Friday, April 4, 2008
Further North
This post is about a week behind schedule but here it is anyway. I had the chance to go to a sneak preview of James Snapko's new film Further North at the March screening of Fearless Filmmakers. I don't really want to review the film because I worked on the film for a little while. But Further North is one of the best films to be produced in the city in a while. It's a Coen Brothers sense of dark humor and a somewhat Fargo-esque trajectory. It's an incredibly violent film, and there were a few sound issues (but the film isn't completely done), but it comes together very nicely. It's real strength was the way it was shot, it was a beautiful film. Director James Snapko did all of the cinematography and editing as well. Anyway I didn't want this to be any sort of review since I worked on the film and I wouldn't be able to take myself seriously reviewing a film I worked on, but this was a great film that you should check out when it actually gets screened in town.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Rheinmentall/Victoria 8
On a recent trip to the MoMA4 I had the chance to see a variety of wonderful short film works (this has nothing to do with film in Minnesota, but I’m rolling with it). As anyone who reads the blog will know I find Jeremy Blake’s work very interesting and I had the chance to see Angel Dust in person, which is entrancing and odd, with it’s digital reproduction of futuristic ski lodge.
This is snow flying6
But the piece that really caught me was Rodney Graham’s “Rheinmetall/Victoria 8.” It’s really a very simple piece. It sits alone, in a room of it’s own. The film is of a German Rheinmetall typewriter, an obsolete machine. It is projected by a 1961 Victoria 8 projector, in it’s time considered to be “the Rolls Royce”1 of film projectors. The Victoria 8 is a loud hulking machine, the centerpiece of the room. The film takes in different angles of the Rheinmetall, showing in it’s entirety, then in jarring angles, revealing the inner workings of the machine, it’s subtleties, it’s precision. The room is set up in such a fashion that the Victoria is the center of attention in the room, but convention tells us that the true focus of the room should be the film, but the loud clacking and mass of the projector demand attention. Slowly snow begins to fall on the typewriter. Accumulating in odd place, piling and cascading over the edges. Coming to neat, fine point on the keys, leaving a dusting around the edges. The film oddly entrancing, it’s oddness demands an attention of it’s own. As the film progresses the dual demands for attention, and the inability to satisfy both needs births a sort of anxiety. There is a battle going on in the room. The two machines are at war with each other2. Mutually dependent3, yet at odds. Two obsolete machines, allowing each other to exist, and demanding exclusively. I don’t wish to go into the repercussions of this or anything else, just that one fact about the piece was really powerful; it was an odd sensation, the kind of disquieting anxiety and dissatisfaction that art should produce.
1I have no idea who said this, but I read it somewhere else, so I’m citing something that I have no idea the origins of. But I did it, I didn’t say, so I’m citing it, here.
2So to speak.
3Look at me.
4I have posted this on my other blog as well. Why?5
5 Because I felt like it. And it makes it look like I post more often than I do. No one reads this anyway.
This is snow flying6
But the piece that really caught me was Rodney Graham’s “Rheinmetall/Victoria 8.” It’s really a very simple piece. It sits alone, in a room of it’s own. The film is of a German Rheinmetall typewriter, an obsolete machine. It is projected by a 1961 Victoria 8 projector, in it’s time considered to be “the Rolls Royce”1 of film projectors. The Victoria 8 is a loud hulking machine, the centerpiece of the room. The film takes in different angles of the Rheinmetall, showing in it’s entirety, then in jarring angles, revealing the inner workings of the machine, it’s subtleties, it’s precision. The room is set up in such a fashion that the Victoria is the center of attention in the room, but convention tells us that the true focus of the room should be the film, but the loud clacking and mass of the projector demand attention. Slowly snow begins to fall on the typewriter. Accumulating in odd place, piling and cascading over the edges. Coming to neat, fine point on the keys, leaving a dusting around the edges. The film oddly entrancing, it’s oddness demands an attention of it’s own. As the film progresses the dual demands for attention, and the inability to satisfy both needs births a sort of anxiety. There is a battle going on in the room. The two machines are at war with each other2. Mutually dependent3, yet at odds. Two obsolete machines, allowing each other to exist, and demanding exclusively. I don’t wish to go into the repercussions of this or anything else, just that one fact about the piece was really powerful; it was an odd sensation, the kind of disquieting anxiety and dissatisfaction that art should produce.
1I have no idea who said this, but I read it somewhere else, so I’m citing something that I have no idea the origins of. But I did it, I didn’t say, so I’m citing it, here.
2So to speak.
3Look at me.
4I have posted this on my other blog as well. Why?5
5 Because I felt like it. And it makes it look like I post more often than I do. No one reads this anyway.
6 In the film. Angel Dust.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Group Home
So I haven't been posting recently, but I've got a series set up and will be publishing with more frequency...this one is long overdue...
I saw this film early in the fall, in September, an independent film called Group Home, written and directed by Minneapolis filmmaker Ted Dewberry. Now, it nearly seems silly to me to be writing about this film in January when it had it's one-time-only screening in September, but I've been thinking about the film lately and I think that it's entirely appropriate, and timely, so eat it.
As I said, it was only screened once, and as far as I've been informed it will not be screened again anytime soon, so you'll probably never see it. I was turned on to it by two actors whom I'd previously worked with, both of which were involved in the project. I was vaguely intrigued. It's that odd brand of intrigue, the kind I feel when I'm invited to partake in something that isn't universal, something that is very esoteric and has a limited appeal. I didn't expect much, which is never a good stance to take when you know people involved. But as I was working one evening, a couple days before the screening, the Mr. Dewberry stopped in to the coffee shop, where I slave to pay the rent, to hang up a poster for the film. I mentioned to him that I knew a couple of people in the film and was thinking of going to the film. Now Ted Dewberry has made films before, but I think it's important to note that he is not a major figure even on a local scale, but he was incredibly friendly and willing to chat for a little while. I could immediately tell that he was a passionate man, the film was a labor of love, as they say. But more on this point later.
Now, I'd like to be kind, but to be honest with you the film is terrible. It has redeeming qualities, there were some great lines, and some humorous moments, and it certainly showed a desire to push the boundaries of comedy and what you can expect from a low-budget independent comedy. But it never really comes together. I won't spend time intricately picking the film apart, suffice to say that it wasn't very good and it likely will not be screened again. (though there was a decent attendance)
What is important here is what this film stands for. Though it wasn't that great, it was inspirational in it's own way. It was a reminder of why I'm passionate about art, and why I love film. Film isn't a standard art form, it's intricate. you can go into classic debates about authorship, but let's be honest, at some level a film has an author. But there is not author, especially on an independent film, without a host of people who are willing to devote
themselves (often for nothing in return) to see the fruition of this vision. As I talked with Mr. Dewberry at the cafe he told me how he essentially funded the whole thing himself, and how he'd been working on it for years, how he did almost all of the technical work and found a cast of dedicated actors (almost all of whom play two different roles in the film) who put in the time to make a feature film on a limited budget and tight schedule. It's rare that, as a viewer, not a reviewer or a participant, or even someone with a close friend involved, you get to truly see the passion of art, to partake in that one moment when everything comes together - the work is largely done and all that's left is to stop and appreciate all of the work that is left in the wake of vision.
The film has stuck with me, not because of brilliant plot, masterful cinematography or great performances, but because this group, particularly Mr. Dewberry, had no illusions about what had been created, he didn't pretend that this was a breakout indie film, but he had a vision and followed through because he wanted to create, to partake in the godly (whoa that's a strong word...) act of art. It was a powerful reminder of why we need to create, the stripped down human drive to create, not to be recognized (though surely that had played a role) but the need to feel that godly power of creation and to leave it behind.
I saw this film early in the fall, in September, an independent film called Group Home, written and directed by Minneapolis filmmaker Ted Dewberry. Now, it nearly seems silly to me to be writing about this film in January when it had it's one-time-only screening in September, but I've been thinking about the film lately and I think that it's entirely appropriate, and timely, so eat it.
As I said, it was only screened once, and as far as I've been informed it will not be screened again anytime soon, so you'll probably never see it. I was turned on to it by two actors whom I'd previously worked with, both of which were involved in the project. I was vaguely intrigued. It's that odd brand of intrigue, the kind I feel when I'm invited to partake in something that isn't universal, something that is very esoteric and has a limited appeal. I didn't expect much, which is never a good stance to take when you know people involved. But as I was working one evening, a couple days before the screening, the Mr. Dewberry stopped in to the coffee shop, where I slave to pay the rent, to hang up a poster for the film. I mentioned to him that I knew a couple of people in the film and was thinking of going to the film. Now Ted Dewberry has made films before, but I think it's important to note that he is not a major figure even on a local scale, but he was incredibly friendly and willing to chat for a little while. I could immediately tell that he was a passionate man, the film was a labor of love, as they say. But more on this point later.Now, I'd like to be kind, but to be honest with you the film is terrible. It has redeeming qualities, there were some great lines, and some humorous moments, and it certainly showed a desire to push the boundaries of comedy and what you can expect from a low-budget independent comedy. But it never really comes together. I won't spend time intricately picking the film apart, suffice to say that it wasn't very good and it likely will not be screened again. (though there was a decent attendance)
What is important here is what this film stands for. Though it wasn't that great, it was inspirational in it's own way. It was a reminder of why I'm passionate about art, and why I love film. Film isn't a standard art form, it's intricate. you can go into classic debates about authorship, but let's be honest, at some level a film has an author. But there is not author, especially on an independent film, without a host of people who are willing to devote themselves (often for nothing in return) to see the fruition of this vision. As I talked with Mr. Dewberry at the cafe he told me how he essentially funded the whole thing himself, and how he'd been working on it for years, how he did almost all of the technical work and found a cast of dedicated actors (almost all of whom play two different roles in the film) who put in the time to make a feature film on a limited budget and tight schedule. It's rare that, as a viewer, not a reviewer or a participant, or even someone with a close friend involved, you get to truly see the passion of art, to partake in that one moment when everything comes together - the work is largely done and all that's left is to stop and appreciate all of the work that is left in the wake of vision.
The film has stuck with me, not because of brilliant plot, masterful cinematography or great performances, but because this group, particularly Mr. Dewberry, had no illusions about what had been created, he didn't pretend that this was a breakout indie film, but he had a vision and followed through because he wanted to create, to partake in the godly (whoa that's a strong word...) act of art. It was a powerful reminder of why we need to create, the stripped down human drive to create, not to be recognized (though surely that had played a role) but the need to feel that godly power of creation and to leave it behind.
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