13 Assasins v. The Book of Eli

Koji Yakusho as Shinzaemon Shimad, before the action, 13 Assassins, Takeshi Miike. Photo courtesy of Magnet Releasing.

atmosphere:
Love the dark opening interior sequences in 13 Assassins, use of shadow à la Ozu. Beautiful tableaux too. The battle is staged with all the right rooftops, gangways, et cetera, but it was sooooo long, I started to think, "Wow, they really used a lot of wood." Which is to say that at a certain point the atmosphere suffered for me as the battle ground on.
I thought the Hughes twins' The Book of Eli looked great, in terms of post-apocalypse. (Kudos to Don Burgess.) More effective for me than the moister overcast of The Road. I have an abiding fear of exactly this kind of dryness. I guess it comes from growing up in L.A. (Note: the cannibalism strand is much scarier in The Road; it did not play for much effect here.)
Both film visuals are pretty top notch, though neither creates a new visual world. Miike's film offers more unique images, such as the still above, so I'll give it to Miike (and DP Nobuyasu Kita).

heros:
Koji Yakusho (follow this link to see a history of his hairstyles on a fansite) is so handsome as Shinzaemon Shimad, the unflappable samurai who takes up the gauntlet and assembles the bakers dozen to bring down the grostesque half-brother of the shogun. I loved Yakusho in Kiyoshi Kurosawa's Charisma and Cure. He really is magnetic.


Koji Yakusho in Shall We Dansu?, Masayuki Suo, 1996. I really have to see this.

Denzel Washington's Eli is nicely, sensitively super-understated. We literally get no backstory, and yet Denzel's quiet charisma is intense enough to pull me through the movie.
It's a draw.

baddies:
The 13 Assassins baddie is guilty of "Total Massacre" several times over. Is Goro Inagaki's Lord Naritsugu (according to the site I've linked, the actor's blood type is O) unbeatable because he cut away the limbs and tongue of a poor village girl, enslaved her, and then discarded her? No . . . for some reason the actor just doesn't scare me enough to win this one.
In The Book of Eli Gary Oldman's deeds are, perhaps, less over the top, but he rises to the level of the Lord Naritsugu in creepiness via lording over his blind mistress and pimping out her daughter. The scene in which Oldman's Carnegie shampoos Jennifer Beals' hair (with, possibly, the last bottle of shampoo in the world, travel-sized), becomes surprisingly unsettling when their relationship is then clarified.
These guys are both pretty bad, and while I have to give it to 13 Assassins for the bad deeds, it's easier to sink your teeth into Carnegie. Draw.

blades:
One point to 13 Assassins for quantity, the alleys and roadways are studded with swords, stuck into wooden walkways and the ground for easy access . . .
However, I give one point to The Book of Eli too; for some reason, Eli's blade is, simply, effective.
Draw. (I feel like I should make a swordplay pun here but I can't come up with a good one.)

surprises:
13 Assassins elicited appreciative laughs with enraged black boars bearing fiery "backpacks" through the passageways of the "death town," scattering Naritsugu's guard.
In addition to a small appearance by Tom Waits, which is always a pleasure, The Book of Eli takes it with the dusty ipod that appears as one of Eli's prized possessions in the early establishing scenes; questions regarding the feasibility of keeping it powered linger, but it's such a cool "the new thing is the remnant old thing" moment. Maybe this scene is old news but it was new to me . . . What an awesome combo: we get Denzel tending to his weapons to the sound of Al Green's How Can You Mend A Broken Heart, which he is listening to on his headphone. This scene just works.

This "video" just features a static still from the scene but if you go here you can watch the whole scene.

venue:
13 Assassins at the Music Box Theatre.
The Book of Eli on my couch.
Sorry, couch, I've got to give this one to 13 Assassins.

So, I guess we actually have a winner!

Though on a feeling level, I'm torn, since the venue was the tiebreaker. . . But then, I didn't touch on the much discussed problem that was Mila Kunis's part in Eli. Loved her in Black Swan, but here her characteristic earthy charm just doesn't fit.

Claudio Bravo, Werner Herzog, Em Dash

Pareja de ovejas (Pair of Lambs), 2008 (Marlborough Gallery)

This morning, looking at recent lithographs of Chilean artist Claudio Bravo (1936 - 2011), I see gentleness in the faces and forms of the animals, in the skulls of animals. It corresponds with the feel that carried Werner Herzog's recent Cave of Forgotten Dreams for me.

In the Chauvet cave art represented in the film, I don't see the teeth of the animals, the claws, the violent capacity of the hooves. Expressive eyes, mouths, faces conveying a variety of states dominate—delicately, gracefully extending from massive, supple and powerful bodies rendered in lines that suggest sheer admiration and even adoration. The cave experience seems to encompass a record of a "family of beings," and with just a barest imagination of life in such an icy, perilous time, I am amazed to find in the faces of a pursuing pack of lions, simply raw hunger, and perhaps excitement, none of the terrorous features we ascribe to predators today.

(They look like my cats at the window, mouths open in the weird gurgling song of prey sighted.)

This is not the finest, most beautiful example of the art in Chauvet cave, but I love the sketchbook quality, which, it has been observed, conveys numbers and motion here, as in other similar areas—I can't help but also see an artist in pursuit of "just the right expression" for the faces of the big cats.

I took a week to let the film sink in, avoided talking about it (mostly); avoided reading reviews. I'd gotten wind of the fact that some folks were disappointed. And to be fair, I am a total Herzog convert. I have enjoyed every Herzog film I've seen for many years. And I guess I haven't seen any that I haven't enjoyed.

While I was watching the film, and since, I've felt so relieved that Herzog is the filmmaker who was given access to the cave for filming. His work may not be associated with delicacy, but I see here, and throughout his films, a depth of appreciation for human experience that allows him to gather even the most seemingly extreme examples of our lives "under the same umbrella." Herzog's characters, often "real people," are not portrayed as exceptional, or, perhaps more accurately, they are portrayed as examples among the exceptional multitude; fascinating, flawed, capable of twists and turns and feats that stretch our minds and even our imaginations when we take the role of observers. Pilots, explorers, immigrants, bear-lovers, and now, paleolithic man.

I've still not read the reviews, except that I finally read Mark Doty's thoughts on the film this morning on his wonderful blog, feeling I'd given my own experience time enough to seep fully in (Doty's work was an early inspiration and continues to urge and inspire, and, ah, those we admire can so powerfully influence opinion). For me, what elevates Cave of Forgotten Dreams beyond simple presentation are the scenes that let the talking heads meander a bit, come to life, evoke curiosity on their own behalf. The evidence is in, the Chauvet animals touch viewers millenia hence; for me, Herzog's handling of the scientists, historians, et alia lifts these, our contemporaries, into a counterbalance across time to share in the mystery—who made the paintings? how many? why? we know there was fire, did they sing? And then, does the juggling archaeologist always dream? Does spear thrower Jean-Michel Geneste garden? (We see him out of doors a lot, and for some reason I see him as a gardener.) Herzog niggles a bit, digs a bit, and suddenly a flash of personality radiates from his lovely little array of modern sources. Herzog slogs through any awkwardness to allow the resonance. One of Herzog's powers is to blast by any worries of awkwardness.

Whether or not I agree with Herzog's suggestion that the Chauvet art represents a manifestation of the birth of modern man's soul, in my daily struggle with misanthropy, in Herzog's film I take a tonic that reminds me of an arching sweetness in our species' arc, that at the very least must weave in and parallel some of our darker propensities.

Final note: I have hereby memorized the html code for my beloved em dash: —

Art Please, Mr. Rahm!

Owen Smith, Brigid O'Shaughnessy

 Dear Rahm Emmanuel,

Can we get this?

This is my first (semi)official request as a constituent.

Promote Chicago visual arts and literary heritage via fetching commissioned works to be posted in public places? It's okay to copycat a really winning idea. I would love to swap out the perennial Bebe ads at my local busstop for something with beauty and brains.

Thank you for your consideration, Mr. Mayor. You would surely gain cool cred, at least in and on some corners.

I found Mark Coggins' San Fran Chronicle piece  pointing to the beautious street art posters commissioned by the San Francisco Art Commission from "San Fran's Diego Rivera"--Owen Smith--when I was looking for the name of the artist whose New Yorker Fiction Issue covers I had collected in the mid-'90s.

Owen Smith, The New Yorker, '95/'96

And Kurt Brokaw's piece on the staying power of pulp (and its marketing appeal) features two of the Smith covers, including my favorite, a subway scene in which all of the passengers are reading, along with other contemporary examples of the style, juxtaposed nicely with iconic source images.

This all got started after looking at some nice Criterion Collection DVD covers, via Rick Poynter at The Eye. Sorting through an embarrassment of visual riches, my Dad and I were both drawn to the cover for The Sweet Smell of Success, rendered in savory pulp/noir vividness by Eric Skillman, Sarah Habibi, and Sean Phillips. There's an eeriness to seeing Tony Curtis and Burt Lancaster worked in the illustration and the castback style feels fresh, a perfect bridge to the world of director Alexander Mackendrick's 1957 film.

Sweet Smell of Success, dir. Alexander Mackendrick

I love this tidbit from art director/designer Skillman's process blog re: illustrator Phillips' painting for the project: "Basically, the big hurdle on this title was a clause in the contracts stating that the likenesses of both Tony Curtis and Burt Lancaster MUST appear, and both MUST be the same size. And given the power imbalance between the two characters in the film, the idea of having the two of them just standing there, on equal footing with each other, felt really wrong… but the solution we came up with in the briefs meeting, was, I think, a really great one. . .  "

An extra gem lifted from Poynter's critique: links to the world of Criterion Collection cover fanart. I find endless appeal in the worlds of fanart and this was a corner of that universe with which I was not formerly acquainted . . .

Visual Paradise

"Art is a constant; it's part of you." Dennis Hopper

The Trib's piece on the Art Institute's new Taschen shop-within-a-shop quoted a consultant advising museums in matters of retail, "If you're in the middle of a whole bunch of Taschen books, you're in the middle of a visual paradise."

At Rizzoli in the mid-'90s we maintained dedicated Taschen tables, towering with  juicy, super-saturated tomes. Smart, bold catalog, it's no surprise they're still selling like hotcakes. And the company's got marketing panache to suit.

Mostly, yes, viva! Bookstores, adapt! Then, sigh, the "publishers with high wholesale prices" who didn't make the cut. Certainly some of their books are wonderful too, like endangered species. Even an ugly little biting beast is so important when it's almost gone.

Summer Reading, Category: Zombies

Publisher: Holt Paperbacks

Bring a lot of water; extra sunscreen and maybe even an umbrella and a light jacket.
You'll want to read this in one sitting. Or, if you must, on the train to and from your office.

If you like Southernisms and the Undead this is your jar of moonshine.

In case you like to read reviews first, the A.V. Club reviews here (non-lethal dose of apt critique).

The Seizure of Our Engine

Landed our car in the shop this month; the loan of a car took us to Wisconsin this weekend to get the emissions test taken care of for our fine, lending friend. The trip back took us to Jack's Cozy Cafe in Kenosha and then to Illinois Beach Sate Park. In the nature preserve there, we saw deer, wildflowers, and a bluebird, the second this year. Further south, we stopped at a Salvation Army where I found an old table-mount mitre guide from Minneapolis that I can use to make frames; then we stopped in Evanston to see Herzog's Cave of Forgotten Dreams (more on that later). We had time before the showing and we went to Barnes & Noble where I picked up jubilat, Noon (check out the current cover!), The Southern Review, and Poetry East.
This morning, I looked up a very old friend's old-school bookstore in San Fran's old Mission--Scott Harrison's Abandoned Planet--to see if it was still around. It isn't, but I found a funny little bittersweet video someone made about Scott and his store (closing):



I was friends with Scott when I first started writing poetry. He was a little friendly with Charles Bukowski, who I admired, and I think I remember Scott had had Bukowski in for readings in his store in Santa Monica, The Bluest Eye.
During that era I worked in a Rizzoli bookstore in Pasadena. One morning, a tall jocky-looking guy was prowling the front door really anxiously before we opened. I unlocked at nine and he accosted me, in a slightly alarming way, asking if I was Anna. I said yes and he asked if I liked Bukowski and I said yes, internally cursing a friend who worked at a neighboring bookstore (those were the days—5 top-shelf bookstores in a few blocks radius with a few stragglers in between to boot); I suspected the friend had sent this dude to me. Then the jocky dude started crying, telling me his friend had been killed by a shark the day before, surfing, and that the friend had liked Bukowski, and that he wanted to read one of his poems at the funeral, and could I pick something for him. I'd read about the shark attack in the paper that morning. I sat him on a stool, panicked, and then picked The Man With the Beautiful Eyes, the first Bukowski poem I had read.



Tonight, I looked up Poetry East online to look into their submissions policy. They have a nice vertical reading pane where you can scroll down through poems they have liked to publish. I scrolled down and there was The Bluebird by Bukowski--the poem I used, 15 years ago?, to explain to my Dad how I felt about Bukowski.

The Bluebird
by Charles Bukowski
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do
you?

50 Watts' Polish Book Cover Contest

Singeon (Nicolas Gallet), second place winner

On Tuesday, my Dad sent me to 50 Watts' Polish Book Cover Contest. Most of the entries are pretty enticing. I keep going back to look at favorites and I have that covetous feeling that I get around certain books. . . . I cruised around the internet looking for the artist who designed the cover for an edition of Knut Hamsun's Mysteries that I find particularly compelling--uncomfortable/eerie, in an attractive way--which brought me to Milton Glaser. The search and its sallies landed me on his cover for a paperback copy of Dicken's Hard Times that's been floating around the house and which Kennedy read recently, and then back to a 50 Watts' piece on Glaser.

Nosing around 50 Watts, I noticed a quote from David Pearson, who commissioned some extremely moreish designs for White's Books' classics covers that caught my eye recently. Online book lovers have been vociferously aflutter.

Some of you know that I am working on a series of poems based around Gene Hackman's filmography. Occasionally, I allow myself to fast forward, really far forward. WIPs complete; the scores to be written are written (Antz and all). Daydreaming the cover is sweet. I toy with the idea of garnering use of a photo by Richard Misrach. Oh how I wish I could pop his Playboy #97 (Marlboro Country) in here for you to see, but I can't find a paste that seems kosher so you'll just have to visit My Future Cover Art at the gallery where it lives now via the link.

Then again, I'd love to throw the book to the eye-bending talents of a genius designer/illustrator to see a tasty new surprising concoction arise.

Iron & Wine v. the Dalai Lama

The Living Torrent, Giuseppe Pellizza da Volpedo (ARTINFO/The National Gallery)

Jay Pritzker Pavilion, Millennium Park, Chicago, Monday, June 6. Reports of a massive turnout for Sam Beam's Iron  & Wine texted their way to me so I expected to sit at the back of the lawn. Two weeks before, the crowd for Bonnie Prince Billie had been good-sized, healthy and full-feeling but with room for all--channels between camps wendable and open seats up front to take in His Bare-footed Magnificence. On our way to Monday night's free concert in the park, we ran into friends coming out of the train downtown, discussed the rumors, and I recalled the gathering that surrounded the Dalai Lama when he appeared at the park to speak in 2007. We'd all seen the Decembrists (backed by full orchestra!) there in 2007 as well--the audience was standing room only and I'd perched on fences and the uprising around the lawn proper to get views. But the number assembled for the Dalai Lama was in a different category. Reverents and come-alongs accumulated far beyond the confines of the lawn, milling about  and settling down wherever there was shade. It was a fitting quiet crowd--heads bowed to hear the talk, or snoozing, not much clatter or chatter.

Streaming up the steps toward the pavilion, I was surprised to find that Beam's fine folky-psychadelic rock had already drawn people into the park on a Dalai Lama-scale. People picnicked everywhere: every patch of grass, sidewalks, inside planters; those who chose to stand stood 10 and 20 deep around the peripheries. Kennedy and I chunnelled through the thickets blocking the way to Cloud Gate and Lurie Garden, and found an unlocked door into the garden via the parking garage entrance. The gates to the garden had been locked, patrolled by a guard on a Segway to turn back the kids who periodically hopped low fences to sneak in through a dense border of bushes and small trees. The garden paths were lined with fellows, and we found a spot where we could throw down our mat and pour a glass of wine; the sound in the garden was decent and the view of hillocks on hillocks of purply blooming native plants was downright lovely--smelled sweet too.

So, Iron & Wine v. Dalai Lama:
Sheer quantity of humans: my memory is sketchy, I will call it a draw
Hula hoops: definitely more "hoopers" around the Bean for Iron & Wine
Children: another draw
Benevolence: in my own experience, another draw, though, credible reports of flare-ups at the latter event, under consideration, I will give a slight edge to the Dalai Lama, evening the overall score, which jives with my feel for the two events, though, in frankness, I enjoyed the concert more.
Sorry to disappoint anyone who might have needed to see a clear winner here.

I've never been much of a crowd lover. Now, though I still have my suspicions, my reaction to large human gatherings is much fuzzier. After the irateness of the trundling and hurtling streets of the city, the elbowing and proprietary jostling in lines and places of purchasing, I marvel at the good-natured spirit that mushrooms and settles over us during certain civic pleasures. A few summers ago, I watched Hitchcock's Psycho in Grant Park along with many hundreds of other Chicagoans. I've seen most of Hitchcock's filmography, barring this flick, and I was a bit apprehensive about the setting. That a mouthy, fidgety audience might spoil my first interface with the classic. It was a gorgeous evening--the picture looked great; the film's soundscape is tremendous; the crowd's quiet and calm broken only in audible intakes of breath at a scare and a little squealing and shifting at the scariest points. We all watched the movie together and I found it moving--it feels like a perhaps momentous cooperative effort to quiet down together. I am working on a poem that tries to get at this experience; the congruence of my species to share enjoyment without bickering or bombardiering while we watch a cool film we made about a psychotic murderer and his obsession with his mother.