Recently acquired: a nice little stash of poetic fare, delightfully light but never cloying, anchored in the madhouse of love, bovine heft, ancient form, and good-byes.
A collaboration between Matthea Harvey and Amy Jean Porter, I saw Harvey present this erasure poem with text culled from A Portrait of Charles Lamb (by Lord David Cecil) at the Art Institute as a part of the Poetry Foundation's Poetry Off the Shelf series. Harvey plays tenderly with the story of the lives of troubled literary sibs Charles and Mary Lamb, creators of the children's book Tales from Shakespeare. Porter colorifically illustrates. (As of this morning, Cecil's The Stricken Deer or The Life of Cowper is on my reading list—Cowper is a poet-to-whom-I-return, and what a title.)
Lydia Davis's ruminations on the cows in the field across the road are the most relaxing morning's read in memory.
I workshopped with Ron Koertge in the early to mid-nineties. It was life-changing, finding his work, defined by fun and irreverence, and working with a skilled and bebooked poet and storyteller who'd left the cape of clicky self-importance at the side of the road in the mud where it belongs. Indigo, Koertge's uber-fresh cadre of 69 "bastard ghazals" read like minty spirited fizzy water on a hot summer's dusk.
With a few weeks recently laptopless, I've been on a wee technology diet. Not quite a full sabbatical/sabbath/blackout, but off the computer more—thus off blog. Now I am reentering the sphere, gearing up for the new machine.
This past week I saw a restored print of Nicholas Roeg's The Man Who Fell to Earth at the Music Box, on the tails of Argentinian director Lucrecia Martel's The Headless Woman, which I watched via DVD, having missed it at the Film Center—drat!
Two beautiful, morose films, not for everyone. I have a dear friend who walked out of Jim Jarmusch's The Limits of Control and I can only imagine that these would drive him off as well, along with numbers of other worthy viewers. These pictures are for folks who sometimes like their films straight up. Very little sound, dialog, action (though occasional potent bursts of each). Washes of gorgeous frames, visual prompts cue a viewer to feel through to the substance.
Original Movie Poster: There's a strange similarity between the two, huh? . . .
Stunning!
The "teaser" poster most associated with Roeg's film is very strong but can't edge this one out for me. I saw the poster for The Headless Woman at the Siskel Center and I had to see the movie. The Headless Woman takes this category.
Star: Bowie was a first love of mine and is stellar as the hapless alien humanoid in TMWFTE, Thomas Jerome Newton. Roger Ebert gives the film a thoughtful, fair review for the release of the restored film and nails it with kudos to Bowie as Other. Genuinely moving moments in the film derive from Bowie's delicate alienesque beauty. In an amazing scene early in his relationship with Mary Lou, she totes him along to her church and Bowie's alien "attempts" to sing along as the congregation shakily offers up an old English hymn in his honor (how funny/odd to watch Bowie effectively failing to sing well); we are first embarrassed by Mary Lou, the congregants, our fellow humans proffering what seems a bit of a podunk gesture to the sleek visitor, then we are ashamed at our own first reaction when we see him accept the moment fully and with grace, smiling humbly during his mumbly attempts at the tune.
Maria Onetto's Verónica is riveting in THW, conjuring the intensity, at a very low volume, of Gena Rowlands's work with Cassavetes.
My heart wants to give it to Bowie but I have to call this a tie.
Color: Bowie's color is fascinating in TMWFTE. Candy Clark's Mary Lou gets some very striking outfits. Garish flair transmits the simultaneous charm and awfulness of the native culture. Then the landscapes are a little washed out in a way that hints forward toward a less than rosy future. Overall the use of color in Roeg's film is transfixing. The color in Martel's film is equally effective and eye-catching, classier, muted like an old polaroid, and similarly matched to the story and conveying pitch perfect tone. Tie.
The dusky palette of The Headless Woman reminds me of some Tarkovsky.
Sex: Roeg directs scenes in TMWFTE that are really rowdy/randy and anchor the story in the earthiness that is, perhaps, at question. Even the "alien sex" we see (via Newton's memories? thoughts?), when Newton "comes out" to Mary Lou, also works to illustrate the power and oddity that are desire; and the strong bond that we share as creatures who desire. The Bowie/Clark relationship is an achingly potent portrayal of the familiar conundrum: powerful love/desire are also characterized by fragility. In THW, sex is utilized minimally in a way that works psychologically. TMWFTE takes this one hands down.
Bowie and Clark, odd couple with compelling chemistry.
Big Screen v. Small Screen: See TMWFTE on the big screen; both Kennedy and I realized we had each individually fallen asleep during past efforts to watch the film at home on television—it doesn't work on the small screen! THW is a tightly confined story and works at home on DVD; the visual beauty still translates and impresses. I have to call this a neutral b/c I can't fault a film for only working on the big screen.
NOTE: The new print/release of The Man Who Fell to Earth will be making its way around country. It's in Philly now, and it's hit NY, LA, Chicago, and D.C. already. Schedule here.
Morosity: TMWFTE offers up a many-layered view onto the sad side of the stranger in a strange land storyline, à la Werner Herzog's Stroszeck (they were originally released in 1976 and 1977 respectively). Failed love, the betrayal and loss of family, fecklessness, and reliance on gin; TMWFTE is so fetchingly shot and imbued with life and yet one leaves it woozy with sorrow. THW tackles lead character Verónica's catatonia after she believes she has accidentally killed someone in a road accident that she fled; friends suggest she only killed a dog but Verónica is convinced of her guilt, though unable to confirm who or what was killed. Verónica, a member of the wealthy elite, is surrounded at all times by the country's indigenous poor, and their relations form the foundation for the film's psychic unrest. It's a brutal scenario and one can't help but get wrapped up in the "what if." Lean over to grab a cell that's ringing and life changes, ends. And then, if you're one of the privileged few, it might, much to your dismay, just start up again like nothing ever happened.
Tie.
Director: TMWFTE inspires me to embark on a midsummer's Roeg-a-thon. THW is the work of a female director, still all too rare. THW gets it b/c there are too few auteuresses.
Linger Factor: With The Man Who Fell to Earth I wanted to get rid of any sense of time, because it's surprising how often we mention it in our lives. One thing got by me until the cutting – I suddenly heard someone saying 'I've been here three months already.' I thought, 'How did that get in?' I had to dub it." —Director, Nick Roeg, Interview SFX Magazine, August 1999. I've been walking around thinking about this film, a lot. Having just read this interview, I think perhaps Roeg in fact achieved a sense of timlessness that elevates the film above many of its peers. The Headless Woman is a really, really good film. So, so, so, so good. I think I partly think about it less now because it's scope is tidier; it's more pinned down. This is not a fault, but ultimately the stickiness of The Man Who Fell to Earth vaults it up into a tippy-top-tier echelon for me. . .
And the Winner Is: The Man Who Fell to Earth. I figure I have to give a winner after such a monster post. But if you haven't, definitely see them both! (Unless you dislike quiet, slow, moody, "taut" films.)
Both films recall Antonioni for me, making me feel warm and fuzzy in spite of my unease.
