Futbol - Oct 27 2006
Understanding the Artistic Value of Sweaty Bald Frenchmen
The Toronto Film Festival last month saw the Canadian release of Zidane: a 21st Century Portrait, and due to some terrible twist of fate, I still have not seen it. I feel victim to a terrible injustice, dear readers, and there is only so much a man can take.
Now, before all my fellow art snobs attack me for my apparent interest in a movie about sports, perhaps I should explain myself. Indeed, Zidane is a documentary about a famous French soccer star, focusing exclusively on his performance for Spanish team Real Madrid in a 2005 game against Villarreal CF. It is, however, imbued with enough experimentation, innovation, and Scottish post-rock to make any art snob salivate.
Really though, let's face it. We're not going to get any masterpieces based on polo or fencing anytime soon; soccer is the next best thing. First of all, it's predominantly European, and so by default deserves our attention. Soccer carries with it none of the redneck connotations of baseball, the chauvinism of American Football, nor the hip-hop commercialism of basketball. In fact, I'm even going to stop calling it 'soccer.’ The successful art snob should pretend to be part of the European tradition and call it 'football.'
Compared to fast-paced North American sports like hockey, football is more suited to the art snob's taste for watching paint dry. Indeed, football is the sports equivalent of watching a Gus van Sant film: you have to work to enjoy it. Hockey has more in common with a Steven Segal movie: fast, dumb and dirty. Yeah I said it.
Further reassurance lies in the fact that the directors of Zidane: a 21st century Portrait have put a tremendous amount of effort into making the documentary as pretentious as possible. The film itself is a collection of footage collected over 90 minutes of one game by 17 synchronized cameras all focused on Zidane. Bonus points are awarded for the obligatory arty montage at half-time in which the directors speculate on a missed dentist appointment and the current situation in Iraq.
During the game, however, the frame never leaves Zidane. An entire football match is recorded and the ball is only ever seen when the French star touches it! Minutes pass where the most exciting movement is the dripping of sweat off his bald head! What beautiful, boring, eccentric indulgence!
As with most arty portrait films, the result is touted to be a "penetrating view of the human condition." Scottish critic Jason Solomons compares it to "the detail, grace and compassion of a Velasquez or a Degas." How could an art snob not appreciate it?
Admittedly, the directors could have gone a bit further in making their movie appeal to the elitist elite. For instance, why in God's name did they have to choose to focus on a player from the notoriously overrated Real Madrid, the Velvet Revolver of European soccer? The film would have quadrupled its indie cred had it chosen to focus on Matthew Etherington in a West Ham game.
I am obliged to commend the directors, however, for choosing to employ Scottish geniuses Mogwai to score the film. Never has a band named after a character from the Gremlins movies so seduced my soul, and I can only imagine how perfectly their dynamic, guitar-driven dissonance compliments a good old-fashioned football match.
So how has this film, with its magnitude of hype and artistic cred, eluded me for so long? Why must I wait while those ignorant fools in Cannes are repeatedly spoiled? It is a great mystery I may never solve, dear readers, and before long you may find me crying on the steps of the Princess Cinema, cursing this unfair providence. If it comes down to that, I apologize, but sooner or later we must all die for art. Perhaps it is my time. Farewell.
Eggers - Oct 20 2006
The “Pre-Review”
Judging a book by its hype: Dave Eggers’ What is the What
One of the most distinguished characteristics of the art snob, dear readers, is our tendency to judge things not by their artistic merit but by the magnitude of their hype. Why bother actually viewing a film if you already know the director is an art school grad with an obsession for old Humphrey Bogart movies? Why even listen to that new band’s CD when you’ve already heard they like synths, hand claps, and tight jeans? You know it’s going to be good, so why waste the time actually reviewing it?
This is exactly the philosophy I have embraced for this week’s column, in which I attempt to write Imprint’s first “pre-review.” Today, the 20th of October, marks the release of What is the What, the newest literary experiment from Hipster God Dave Eggers. Without even touching the book, I am quite prepared to offer it a five star rating.
Since the release of A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius in 2000, Dave Eggers has been celebrated as one of America’s greatest new writers. Some have gone so far as to exalt him as the “saviour of American letters,” the next Jack Kerouac, Jesus Christ incarnate. We art snobs, attracted as we are to such over-exaggeration, agree with his canonization, and have watched in wonder as this literary virtuoso has revitalized the American novel, taking all that is good about Kerouac, Joyce and Vonnegut and adding his own brand of hilarious, aching honesty.
Long before Jonathan Safran Foer ended a novel with a flip book, Eggers was integrating clip-art, floor plans and photography into his writing. He wrote a short story called There Are Some Things He Should Keep to Himself, the entirety of which was composed of five blank pages. When he actually does write, his words take the form of what critic Stephanie Merritt called “caffeine-fuelled stream of consciousness.” Unlike the experimentation of Pynchon and Woolf, however, Eggers’ rambling is revealing, funny and coherent. (Not to say anything bad about Pynchon and Woolf, though! We Art Snobs pretend to understand them all the time!)
Three stars are thus awarded immediately for originality and awesomeness. There is no doubt that Eggers’ new book will contain his trademark brand of honest, playful hilarity. We’ll ignore the fact that What is the What is supposed to be about the effect of the Sudanese civil war on a starving, beaten down refugee.
A fourth star is given for the author’s massive “street cred.” Besides being a writer, Eggers has been involved in a great deal of publishing and editing, from the satirical Might magazine to various short story collections. His most important contribution has been the creation of McSweeney’s Quarterly, one of the most respected showcases for new literature in the world. Eggers collects young, experimental comic writers like David Foster Wallace, and publishes them in innovative formats that range from fake textbooks to an edition meant to look like a collection of mail flyers. Bravo, Mr. Eggers, for creating in literature a scene akin to what Seattle used to be for music.
The fifth star is awarded simply for the fact that the writer owns a Pirate Supply Store in San Francisco. This is certainly to be admired, not simply because all proceeds go to funding writing clinics for disadvantaged children, but because it’s a pirate supply store . Go to www.826valencia.org/store to see for yourself.
So, dear readers, I advise you to dismiss any reviews you may read of What is the What in the weeks following its release, as they are entirely unnecessary. Dave Eggers carries with him enough hype and cred to assume that all he creates is perfection, so why bother actually reading the thing? To be a successful art snob, you must learn the advantages of judging a book not just by how awesome the cover art is, but also by how hip and influential the writer appears to be.
Two Gallants - Oct 13 2006
The “Duo” In Art
Last week, dear readers, your favourite columnist strapped on his helmet, climbed on his shiny white Vespa, and prepared to embark upon yet another crusade to the distant city of Toronto. When he was sure no one was looking, he disembarked from the scooter and hurried into his mother’s silver mini van, because really, what kind of fool would risk dirtying his loafers by riding a Vespa on the highway? He picked up his noble compatriot along the way, and the two set forth like a modern day Guevara and Granado; traveling not South America but Southern Ontario, discussing not the wretched lot of the poor but rather the abysmal effort set forth by Razorlight on their latest record.
The two soon reached the dangerous district of Queen St. West, where they braved lawless abandon and stretched forth across squalor to reach the hub of discordance and debauchery that is the Horseshoe Tavern. Here they were to witness an explosion born from the Antebellum South: the whiskey-voiced combination of delta blues and melodic folk music that is ‘Two Gallants’.
It was when his esteemed companion left to try his luck with some of the Tavern’s barmaids that your brave columnist began to ponder the great tradition of intellectual partnership in the art world. Some of the most outstanding masterpieces of art have emerged from the intense interaction between two great minds, from the photo-montages of Gilbert and George to the monumental installations of Christo and Jeanne-Claude to the entire Cubist movement that was born from the brushes of Picasso and Braque. What greatness can emerge when two people share a vision!
Two Gallants, it seems, share this philosophy. The name is not simply a clever reference to a short story by James Joyce, but also an accurate description of the band’s membership. The two young fellows in the band have chosen to neglect the bass guitar and any other sort of elaboration to foster a close relationship between the guitarist’s finger-picking and the drummer’s rhythmic sensibilities. From this minimalist approach emerges a diverse catalogue of songs laden with complicated transitions and complex melodies that are only possible because of the intimate connection between the two players.
Two Gallants are part of a series of bands today experimenting with the tradition of “the duo”. More and more musicians are pursuing close collaboration and partnership these days, an affront to the “collective” philosophy of such bands as the 25-member Polyphonic Spree or the 8-member Architecture in Helsinki.
Last year, the two members of Death From Above became veritable Gods with their aggressive combination of bass and drums, and the Black Keys did what the White Stripes couldn’t and kept my respect as a blues-rock duo. The independent music scene is alight with such “duos” as Japanther, I Am the World Trade Center, and the electronic avant-gardes Fog Runs with Kenyans.
To take the idea of “intimacy” of collaboration a step further, many musical partnerships have been formed by lovers, the more famous being the Kills, Mates of State, and New York-based Mommy & Daddy. Indeed, watching VV and Hotel of the Kills interact on stage feels slightly like an invasion of their privacy, but no doubt the two inspire each other in a manner that the five members of the Strokes cannot.
As he watched both members of Two Gallants screaming into their mics about the Horsemen of the Apocalypse, your darling columnist couldn’t help but feel he was privy to the result of an important artistic partnership. He was inspired, to say the least, and perhaps when his friend was finished with the local floozies they too could engage in some sort of collaboration. He would advise you, as well, to search for a collaborator…two art snobs are always better than one. Godspeed.
Germans - Oct 6 2006
Lest We Forget
Remembering the Real German Legacy this Oktoberfest
My dear readers, over the following week many of you will indulge in the orgy of beer-driven excess that is Canada's Great Bavarian Festival, the Kitchener-Waterloo Oktoberfest. Many of you will no doubt be eager to "get your Onkel Hans on,” and I myself admit I cannot say no to a free pancake breakfast (scheduled for Saturday the 7th in Uptown Waterloo).
I am worried, however, that this exuberant celebration of German heritage drowns certain important aspects of the country's history in beer, lederhosen and das boot. It saddens my heart to think that we can wave the German flag with such utter ignorance to the past, forgetting about events that happened less than a century ago, events that have changed the way we look at the world.
Therefore, I believe that it is very important this year that we all take a moment out of our festivities to pause and remember something that affected so many lives not so long ago. Indeed, readers, I hope this week you will be able to put down your beer stein and remember, just for a moment, how important German Expressionism was to the world of Art.
Yes, dear readers, it saddens my fragile heart to think that such an important movement can be discarded as quickly as spoiled bratwurst. I sometimes lie awake at night, thinking of the thousands that will flood clubs like the Schwaben and Concordia this week, wondering how they can forget these brave German heroes, these noble men and women who dug deep into their souls and psyches to withdraw the purest form of emotional expression, bestowed as a gift to us upon their canvases.
Few understand that Munich, besides being the home of Germany’s own Oktoberfest, was also the birthplace of Der Blaue Reiter, a group of artists fundamental to the development of Expressionist ideology. Along with Dresden’s Die Brücke, Der Blaue Reiter acted as an avenue for which the movement's philosophies were expounded. Under their influence, the technique of combining vivid colour, emotional tension and often violent imagery spread throughout Europe.
Expressionism was conceived to be the opposite of Impressionism, defined as a rejection of immediate perception. Art Historian Antonin Matijeek wrote in 1910 that Expressionist art was the result of “images that pass through a mental person’s soul as through a filter, which rids them of all substantial accretions to produce their clear essence". From this spawns a legacy of energetic emotional reactions left on German canvases. Distortion, deconstruction, modified reality; oh my dear readers, it is enough to make any art snob salivate.
Take, for instance, the strong, almost offensive colours of Emil Nolde’s Christ Among the Children, or the passionate force lines of Franz Marc’s Fate of the Animals. This is art born from the raw power of emotion and meant to invoke just as powerful a reaction.
I feel I would have a reason to smile at Thanksgiving if you did this for me, dear readers, if you paused from ogling Ms. Oktoberfest for just one moment to recall this aspect of German culture. Raise a toast to Nolde and Marc, to Gabrielle Munter and Ernst Ludwig Kirchner. Thank them for putting German art on the map, and for building a bridge to the Abstraction movement. Do this for me, and I will not be so offended that you know nothing about Bauhaus or Berlin Dada. At least you know something. Godspeed.
