Wednesday, December 28, 2011

ELISHA SAPHIRO




Elisha Shapiro (aka Nihilist Field Marshal Shapiro) is a Los Angeles-based media prankster and conceptual artist. He has been creating his neo-dadaesque public spectacles for the past 25 years and first came to public attention with his 1984 Nihilist Olympics. The Olympics were followed by a Nihilist campaign for President in 1988 and a Nihilist campaign for LA County Sheriff in 1994. Nihilism Expo--a World's Fair for Nihilists was his project, staged in 1999. He currently hosts a monthly cable TV show called Nihilists' Corner. In 2006, Shapiro was the Nihilist Party Candidate for Governor of California.

http://nihilists.net

Monday, December 26, 2011

Luther Price




Luther Price grew up in Revere, Massachusetts with his sister Sally. Together the siblings would obsessively watch daytime broadcasts of woman’s melodramas on their black and white TV—films like Imitation of Life or Mildred Pierce—re-enacting the histrionics on a reel-to-reel recorder. This obsessive kind of self-dramatization and hysterical re-enactment continued throughout Price’s career, first through the various, self-invented monikers that he adopted while earning his undergraduate degree in Fine Arts at MassArt (personas included LA, Laija Brie Aethy, Brigk Aethy, Brick, Fag and Tom Rhoads), and then in his later performative revisitations of traumatic incidents like a gunshot wound, deaths in the family and childhood nightmares.

Larry Paradiso, Laija Brie Aethy, LA, Brick and Fag were all predominantly sculpture and performance artists with different logic structures built into each. These characters were not performances per se. Rather, the artist would form personalities in order to execute his fine art projects, often assuming these characters’ mannerisms or affectations full time. Laija Brie went to Nicaragua on a cultural exchange program in 1985 and adapted to his surroundings, becoming Brigk Aethy. There Brigk was accidentally shot at close range by his 15-year-old bodyguard, a devastating wound forcing his return to Boston by emergency means and leaving him teetering between life and death. Eat Fuck Live Shit Want Need was a sculptural installation that the artist created in immediate response once he regained some semblance of health. Permanently scarred, Brigk was fundamentally changed by the event for years to come. The artist turned to filmmaking as an extension of his sculptural practice, inventing the persona Tom Rhoads to plumb his childhood traumas, particularly the circumstances surrounding the suicide of his aunt Sally at age of 23 on the day of Price’s birth.

“Tom Rhoads was a nice guy who would buy you an ice cream cone,” Price explained, an adult manifestation of his haunted childhood. Rhoads made frightening Super 8mm visions of a fecund homecoming, dressing as his mother in Warm Broth, 1987-88, and using those original reel-to-reel performances with his sister for Green, 1988. These early performance films were so startling in their raw vitality they were championed by filmmakers, curators and critics alike, who responded to their urgency of vision and alarming psychological complexity, frequently citing the use of Super 8mm as a medium to reconstruct memory or a traumatic past. As Rhoads evolved, it became clear the work was becoming too harsh, too brutal for such a childlike filmmaker. Tom Rhoads started Sodom in 1988, but the artist soon realized, “[Tom] couldn’t have made Sodom.” So cleft was that film between such opposing forces, he was forced to invent his longest-running persona, Luther Price, out of his apotheosis of good—Martin Luther King Jr.—and that of evil—Vincent Price.

The resulting film and filmmaker would make an immense impact on the avant-garde film community of Boston and the world over. Sodom is extreme, as horrifying as it is whimsical. Made of found gay pornography and biblical disaster footage, the voracious boys of the porn footage are sutured into sequences of cataclysm via a rudimentary hole-punch technique. Halos circle these victims of dogma, victims of plague, victims of hedonism as they dance in a sea of religious calamity, celebrating and damning, all in the same frame. Sodom sparked a zealous coup among film programmers and audiences, who were fiercely divided by an artist who some regarded an heir to Kenneth Anger and Jean Genet, others, a homophobic zealot. Sodom provides no easy answers for viewer. With its gorgeous organic aesthetics, hypnotic soundtrack, gruesome and graphic depictions, the piece performs a harsh rebuttal to the ideals of contemporary gay lifestyle.

Price continued, prolifically producing two strains of film work: his performative films carried on from previous efforts, with the filmmaker embodying physically and emotionally grueling characters, as seen in the feature-length A, 1995, and the Clown and Meat series, 1992-94 and 1990-1999. The latter series revisits his traumatic shooting and later the loss of his entire family to cancer in the span of one year—a body of work which includes Ritual 629, 1999. Price’s other strain assembled found footage, imposing an emotional sense upon this chaotic world for future, foreign scrutiny. Early works in this vain included Bottle Can, 1993, In Black and White and Jelly Fish Sandwich, both 1994, pieces in which Price builds new associative structures of logic, “an attempt to put history into time capsules and send them into space, in the hope that someone will get the right message,” Lia Gangitano writes, “However, as the films’ scrambled forms suggest, the message has degenerated, history has become a series of misdirections.”

Price finished Me Gut No Dog Dog in 1995. A found footage film that culls army recruitment propaganda, gay pornography, family home movies and some amateur Karate narrative, Price uses the barrage of leisure-time footage and outmoded training films to build a personal past. Price fascinatingly coagulates these random scenes into a work recreating his childhood dread of the Vietnam draft. The impending horror of this institutionalized violence is layered against his dormant homosexuality and the army’s homosocial climate, a conflicted fear and thrill of being caught or forced into brute sexual encounters. The film recounts a loss of innocence, with (as in many of Price’s films) the voice of Karen Carpenter ringing its close, as she coos a pathetic rendition of The Beatles’ “Ticket To Ride.” Children file down communion isles as a pretty teen slams his head on a pillow, bracing against some aggressive, off-screen penetration and the tune’s chorus lyric, “He’s got a ticket to ride, and he don’t care,” suddenly acquires an ominous, thanatotic drive.

Due to duplication issues brought about by the explicit content of Me Gut No Dog Dog, Price has since only produced unique films, hand splicing, painting or warping existent footage in one-of-a-kind cycles of work. These hands-on processes are obsessive and laborious for Price, who still considers himself more a sculptor than filmmaker. Never one to linger on any one process, each new body of work almost becomes a skillful disavowal from its predecessor. The Inklbot series (1998-2008) is the result of the laborious hand-painting techniques, often working from nothing but clear leader, while the Biscuits series re-edits 13 identical 16mm copies of footage shot in an African American retirement home in Boston to arrive at a more emotionally accurate documentation of these living situations. Silk and Ribbon Candy (the latter, part of the Ribbons series) belong to this decade of abundant production. These works show the filmmaker re-creating contexts and revising the past, remolding existent images and narratives in lieu of adding to the din. Price has worked in this manner for the past decade, Ritual 629 being one of the last original footage pieces he has created. Not that this slows him. The filmmaker, who still lives in Revere, produces 10 or so films a year. —Bradford Nordeen

Friday, November 11, 2011

The Encyclopedia of Fictional Artists



The Encyclopedia of Fictional Artists, edited by Koen Brams & Krist Gruijthuijsen
published by JP|Ringier, co-produced by Kunstverein Amsterdam and de Appel arts centre



The Encyclopedia of Fictional Artists
Editor: Koen Brams
Contributors: Inge Arteel, Eddy Betttens, Ralph Bisshops, Koen Brams, Koen Broucke, Geert Buelens, Bert Bultinck, Philippe Codde, Martin de Haan, Alpita de Jong, Pietha de Voogd, Ingeborg Dusar, Bart Eeckhout, Arja Firet, Christien Franken, Serge Heirbrant, Rokus Hofstede, Steven Jacobs, Paul Janse, Monica Jansen, Liliana Jansen-Bella, Bart Keunen, Sven Lütticken, Piet Meeuse, Bart Meuleman, Myriam Pelgrims, Jürgen Pieters, Dirk Pültau, Catherine Robberechts, Maarten Steenmeijer, Jan Struelens, Roger Van den Borre, Bart Van den Bossche, Barber van de Pol, Jan Pieter van der Sterre, Dirk Van Hulle, Peter Venmans, Paul Verhaeghen, Kaat Verleye, Françoise Vervondel, Gerben Wynia

The Addition
Editor: Krist Gruijthuijsen
Contributors: Alan Abel, Aninomian Press, Bik van der Pol, Michael Blum, Heman Chong, George Cup & Steve Elliott, Keren Cytter, Chris Evans (i.c.w. Will Bradley & Tirdad Zolghadr), Ryan Gander, Gruppo Parole e Immagini, Will Holder, John Fare Estate, K.D., Matthieu Laurette, Gabriel Lester, Benoît Maire, Oscar Neuestern, Adam Pendleton, Michael Portnoy & Olivier Sudden, Roee Rosen, Alexandre Singh, Uqbar Foundation, Barbara Visser

Design: Roosje Klap
ISBN: 978-3-03764-123-1

www.kunstverein.it/

France Fiction


http://france.fiction.free.fr/

bruce mclean







'Artist artist there is a sculpture in your body'

Friday, October 21, 2011

VOTE VOTE VOTE


First International Opinion Poll in SILVER STAMMER !

After a lecture on 'The 10 most ... Pop Music Video since I got YouTube', I decided to come back to the web, my personal web, and to propose it to my sharing community.

ENJOY and VOTE YOUR FAVOURITE!

J.


For the image thanks to Niccolo!

do you do you?

Bob Fosse and Billie Jean



thanks to Francesco

Bob Fosse the pleasure of quoting in anticipation!

La Bionda



thanks to chiara

Holger Czukay Photo Song

Λένα Πλάτωνος



thanks to Samon

Wendy Sulca



Para el norte, centro , sur....
thanks to Manuel!

Jon Lajoie

Jan Terri

Bevi stu chinotto! W Milan!

grrrrr tigresa!

Thursday, October 20, 2011

Single e accoppiati

a fianco
a posto
a proposito
al di là
al di sopra, al disopra
al di sotto, al disotto
all’incirca
d’accordo
d’altronde
in quanto
l’altr’anno
per cui
poc’anzi
quant’altro
senz’altro
tra l’altro
tutt’altro
tutt’e due
tutt’oggi
tutt’uno


abbastanza
affatto
allora
allorché
almeno
altrimenti
ancorché
apposta
appunto
benché
bensì
chissà
davanti
davvero
dinanzi, dinnanzi
dopodomani
dovunque
ebbene
eppure
fabbisogno
finché
finora
giacché
infatti
inoltre
invano
invero
laggiù
malgrado
neanche
nemmeno
neppure
nonché
oppure
ossia
ovvero
ovverosia
perciò
perfino
pertanto
piuttosto
poiché
pressappoco
purtroppo
quaggiù
qualcosa
qualora
quassù
sebbene
seppure
sicché
siccome
sissignore
soprattutto
sottosopra
talmente
talora
talvolta
tuttavia
tuttora

Marios!


Chiedo venia ma, dev'essere un vizio generazionale, ogni volta in cui trovo Buddha sulla mia strada gli sparo. Metaforicamente, s'intende.

Chiunque non si pensi come Dio (indefinibile, illimitato, onnicomprensivo, transitante da una definizione all'altra nel desiderio di non avere definizioni) sta, purtroppo, nell'armadio di chi dichiara di voler distruggere gli armadi. Non basta ripetere ad oltranza, come Lutero, "Non sum" ("Non sono", ed anche "Non esisto") per sparire come uomo, donna, gay, lesbica, ecc. agli occhi propri o degli altri. Il perfetto "queer" dovrebbe stare sospeso in un mondo iperuranio in cui (ironia della sorte, quando si continua a scambiare le parole con le cose!) proprio in nome dell'inclusività totale di ciò che sceglie di essere di volta in volta, non può entrare in relazione con nessuno. Se non posso definirmi, e quindi non sono distinguibile da nessun altro, giacché l'altro parimenti non è definibile, con chi entro in rapporto?

E, contestualmente, vi pare che stiamo parlando di "esperienze reali", di qualcosa che potete riconoscere (e quindi, un'altra volta, definire!) nella vostra vita?

Non credo sia un caso se i teorici e le teoriche queer si interessano in maniera precisissima e dettagliata più degli oggetti e dei feticci utilizzabili in campo sessuale che della relazione sessuale stessa (l'affettività non pare essere per loro un campo di indagine, e nemmeno una questione degna di nota, neppure se interagente con il sesso).

In conclusione, contesto il fatto che assumere un'identità sia per forza prescrittivo in termini negativi: se putacaso io esercito la professione di dentista, ed al "queer" fa male un dente cariato, forse sarà molto trasgressivo e rivoluzionario dichiarare che, il giorno in cui lui/lei mi si presenta, io sono una callista e non posso farci niente, ma è molto probabile che il queer si incazzi giustamente di brutto e cerchi un/una dentista meno rivoluzionario/a e più professionale…

Un nuovo concetto di universale, anche se ora non assume più l'immagine di un diamante purissimo ma di una mappa "contaminata" a macchia di leopardo, non mi serve a nulla: almeno fino a quando io intenderò liberare me stessa assieme al resto del genere umano, e non liberarmi da me stessa (farò anche schifo a qualcuno/a, ma è stato solo l'amore che sono riuscita ad avere per me a creare quel ponte verso gli altri/le altre che io chiamo "amore del mondo").

Dire: oggi sono gay, domani sono etero, dopodomani sono una donna (e fra tre giorni sarò un polipo trisessuato di Urano) per cui mi comporto di conseguenza, fa esattamente quello che i queer vorrebbero sfuggire: prescrive comportamenti immodificabili.

Perché se quando sono gay vesto firmato e mi scopo Mario, quando sono etero vesto in jeans e scopo con sua sorella (ma ci riesco solo se penso a Mario), quando sono donna metto il migliore dei miei baby doll e scopo Mario e quando sono un polipo trisessuato Mario vorrebbe cacciarmi nella pentola del bollito, io sono (al massimo) un bisessuale con forte propensione omosessuale e una grande fantasia: ma una fantasia non bastante a mettere in discussione i ruoli socio-culturali ascritti alle categorie menzionate.

Io avrò in testa una gerarchia per cui un gay si deve comportare così ed una donna cosà, ma non mi verrà neppure in mente di discutere se questo sia vero, falso, opportuno, ecc.: la mia "liberazione" consisterà nel passare da una definizione data ad un'altra.

E in effetti, se io non posso neppure definire me stesso, cosa volete che perda tempo ad indagare generi, ruoli, categorie? Ci sono, ed io mi limito (proprio, LIMITO) a passarci in mezzo recitando ora un personaggio, ora l'altro.

Sapete, l'unico problema che ho è che i vicini di casa non lo capiscono, e ci chiamano "froci", a me e a Mario…

Tratto da:
http://www.culturagay.it/cg/saggio.php?id=90

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

Waters and PPP

FEATURE: John Waters On Salò, or the 120 Days of Sodom

Oct - 31 | By: Josh Nelson | no comments.

To say that director John Waters has a fondness for excess is perhaps to put things mildly. For the man William S. Burroughs once dubbed “the pope of trash”, Waters has carved out a reputation through his filmmaking for transgressing sexual norms and embracing social taboo. And while the early extremes of Multiple Maniacs (1970) and Pink Flamingos (1972) have mellowed to more playful fare (A Dirty Shame 2004), Waters’ provocateur tendencies remain.

It should come as little surprise then, that when Toronto Bell Lightbox curator Noah Cowan invited Waters to discuss a work from the Essential Cinema program, that the director immediately gravitated towards Pier Paolo Pasolini’s Salò, or the 120 Days of Sodom (1975). As Waters has managed throughout his career, Pasolini’s final film continues to inspire controversy, even after thirty-five years.

Introducing Salò, Waters begins by pointing out the film’s notorious reputation for “emptying out theatres in record time”. By contemporary standards though, perhaps it’s not the most discomforting film he’s seen. Having just watched Rodrigo Cortés’ Buried, a film he describes as “horrifying”, Waters concludes, “It’s the worst date movie ever”. Then, with a hint of a wry smile, he returns to Salò, “This ain’t a great date movie either”.

Based on the Marquis De Sade’s The 120 Days of Sodom and relocated to a Northern Italian setting towards the end of WWII, Pasolini’s “flash of inspiration” (as he referred to it) has been banned at one time or another in almost every country. Waters explains that Pasolini had “simply planned to replace the word ‘God’ as Sade used it, with the word ‘Power’”. Like Pasolini, Waters too confesses an affinity for the work of De Sade.

The Marquis De Sade was incredibly important to me growing up. I went to Catholic school and they told me if I just shut up I could read, so I read The 120 Days of Sodom. But the were so stupid they didn’t know what I was reading. And they would say, ‘Isn’t it nice, John is reading.’ And Grove Press really saved my life by putting that book out. It was originally banned by Napoleon. That’s how long this has been causing trouble. And smuggled out of jail when he wrote it on prison toilet paper. That sounds like something I would make up. But it’s really true.

It was such a big influence on me that I bought this record. [Waters holds up a red vinyl cover] This is a 6-sided LP where actors read The 120 Days of Sodom. And I’m embarrassed to admit, we used to listen to this on LSD. [laughs] Which really was weird. You know ‘cos it’s really long and graphic. And I’ve always wanted to go to Lacoste. That’s the town where the Marquis De Sade’s ruins of his castle are. It’s the only thing they have in that town. And I wonder, is there a gift shop? Are there T-Shirts? I don’t know.

Given the setting of the film and its depiction of escalating sexual violence and brutality, Salò is commonly read as an allegorical depiction of WWII fascism. But Pasolini, a self-confessed Catholic homosexual communist intended the film to have a broader significance. Murdered just prior to the film’s release, Pasolini wasn’t merely concerned with the expression of fascism that occurred during the war but also with its contemporary manifestations. On this Waters notes, “Right before he died he said that he detested power in today’s world more than anything.”

So could a film like Salò be made today? Waters doesn’t believe so, and not simply because of the graphic scenes of violence. Referring to the film’s production he relates how:

…all the kids who played the teenagers that are kidnapped and abused [in Salò] were 14 to 18 years old, which is highly illegal in any country in the world. But the main problem they said when making the movie was to keep them from laughing, that they would burst out laughing right in the middle of the most hideous sex scenes because Pasolini didn’t tell them what was coming next, which is even more shocking. They would show up, and [Impersonating Pasolini] “Today, well you have to eat shit” and they would say, “What?!” But they said he was gentle with the actors. I love that. [laughs] And that the mood was jovial and immature. It was like Summer Camp. And they knew the comic quality of the film. And is it funny? Well maybe yes in a way. But imagine their memories today, ‘When I was 14 I was naked in Salo’. I wish I was. I wish my parents had given me to Pasolini to be in that movie. [laughs]

Beyond the film’s excesses or politics, and perhaps in spite of the shocking violence, Waters cites Salò’s ending as the most profoundly moving aspect of the work.

It has my favourite end of any movie I’ve ever seen. It’s incredibly beautiful and simple. And I pray to Pasolini. If I ever have to pray to a Catholic saint it will always be him.

After the screening, Waters sat down with TIFF Bell Lightbox curator Noah Cowan for a Q&A session in which they discussed among other things; Salò, the influence of Pasolini’s work upon Waters’ career, Jackass 3D, torture-porn, film furniture, and the work of Gregg Araki.

COWAN: When we approached you about doing a talk here at BELL Lightbox you really zeroed in on this film as one you wanted to discuss. Of all the Essential Cinema, the essential one hundred titles, what is it about this that made it the title to see?

WATERS: Well a lot of them are awful respectable, the other one hundred. So I was immediately looking for something that could cause a little bit of trouble more than anything. When I saw this I thought, ‘Well what else am I gonna pick than that, you know? True Grit just ain’t up my alley, right. And I actually think that it is a great film, and a beautiful film, and an amazing film. And yes it’s a shocker but to me it was just a film that I remembered. I watched this movie this week cause I hadn’t seen it since it first came out and I remember seeing it at the New York Film Festival when it opened and just being amazed at the stunned reaction by the people and when I saw it again this time I thought, ‘well it’s still pretty far out there’. It hasn’t mellowed in that can after the last twenty years. And I’m a huge Pasolini fan, and you know I love the fact that I’m maybe the only person who ever noticed that Pasolini loved boys that have pimples. He loved pimples. And so I did a whole art piece where I just cut out pimples from all his movies and put them in a collage. I always watch pimples in his movies and there were some in this too. I wanted to make sure everyone knew about that; the reason I took the job.

COWAN: You’ve just published this book about these great influences in your life, and while Pasolini doesn’t feature as a character in it, is there something about this film and Pasolini and his career that has an affinity with the work that you do?

WATERS: I don’t know about my work, I’m a little too humble because Pasolini to me is such a great filmmaker and when I saw Teorema (1968) the first time round it was such a great shock. You know, the levitating and having someone come and have sex with the whole family. Then he leaves and people levitate and stuff. And I grew up with all his movies from the very beginning. Mamma Rosa (1962), [that’s a] great one. So I followed his career and everything and I always just thought he was such a powerful intellectual that also at the same time was against in a way the left-wing in the 60s because he believed that the policemen were the real blue collar, and so his politics were very, very complicated. And I thought that you know…I don’t really have any tattoos, but you should almost sometimes get his scars tattooed [on you], what happened to him, because he is a saint to me, a true Catholic saint. He is a role model to me without any irony in any way. And really, really a great filmmaker but not only was his film work great but he wrote books and was a poet, an intellectual and was just trying to live a life of dignity but it’s very hard when you’re like that. And his sexual tastes obviously led him into trouble. And there’s a great movie called Who Killed Pasolini (1995) I don’t know if you’ve seen it, and it’s pretty good, and I actually don’t believe he was killed for politics. A lot of people think that. There’s a lot of conspiracy theories that think he was. I think he just had a really bad night.

COWAN: There was, I guess the hustler who was presumed guilty of killing him after thirty years recanted it and said it was all guys from the south talking about this dirty communist…

WATERS: Yeah but he only served about nine years. He’s been out for a long time. He was really ugly too. I’m telling you he coulda done better. Maybe he liked that.

COWAN: I’m fortunate to be on your Christmas Card list and there was a Pasolini themed one a few years ago and I actually thought it was the killer.

WATERS: No, it wasn’t the killer, he was real ugly. Pino the Frog. That was his nickname. That wasn’t cos he was a hunk. He was a troll.

COWAN: There’s something about the trespasses of this film and Teorema, The Canterbury Tales (1972), and The Decameron (1971), that have a sense of play in them, that feels like he’s pushing buttons. It does make me think of Pink Flamingos (1972) sometimes.

WATERS: Well Pink Flamingos of course has the comparison of the shit eating you know. Mine was real. And Johnny Knoxville would’ve done it if I didn’t. But [Salò] was all done with chocolate. The whole thing, a fine chocolate person did it. But that scene, I love that he didn’t tell the actors what was happening. How bout the girl that ate it? [Impersonating Pasolini] ‘You, come over here. We’re gonna shoot this today’ Whaaat?! But you look at that film sometimes and that’s why it was linked together sometimes and Le Grande Bouffe (1973) another movie, did you ever see that, which is an insanely great movie about people that eat themselves to death, actually. And that was compared a lot too because it came all around the same time. Pink Flamingos came out later. But there is humour in Salò, certainly those women telling those great stories in those evening gowns coming down, is pretty hilarious in a way. I mean it’s grim and it’s horrible and that guy, that horrible guy, the cross-eyed one. He’s the most amazing. I used to go to Stadt for Christmas and in the hotel there was a guy who looked exactly like him and a friend and I called him ‘Salo’. That was his nickname. ‘Did Salo get your wake up call?’ Because he was totally cross-eyed and he’d be like, ‘Gooood Mooorning’ and you’d think ‘oh my God’. We’d be so afraid he was going to show us his asshole. [laughs]

COWAN: I think that’s a great time to open it up to the audience actually.

WATERS: Does anyone have a ‘Salo’ story for us?

COWAN: We’ll start with the questions…

AUDIENCE: I felt that a key part of the film was when the person says, ‘Why should I love my mother because she had a few moments of pleasure?’ And I felt that that was really behind the rage he must’ve felt for a very unloving mother. And the women, the older women, really had control over everyone telling the stories so my feeling is Teorema was brilliant, [but] this to me was an acting out of terrible pain that he seemed to have been feeling and what he needed was someone who he could really clear the issues with his mother about. That feels at the heart of everything.

WATERS: That could be. I don’t know that much. I’ve read the biography of him but I can’t remember really about his relationship with his mother. I don’t know that.

COWAN: He’s an Italian man. Chances are…

WATERS: Yeah, and he hung around with Maria Callas. They were great buddies. So it could be very, very true. It’s certainly a movie that’s about issues obviously with women, but you’re right, the women seem the strong ones in there when they come in. But it’s also in the end about fascism. It’s so true about power. It is like the Nazis. The Nazis did have things like that, gay and straight. Did you ever see the movie The Wannsee Conference (1984)? It’s in the real-time the dinner party where they plan the Final Solution. And it is horrifying. That should be a double feature with this movie.

COWAN: I think the thing about Salò of course is that it’s rage if often talked about coming from his perspective as a communist and as a poet.

WATERS: Sometimes that was hard to see in some of it…in the wedding scene.

AUDIENCE: Just wondering John if anything actually offends you when you see films? Like after this one, does something like Pearl Harbour drive you crazy? [laughs]

WATERS: Certain romantic comedies offend me a lot.

AUDIENCE: Like Bridget Jones’ Diary? I don’t think that should be shown to children.

WATERS: No, I don’t say bad things about people. My specialty is praising things that other people don’t like. [laughs] It is really. I have a hard time sometimes with big gross-out Hollywood comedies that to me aren’t funny. I mean gross is easy but if it’s not changing how you see something…Now, I love The Hangover. Well I did like it. I thought it was a really good script. But I have most trouble with romantic comedies. They’re the ones that leave me the most cold. Yeah. I have a tough time with that.

COWAN: It’s interesting because we were talking about Jackass 3D at dinner a lot. Do you think there’s a connection between the anarchy or anarchism that that film exhibits and the wild, out there nature of Salò?

WATERS: Well there’s anarchy certainly in this film (Salò), but it’s fascist anarchy. Someone said fascists are the true anarchists. Well in a scary way I guess they could be. But Johnny Knoxville to me, and the new Jackass movie and all the Jackass movies are completely anarchic because they’re movies that seem like gay snuff films made for heterosexual blue-collar families. [laughs] That’s anarchy to me.

COWAN: Precisely.

AUDIENCE: When I was watching the movie I was kind of struck by the fact that I was not really all that shocked. I’m kind of a weird person. I watched Fast Food Nation and at the end when they have the live cow come in to the slaughterhouse, get killed, skinned etc. and I thought, ‘I want a pot roast’. When I was watching this movie and I was watching the acts and thinking of the fascist parallels and all that but I kept going back to the furniture. And I was thinking ‘that is fantastic art deco furniture. I want all that furniture’.

WATERS: It is.

AUDIENCE: Do you ever find that kind of object fixation?

WATERS: Yes, have you ever seen the website Lurid Digs (www.luriddigs.com)? Look it up when you get home tonight. It’s all porn but it’s only criticising the couches and the people’s furniture. It is hilarious. And I’ve always said if you don’t like a movie just watch the lamps. Or look at the couches through the whole movie. And in this it was a beautiful set. And I thought the sound effect of those bombers were just so great, those bomber planes all through it. But yes, I understand what you’re saying.

COWAN: Actually a lot of it is still together. We did a gallery show of Essential Cinema objects and that crazy big lamp in the atrium and it still exists in a crate somewhere.

WATERS: But you were telling me at dinner that I didn’t know, that they tried to find the kids that were in it and no one would talk. Which I always thought [they’d be like], ‘Oh, we had so much fun that day, when I was a dog!’ But you said that the ones they found didn’t want to talk.

COWAN: I wonder in retrospect whether maybe because of the controversy of the film and who knows, maybe they got teased.

WATERS: Well, imagine if you were in that movie and then you go to your prom. You know, somebody’s got something to say. But the movie, was it banned in Italy? I think it was. It was banned in Canada, right?

COWAN: Yeah, it was banned here in Ontario. It was province by province. It wasn’t banned in Quebec. It was banned in Ontario for a long time. It was part of the horrible legacy of the censorship here in Ontario where major films by major directors whether it was Bertolucci or Bellocchio or Louis Malle, were banned in the 70s and 80s seemingly once a week. But I think Salò we were allowed to see it. Certainly the Ontario Film Institute, which pre-dated TIFF Cinematheque, were able to show it in the 80s. So [the ban] must’ve been lifted through something.

AUDIENCE: It could not be shown in public but a lot of people as a matter of fact went to Ottawa where it was shown in the National Library.

WATERS: So if it had proper intellectual sponsorship that was okay. You just couldn’t see it at a drive-in. [laughs]

AUDIENCE: I’ve read in your book that you only like drinking on Fridays. Today’s Saturday but I’d love to take you for a drink.

WATERS: Oh thank you so much. I always, when I’m here – what’s that male strip club?

COWAN: Remington’s

WATERS: Remington’s, right. I always go there. I had the big party when A Dirty Shame premiered at the festival here, for all the executives, and it was there. And it was hilarious. With all the wives, and they were horrified. Selma Blair told the story on The Tonight Show, and she said, ‘Well it was all, I thought, gay men, but they were naked and it looked like some of them liked me’. And she told that on The Tonight Show which I thought was great. So you know, I always go back there. It’s my kinda place.

AUDIENCE: Compared to this, what’s your opinion on the torture porn genre? You have Saw and Eli Roth’s Hostel, and people just go to it in droves.

WATERS: Yeah I’m not against it at all. I know that they just did I Spit On Your Grave, one I remember from a long time ago. I personally am not so moved by them, but I’m for it. I’m not against it for censorship. Even the stupidest person doesn’t go see Saw and say, ‘Are those people really injured?’ Everybody knows that’s fake. Even the dumbest moviegoer in the country knows it’s fake. I have a tough time watching real violence on the news. If they show somebody being shot I can’t look at that. But fake violence I have no problem with. But I do have problem with watching real sex or murder. I don’t wanna watch it. I don’t wanna see documentaries where they shoot people in the head. I don’t wanna see that. But I don’t mind seeing Saw or I Spit on Your Grave and all that. It’s fine. Horror movies go through so many stages. You know they went through a stage where it finally had to be funny, when the Scream movies started, and then that was used up so it had to go back to being really scary again. And that seems to be kind of ending, the torture porn. So what’s next? What’s horror gonna be next?

COWAN: Do people actually send you lots of crazy real life things, because of your transgressive reputation?

WATERS: No, to be honest people give me movies and I never watch them because I’ve got a hundred of them sitting there and then I work ten hour days. What am I gonna watch ten movies? [To Cowan] You know more than anyone. No they don’t send me real footage of terrible things and if they do I don’t look at them so I don’t know. But I certainly don’t encourage that. [laughs]

AUDIENCE: Is there footage of [Salò] that we have never seen?

WATERS: That B-roll? I have never seen, you know on the DVD, extended footage or scenes that were cut out. I have never seen that.

COWAN: We think that there’s other material. Probably not extensive amounts, because of how constrictive the shooting would’ve been, with the kids and everything. But we, as part of this exhibition we had downstairs there was actually original contact sheets from the on-set photography. And a lot of the famous stuff like the shit, the dog stuff, was in the contact sheets. But there were a few photographs which weren’t in the film. So whether they were just rehearsed or they were shot or not we don’t really know.

WATERS: And how bout the costumes? That amazing dresss?

COWAN: We looked around but we couldn’t find any. I’m surprised though. A lot of Italian costumes were made as replicas after the fact. So Claudia Cardinale’s dress from The Leopard (1963) was made within three months of making the film. But they wanted to make it in order to use it as promotional. I don’t know whether she’d sweat through the other one.

WATERS: Or they had three of them usually?

COWAN: Exactly. But I guess they didn’t really want to make replicas of anything from this movie. So they probably didn’t qualify for that.

WATERS: And the fact that he was murdered right before it came out really put another dampener on it.

COWAN: Yeah, so it wouldn’t be celebrated.

AUDIENCE: This version that we saw I think is around 115 minutes long, is like a half an hour shorter than the version that premiered.

WATERS: Really?

AUDIENCE: The first version was around 145 minutes long.

COWAN: Yeah, but that was cut immediately.

WATERS: I don’t think it was ever released that way.

COWAN: No, it was never released that way. It was actually just a kind of rough-cut of the movie.

AUDIENCE: I was just going to say, ‘Have you ever considered making a sequel?’

WATERS: I think we should all come next time and wear the costumes like Rocky Horror. And yell out the lines. [laughs] I do that with 4 Months, 3 Weeks, 2 Days. [laughs] I love abortion movies.

AUDIENCE: Salò doesn’t hold back at any moment in the film. We’re privy to everything except at the very end when we see the killing through the binoculars. So why do you think that is?

WATERS: I think that through the binoculars the violence is at the end more voyeurism. And it’s more evil because you’ve ordered this but you’re not there. You get to watch it truly as evil voyeurism, masturbatory pornography rather than having to do it. If you were the killer it would be in a [different] way. This is even one more remove. You’re ordering it up to watch it, which is probably even more evil in a way. I think that is probably why.

COWAN: It’s funny we were talking to Atom Egoyan and he was saying he can’t watch the last twenty minutes of the movie. Like everything else in the film he has no problem with. It’s obviously affecting and disturbing but he just can’t watch that last twenty minutes because there’s something about that extra remove, the iciness of it that he just finds incredibly disturbing.

WATERS: Except when they dance though, at the end. That’s so touching. It’s really beautiful. Did anyone have a ‘Salo’ story for us? I was hoping one person could tell us a ‘Salo’ story of their own.

AUDIENCE: I have one.

WATERS: Speak loudly so we can all hear.

AUDIENCE: My uncle’s a general practitioner in Nova Scotia and about fifteen years ago my cousin either through an act of defiance or some Freudian retention issue you know, refused to take a shit for a few days. And it was building and becoming such a great degree of acrimony throughout the entire household, and I think it was like Christmas Eve, and they were just having some wine and just kind of looking at each other and he’s like, ‘Why don’t we give him an enema?’ And being a general practitioner he has all the actual stuff to be able to do one. And they bring him downstairs and they give him one. And he’s just like defiant as hell. And then they just leave it and then give him another one. And it was one of those great happenstances of poor judgements, the dishwasher was propped open ajar and you know, his trajectory was quite solid, so…needless to say…

WATERS: Keep going. [laughs]

COWAN: You wanna take notes, John?

WATERS: [Makes quick masturbatory gesture]

AUDIENCE: [laughs] Am I done mortifying you guys?

WATERS: No. What happened? The end?

COWAN: He sprayed into the dishwasher.

WATERS: Oh, he sprayed into the dishwasher? That’s a good one. Anybody have another one? [pauses] I’ll tell one. You know once I thought up tea-bagging in my movies so I thought, ‘Well, we need more new sex acts’. So I thought at Christmas we need some. So everybody’s heard of a pearl necklace? So I think we should have a string of lights. That’s when you eat multi-coloured vegetables and have multi-coloured loads and that’s the string of lights. And then once you’ve done that, everybody’s heard of the facial? Well in the winter, you live in Toronto, you get a facial and then you go outside and you let it freeze, and you come back in and call it a snowman. Merry Christmas! [laughs]

COWAN: [In a deep voice] Snowman! [pause] Check in at Remington’s for that one.

AUDIENCE: My question has to do with the fact that there are sort of rare depictions of seeming pleasure or consensual sex in this film. Like the isolate acts where the guy is with the woman –

WATERS: And dies for it!

AUDIENCE: And the two women breaking the rules. And I was just wondering how you felt given that everything else is sort of about displeasure, sadism, and non-consensual sex?

WATERS: Well that’s very De Sade. The one normal thing you’re punished for the most. Where everything that’s the most perverted, worst stuff is rewarded. So Justine in the novel, she was good and everything bad happened to her. Juliet was evil and [gets] all the good stuff. So it was always backwards. That was what Sade was, really. Talk about famous. His name became a sex act. I’m jealous really. And that became the humour of it almost. That is was so terrible and so crazy that nothing ever was rewarded for good. It was the opposite of karma basically. And so that’s why I think there is some humour in there. Because it’s so ludicrous and so crazy, and so I think that is why it is so effective to me.

AUDIENCE: John, I bought your book today. And I have two words for you: Summerfall Winterspring.

WATERS: Thank you very much. That was Princess Summerfall Winterspring, one of my idols when I was as a child. That was a good name, wasn’t it? She was the Indian on the Howdy Doody show and I guess it was my first goddess. A puppet. No she wasn’t a puppet she was a human. And she later was in Jailhouse Rock (1957) with Elvis Presley and was killed in a car accident.

AUDIENCE: It’s another film, but I went to go see Gregg Araki’s Kaboom (2010) at the film festival and I was just wondering how you would explain why you liked that movie…

WATERS: That’s his new movie and I haven’t seen it. I’m a huge fan of his work. I love every one of his movies. I’m a friend of Gregg’s. I’ve known him from the very beginning. The only one I haven’t seen is the new one.

COWAN: Well, he tells this story that you came up to him and said, ‘Well these wonderful films you’re making are great and all but I really miss old Gregg Araki’. And that inspired him to make Kaboom.

WATERS: Oh well I’m dying to see it. I love Mysterious Skin a lot too! I’m a big fan of the novel and I’m a big fan of Scott Heim who wrote it. I think Gregg’s great and I think he has great soundtracks. I have all the soundtracks. So I’m dying to see it.

AUDIENCE: So how would you explain his other films?

WATERS: To me they’re original. They’re completely an auteur’s work. And you can immediately tell it’s a Gregg Araki movie by watching it. It’s about L.A., about music, about sex, about youth, about yearning to rebel, it was about AIDS. He was the first person ever that made a transgressive AIDS movie. I think he believes in the sexual politics that I believe in; no separatism, and defying by anarchy with sexuality, and hetero-flexibility and everything mixed up and sexual anarchy and I think that’s what he’s about in a beautiful, sexy way. Lets end it on that positive note.

COWAN: What a lovely tribute. Thank you very much John Waters. That was great.

Tuesday, September 6, 2011

Edward Lear







There was an Old Man of New York, Who murdered himself with a fork;
But nobody cried though he very soon died,-
For that silly Old Man of New York.

http://www.nonsenselit.org

http://nonsenselit.wordpress.com/


http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edward_Lear



Umori d'Albione: Il libro dei nonsense di Edward Lear
di martino negri
















Alice cominciava a non poterne più di stare sulla panca accanto alla sorella, senza far niente; una volta o due aveva provato a sbirciare il libro che la sorella leggeva, ma non c’erano figure né dialoghi, «e a che serve un libro», aveva pensato Alice, «senza figure e senza dialoghi?» [1]


Il libro dei nonsense di Edward Lear, finalmente pubblicato da Einaudi in edizione economica [2], con testo a fronte, è una raccolta di brevi componimenti in versi accompagnati da altrettante vignette disegnate dall’autore, alle quali i primi sono indissolubilmente legati. Caratterizzati da una medesima, rigorosa struttura compositiva e da un gusto letterario eminentemente ludico, i limericks – come sono universalmente conosciuti, sebbene Lear non li abbia mai chiamati in tal modo [3]– si inseriscono nella ricca tradizione britannica della letteratura nonsense: scevra da ogni impegno di natura didascalica o morale e intesa piuttosto al puro diletto degli occhi e del pensiero.

Lear iniziò a disegnare «buffi animali e omini, spesso accompagnando i disegni con versucoli scherzosi, che rappresentano il seme delle future rime nonsensical» [4], negli anni ’30 dell’Ottocento, a uso e consumo dei nipoti e pronipoti di Lord Stanley, dodicesimo conte di Derby, dal quale aveva ottenuto l’incarico di raffigurare gli animali che vivevano nel serraglio della sua tenuta di Knowsley Hall.

Pubblicati tra il 1846 (A Book of Nonsense) e il 1871 (More Nonsense, Pictures, Rhymes, Botany, etc.), i limericks di Edward Lear, o learics come alcuni li chiamano [5], sono considerati un classico della letteratura britannica per l’infanzia.
Il merito di Lear fu quello di portare a una più rigida codificazione, nonché a una maggior diffusione, una forma letteraria che affondava le sue radici nella tradizione orale – filastrocche, ninna-nanne – ma che aveva, già al suo tempo, conosciuto l’onore della carta stampata; tra il 1820 e il 1822 erano infatti comparsi tre volumetti di poesie illustrate che presentavano la struttura metrica e i temi tipici del limerick leariano: The History of Sixteen Wonderful Old Women, illustrated by as many engravings: exhibiting their principal Eccentricities and Amusements (1820), Anecdotes and Adventures of Fifteen Gentlemen (1821) e Anecdotes and Adventures of Fifteen Young Ladies (1822) [6], i quali si inserivano nel contesto dello straordinario sviluppo che la prima editoria illustrata di massa – appoggiata «sull’invenzione e la messa a punto della litografia e sul perfezionamento della tecnica riproduttiva delle incisioni su legno» [7]– ebbe proprio nel terzo decennio del XIX secolo.

Il limerick, dunque – inteso come forma poetica mista di versi e disegni, con caratteristiche formali e tematiche riconoscibili e costanti – esisteva già molto tempo prima che Lear cominciasse a scriverne, anche se furono proprio i suoi a decretare il definitivo successo e la straordinaria diffusione del “genere”. Consistenti in singole strofette di cinque righe [8], con versi a ritmo giambico anapestico – comune nella poesia ‘umoristica’ inglese – e schema di rime aabba, i limericks hanno tre versi di tre piedi (i primi due e l’ultimo) e due più brevi, di soli due piedi (terzo e quarto verso).

There was an Old Person of Pinner,
As thin as a lath, if not thinner,
They dressed him in white,
And roll’d him up tight,
That elastic Old Person of Pinner. [9]

Ogni composizione introduce un personaggio bizzarro che agisce o patisce situazioni che esorbitano dalla sfera della logica e del buon senso comune, lasciando il lettore di stucco. L’eccentricità di comportamenti o situazioni è il perno intorno al quale ruota il meccanismo del divertimento; ma a innescarlo sono il tono del racconto – «ovvio, tranquillo, privo di qualsiasi moto di stupore» [10] – e la presenza dei disegni, che danno corpo visibile al cortocircuito logico suggerito dalle parole. Significativo, in questo senso, appare il titolo della più antica raccolta di limerick conosciuta – la già citata Storia di Sedici Meravigliose Vecchiette, illustrate con altrettante incisioni: le quali mostrano le loro principali Eccentricità e Spassi – nel quale è sottolineata l’importanza che in tale forma poetica assumono sia l’elemento visivo (le incisioni, tante quante sono le storie) sia il motivo dell’eccentricità, ovvero di una distanza dalla norma che disorienta e produce allegria, divertimento. Lear stesso decise di aprire il suo primo volume di rime ‘senza senso’ con un limerick che pare quasi una dichiarazione di poetica:

There was an Old Derry down Derry,
Who loved to see little folks merry;
So he made them a book,
And with laughter they shook
At the fun of that Derry down Derry.[11]

Egli dunque non inventò il “genere”: si limitò piuttosto a perfezionare ciò che la tradizione gli offriva, limitando le varianti possibili allo schema di base e accompagnando i versi con illustrazioni stilizzate e surreali, connotate – in senso espressivo – assai più di quelle presenti nelle prime raccolte pubblicate. Ed è facile notare come la maggior parte dei limericks leariani non solo segua rigorosamente lo schema di rime e il ritmo stabiliti dalla tradizione, ma utilizzi anche alcune “formulae verbali” – come le chiama Marco Graziosi – ricorsive e limitate [12].

Il primo verso introduce il personaggio, del quale – o della quale – è generalmente indicato il luogo di provenienza o quello in cui si sviluppa la sua azione:

a) There was an Old Man of the Hague,

b) There was an Old Man in a Marsh

Nel secondo verso trova spazio la caratterizzazione del personaggio, del quale si raccontano abitudini insolite o particolarità fisiche e d’indole:

a) Whose ideas were excessively vague;

b) Whose manners were futile and harsh;

Terzo e quarto verso sono in genere strettamente narrativi, assumendo addirittura, spesso, la forma dialogica: mentre il primo e il secondo verso offrono una visione in qualche modo extra-temporale del personaggio, questi ultimi lo collocano in un punto preciso del tempo, il momento cruciale della sua fulminea esistenza, quello, anzi, in cui il suo destino pare compiersi e trovare un senso o, ancor meglio, un ‘non senso’.

a) He built a balloon
To examin the moon,

b) He sate on a Log,
And sang Songs to a Frog,

L’ultimo verso, infine, ricalcato sul primo, chiude la composizione riportando l’attenzione sul personaggio, al quale viene ora attribuito un aggettivo nel quale, come in un emblema, sia racchiusa la sua natura più profonda.

a) That deluded Old Man of the Hague. [13]

b) That instructive Old Man in a Marsh. [14]

Significativa – tra le ‘formule verbali’ ricorrenti – quella iniziale, ‘There was...’: presente in tutti i limericks leariani, la sua funzione è la stessa che riveste, nelle fiabe di ogni tempo, l’espressione italiana del “C’era una volta...” [15] , ovvero di introdurre il lettore in un mondo altro, una dimensione parallela ma distanziata nello spazio e nel tempo, in cui non vigono le categorie, immaginative e razionali, alle quali abitualmente ci si attiene.
L’universo in cui vivono i personaggi di Lear, infatti, è «l’incongruità trionfante. È l’assurdo trasportato in un’atmosfera poetica. È una felice vacanza dal mondo dei sensi, un rapido scorcio d’un altro mondo...»[16].


Un rapido scorcio di un altro mondo, scrive John Boynton Priestley, utilizzando un’espressione che se da un lato sottolinea l’immediatezza, la rapidità con la quale Lear riesce a tratteggiare i suoi personaggi – la cui vita pare condensarsi in un unico gesto o avventura emblematici – dall’altro induce alla tentazione di accostarlo a un suo contemporaneo francese, inventore anch’egli di universi paralleli: Grandville, che dava alle stampe il suo libro più complesso, il celebre e bellissimo Un autre monde, nel 1844, giusto un paio d’anni prima del Book of Nonsense di Lear.
Fitta, in entrambi, la presenza di pesci, uccelli e altre bestie con i quali una varia umanità interagisce, dando vita a situazioni paradossali, o ai quali le persone finiscono per assomigliare [17]: eppure Lear non si serve degli animali, come invece fa Grandville, per portare avanti un discorso fortemente polemico – per quanto stemperato dalla satira – nei confronti della società del suo tempo [18].

Legata senza dubbio alle inclinazioni personali dell’artista, che fin dalla prima giovinezza s’era distinto per le sue abilità nella raffigurazione del mondo zoologico, la forte presenza di animali nei limericks leariani è dovuta anche, io credo, al peso di una tradizione favolistica millenaria nella quale – si pensi anche solo a Esopo, oppure a Fedro – proprio loro sono i protagonisti delle storie: con la differenza che nessuna intenzione didascalica, moralistica o pedagogica, muove l’estro di Lear, per il quale parole e figure sono semplicemente trampolini di lancio per qualche felice capriola del pensiero.

There was an Old Man who said, ‘Hush!
I perceive a young bird in this bush!’
When they said, ‘Is it small?’
He replied, ‘Not at all!
It is four times as big as the bush!’ [19]

Oppure

There was an Old Person of Skye,
Who waltz’d with a Bluebottle Fly:
They buzz’d a sweet tune,
To the light of the moon,
And entranced all the people of Skye. [20]


Nel 1861 A Book of Nonsense venne pubblicato in edizione ampliata e fu accolto con straordinario favore dal pubblico: tale successo segnò la consacrazione definitiva della forma poetica e dell’uomo che l’aveva saputa coltivare e distillare, Edward Lear, consideratone spesso non solo il maestro, ma addirittura l’inventore. Da quel momento in poi il genere ha conosciuto sempre più estimatori, e non solo fra i comuni lettori, ma anche fra i grandi della letteratura contemporanea, che ne sperimentarono spesso, e con gusto, anche la declinazione erotica o addirittura triviale [21]:

There was a young plumber of Leigh
Who was plumbing a girl by the sea.
She said: “Stop your plumbing,
there is somebody coming!”
Said the plumber, still plumbing, “It’s me!” [22]

In qualche misura debitore di Lear è persino, io credo, l’americano Tim Burton, che nel 1997 pubblicava The Melancholy Death of the Oyster Boy & Other Stories, uno scarno volumetto di poesie illustrate che si presenta come una galleria tragicomica di creature allucinate ed emarginate, delle quali sono raccontate le vicende amare e straordinarie: ogni poesia introduce un personaggio ed è accompagnata da uno o più disegni dell’autore, a seconda della sua lunghezza [23];ma se in Lear ogni cosa pare fatta d’aria e di luce, di scintilla e di sorriso (anche laddove la morte fa la sua comparsa), in Burton è tutto ctonio e caliginoso, intriso d’angoscia esistenziale e solitudine:

There once was a morose melonhead,
who sat there all day
and wished he were dead.

But you should be careful
about the things that you wish.
Because the last thing he heard
was a deafening squish. [24]

E d’altra parte, lo humour che pervade i suoi versi tende a essere tetro più che nero, a volte persino raccapricciante:

The Boy with Nails in his Eyes
put up his aluminium tree.
It looked pretty strange
because he couldn’t really see. [25]


In Italia la fortuna del limerick è iniziata molto più tardi che in Inghilterra, naturalmente. I pochi che ne conoscevano l’esistenza li facevano girare tra gli amici [26], componendone magari a loro volta, soprattutto di salaci, ma fu proprio Carlo Izzo, traduttore nonché curatore dell’edizione tascabile Einaudi, a darne per primo notizia al pubblico, nel 1935, sul numero di novembre dell’Ateneo Veneto:
E fu ancora Izzo a portare a compimento la prima traduzione in lingua italiana di tutti i limericks del poeta britannico, pubblicata nel 1946 dalla casa editrice Il Pellicano di Vicenza con il titolo di Il libro delle follie [27]; nel 1954 l’editore fiorentino Neri Pozza – che un paio d’anni più tardi avrebbe pubblicato la prima edizione della Bufera di Montale – ne rimise in circolazione [28] le copie invendute, ritirate poco tempo prima dall’editore vicentino che aveva chiuso i battenti.
Nel 1970, infine, Einaudi ripubblicò la traduzione di Izzo – con testo originale a fronte – nella prestigiosa collana "I millenni", sancendone definitivamente il successo anche nel bel paese [29]: nella stessa collana figuravano i maggiori classici della letteratura per l’infanzia, dalle favole di La Fontaine alle fiabe dei fratelli Grimm, da L’isola del tesoro di Stevenson al Giro del mondo in ottanta giorni di Verne [30].

Era stato nell’autunno tragico del 1943 che Izzo, su sprone di alcuni amici[31] aveva deciso d'imbarcarsi nel progetto della traduzione completa dei limericks leariani, trasformando in una sorta di dovere morale quello che fino a quel momento era stato solo un divertimento privato, un’occasione, tutt’al più, per amicali buffi parlamenti. Nel dicembre dello stesso anno aveva già terminato la traduzione. Una traduzione che è diventata, a sua volta, un "classico" della nostra letteratura, nonostante l’inevitabile perdita – nel passaggio alla lingua italiana – di tutta una serie di elementi di natura ritmico musicale nei quali risiede una parte non certo esigua del fascino originario dei limericks.

Perché leggere, oggi, le poesie nonsensical di Edward Lear? Raccontano ancora qualcosa della realtà che ci circonda? L’hanno mai fatto? Non lo so. Eppure sono convinto che leggere – o rileggere – oggi Il libro dei nonsense potrebbe rivelarsi una sana operazione di igiene mentale: viviamo in un’epoca in cui l’oppressione dell’individuo si manifesta in forme più sottili e subdole di quando un gruppo d’amici convinceva un giovane studioso di letteratura inglese a tradurre un’opera folle e intraducibile. Il pregio maggiore del volume di Lear è forse proprio quello di essere semplicemente un libro, un bel libro scritto con piacere, con amore per le parole e i disegni. Punto.
«Ehi! – direbbe molto probabilmente Alice – Ci sono dialoghi... e anche figure!»
Cosa si può desiderare di più da un libro?

Friday, September 2, 2011

Sunday, August 28, 2011

Nader Ahriman


Ahriman's representational paintings give shape to abstract philosophical concepts drawn from some of the most remarkable Western European philosophers, particularly Hegelian idealism and the schools of thought that reacted to it during the 19th century. This exhibition – tilted Stromboli - will feature seventeen new paintings and thirty-seven drawings based on a passage from Thus Spoke Zarathustra by Friedrich Nietzsche :

There is an isle in the sea – not far from the Happy Isles of Zarathustra – on which a volcano ever smoketh; of which isle the people, and especially the old women amongst them, say that it is placed as a rock before the gate of the nether-world; but that through the volcano itself the narrow way leadeth downwards which conducteth to this gate.

In this chapter a discourse on revolution is allied to an uncommon amount of action and a fantastical story told by a crew that went ashore on the island of Stromboli; there Zarathustra's alter ego was seen flying through the air crying "it is time, it is high time!" "For what is it high time?" The answer, suppressed for a moment but following soon afterwards, was: "Time to declare the eternal recurrence".

Ahriman's works exhibit a skillful use of painting by generating a fascinating balance between aesthetics and content, spirit and matter, figuration and abstract thought. His practice first draws inspiration from a philosophical idea, then develops its concept with the use of figural representation and through the choice of specific colors and hues. The characters of his works, shapes with strange anatomy, act in a-temporal and undefined spaces. These floating atmospheres of his works strongly evoke the Surrealist imagery of artists such as De Chirico or Max Ernst. The result is a puzzle of meanings, a stratification of metaphors that does not reveal the sense of the artworks in their entirety, but encourages the process of individual interpretation.

Ahriman's past exhibitions include Painting at the Edge of the World at the Walker Art Center, Minneapolis (2001), and solo exhibitions at the Kunstverein Freiburg in April 2003 and Galerie Klosterfelde in Berlin in 2004.

Saturday, August 27, 2011

Judith Bernstein






"The line between the personal, the political and the artistic is illusionary."
-Judith Bernstein, 2009

The Box presents the work of Judith Bernstein in her first solo exhibition in Los Angeles. Bernstein has become most well known for a series of phallic screw drawings started in 1969, which have evolved and transformed into huge presences that encompass and provoke. Bernstein's work should not only be seen through the lens of political statements, they hold profound personal relevance both for the artist and the viewer. Bernstein's art holds a much broader context, dealing with many metaphors and multiple layers that emerge and empower the viewer with a newfound cognizance.

These screw drawings, one (Big Horizontal Plus #3, 1975) being as large as nine feet high and twenty-six feet long, create strong visual statements that empower the female artist while addressing the often aggressive nature of men. Earlier drawings also depict images of phalluses in relation to political conflict. One of the most powerful of this series that is in this exhibition, Vietnam Garden, 1967, depicts a graveyard of coarsely drawn penises with American flags coming off their tips. While Bernstein's work has often been defined as feminist and political, with the quote above, one can understand that her art, her life and her politics meld into one another, creating a series of work that confront the body, impress the senses and rectify thoughts.

Another of Bernstein's earlier pieces, Supercock, 1966 is also included in this exhibition. This piece is part of a series of works that were inspired by graffiti in the men's restrooms at Yale University, which Bernstein attended as a graduate student from 1964 through 1967. During this time there were only 3 women in her entire graduate class at the Yale School of Art. This drawing depicts a superhero flying through the air with a penis three times the size of his body and limericks and lyrical text floating in the surrounding air. This piece alludes to the idea that the power many men yearn for is in someway connected to their sexual selves. Never seen early works included in the exhibition are collages that Bernstein did in 1967 with cut-up pieces of American flags and poignant clippings from newspapers and magazines that reflect on the complex political climate of the time. One such piece, Are you Running with Me Jesus?, 1967, the title of which is a direct quote of Malcolm Boyd's book of the same title, evinces the anger that Bernstein felt about how the African-American youth of the time were simultaneously being disenfranchised and criticized by mass culture. These collages show diversity in Bernstein's works; by bringing together images, text, objects and media she was able to comment on the political turmoil around her.
Images


As Bernstein worked through these collages, she began to explore the use of the image of the American flag in her work. She began doing flag drawings that enabled her to further consider America’s involvement in the Vietnam War. In these pieces, as was seen in her earlier graffiti work, language was a key element and the vernacular was often scatological and full of rage. One such piece Jack off on U.S. Policy in Vietnam, 1967 is titled after the statement that is brutally sketched over a drawing of the American flag with two penises making an “X” where the stars should be. What developed out of this language play was Bernstein’s interest in the screw, coming from the oppressive verb ‘screwed.’ The image of the screw became symbolic not only as a representation of those in power oppressing others, but of Bernstein taking the power back as a woman.

Bernstein’s images of the screws began clean, almost geometric in shape and gradually developed into thick, hairy presences with a tactile quality. In this exhibition there are two of her most iconic screw pieces, Horizontal, 1973 and Big Horizontal Plus #3, 1975. In 1974, Horizontal was censored from the exhibition, Focus at the Museum of Philadelphia Civic Center. This piece measuring nine feet high and just over twelve feet in length depicts a burly, stubby image that evokes power and strength. A jury of women, that included Anne D’Harnoncourt, Adeline Breeskin, Cindy Nemser, Marcia Tucker and Lila Katzen, curated this exhibition. John Pierron, the Executive Director of the Philadelphia Civic Center who believed this piece had “no redeeming social value, ” censored it from the show. A formal petition letter was issued in protest with an impressive list of artists, critics, and curators such as Lawrence Alloway, Clement Greenberg, Linda Nochlin, Elizabeth C. Baker, Lucy Lippard, Peter Frank, John Perreault, Louise Bourgeois, Alice Neel, and many others.

Also included in the exhibition at The Box are Angry Bitches/Birth of the Screw, 2009 and two pieces from the Dick and a Head series of 2009. This new work of Bernstein continues to explore the screw and its phallic friends. In the two pieces Dick and a Head #3 and #5, Bernstein’s vigorous, gestural strokes shows three large dicks that appear to be erupting out of a head. The image that is at first funny pictorializes the power image of the phallus coming out of the brain, alluding to the idea that the power we have inside us, comes from our minds.

Judith Bernstein, who has lived and worked in NYC for 40 years, had a solo show in 2008 at Mitchell Algus Gallery in NYC and has been included in multiple group shows many with a feminist focus; however, she wasn’t included in WACK!. Bernstein’s work at the Mitchell Algus Gallery received extraordinary acclaim from Holland Cotter, New York Times, Jerry Saltz, nymag.com, Nick Stillman, Artforum, Emmelyn Butterfield- Rosen, Artforum.com, and an article by Robert Berlind, Art In America. She is also a key figure in many important arts organizations in New York, such as A.I.R. gallery, Art Workers Coalition, Fight Censorship and other well-known groups.

Thursday, August 25, 2011

henrik vibskov



The Panopticon is a type of building designed by English philosopher and social theorist Jeremy Bentham in the late eighteenth century. The concept of the design is to allow an observer to observe (-opticon) all (pan-) inmates of an institution without them being able to tell whether or not they are being watched. The design comprises a circular structure with an 'inspection house' at its centre, from which the managers or staff of the institution are able to watch the inmates, who are stationed around the perimeter. Bentham conceived the basic plan as being equally applicable to hospitals, schools, poorhouses and madhouses, but he devoted most of his efforts to developing a design for a Panopticon prison, and it is his prison which is most widely understood by the term.

Bentham himself described the Panopticon as "a new mode of obtaining power of mind over mind, in a quantity hitherto without example."[1]

Wednesday, August 24, 2011

toshio matsumoto





TOSHIO MATSUMOTO
La sovversione dell’immagine
Il sessantotto giapponese?

Era militante, satirico, armato di tutto punto, gay e travestito. Dopo un’apparizione a Fuori Orario, Sulmona cinema Film Festival (6-11 novembre) rende omaggio a un classico della controcultura mondiale, «Il funerale delle rose» (1969). È il capolavoro di Toshio Matsumoto artista sperimentale che ci racconta la sua biografia, dall’iniziale, contrastata, passione per la pittura, ai cortometraggi, dai documentari ai lungometraggi alla videoarte

TOKYO Iniziata negli anni 50, quella di Toshio Matsumoto, è una carriera che nell’arco dei decenni ha spaziato dai documentari degli inizi, ai (pochi) lungometraggi, fino alla parte più cospicua dell’opera che è quella dei corti sperimentali e della videoarte (che si possono vedere sul sito Ubu Web).
Grande filosofo dell’immagine, ciò che risplende costantemente lungo tutto il percorso creativo di Matsumoto, è la volontà di rovesciare gli schemi, di mischiare le carte, di crearne di nuove. Esperienze di visione in cui si riscopre un tempo ciclico, con le immagini che sono oscillazioni d’intensità, come nelle ondivaghe sequenze iniziali di Ishi no uta, nel «caosmo» di Bara no Soretsu, («Corteo funebre delle rose», del 1968 che, dopo una folgorante nottata su Fuori Orario, si vedrà sul grande schermo a Sulmona cinema Film Festival) oppure nei corti For the damaged right eye o Ecstasis. Essendo anche un affascinante teorico, Matsumoto rischia, in certe opere successive all’altro cult movie Shura («Bloodshed»), 1972, polanskiano racconto di samurai tratto dal testo kabuki di Nanboku Tsuruya, a cavallo fra i 70 e gli 80, di diventare troppo teorico e astratto, come succede allo splatter-horror Dogura Magura (’88). Invece è proprio quando il suo cinema si genera e agisce sul tessuto del reale (pensiamo a War of 16 del 1973, il documentario su Toyokawa, la città distrutta dalle bombe Usa durante la II guerra mondiale) che abbiamo i risultati migliori; gli scontri, le manifestazioni in piazza contro il trattato di alleanza nippoamericano di fine anni ‘60, l’esplorazione di zone e condizioni di vita minoritarie (Nishijin, Ishi no uta, Hahatachi ) e naturalmente la somma/summa di tutto ciò che è Bara no Soretsu. Qui tutti i codici, tutti i generi sono attraversati, ma mai con vuota artificiosità, fra il biancore latteo delle prime scene, fino all’accecamento/dissoluzione finale (consimile al Salomé di Bene) c’è di tutto e la negazione di tutto, il comico, il drammatico, l’avanguardia, il sociale, il delirio, il sesso, la facezia; perché come ci suggerisce la citazione finale da Rene Daumal «lo spirito di un individuo raggiunge il suo assoluto attraverso un’incessante negazione ».
In una lunga intervista concessa a Aaron Gerow durante il «Yamagata International Documentary FilmFestival» ToshioMatsumoto racconta la sua biografia artistica a cominciare dalla sua iniziale passione per la pittura (la traduzione è mia e di Elisabetta Montiglio).

1. La pittura. «Sì, amavo dipingere.
Ho dipinto fin dalla scuola media, ma il Giappone era molto povero e io stavo per cominciare le scuole superiori, erano i primi anni 50. Entrare nel mondo della pittura significava allora non riuscire a sfamarsi.
Nonostante io lo volessi molto, i miei genitori si opposero fermamente a una mia eventuale carriera scolastica nelle scuole d’arte, tanto da minacciarmi di non pagare le rette. A quel tempo non c’erano le possibilità di lavorare part-time come ora, quindi rinunciai alla scuola d’arte e mi iscrissi al corso di medicina all’Università di Tokyo perché ero interessato ai disturbi mentali come la schizofrenia. Anche se in fondo il corso nonmi dispiaceva, pensai che avevo una sola vita da vivere a che avrei seguito la strada artistica. Senza dirlo ai miei genitori cambiai indirizzo e frequentai arte e storia nella Facoltà di Letteratura. Ma a Tokyo non c’erano delle classi dove ti insegnavano come dipingere, quindi studiai teoria dell’arte e storia nella scuola, e pittura da solo.
Nei miei studi venni a conoscenza che in Europa negli anni 20 c’era stato un cinema d’avanguardia che era stato a sua volta in diretta relazione con l’arte contemporanea. Fu una grande sorpresa per me e, benché non potessi vedere questi film in Giappone, ne lessi le descrizioni in articoli e libri e capii che questa zona in cui si sovrapponevano arte visiva e cinema era ciò che avevo a lungo cercato».
2. Cinema o prigione? «Ovviamente amavo i film e andavo al cinema molto spesso già al tempo delle scuole medie e superiori.
Fui persino trattato come se fossi un giovane delinquente e venni arrestato due volte dalla polizia di Shinjuku perché non ero andato a scuola. Adoravo talmente i film che chiesi a un mio amico di prestarmi il suo pass; ne aveva uno perché suo padre lavorava nel teatro, e promisi di restituirglielo ogni qualvolta volesse andare al cinema. Frequentavo la scuola fino a mezzogiorno e poi andavo subito a Shinjuku, dove mi guardavo un film dopo l’altro, e ero lì a ogni prima visione, spostandomi da una parta all’altra della città. Questo significava che vedevo praticamente tutti i film che uscivano a Shinjuku ».
3. Il neorealismo. «Vedevo film di qualsiasi genere, compresi vecchi film di repertorio. Ne vedevo centinaia in un anno...
adoravo il cinema. Ma desiderai diventare regista solamente quando, come dicevo, incontrai il mondo dei film sperimentali.
Fino ad allora mi piaceva il cinema dalla prospettiva dello spettatore; il desiderio di fare film venne più tardi. Fu proprio tra la fine delle scuole superiori e l’inizio dell’università che i film del neorealismo italiano arrivarono in Giappone e mi influenzarono.
Ne fui colpito come non era mai successo prima. Non so come dire...
sentivo che avrei dovuto veramente pensare più seriamente a un tipo di cinema che potesse unire completamente realtà ed espressione e coinvolgere gli spettatori. Quindi il mio punto di partenza fu il neorealismo italiano, lo sperimentalismo, l’avanguardia e i documentari.
Questi generi mi affascinavano moltissimo, ma fu a questo punto che si presentarono dei problemi. Benché trovassi la libertà del mondo immaginativo e senza inibizioni dell’avanguardia estremamente attraente, questo era un mondo chiuso, i documentari, d’altro canto, benché fossero molto legati alla realtà, non trattavano in modo esauriente gli stati mentali ed erano così dipendenti dal contesto temporale che non sarebbero stati attuali in uno diverso. Mi chiedevo se il punto di scontro tra i limiti e i punti di forza dei due generi non potesse rappresentare una nuova tematica per il cinema».
4. Ricominciare da Resnais.
«L’idea di partenza fu quindi quella di studiare questo tipo di cinema immaginativo, partendo da Guernica di Alain Resnais.
Detto ciò, è basilare tenere sempre ben a mente le caratteristiche essenziali del mezzo cinematografico: la qualità di documento e il senso della realtà. Forse oggi ci sono molte immagini che si possono creare senza l’ausilio di una cinepresa; ma fondamentalmente, finché la si utilizza, davanti a noi c’è una realtà. Il primo problema da affrontare quando si inizia un film è l’approccio del rapporto triangolare tra la realtà oggettiva, il mondo dell’espressione e la manipolazione soggettiva del regista.
(...)La prima cosa che girai fu Ginrin , creato e prodotto assieme a Yamaguchi Katsuhiro e Takemitsu Toru che all’epoca era ancora sconosciuto. In effetti era un film di promozione ma allo stesso tempo relativamente d’avanguardia.
Ricevette molte attenzioni dal mondo artistico e circa dieci anni fa, in occasione di una retrospettiva sull’Avanguardia giapponese degli anni 50 presso il Centro Pompidou, il presidente chiese di proiettarlo.
Le persone coinvolte allora si erano separate e la casa che lo aveva prodotto era fallita, così nessuno fu in grado di trovarlo, benché fosse di un certo valore.
Ritengo che il pezzo di musique concrete composto da Takemitsu fosse probabilmente il primo in assoluto ad essere utilizzato in un film giapponese, per questo motivo era molto prezioso ed è uno scandalo che il negativo sia andato perso».
5. I critici-registi. «Non c’erano in quegli anni critici nel mondo cinematografico che potessero avere una visione generale dell’epoca, e troppi orrori accadevano nell’industria affinché i registri potessero starsene calmi.
In particolare, nel caso del Giappone, c’era il problema della responsabilità della guerra. Persino la letteratura e l’arte erano fortemente influenzate dallo Stato durante la guerra. Coloro che realizzavano film di propaganda nazionale, collaborando così allo sforzo bellico, fecero una netta inversione di marcia quando gli americani arrivarono alla fine della guerra, e in un batter d’occhio iniziarono a girare film democratici.
Questo era strano perché i registi lo fecero senza conflitti interni, senza palesare la loro responsabilità per la guerra.
Sia prima che dopo il conflitto realizzarono film in linea con l’orientamento dominante nella società o nel governo, senza indagare a fondo sulla loro posizione in questo contesto. Nel mondo cinematografico in particolare, le persone non si assunsero la propria responsabilità personale per la guerra. Ciò che rovinò il cinema giapponese del dopoguerra fu proprio la capacità di fare immediatamente film democratici, fingendo ignoranza in merito al passato. Per questo motivo, persino per quanto riguarda il realismo, non ci fu differenza tra il realismo dei film militaristi che incitavano alla guerra e il realismo delle pellicole democratiche del dopoguerra. Solamente il tema era cambiato. Era necessario parlare di questo inganno e affrontare il tema di una riforma del cinema giapponese partendo dalla struttura base dell’espressione e dalla consapevolezza di ciò. Poiché non c’era nessuno che facesse questo, finii io con lo scrivere testi critici. Feci di tutto: film, critica, teoria, mobilitare e organizzare.
Poiché nessuno organizzava proiezioni cinematografiche, feci anche quello.
Tutto. Fino ad allora i documentari erano realizzati grazie al sostegno dei sindacati o del partito comunista. Se si voleva fare qualcosa di diverso, era necessario creare una struttura di supporto totalmente differente poiché non c’erano le basi finanziarie per fare o divulgare questi film. Si era costretti a iniziare da lì. Proprio allora, dopo la battuta d’arresto del Trattato di Sicurezza Nippo- Americano del 1960, girai il documentario Nishijin con il sostegno della «Kyoto Society for Viewing Documentary Cinema», una società per il sostegno dei documentari, che ovviamente era di sinistra, ma non era ancora ciò che si poteva definire una organizzazione politica vera e propria.
Credo fossero i primi a tentare di conquistare nuovi spettatori e realizzare film che loro stessi sarebbero andati a vedere.
Inizialmente proposi qualcosa di simile a ciò di cui ho appena parlato, ed ebbi il via libera da loro per occuparmi di Nishijin, un quartiere di Tokyo, con lo scopo di dare forma a qualcosa di profondamente sommerso, danneggiato e difficile da esprimere.
Non era mia intenzione cercare di rappresentare il luogo o le persone del posto, bensì dare vita alle voci pesanti, silenziose e inespresse che lì si celavano. Eliminai le cosiddette tematiche «inusuali » o i momenti decisivi, per lasciare spazio a una forma di cinepoesia che proponesse costantemente immagini significative.
L’opinione fu divisa sul risultato ottenuto, ma vincere il Leone d’Argento alla Mostra Internazionale del Cinema documentario di Venezia aiutò a spianarmi la strada per i miei passi successivi. Il film successivo fu Ishi no uta (La canzone delle pietre, 1960). Il punto di partenza era l’idea del rifiuto del valore informativo del materiale. Le pietre sono il tema, è chiaro? Le rocce non dicono una parola. Inoltre, quest’opera cinematografica rappresenta, in forma rielaborata, ciò che in precedenza era stato realizzato con la fotografia.
Quindi fu doppiamente rifiutato dal cinema. In molti casi le pietre erano considerate simbolo della morte, ma i tagliatori di pietra che lavorano nella cava di Shikoku, quando la estraevano e la levigavano, non dicevano “La roccia sta gradualmente prendendo forma”, bensì ”La roccia sta gradualmente prendendo vita”.
Sentendo questo, mi colpì il fatto che lo stesso si poteva dire per la produzione di un film. Se un film, partendo da un punto molto distante dal cinema, ovvero dalla morte del cinema stesso, inizia a respirare, non si può dunque dire che ”prende vita”? In questo senso il tema del film andava a coincidere, come espressione metaforica, con il profondo silenzio delle pietre e con il cinema stesso, caratterizzato allora da senso di frustrazione e di vuoto, cercando di riportare il respiro della vita a entrambi ».
6. La fase guerrigliera. «Come altri registi provenienti, principalmente, dalla Iwanami Productions, girai il primo film di finzione, Bara no Sortesu, uscito nel 1969. In realtà non avevo intenzione di passare ai lungometraggi o ai film commerciali. Al contrario, considerato che il modello generale di cinema che veniva proposto era caratterizzato da convenzionalismo e inerzia, non volevo diventare un regista professionista. Tuttavia, siccome volevo fare dei film sperimentali e drammatici, mai realizzati prima, stavo invadendo in modo provocatorio l’industria cinematografica, come un guerrigliero. Il mio intento creativo era quello di creare disturbo nello schema, comunemente percepito, di una divisione netta tra fatti e finzione, uomo e donna, oggettivo e soggettivo, mentale e fisico, vero e falso, tragedia e commedia. I temi affrontati furono la vita omosessuale e il movimento studentesco: in quanto il film risale allo stesso periodo di For the damaged right eye, probabilmente ilmateriale era simile;ma in termini di forma ho smantellato la struttura narrativa sequenziale e cronologica e ho fuso passato e presente, realtà e fantasia su identiche assi temporali, come nella pittura cubista, adottando una forma frammentata, a collage, che trae spunti da letteratura, teatro, pittura emusica, dal vecchio e dal nuovo, dall’Oriente e dall’Occidente. A suo tempo non ero perfettamente cosciente di cosa significasse tutto ciò; ovvero una relazione con il concetto di postmoderno che emerse in una fase successiva. In un certo senso, questo tipo di rifiuto del mondo ordinato e regolato della legge dualistica della prospettiva è un modo per iniziare a parlare di modernità. Muovendosi in questa direzione, ilmoderno viene demolito nel momento in cui la fiction è analizzata nella sua totalità.
Invece di criticare il moderno sulla base del pre-moderno, il concetto che voleva trasparire in Bara no Soretsu era quello di fare emergere il moderno per poi demolirlo, analizzandolo a fondo.
Poiché allora gli scontri politici sul rinnovo del Trattato di Sicurezza Nippo-Americano furono molto aspri, fui pesantemente criticato per la realizzazione di questo film. Fui anche denunciato, benché non fosse mia intenzione entrare nel merito del Trattato; volevo piuttosto evidenziare dei movimenti più profondi nei valori e nei modi di percepire il mondo, che a mio avviso minacciavano la modernità stessa».
7. Postmoderna «interiorità» «Se i film di sinistra più sterili si erano occupati di esteriorità, quelli della fase successiva, postmoderna, furono ossessionati dall’interiorità, dalla forma diaristica, dal racconto in “prima persona maschile singolare”. Nessuno cercava di collegare i due spazi.
Questo è il motivo per cui, sebbene riconosca l’importanza di questi film diaristici come sorta di documentario soggettivo, non li realizzai in prima persona.
Un motivo è l’esistenza del tradizionale watakushi shosetsu ovvero il “romanzo dell’io”, tipico della realtà giapponese, e il pericolo che questi film si ricollegassero a quel tipo di individualità isolata, o, se messi in relazione a esso in modo errato, venissero addirittura sopraffatti dagli otaku.
Mi chiedo se questa tendenza abbia un limite. Inizialmente all’individualità, come fattore “privato”, venne data sempre più importanza proprio perchè in contrasto con l’elemento “pubblico”, codificato e istituzionalizzato, di cui abbiamo già parlato.
Sono d’accordo nell’opporre l’uniformità dell’elemento pubblico all’individualità, per distruggere l’elemento pubblico standardizzato, ma mi disturba se tale individualità diventa quella di un otaku. Questo è un motivo. L’altro si ricollega all’”Io” che si trova nel “Penso, quindi sono” di Cartesio, all’”Io” del “cogito” moderno che crea un sè indipendente, attraverso l’opposizione al mondo. Allora, ci sono dei problemi con l’”Io” che non dubita del “sé” e i cosiddetti “film dell’Io” o watakushi eiga condividono questi problemi: nonmettono mai in dubbio il loro “Io”. In quanto non tentano di relativizzare se stessi, rapportandosi al mondo esterno, diventano gradualmente autosufficienti – in una sorta di armonia prestabilita.
La fedeltà a questo sè identico a se stesso è correlata a qualcosa di simile al mito moderno dell’individualità.
In questo senso sono più che ottimisti. Questa tendenza si è stabilizzata anni fa ed è diventata un sistema a sè stessa».