemplation. My reading of Murakami finds little in his work, outside the attempt to build a fine art market in Japan from scratch, not already fully realized in the anime and manga he mines. I think his writings confirm this. To call his work “historically important” without engaging the otaku culture that defines it is to suffer from myopia.

One more thing: can we declare a moratorium on “rictus”? Thanks.

Enthusiasm

Dziga Vertov’s Enthusiasm, one of those remarkable Soviet silents, thinks it’s a documentary almost until the end.

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Like Man With the Movie Camera from two years previous in 1929, it shows the workers working, building up the glorious Soviet state, with a pulsating, innovative soundtrack attached.  It hovers right between sync sound and “silence,” though silent films never were.  Chaplin for one hoped films would stay poised between the two.

Near the end, in a bravura sequence recalling Man’s finale, Vertov’s camera fixes on some workers in a steel mill. The molten metal burns white-hot, moreso on the film stock.  The workers stretch it out to make rods, even as the tension in the material fights with them.  It becomes like a dance on the screen, as light starts whipping around.

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It anticipates Norman MacLaren, Brakhage and all those experimentalists, likely inspiring a few.  It also points to the mechanics of the medium, strips of film (memories of light) pulled taut and thrown through a projector.  Now that the mechanics are increasingly lost– light’s not thrown, but washes through a CRT or LCD or another acronym, at home, not a palace– the process seems not antique (though it could) but otherworldly.

Snips from PingMag

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I wind up at PingMag, a bilingual English-Japanese design journal, fairly often.  I first found it through this article on Namaiki while researching Fukuokan permaculture and the Power of Duck.  Since then, I often return to its articles on art, film, design, and pop-cult detritus .  A sample:

Schjeldahl on Murakami

In his review of the (C) Murakami exhibit, Peter Schjeldahl admits at the outset why he dislikes the work on display. Murakami, like the Chinese artist Cai Guo-Qiang, reminds him of New Yorkers’ “new geo-spiritual fate, as provincials in a world of creative paradigms that no longer entreat our favor.” In other words, it’s not for him.

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Murakami assumes viewers know the pop matter from which he carves his objects. For people under a certain age, or from the other side of the planet, the images are familiar. For Schjeldahl, they reveal a “tin eye.” He struggles to find a point of reference, and returns like most Western critics to Warhol, Koons, and Hirst.  The Warhol comparison dovetails perfectly, two Pop artists and their factories.

It is too convenient.  Like his primary inspiration, Shinro OHTAKE, Murakami resembles Warhol only superficially.  He lacks the irony, as well as the distance of a Lichtenstein. Instead, he participates fully in the stuff he draws, seeming as much of an otaku as the people who consume his work along with Nara, Ghibli, and Hello Kitty.  For Murakami, all reveal a baby Japan, the United States’ sidekick, and the subculture responding to that condition.

He articulates these ideas best not in his art, but the book Little Boy: The Arts of Japan’s Exploding Subculture.  It remains the best single-volume introduction to Japanese pop, and shows Murakami’s nuanced criticism.  It may be more important than his art.  I find nothing in his art that does not already exist, with more vitality, in the pop culture he mines.  He has also opened doors for younger artists, so that when the backlash against him finishes, he will still be historically important.

As for Schjeldahl, a critic I admire, he at least admits that “it has to be good for us” New Yorkers to admit they’re not the center of the world.  “Contemporary Art” has largely been a New York thing.  That’s not the best place to see how fragile an institution it is, a few mom-and-pop galleries propped up by a some moneyed collectors.  So when he claims Murakami is “flooding the world with the Murakami brand,” it’s really just 15, maybe 20 big cities.  Besides, there aren’t any centers, just peripheries.

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I have not yet seen (C) Murakami, and so made do reading the book. I have seen several of his works in person, though, in the 2001 My Reality exhibit and here and there in Japan and New York.
(C) Murakami runs through July 13 at the Brooklyn Museum, after its popular opening at LA MOCA.

Aya TAKANO notes

I have a long essay about artists who jump between manga & galleries in the new Comics Journal. One of the artists, Aya TAKANO, works as a part of KaiKai Kiki, the group organized by Takashi MURAKAMI. Their web page has a profile of her work.

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Her work has been covered in a variety of English-language publications, like Art Asia Pacific.

At least two English-language books contain her work. Little Boy: The Arts of Japan’s Exploding Subculture by Takashi Murakami, has (very) brief coverage in his longer essay on things otaku. Easier to find, Drop Dead Cute by Ivan Vartanian also features her work. I wouldn’t put too much stock in Vartanian’s organizing principle– “cute works by women artists”– especially since, say, Tabaimo’s work is neither cute nor anything like Takano’s. But the artists & works he selects stand on their own merits.

Akino KONDOU notes

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I have a long essay about artists who jump between manga & galleries in the new Comics Journal. One of the artists, Akino KONDOU, has a web site showcasing her work.

She also has a number of animated shorts floating around the web. On dependable, ugly YouTube:

She’s represented by Mizuma Art Gallery, who indicate that a book of her work has been published in France, entitled EIKO, so perhaps non-Japanese readers can sample her stuff while waiting for English-language publishers to get their act together. The introductory essay seems to be bilingual English and French, but I’m not sure about the comics. Read it and you’ll feel “les sensations universelles d’un temps de solitude absolue et de métamorphose.”

Her French publisher’s page has a short preview of the book. Her gallery also has images from her latest animated work and new drawings.

Across the pond

A few cartooning/illustration tidbits from the new Economist:

Their talented cartoonist KAL is celebrating some 30 years with the newspaper, with a gallery of his work and a video about his job and how he got it.

The British children’s book is in trouble, squeezed by the Internet, foreign competition, and high production costs.

Also a nice diary on languages by a polyglot in five-plus; interesting reading for anyone who’s ever asked a hotel clerk if any rooms are available yesterday and been laughed out the door.

Some of these may become subscriber-only after this week.