Wong Kar Wai Why?

Norah Jones and sassy Natalie Portman in My Blueberry Nights

When I was in later years of high school, my dad and I had this tradition twice a month: we’d go, on a weeknight, to see a foreign film at a small arthouse theater in not-too-far-away Princeton, NJ. Perhaps my favorite film out of those two years or so of bi-monthly film-going was In the Mood for Love, Wong Kar Wai’s sumptuous, lyrical and heartbreaking meditation on what it’s like to be in love with someone you can’t be with. Not only is the story haunting, but you’ve got possibly the most beautiful, emotive, and, above all, most spirited Asian actress alive (Maggie Cheung–who I will note also speaks perfect English with a lovely British accent and can act in non-Chinese films fluidly…do go see Chinese Box or Irma Vep).

In the Mood for Love is set in 1960’s Hong Kong; however it’s not a realistic historical setting, but Wong Kar Wai’s imaginative understanding of the time. The aesthetic alludes to the drabness of Communism and the  delicate beauty of traditional Chinese culture, as well as the bold design and patterns of western-style Post-WWII-Modernism that were infiltrating. What results is a portrait of longing for Western lifestyle with a nostalgic need to return to something far more simplistic. It’s as much a love story as it is a lament for the days before the fucked-up dynamic of mid-Century “free” China, one that was heading straight into commerce while reeling from the near-by effects of Maoism. It also plays out visually in a series of patterns and repetitions (up and down, doors opening and shut, the same strains of music repeated again and again).

As a very young music lover, burgeoning photographer, and secret romantic, well it was like heaven. Yes, it was literally one of the most amazing cinematic experiences of my life.  I’ve since seen most of his films–an earlier film Chunking Express, starring the beyond charming Asian pop-singer Faye Wong and a Mama’s and the Papa’s song (yes, music and specific songs play as much a role in his films as the actors), is one of my favorite films of all time. 

So, needless-to-say, I was really psyched to see My Blueberry Nights, his latest release and his first film in English. Yeah, I read the reviews and they said it was lacking. Gina was ambivalent about it.  And I also kind of hate Norah Jones (who gets potential Faye Wong treatment in it as singer turned actress playing a the wide-eyed young girl). Despite these reservations, I was still fully willing to fall into it completely–the same way I did when I saw In the Mood for Love on screen almost 10 years ago.  That didn’t happen, but I still love you Wong! 5 good/5 bad aspects of the cinematic experience. 

Good (’cause I’m an optimist despite all the black tights and early Cure albums I own)

1. My lovely movie-watching company.

2. The Angelika theater not being raided with scary NYU students in Doc Martins (as was the case the night Tyler and I went to see new Gondry Be Kind Rewind)

3. Natalie Portman’s spunky and very mature performance as a hustler.

4. The ending scene (no spoilers– I won’t give it away!). Literally the theme comes full circle with a single shot. Also because the final scene reminds you that this film’s theme also revolves around rememberance, lost love, and new beginnings and that’s why I love you Wong Kar Wai.

5. David Strathairn. Dude fucking rules in everything he’s in.

5 bad things

1. There were all these people leaving and returning to their seats throughout the film. It was slow, but my god, do you have to get up 18 times in a half-hour?

2. Norah Jones as actress. Chick can’t sing. Chick apparently can not act either. She is quite beautiful, though…and her dad, man, he was cool (Ravi Shankar!).

3. The ubiquity of the Cat Power album The Greatest. I don’t even like that album much, but considering Cat Power is also IN THE FUCKING MOVIE, it was a bit much.

4. Dialogue. Not everyone can write seamlessly in several languages and that’s ok. You don’t have to be a Nabokov or a Beckett or an Ang Lee for that matter (although Lee’s English-speaking best work is when he adapts from stories written in English already). That’s alright Wong! We understand! Just get a talented screenwriter. It worked for Gondry (see Eternal Sunshine…and then see all the films after it and you know what I mean). The dialogue came off as contrived and stupid and that makes me sad, because Wong is not a dumb guy. In fact, the dialogue in his prior films, uh, well, at least what I read in subtitles, is quite clever in its spareness and connection to plot.

5. This one is tied three ways:

-the chest cold that was nagging my entire respiratory system

-the improbability of Jude Law playing a remotely compassionate person or the unbelievablity of Rachel Weisz as a white trash bitch despite that she’s a good actress (lack of hairbrush does not make one raised in a trailer park)

-the bizarrely terrible 15 minutes of the film that really resembled Thelma and Louise  

Merritt Melts Away the Snow: The Magnetic Fields, live at Town Hall (2/22/08)

I should preface this post with how I got into the Magnetic Fields, because it is a very Stephen Merritt-appropriate story.

During the summer between my freshman and sophomore years in college I was stuck in my hometown in PA after a 3-week trip to Ireland where I blew all my money on booze, shopping, food, and oh, well, more booze. In order to pay off the credit card bill I had accrued, I had to go back and live at home and work in a discount basket store, The Basket Case. It resembled a mid-western basement of a dead woman’s home–all cobwebs and faded decorative wreathes and dusty silk flowers. I spent five days a week trapped in a dungeon of twine, haggled by tourists. My only companions were my substance-addled coworkers: a creepy Phishhead from New Jersey who would caress my arm all the time and beg me to come out and “smoke the Herb” with him on the Delaware River (hello date rape) and an 80-year-old alcoholic who would put whiskey in her coffee cup during lunch. I spent most of that summer getting drunk with my friend Zach at my dad’s house after work, occasionally falling, in an inebriated stupor, over the cats I was “sitting” while my dad was away at his boyfriend’s house.

One of the few things that brightened this time was my correspondence with a lovely, sexually ambiguous film major from college who wrote me letters and sent me vaguely romantic things. One of these things was a mix tape (a real mix tape, remember those?) of Magnetic Fields/Stephen Merritt songs. What better music to listen to than Merritt’s irony-thick songs of love and disappointment? The basket store only had a tape player, so it was perfect to lighten my mood (or drown my misery in, same difference) during those long boring days. Also, it pissed off the hippie, who complained this “wack shit” sounded like, “gay space music.”

Ok, back to 2008: accompanied by Gina (of PFS, graduate secretary, and professional blogging fame) we walked into Town Hall, to witness a truly bizarre opening act. I still can’t find out what it was, despite extensive Googling. We came in a few minutes late, so we missed their introduction. If anyone can tell me, I’d really appreciate it. I can’t find their name anywhere! I can only describe it as three guys on stage with some sound effects, an accordion, and a spoken word piece that sounded like a child’s story crossed with Kakfa’s The Metaphorphosis (there was a creature named Gregor), executed in an uncomfortably rapid fashion.

However, that bizarre spectacle didn’t last long. The Magnetic Fields were right on schedule, going on around 8:45 pm. They played for about an hour, took an intermission and went on for another hour or so. Wow! Worth my 30 bucks… over two hours of music! All in all, it was quite a night—an experience! Merritt was mumbly and deadpan, Claudia was giddy and droll, and the song selection was a wonderful retrospective of songs from the past and present (even featuring a 6ths song, “Give Me Back My Dreams”). I’ve posted the set-list here (which I took from Brooklyn Vegan, which also features a hilarious string of posts that allude to the absurd possibility of Merritt being in, uh, the Jesus and Mary Chain???). I wasn’t taking notes the whole time, but it looks pretty accurate.

Last night’s set-list :

California Girls
I Don’t Believe You
All My Little Words
Come Back From San Francisco
Old Fools
Xavier Says
Walking My Gargoyle
Too Drunk To Dream
Till The Bitter End
The Night You Can’t Remember
I Thought You Were My Boyfriend
Water Torture
————
Lover From the Moon
I Wish I Had an Evil Twin
Give Me Back My Dreams
Grand Canyon
Papa Was A Rodeo
Drive On, Driver
The Nun’s Litany
The Tiny Goat
Smoke and Mirrors
Zombie Boy
————
Three Way
Take Ecstasy With Me
The Book of Love

The most salient aspect of the show, is that for a band (and the prime guiding force behind it, Mr. Merritt) that has defined a great deal of its work by its electronic stylings (often cosmic; sometimes even disco-y), meticulous arrangement, and fuzzy vocal distortion (which is nicely showcased on the appropriately named new album Distortion), the music lost absolutely nothing in the acoustic execution. The simplicity and superb musicianship of this stripped down set was no less breathtaking than their highly produced albums.

I realized as they were going into “Take Ecstasy with Me” during the encore, that perhaps this is the true test of a greatness in terms of songwriting: when work is distilled to its basic components and the quality remains not merely intact, but sounds even better, shedding further light on the power of the work. The New York Times review of Thursday’s show (I saw the second in a 4-night series of shows at Town Hall) conveyed disappointment about this approach (“Taking the cacophony out of the new songs didn’t ruin them, but it did pull them back into a familiar zone. For anyone with lofty hopes that the Magnetic Fields would stretch their music, the usual refinement was a little bit of a letdown”). Contrary to the Times’ review, I found it refreshing that a band who pushes the limits of sound experimentation within the pop paradigm can still prove that they are extraordinary musicians in the traditional sense as well.

And since this is a long post about a show you may not have seen, well, my reward to you is a free music smattering of some of what they played. Apparently free music is a draw. So I give you Mr. Merritt’s wonderful music, including !!!’s deliriously good cover of “Take Ecstasy with Me.” Enjoy!

Three Way

Take Ecstasy with Me (!!!)

Lovers from the Moon (a very old favorite)

Come Back From San Francisco

HE WAS THERE: D.A. Pennebaker

Accompanied by my friend Gina, last Monday I had the pleasure to view D.A. Pennebaker’s brilliant documentary Don’t Look Back which chronicles Bob Dylan’s tour through England in 1965. And thanks to the wonderful program direction of the Film Forum, we not only viewed a beautiful restored copy on the big screen, but we also got to listen to Mr. Pennebaker speak about the film in person. 

Don’t Look Back is unarguably monumental. It’s not merely one of the first rock n’ roll documentaries, but it one of the first American films to showcase the Cinéma Vérité technique, defined as “a television-style technique of recording life and people as they really are, using hand-held cameras, natural sound and the minimum of rehearsal and editing.”Or as Pennebaker so bluntly stated: “Well, it’s like your first date; you make it up as you go along.” You can listen to his refreshingly unpretentious perspective here in the audio of the Q&A from last Monday evening.

Furthermore, it’s not just an important documentary in film history, but it is an unparallelled document of what I’d argue as the most artistically important era of Dylan’s career. It’s also the most intimate view of the genius that exists–even with the advent of the Scorsese documentary, a far more traditional example of the documentary medium. The great irony of this work is that although it is so intimate in scope, the subject never lets the audience get remotely close to his inner being. Unlike another great backstage documentary Meeting People is Easy, where we see Radiohead’s Thom Yorke unraveled on tour, Pennebaker’s portrait of Dylan showcases him as an aloof waif, a unwavering persona who reacts to fame with alternating moments of disdain and absurd humor.

Throughout his jaunt in England, Dylan is, I can only assume, stoned out of his mind. He chainsmokes. He insults journalist after journalist (often with hilarious results). He wastes a lot of time backstage and in hotel rooms with his entourage of foppish hanger-ons and beautiful mod women. Drunk, high, and gleefully sophomoric, Dylan and his pack also only vaguely tolerate a very annoying and much older Joan Baez (who disappears midway through film, for the good of all of us). Donovan, the subject of both jealousy and derision, is their most constant butt of jokes. Check out this clip of  a very drunk Alan Price (from the seminal Brit Invation band The Animals) and Dylan discussing Donovan’s merits.

  

Even though the majority of footage shows Dylan as a hipper-than-hell jokester (whose jokes are often edged with genuine cruelty), the actual concert footage is breathtaking. Looking back now on so many Dylan eras (check out, if you have not already, Todd’s Haynes’ I’m Not There, still at Film Forum, for an avant-garde exploration of them, not to mention Cate Blanchett’s dead-on impersonation), it is refreshing to watch one single era. There is no, quite simply, no better way to understand Dylan’s importance than to see the brash genius up on stage alone, haunting and historic, armed only with lyrics, his harmonica and a guitar.

D.A. Pennebaker also directed another one of my favorite music docs, the concert video Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars: The Motion Picture (1973), which documents the last concert of the Ziggy era, where David Bowie and his backing group The Spiders from Mars perform at the Hammersmith Odeon. This is the famous “Rock n’ Roll Suicide” show when Ziggy proclaimed it to be their final concert (leaving a perplexed and forlorn audience). Ziggy is the last time the world would see Mark Bolan and David Bowie do that dirty oh so dirty! guitar fellating thing and the last time Bowie would don feathers in such a glorious and beyond-human fashion.

 

Unless, of course, you watched Jonathan Reys Meyers as the Bowie/sorta Eno/sorta Lou Reed avatar in Todd Haynes’ Velvet Goldmine…hmm, do you think Mr. Haynes might have a bit of a Pennebaker fetish?