30.4.11
Bat a Lash
This is Lashley, our local break. The skim's a little more consistent here than most of our coastline. It was fairly lumpy this day, but the dudes still got some tidy rides.
19.4.11
Somewhere
Gently rippling across the silver screen and into a vague familiarity within the appreciative collective consciousness is Sofia Coppola's Somewhere, an insistently languid film further exploring the theme of gilded isolation (well established in her former accomplishments Marie Antoinette and Lost in Translation), but with the focus this time settling on emptiness.
The emptiness is at the core of Johnny Marco (a charming, sincere Stephen Dorff) and it's the result of a life of movie-stardom that's eventually stunned him into functional atrophy by pandering to his every whim and want (indeed to the point that he falls asleep while watching a tandem pole-dance for his sole pleasure). Donning the two-tone t-shirts with stretched collars and cuffs, customary of the professional actor (seriously, the uniformity amongst the Hollywood elite is uncanny), Marco's ample time is barely occupied by being on the promotion trail for one film, and starting the tentative production of another; a life many dream of (permanent residence at a grand hotel filled to overflowing with beautiful women and twenty-four hour servitude of the faceless staff), but one that's enjoyed tepidly nonetheless. Causing the rippled waters to foam, though with impressive reserve in Coppola's writing they never break, is the return of Marco's daughter Cleo (a remarkably engaging Elle Fanning, who, thank Goodness, isn't also just a big set of eyes), first as a visitor, then as a roommate for an indefinite period.
The story proceeds in Coppola's token ebb and flow, taking on the appearance of a series of related vignettes (mimicking Marco's jig-sawed existence) rather than knitting a fully formed narrative. The slow dynamic of Marco's realisation of his fragmented self, which lurks idly in between the scenes, is left to the audience to piece together, instead of being laid bare before us. The specificity with which these scenes were chosen and created (you can count them in the trailer) seemingly belies a purposeful depthlessness among the characters and what you can't help feel should be rampant symbolism. In reality, Somewhere's stringent postmodernity is reiterated to a knife-edge; in fact, to the point that two of the six people in the theatre walked out amidst remonstrations of the slow superficiality. Indeed, the film is about as overly manufactured and cliché as the Ferrari Marco drives, and as his 'Made in the USA' tattoo suggests. The shallow star and his prodigal child is in no way a new story. But these are not drawbacks; they're a bitterly familiar perception of the experience of both ourselves and others, and more importantly, they provide a space for genuine, reactionary emotion to break the seed cover and hesitantly germinate.
Somewhere is a wry, but ultimately graceful coupling of the amusing and absurd (Chris Pontius of Jackass notoriety is peppered in a few scenes), and it culminates in a signature discovery of self-expression. It is tirelessly carried by Dorff and Fanning's delicate and discerning acting, with the 13-year-old outstandingly navigating her character through slight bemusement and dedicated attentiveness. Go watch Somewhere, but don't forget to exhale and relax when the Focus orbs colour the screen; it'll help you find the right mood to enjoy it.
The emptiness is at the core of Johnny Marco (a charming, sincere Stephen Dorff) and it's the result of a life of movie-stardom that's eventually stunned him into functional atrophy by pandering to his every whim and want (indeed to the point that he falls asleep while watching a tandem pole-dance for his sole pleasure). Donning the two-tone t-shirts with stretched collars and cuffs, customary of the professional actor (seriously, the uniformity amongst the Hollywood elite is uncanny), Marco's ample time is barely occupied by being on the promotion trail for one film, and starting the tentative production of another; a life many dream of (permanent residence at a grand hotel filled to overflowing with beautiful women and twenty-four hour servitude of the faceless staff), but one that's enjoyed tepidly nonetheless. Causing the rippled waters to foam, though with impressive reserve in Coppola's writing they never break, is the return of Marco's daughter Cleo (a remarkably engaging Elle Fanning, who, thank Goodness, isn't also just a big set of eyes), first as a visitor, then as a roommate for an indefinite period.
The story proceeds in Coppola's token ebb and flow, taking on the appearance of a series of related vignettes (mimicking Marco's jig-sawed existence) rather than knitting a fully formed narrative. The slow dynamic of Marco's realisation of his fragmented self, which lurks idly in between the scenes, is left to the audience to piece together, instead of being laid bare before us. The specificity with which these scenes were chosen and created (you can count them in the trailer) seemingly belies a purposeful depthlessness among the characters and what you can't help feel should be rampant symbolism. In reality, Somewhere's stringent postmodernity is reiterated to a knife-edge; in fact, to the point that two of the six people in the theatre walked out amidst remonstrations of the slow superficiality. Indeed, the film is about as overly manufactured and cliché as the Ferrari Marco drives, and as his 'Made in the USA' tattoo suggests. The shallow star and his prodigal child is in no way a new story. But these are not drawbacks; they're a bitterly familiar perception of the experience of both ourselves and others, and more importantly, they provide a space for genuine, reactionary emotion to break the seed cover and hesitantly germinate.
Somewhere is a wry, but ultimately graceful coupling of the amusing and absurd (Chris Pontius of Jackass notoriety is peppered in a few scenes), and it culminates in a signature discovery of self-expression. It is tirelessly carried by Dorff and Fanning's delicate and discerning acting, with the 13-year-old outstandingly navigating her character through slight bemusement and dedicated attentiveness. Go watch Somewhere, but don't forget to exhale and relax when the Focus orbs colour the screen; it'll help you find the right mood to enjoy it.
18.4.11
Silettescapades
These photos are from an Agfa Silette I found in a thrift store in Pinetown. This particular roll of film has survived radiation from four airport x-rays, and the heat of two Durban Summers.
11.4.11
Bum Over Noggin
Not pictured is the aggressive guy who pensively watched us twist and twirl, and then emphatically told us of his distaste for photography. Thanks to Jono Rich for the shots of me.
4.4.11
Tarnation - Harrow in Home Movie
There is something vaguely terrifying about the idea of exposing both the intimate and mundane minutia of one's life and history to a faceless audience. This is despite the hazy, two-minute-noodle epoch currently exploding like an omnipresent and seemingly infinite pack of Tom-Thumbs taking much sting out of the elevation of self to diffuse and unfocused public spectacle. Insecurity succumbs to the need to exist, if only virtually, and through pretence.
That a movie like Tarnation can develop in such a social climate is a staggering exemplar of tenacity, revealed through the brutal honesty of intense self-reflection. This reflection is of Jonathan Caouette, and the mirror is his camera. Starting at age eleven, Caouette began filming his tumultuous existence for a project that would ultimately see its fruition only twenty years later.
Tarnation is a dossier of documentary footage, sound clips, snapshots and dramatic re-enactments, detailing the heartbreaking story of a family dissolved by abuse, narcotics and ignorance. The film's main line is revealed, after an introductory ten minutes as ascendant as the film is low-budget (costing only $218), when supporting text details the events that lead to Caouette's mother, Renee, slipping into severe mental disorder. With a resigned persistence, Caouette's attempts to record his mother's begrudging and slow-to-surface exorcism of her demons results in a therapeutic purging of the filmmaker's own knots of discord. Despite a personal history of abuse, manifesting in traces of nihilism and a number of suicide attempts, it was Caouette's strength to overcome, and his courage in trying to help his mother throughout and despite his own pain, that makes this film truly affecting.
Tarnation was released in 2003, so it isn't coming to a big-screen near you. Don't, however, let this stop you; Tarnation is well worth the effort.
That a movie like Tarnation can develop in such a social climate is a staggering exemplar of tenacity, revealed through the brutal honesty of intense self-reflection. This reflection is of Jonathan Caouette, and the mirror is his camera. Starting at age eleven, Caouette began filming his tumultuous existence for a project that would ultimately see its fruition only twenty years later.
Tarnation is a dossier of documentary footage, sound clips, snapshots and dramatic re-enactments, detailing the heartbreaking story of a family dissolved by abuse, narcotics and ignorance. The film's main line is revealed, after an introductory ten minutes as ascendant as the film is low-budget (costing only $218), when supporting text details the events that lead to Caouette's mother, Renee, slipping into severe mental disorder. With a resigned persistence, Caouette's attempts to record his mother's begrudging and slow-to-surface exorcism of her demons results in a therapeutic purging of the filmmaker's own knots of discord. Despite a personal history of abuse, manifesting in traces of nihilism and a number of suicide attempts, it was Caouette's strength to overcome, and his courage in trying to help his mother throughout and despite his own pain, that makes this film truly affecting.
Tarnation was released in 2003, so it isn't coming to a big-screen near you. Don't, however, let this stop you; Tarnation is well worth the effort.
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