From Physical to Mechanical - Sans objet by Aurélien Bory at BAM

In the 80s physical theater was triumphant. The stage was bare except for a piece of fabric or a triangular piece of set which would play the role in turns of a ship, or a hill, or a balcony. Costumes tended to be subdued or minimalist too. The actors moved on stage nearly as dancers, they were the characters, the set, the stage, all the the same time, as in ancient Greek theater. Direct, unimpeded connection between the actors and the audience. I loved it.

Theater has been moving away from this trend. Lepage's 10 hr pageant at BAM 2 years ago celebrated the return of the mechanical in theater: an airplane! On stage! With lights to indicate the aisle. It opened, turned around, flew! A subway train crossed the stage too. A car, or half a car, and think of it, it was also half a plane and half a train wagon. Deus ex machina, except there was no deus. As audience, we are allowed again to enjoy being mystified, fooled, awed. I love it.

This transition might have some due to the explosion of the circus theater such as James Thierrée's which necessarily uses props and machines and tricks. And in Aurélien Bory's Sans Objet playing at BAM Brooklyn, the machine has the main role. Reasserting all its rights, off stage and on stage. The show was magical in the most elementary meaning of the word: the humans on stage escaped the laws of gravity. Is this beneficial or nefast to humanity? Probably both, just as technology helps and hurts our humanity. The lighting and sound and robot performance were beautiful, poetic while controlled with utter precision. 

Another aspect I enjoyed about the show, and about Bory's work in general, is that I often don't understand why I laughed. I couldn't describe it afterwards with words. Once I was babysitting a 10 months old boy, and I was walking a puppet in front of him, and would make the puppet do an abrupt about face, with its limbs and hair flying all over. The little boy laughed and laughed every time. Why? How did he know it was funny, with what references? In the same primitive way the little boy laughed, some of the absurd movements of the robot and of the comedians on stage made me laugh. And obviously the rest of the audience too, from the ovation they gave the company at the end of the show.

Not a review

Published by  - -  Arabella Hutter

Paul Thomas Anderson should be dead or very old

Paul Thomas Anderson should be dead or very old. The others are: Altman, Huston, Hawks, Kubrick, Welles, ....  How does he get his films funded anyway? Does he sleep with the Weinstein brothers? Does he have recourse to blackmail? Someone -Anderson- should make a film about how Anderson got The Master funded. Because he's the only master director alive who commands this kind of budget for films as original and uncompromising as The Master.

In no particular order:

Speaking of masterly. The opening shot: the water backwash shot straight down from the deck. But we're watching it on the glorious East Village main theater's screen, and our perspective is that the water is going straight up. Next shot: a very low angle of a man on a palm tree ripping off coconuts. Our perspective: we're looking horizontally at him. 

Lancaster Dodd, like the older man in Hard Eight, takes a liking to Freddy Quell for no good reason. And vice versa. The mystery of their relationship has to be accepted by us, as we accept the water shooting up the screen. A mystical quality. After the prison scene where they are separated both physically and emotionally, they roll on the ground in a dyonisiac (how the hell is that word spelled?) embrace. One unit, as the prehuman creatures in Greek mythology with 4 arms and 4 legs which were later split in the middle, and here we are, humans, with this primal wound never to be healed.

Lancaster heals his patients or followers by having them go back billions of years, trillions of years, seeking the trauma in their souls. He tries the process on Freddy, unsuccessfully. Maybe he should have tried to go back just 10 years to look for trauma to the soul, when Freddy was fighting World War II in Asia. 

Treat: Paul Thomas Anderson Q&A with Jonathan Demme. About as good as it gets. Except Jonathan spent half the Q&A asking Anderson how he got started, was it his Dad? (Answer: not really) Did he tell stories to his friends in high school? (Answer: no) Was he inspired by the current plight of returning veterans? (Politely: no) He did say yes, sometimes, and discussed how, for him, Lancaster Dodd is a good guy which I was wondering about. The film is not an indictment of cults. If Lancaster has the manner of a sergeant major as well as the charisma of a cult leader, he believes in what he preaches. And Dodd loves him because he hasn't been able to adapt after the war where he was told what to do and established strong bonds with his friends, says Anderson (all that is not in the movie however, we the audience have to figure it out). With Lancaster, it's easy: he does what he tells him to do, he fights for him against what he perceives as his aggressors. 

There I was, in this gorgeous theater, having just watched a film by a great director of our times, the light went up, and there he was, so pleasant and without an ounce of conceit, discussing his film. I'll tell my grandchildren.

When period films so often rub me the wrong way, here, the 40s/50s are delicious. Maybe because Anderson was trying to reproduce images of the 40s rather than the actual period itself. The secondary actors even had faces from films, calendars, posters from these years. I couldn't help counting the period cars, the costumes (20 school uniforms for just one short scene!), did anyone really think this film is going to return its costs? 

Is there a point in talking of the acting that's all round stupefying? OK. Phillip Seymour Hoffman is just amazing. Incredible. The fluidity, jumping from one expression to the next, is a perfect characterization of Lancaster.

And to top it all, the film has a happy end: Freddy is able to separate from Lancaster, Lancaster is able to let him go. 

Not a review.

Published by  - -  Arabella Hutter

Rhinoceroses course through BAM

Went to watch the stampede of rhinoceroses at BAM . The play written by Ionesco can be interpreted as an allegory about fascism, in the vein of Animal Farms. It was written in 1957, following years where humanity in Europe forgot about its humanity and was moved by primal instinct. But was it? In the years since Ionesco, our conception of humanity and animality has changed. Hannah Arendt argued that being human is what makes us potential sadists, not our animality. Denying its humanity to other humans is a human trait.

Meanwhile our conception of animals has changed drastically. We now deny animals a capacity for moral judgement, no more pig judgments, no more good goats and bad wolves - though I can still see a clear difference between a mean dog and a nice dog, - we might want to reconsider the capacity for ethics of certain animals such as chimps and whales.. Animals are not terrible, ferocious, dangerous, threatening beings anymore, we believe these adjectives describe us better. The director of this version of the Rhinoceros does not make his intentions clear. The Rhinos have a lot to say for themselves, even if they tramp on  a cat ("the cat only lacked speech to be human") from time to time. They run. They dance, and sing. Clearly, they have sex. Meanwhile humanity is pretty dull. There's a a range of characters some clearly symbolic of various philosophical schools, Cartesians, Sartrians,  But the play is not an allegory for good vs bad in the hands of this director, which makes it a more interesting exercise for our times. The animals are instinctive, loud, unpredictable. This has become desirable. Humanity in "Rhinoceros" works in an office, and throws balls of paper to each other. I would have joined the rhinos without hesitation. Who could resist that big horn on their forehead. Or two horns. One by one humans are attracted by the realm of the rhino and leave humanity, more or less willingly. It should be read as fascism gaining members over, but it is directed as wild natural sensuality gaining over modest self control. However the last man standing is a drunkard. In a scene that was maybe originally intended to be repulsive, a woman recognises her husband in the rhino charging the office and is delighted at being reunited with him, she has love in the eye. And when the last woman joins the rhinoceros, she sashays to them, readying herself for some more interesting romps then the one she just experienced with the last human.

I wondered, can a director really distort an author's work in this way? Interpretations of a work can vary, but here, the director gives a different reading than the author originally intended. It's a bit shocking to me. Or does the director really think his staging of the play would deter us from wanting to become a rhino? They were a bit noisy, true, the whole play was a bit noisy. Some silence would have been good. Maybe then we would have resented the rhinos breaking it.

Not a review.

Published by  - -  Arabella Hutter

Cronenberg and traditional values

With Eastern Promises, David Cronenberg made a film in the traditional romantic tradition: boy meets girl, boy and girl are suspicious of each other, then fall in love, but fates separate them. In the vein of Casablanca. It has a 40's feel. Just like Casablanca, a sense of duty prevents the protagonist from entering a relationship with her. Oh that one and only kiss they have, before he heartbreakingly walks away! Classic romanticism.

I watched Crash last night. People crashing cars for sexual arousal. Lots of sex, men and women, women on women, men on men. And a lot of crashes with gory shots of dead people upside down in cars, preposterous wounds, all real graphic. After I got over the shock effect I got thinking. The film is really about its two main characters, a couple, and how love each other. It's kind of a marriage counselling story. To make your relationship work, you need to work on making the other person happy. In this case, arousal through car crashes.  It's way harder to make a film about how a couple sustain their relationship than a romantic romp where there is no risk of routine and boredom settling in. Of course there are other themes in the film, such as risk and death, but I was struck by the unobvious sweetness, the deep feeling of loving beyond the shocking images.

I remembered A History of Violence. I saw it by accident, its title had repelled me into thinking it was about a man abusing his wife. It's not. It's about a man with a violent past who goes to any length to protect his marriage and keep his family together. Even if that means his son and he shooting down the baddies on their front lawn.

Eastern Promises promotes a sense of social duty, Crash celebrates making a marriage last, and A History of Violence holding together one's family at all cost? These are not exactly anarchist values. Most conservative filmmakers make films using a traditional form, and risk taking filmmakers are more likely to promote some rebellion against traditional values. They're preaching to the converted. Cronenberg expresses his beliefs in a non traditional form and reaches an audience less likely to adopt them. I was pretty convinced. Mortensen can convey any message as far as I'm concerned. And David Cronenberg is a seriously talented director. Some of the scenes are breathtakingly dramatic, the film's beautifully shot with an 80s kind of trashy look, and the direction of the actors is highly skilled.

Not a review: Performa 2011 opening night

In 2009, a mindblowing Performa festival reinstated New York as a city where the arts are alive and kicking, despite the recession and general depressed mood. We waited two long years for the 2011 edition of Performa and, as opening night, we get "Happy Days In the Art World"? Why? It's a lame show with a lame text badly directed and featuring two actors who don't know what they're doing on this particular stage. And I'm not talking metaphysical angst. The lack of drama, the poorness of the dialogues, the egotistical characters offered no material for the actors to work on. In fact, a good third of the audience was falling asleep, in the lovely theater provided for the occasion.

The show perked up a bit thanks to Kim Criswell. Departing from the self congratulatory mode, a real part was actually written for her, with things to say. And song. She did both beautifully. If the show had been any better before she appeared, she would have roused the crowd to their feet. But it could not be salvaged. The various outfits worn by people who paid $300 or $1000 for the evening were way more interesting. I wondered how they felt about paying this much money for the show, but I suppose it was just a short and unpleasant interlude between two glasses of champagne. In fact the show started half an hour late, probably waiting for the champagne drinkers to finish their glasses.

I stayed until the end because I wanted to see the crowd's reaction. Trust a New York audience not to be fooled by mediocrity. They clapped politely. Some friends of the performers or creators tried to raise the level of response but their efforts were lost on a somnolent crowd. In fact, when it was time to deliver the bouquets to the actors and creators, the lights had already come on and the audience was leaving. I haven't seen other Elmgreen and Dragset (how could they not be successful with these names?!) shows, and I'm ready to believe they're better than what we were presented with last night. But Becket didn't deserve this treatment.

The question left by the opening night dud is whether it's a reflection of the whole 2011 Performa? Not Avant-Garde, not audacious, not creative, poorly performed? Hope not.


Contributed by  - -  Arabella Hutter

Phénix de peluche

Octobre 2010, subway F. Il y a une place vide à côté d'Alma. Elle l'offre à un homme debout devant elle. Maigre, le crane rasé, il porte une grosse sacoche carrée en toile noire, à l'air fonctionnel et technique. Il tient aussi un animal en peluche rouge sang sous son bras. D'abord il décline l'offre, puis change d'avis et s'assied. Je lui dis:

- Méfiez-vous, elle vous a surement proposé le siège dans l'espoir que vous lui donniez la peluche.

J’ai hésité a plaisanter, parce que je lui trouve un air illuminé. Va-t-il essayer de nous vendre un médicament miracle ou de la religion ? Mais il rit gaiment.

- Impossible. C'est le prototype d'une mascotte. Les jeux olympiques des pompiers et de la police vont prendre place à New York en septembre 2011. Ça fait 9/11 comme la date de l'attentat ((September 11 en anglais). Nous souhaitons commémorer les 10 ans de manière positive. Et cette mascotte est un phénix. Tu sais ce que c'est, un phénix?

- Oui, l'oiseau qui renait de ses cendres.

Alma est férue de mythologie grecque.

- Bravo. Ce que tu ne sais peut-être pas, c'est que ses larmes guérissent et soulage.

Il nous raconte. Il fait partie du comite d'organisation. Ses voyages l’emmènent dans le monde entier. Un drôle de destin pour un pompier New new-yorkais. Oui, mais alors pourquoi la sacoche utilitaire quand elle ne contient probablement que de la paperasserie? Pour ne pas renier ses origines prolétaires malgré son emploi de cadre?

Effectivement, des jeux sont organisés à New York pour la commémoration de 2011, mais pas trace du phénix de peluche : malgré le symbolisme de l'oiseau, le comité d'organisation n'a sans doute pas été convaincu.


in English


Contribué et publié par  - -  Arabella Hutter

Phoenix beanie baby

October 2010. The seat next to Alma is free. She offers it to a man standing in front of her. He's holding a large satchel, the kind inspectors carry, and under the other arm a blood red stuffed animal. At first he turns her down, then changes his mind and sits down. I say:

     -    She probably offered you the seat in the hope that you would give her the beanie baby.
I wasn’t sure about joking with him. Skinny, with a shaven skull, there’s something mystical about him. Is he going to sell us a miracle health supplement or a religion? I'm relieved as he laughs freely.

• Won’t happen! This beanie is the prototype of a mascot. The police and fire force’s Olympic games will take place in New York in September 2011. 9/11, same as the date of the attack. We want to commemorate the 10th anniversary in a positive way. This mascot is a phoenix. Do you know what a phoenix is?

• Yes. A bird that is reborn from its ashes.
Alma is keen on Greek mythology.

       -  Impressive! Do you also know that its tears cure and heal?
He’s part of the organizing committee. His trips take him all over the world. Unlikely destiny for a fireman from New York. In that case, why the technical satchel which probably carries only paperwork? To assert his loyalty to his working class origins despite his white collar job?

A year later, the games do take place but no sign of a Phoenix beanie baby. Despite the bird's symbolism, the organising committee must have rejected it. Alma could have been given it after all: http://2011wpfg.org/

Sculptures of sculptures - Guy Laramée

Guy Laramée sculpts different subjects into books. Some represent sculptures which have been destroyed by the Taliban. He destroys old books to produce representations of destroyed sculptures. Which one deserves to be preserved, the book or the ancient statue?  What determines the value, the right to live, of an object such as an old book which might never be read again? An ancient Buddha statue? I'm not sure, artists can walk a sharp ethical edge. Guy Laramée's sculptures are for sale.

Feeding the Birds

Bin Laden's death has resulted in a whole range of reactions. Here's Jon Ferguson's, which I find particularly apt. I just want to add that Khalid Sheik Mohammed's subjection 183 times to waterboard torture is said to have produced Bin Laden's messenger's name. Oh, and one more thing: Bin Laden lived in some of the poorest regions of the world for 10 years with a 25 million dollar offer on any information leading to his arrest. Nobody snitched.

Feeding the Birds

In spring, when the weather is nice, I am wont to eat my lunch on a park bench between the Café Beau Rivage and Lac Leman. Most of my colleagues stay at school at midday, but I need to get away to keep a grasp on my sanity. Teaching thirteen, fourteen, and fifteen-year olds today is not what it used to be thirty-seven years ago when I started. Maybe it’s me who has changed the most. Maybe it’s the kids. In any case, I need to take a hike whenever I can.

I always buy a salad, a roll, and some fruit juice. I never touch wine until after work and a heavy meal at noon just makes me want to go to sleep. My take-out place is run by a woman from Sri Lanka whom I probably should have married in an ideal world. She has black hair combed off her face, ivory teeth that seem illuminated, a dancing chest, shiny lips, and a smile that makes ordering her food a daily pleasure. Her marriage brought her to Switzerland, but ended in a quick divorce. I was already in the country when I wed. I’m still here after divorcing. In the four years since I started frequenting “Les Bonnes Choses” I’ve never seen her in a bad mood. All her sandwiches, paninis, foccacias, and salads are always fresh, crisp, and copious.

I take my bag and walk to my bench of predilection. It faces the lake, the Alps, and a large patch of beautiful flowers. Behind me and to my left is the café of one of the finest hotels in the world. Rich people eat there on a terrace in the sun. They have more time than me for lunch. There are two lines of trees wherein sparrows wait for people to give them bits of bread. I wonder if the birds “know who we are” and recognize us when they see us coming.

I don’t start throwing the rest of my roll until I have finished my salad. I don’t like eating with beggars at my feet. But I always save at least half of my roll for the birds. And they always come, dropping to the ground from the heavily leafed trees like planes to an aircraft carrier. Within seconds of my first toss, there are a couple dozen of them. I break what bread I have left and try to satify as many of them as possible.

Yesterday was the day Bin Laden was shot in the head, “just above the left eye” the news said. Evidently a unanimous shout of joy went up across America. From sea to shining sea arms and hands were raised to the sky and voices proclaimed that justice had finally been done.
Yesterday while I was feeding the birds there were two children playing behind me. Suddenly one of them made a sound like the “pop” of a cork gun, the kind you don’t see anymore. All of the birds immediately took flight in unison. I was left alone on my bench to finish the last bite of bread and to think about how nature works.


Contributed by - - Jon Ferguson

Published by - - Arabella Hutter

authentique ou frime?

J'ai une demi heure à perdre. Il fait doux, je fais un crochet par Washington Square. Je passe devant un violoncelliste qui profite de l'acoustique sous la grande arche du square. Je l'écouterais bien, mais son son est assommé par le vacarme des planches à roulette sur les pavés de béton. Un groupe d'étudiants chantent accapella au milieu du square. Ils sont une quinzaine, à s'arracher les poumons, les coeurs, les tripes pour les promeneurs du soir. Je les filme. Il est temps d'aller à la séance du festival de l'écriture. Un homme noir s'approche de moi.

Vous avez aimé la musique? Vous l'avez filmée?

  Oui, ils chantent avec conviction.
  Moi aussi je chante.

  Quel genre de musique?

 Je mélange, jazz, impro, ça vient de l'intérieur.

Il est très mince, assez grand, un beau visage. Passé la cinquantaine. Une robe noire qui s'ouvre sur un collier massif comprenant une croix, un pantalon noir, un grand turban noir. Il me demande si je suis en visite à New York. Non, j'habite ici. Il me sort une grande tirade sur les Américains, qu'il dit ne pas aimer, sur New York qui était tellement plus vivante dans les années 80 et 90. 

Je ne sais pas. J'ai eu deux enfants depuis que je suis à New York. Ma vie a tellement changé que je suis incapable de me faire une perception continue de la ville. Je viens de Suisse.

Je connaissais un Suisse, Günther, un mec tout petit qui rapportait toujours du vin suisse. 

Et toi, d'où viens-tu?

Du Nigéria.

Du coup, les sirènes d'alarme se mettent en route dans ma tête. Le Nigéria. Exportation numéro un: l'escroquerie.

Il me raconte qu'il attend un paiement (un frère du président a 50 millions de dollars bloqués dans un compte?) et qu'il prévoyait s'acheter une guitare, une guitare verte dans un magasin près du square. Va-t-il me demander de l'aider à acheter sa guitare? Son regard furète aux quatre coins. Que craint-il? Mais c'est égal. Un être humain avec une belle gueule et une dégaine somptueuse a droit à mon attention. Je n'ai pas besoin d'accepter une demande de prêt.

Dommage, la guitare verte a été vendue. Chaque fois que je vais dans ce magasin et que j'essaie une guitare, quelqu'un l'achète tout de suite.

Excuse-moi, mais il faut que je m'en aille, je vais à un événement du festival des écrivains. Je m'appelle Arabella. Et toi?

Christian. Tu as une carte de visite?

Oui, bien sûr.

On se voit pour une tasse de café?

Je suis très occupée ces temps, et j'ai un rhume des foins paralysant. 

Je m'en vais, m'inquiétant que je lui aie donné ma carte de visite, qu'il l'utilise pour vol d'identité. Si je soupçonnais tous les êtres m'entournant, il me faudrait vivre au quotidien avec une perception aigre de l'humanité. Je marche d'un bon pas, jusqu'au Meat District. Quand j'y travaillais dans une boîte de production, on y vendait encore de la viande, le trottoir était glissant de restes organiques. Maintenant, j'ai l'impression de traverser le tournage d'une publicité pour Prada. Des clichés s'imposent à ma rétine à chaque tournant: Deux jeunes femmes très minces en robes courtes descendent un escalier, alors que la musique qui s'échappe du club sans enseigne, comble du chic à New York, fait vibrer les plaques d'égoût. J'apperçois entre des voitures deux paires de chaussures à talons et plate-forme vertigineux puis les chaussures se munissent de jambes fines, puis du corps de deux jeunes femmes accompagnées de deux hommes qui arrêtent un taxi. A peine entrée dans l'hôtel où se tient la séance, une nouvelle série de clichés, une jeune femme noire en robe noire, allongée comme un point d'exclamation, est présentée sur un canapé de cuir blanc. Deux jeunes hommes dans des habits chics lèvent la tête quand je passe, avec cette expression d'arrogance spécifique aux publicités pour la mode. Riches, jeunes et beaux.  Je prends l'ascenceur et arrive dans un lobby enfumé. Pas de cigarettes ou de cigares, c'est interdit! Du gaz carbonique comme dans les fllms, pour faire semblant. Deux jeunes femmes sur les châteaux qui leur servent de chaussures, affublées de tiares, sont en robes courtes et vestes de fourrures. Il fait 25C. Malheureusement, elles sont assises derrière moi, et n'arrêtent pas de gigoter, de taper sur leurs téléphones, de chuchoter pendant la séance. Qui est inégale. Ecrivains, conteurs, photographes sur le thème ghost stories. Et se termine par l'intervention du manager de l'hôtel. C'est à lui sans doute que l'on doit le prix modique de la séance dans cet hôtel de luxe, on n'a probablement pas pu lui refuser le micro. Il raconte une histoire complètement inintéressante de fantômes qu'il a vus dans un hôtel à Bali. Le public applaudit poliment. La tête me tourne.

A la séance ghost stories

Contribué par  - -  Arabella Hutter