1990: I guerrieri del Bronx (1982)

The obvious influence upon 1990: I guerrieri del Bronx is Walter Hill’s 1979  The Warriors.  But did Godard’s Week End have an minute influence on this Italian exploitation film?

Early in 1990: Bronx Warriors a motorcycle gang returns to their turf  and finds one of their members dead along the riverside. For no explicable reason an unnamed figure sits beneath a bridge and bangs out a steady beat on a drum kit. The film suddenly takes on the editing style of an experimental student film, quickly cutting from artfully composed images of each biker’s reaction. The kaleidoscope of images goes on for a great stretch of time while a solitary drum track adds an emotional spine to the scene.

The inclusion of a puzzling drummer to a scene is vaguely familiar to a later scene in Week End, where a group of cannibal revolutionaries convene in the woods. Their leader plays the drums and reads Lautreamont’s Maldoror.  Godard is referencing historical and literary characters throughout this film and there is a high degree of intellectualism and social commentary in Week End that you won’t find in 1990: Bronx Warriors. However, the drumming in the woods is relatively inexplicable, but it is wonderfully visceral. That same sensation, witnessed in 1990: Bronx Warriors, is what drew my mind back to Godard’s film.

Now, I may be completely off my nut on this one. It would not be the first time my love of psychotronic and artistic films collided. I continually think that I am finding art films that are referencing exploitation films and vice versa. It’s probably just me.

One Way Boogie Woogie and 27 Years Later (1977 & 2004)

For better or worse James Benning is a filmmaker married to a method. His films usually consist of a series of static camera positions with each shot equal in duration. One Way Boogie Woogie and 27 Years Later are sixty minute films built out of one minute shots. Each shot documents are part of Milwaukee’s landscape. The images are that of a declining industrial landscape. On occasion, cars, dogs, and even the people make brief appearances. They soundtrack is a mix of ambient recordings, radio advertisements, boogie woogie tunes, and even a Leonard Cohen song. Both films share the exact same soundtrack. The visual difference between One Way Boogie Woogie and 27 Years Later is that of change. Returning to the same locations and camera set-ups as before, Benning and his camera observe how time as altered the landscapes, and to some degree the people who sparsely populated the first film.

Bennings decision to re-shoot One Way Boogie Woogie again and play the two versions of the film back-to-back creates a simplified version of the children’s game Memory. Shots from the second film appear in the exact same order as they did in the first film and a participant is only left trying to visualize how the original location looked in contrast to what is being documented twenty-seven years later. The exercise is interesting, but grows tedious. Holding steadfast to the rules he has given himself from the outset, Benning’s exploration feels trapped and unable to explore the greater changes that have occurred overtime.

Time has drastically changed the landscape of Milwaukee, much more than you’d suspect from watching Benning’s two films. While each image is well composed and saturated with color, there is little to root these images to Milwaukee. Visible changes, while showing both decay and growth, are too limited. They do not show the cultural or economical changes that have truly altered the city. Asking Benning to include these issues into his film would be would be asking too much. His film cannot tackle such weight because it is anchored to a structure.

This is not to say that Benning will not take some liberties, many I would label as wrong decisions on his part. A shot of a brand new American flag is replicated in the proceeding work by a worn and tethered flag. I highly doubt this to be the same flag. Just as, an image of dogs at play from Boogie Woogie is replaced twenty seven years later is recreated with a singular, white faced dog. Surely, this cannot be the same dog in both films otherwise we may have a new record for canine longevity. If Benning is willing to make these alterations than why does he refuse to provide a new soundtrack for 27 Years Later?

The indentical soundtrack does create a helpful, connective tissue between the two works, but it also leaves me with a feeling of malaise. One of the greatest attributes of any Benning film is the creative use of sound. His soundtracks are typically filled with descriptive, non-diagetic sounds that hint to a larger world just outside the camera’s gaze. So, it is disappointing when he does not take advantage of this power to help illustrate the change at play between the two time eras.

I assume he never set out in 1977 to recreate the same film nearly three decades later. Had he the foresight, he might have framed images more susceptible to time. One Way Boogie Woogie is the journal of a wanderer traversing a blue-collar environs capturing images that captivate his eye. Benning is in large part a pedestrian filmmaker in the truest sense of the term. He strongly advocates that budding filmmakers take to walking before they take to shooting. It’s a philosophy he attributes to Werner Herzog. Knowing this, I cannot help but think of Fata Morgana when I hear Leonard Cohen’s “Famous Blue Raincoat” on Benning’s soundtrack.

Two years ago, when I saw Benning’s 13 Lakes and 10 Skies I had a transcendent experience. During the One Way Boogie Woogie and 27 Years Later double bill I could do little more than fidget in my seat. I tried to embrace the films for their meditative qualities, but quickly found my interest dissolving into a mere game of site identification. With Milwaukee being my new home, I wondered if I could locate each landscape. Even this grew tiresome and I began to wonder if I might not have to add these films to the rather short list of films I have walked out on. I decide to labor through them, even timing the shots and counting down the number of images left to endure. There were small rewards, like two ethereal images of steam and two images of neon signs, but stacked against the volume of less mesmerizing images this was not a statistically impressive showing.

I believe that you have to wrestle with great art. Whether I have had to revisit a film, perhaps multiple times, or simply grow as a person, I know that instantaneous satisfaction quickly dissipates and that the more revolutionary experiences came with struggle. I would like to think that in time I may cherish these two films as much as I do Benning’s other films or any piece of art that has transformed my way of seeing the world. Right now, I’m mixed with frustration and disappointment. Perhaps, 27 years later I will feel differently.

Another State of Mind (1984)

Another State of Mind may be a tour video of Social Distortion and Youth Brigade, but for a young straightedge punk the real joy of the video was getting to see Ian MacKaye. The clean living lead singer of Minor Threat is works at a Häagen-Dazs and performs in his cramped basement with his fellow band members. These brief moments are humanizing and inspiring. The image of MacKaye is that a typical teen, who just happens to avoid vices like sex, drugs, and alcohol and vocalize his choices through hardcore music. He stands in sharp contrast to that of Mike Ness. The lead singer of Social Distortion operates in n the more traditional and socially expected mode of punk – outrageously dressed, rowdy, and often drunk. Ness perfects his image in front of a mirror and talks about wasting his days away watching television and waiting to go out at night and get drunk with his friends. The difference between the two lead singers shows seperate roads that a young punk could wander down, but both Ness and MacKaye end up on stage proving the legacy of punk – kids playing their hearts out for other kids.

Another State of Mind online

Lessons of Darkness (1992)

I have the impression that the images that surround us today are worn out, they are abused and useless and exhausted. They are limping and dragging themselves behind the rest of our cultural evolution. When I look at the postcards in tourist shops and the images and advertisements that surround us in magazines, or I turn on the television, or if I walk into a travel agency and see those huge posters with that same tedious and rickety image of the Grand Canyon on them, I truly feel there is something dangerous emerging here. The biggest danger, in my opinion, is television because to a certain degree it ruins our vision and makes us very sad and lonesome. Our grandchildren will blame us for not having tossing hand-grenades into TV stations because of commercials. Television kills our imagination and what we end up with are worn out images because of the inability of too many people to seek out fresh ones. – Werner Herzog

Lessons of Darkness with its images of Kuwaiti oil fields on fire was like nothing like presented on television during the first Gulf War. It posses both more shock and awe than any grainy footage of air strikes and bombs dropped down air chutes.

Who is creating the modern equivalent of Lesson of Darkness, with images so eye shattering that they will shake us from this nightmare slumber of a war? More than oil is burn this time. Yet, all I see is more television, streamed across the Internet. It’s no wonder I have not been able to catch the Web 2.o mania. It’s just television made by the masses. It’s quite possibly worse than television. It’s nothing new. Where are the hand-grenades?

Inside the Casbah (1994)

Preconceived notions can spoil a perfectly rewarding experience. Thinking that Inside the Casbah: A History of Casablanca Records and Film Works  would be a penetrating look at the meteoric record and film company founded by Neil Bogart, I grew disappointed as a stream of promotional material never gave way to interviews or insight. I should have felt blessed that Damien Vivona took the time to track down all this wonderfully dated archival footage of KISS, The Village People, Donna Summer, and Parliament; the artists that made Casablanca Records rich. Instead, I questioned the use of the word ‘history’. There really is no story here and little study is given to the events that brought Casablanca and its artists to prominence. While the footage itself may hold historical relevance, there is very little holding together these clips other than a passive interest in the artists and films the label was promoting. If one is not already interested in the subject matter, there is scant argument made as to why you should be. Having a mild interest in KISS, my attention is piqued during the promotions for the famously face-painted quartet. Placed aside the Village People, KISS does not become more fierce, but actually loses some of its shock appeal. They look like a disco act and serve as a reminder that 70′s rock branched outwards in two distinct directions. KISS forged one path, while Black Sabbath paved another. The difference between the two is unmistakable. KISS will get you girls. Black Sabbath won’t.

Jandek on Corwood (2003)

In the Pacific Northwest there is Sasquatch. In the Himalayas there is the Yeti. In Scotland there is the Loch Ness Monster. In the world of outside music there is Jandek. At some point in time filmmakers have gone in search of these mythical creatures. Chad Friedrichs sought to expose the world to the mystery that has been Jandek.

The first record, Ready for the House,came in 1978. It was attributed to a group, known as the Units, but the the slow tempo, oddly tuned guitar accompanied by a wavering voice, singing a mournful variation of the blues, would be come typical of the Jandek sound. By the second album, Six and Six the music was being credited to Jandek. The discordant, repetitive songs one each album are nearly unidentifiable from one another. Only the most strident fans can recognize one song from the next, but as a whole the sound is unmistakable, perhaps listenable.

For over 25 years and 50 albums Jandek has released his very unique and personal on his own record label. Identified only by a post office box in Houston, Texas, Corwood Industries appears to be exclusive to the music of Jandek. For years, a simple advertisement stating “Jandek on Corwood” was the only promotion for this reclusive artist. It was the location of this post office box that lead to the speculation that Jandek, whoever he really was, called Houston home.

Out of focus, obscured images of a skinny, Caucasian male, with a dusty blonde hair provided a clue as to what Jandek might look like, if that was him at all. His blank stairs and shadowy figure only added to the mystery as well as the depressed state of his music. Rumors circulated that perhaps this was the work of a madman, some sort of music therapy. As new albums kept being released, sometimes two or three in one year, fans began to speculate that perhaps all the recordings were done in one huge marathon recording session and slowly released across the years. However, the music never stopped coming and subtle changes from guitar to piano to the accompaniment of additional musicians showed that Jandek was not afraid to change.

His anonymity, however, was something he refused to change. Outside of a phone interview in 1985 and another interview by outsider music expert Irwin Chusid, few people were ever able to speak with Jandek. As the legend of Jandek grew, music critics, college radio dj’s and other musicians all created their own theories to explain the man behind the music. Jandek on Corwood compiles these urban legends in a less than interesting fashion.

The film mixes overly staged images with uninteresting interviews resulting in a film that no more explains the mystery of Jandek than it deepens it. Often too literal with its imagery, the filmmaker’s use of imaginatively lit props and barren rooms work as poor static substitutes for a lack of visual material directly related to Jandek. The list of subjects paraded before the camera is less than spectacular and only the most devout of alternative music fans is going to recognize the various critics and artist interviewed. One must endure all of this for a payoff that comes in the last few minutes of the film, albeit it is one of the smallest payoffs in the history of film. Even for a Jandek fan, the promise of hearing that one recorded phone interview with Jandek is not enough to excuse the languid pace of this film or its less than committed approach.

When you set out to expose a mysterious figure like Bigfoot or Nessie or even Jandek you must do one of two things. You must either expose the creature in question, so that there is no longer a question or you must help to perpetuate the myth.

Just how it is that a musician has remained anonymous for over 30 years and 50 albums excites the imagination more than Jandek’s music. It’s the one question on every Jandek fan’s mind and its exactly what you suspect a filmmaker interested in Jandek would set out to answer. However, Friedrichs does no investigation what so ever, into just who Jandek might be. All the background information we are presented is gleaned from research that others have done.

During the course of the film it never comes to light that Jandek may be a fellow by the name of Sterling Richard Smith, the name to whom the copyright of Jandek’s music is accredited. A phone call to Corwood Industries will put you in touch with the Sterling Smith Corporation. Still, this is not the sort of limited insight people really crave. So, why is it that the filmmaker does not stake out the post office box or even interview the employees as the post office? Why not hire a private detective to help unravel the case of Jandek?

If the argument is made that the filmmaker was respecting Jandek’s anonymity and never looked to pull back the curtain, then I argue that the filmmaker must at least continue the myth, even add to it. If you are not going to burst the balloon and show the world who this mystery man is, you should at least introduce the larger world to the notion that there is this musician who simply cannot be identified. It’s a yarn worth spinning, but Friedrichs does not seem as interested as his interview subjects in speculating just who Jandek may be or why it is no one has been able to track him down.

Documentaries on legendary creatures like the abominable snowman or the Jersey Devil or even the question of where Jimmy Hoffa’s body rests tingle our spines and excite our imaginations because we really don’t want to learn the truth. We enjoy the puzzle. Solving the puzzle takes the fun out of guessing. When we watch filmmakers try to answer these urban enigmas we secretly hope they won’t be able to provide conclusive proof. We desire a level of wonderment in our world.

In light of all the technology and information we have access to in the present day, it seems implausible that someone could remain so anonymous, thus it seems that the filmmaker simply choses not to make use of modern resources to uncover the truth. Even if he were to discover who Jandek is and why he desires to keep such a low profile, that would not inherently mean that the filmmaker who uncovers this information would have to share it. Others, who have worked with Jandek or interviewed him have certainly not shared all that they know. Instead, they let the legend grow.

In 2004, Jandek did go public. Jandek (aka Sterling Smith) started playing live. There is no reason given as to why he suddenly chose to pull back the veil. Perhaps, Jandek on Corwood sent people in search of him. Still, little is known. The performances are rare and he still remained reclusive, never admitting that Jandek and Smith were one in the same. The mystery continues, but its no longer as alluring. The question of just who Jandek is has been replaced with the question of why he operates in the shadows has superseded it. This question still holds great interest, but it will take a far greater filmmaker than Friedrichs to keep this legend interesting.

Guide to Jandek

Huie’s Sermon (1980)

Without his iconic, monotone commentary it is hard to understand how Herzog perceives the charismatic preaching of Reverend Huie Rogers. Does he see the Reverend as a servant of the Lord with stylish flair? Is he questioning the Reverend’s  performance as something less than Christlike? Or is he merely an secular observer bent on capturing a unique orator show?

I am often suspicious of films about vocal gospel ministries, especially when the filmmakers are white and the preacher and congregation is black.  There is always a whiff of anthropology attached to these films. Subjects are put before the lens for consideration, but in a case such as this it is not the message of the sermon that one is being asked to think about, but its method of delivery. Even when race is disregarded, there is the aching question of how much the filmmakers believe what they are seeing.

Butley (1974)

Of recent, I have noticed a personal, growing aversion towards the minimal.  left a box set of the American Film Theatre collecting dust in my media cabinet. Each work in the set is easily noted by the limited sets, a centralized attention on the actors, and a profound lack of cinematic flourish. Butley is no exception, and perhaps, if for not a brief visit to a pub, the most stagebound work in the series. What Butley lacks in visual conspicuousness it makes up for in shrewdness and pedigree.

It doesn’t hurt that Butley was written by Simon Gray and directed by Harold Pinter and stars Alan Bates. The dialog is biting, if not too quick and scathing for belief. They are also the type of lines that one only wishes they could conjure up instantaneously. that perfect reply, that in reality comes a day after the argument ended.

In lesser hands the sharp retorts flung between characters would feel like inflated insults meant to bolster the coolness of either the characters or the creator. Here, each blistering bard smacks of deep pain and bitterness. The aggressive remarks are mere masks. They are the snarling, impulsive barks of beaten dogs.

As difficult as it was to watch Butley unravel before the camera lens, I found great solace in watching a work so confident. I have enduring far too many modern dramas, shot on digital video, in the confines of a filmmaker’s house or apartment, with friends in place of actors, where improvisation is as prevalent as the pregnant pauses between lines. These are simply a new set of cliches. The growing glut of homemade set-pieces often limited to the naval-gazing of twenty-somethings lost in a most banal form of existential angst, one pocked with capitalist yearnings and marred by uninteresting and unpolished technique.  Mumblecore angst could be of interest, but it need not come at the expense of craftsmanship. If you argue that the pursuit craftsmanship might prevent the content from being so powerful. I suggest Butley as proof you are wrong.