Finhand, On Occasion

Inglorious Basterds

2009-08-26T17:58:00.001-07:00

Let me say straight off that I'm gonna spoil the fuck out of this movie.

There's a scene where the German actress double agent Bridget von Hammersmark, fresh from a shoot out at the site of her disastrous rendez-vous with the Basterds which left three of them dead, a bullet in her leg, and obvious evidence of her presence at said rendez-vous (a shoe) and thus her involvement with said Basterds, has reached her objective, a film premiere, despite this collosal fuck up.
She has been taken aside by old flame and devious antagonist Col. Hans Landa to an isolated room, the previous scene involving Landa fairly openly mocking her paper thin explanation of the cast on her leg and the atrocious Italian of the Basterds that have been forced to accompany her, their only German speaking allies having been the ones that were shot.
So here we are: we know that Landa knows, and we know that, unless von Hammersmark is a complete fool, she also knows and now we are supposed to watch and see what happens.

Landa asks von Hammersmark to put her foot on her lap. She hesitates but he's insistent and she does it. He takes her shoe off. He asks her to reach into his jacket pocket and pull out the object inside it. If there was any doubt before, now she definitely knows what's up. It's written on her face. She pulls out her shoe (Hey look! It's that shoe!) and just to hammer the point all the way home, Landa takes it and puts in on her foot. Slowly. Then he strangles her.

They take their time, the two of them, doing this dance. They take their time because they both know what's going to happen. The problem is, so do we. For me, watching this, my experience wasn't "What's going to happen?" it was "When the fuck is this going to happen already, since I already know exactly what's going to happen?"

The only surprise in this scene was that Aldo Raine was actually too stupid to think that Landa's knowledge of Italian just might have broken their cover as Italians and that he never bothered to check up on von Hammersmark in the course of this ten minute conversation with the man known as The Jew Hunter. No, he just stands there like a smokey mountain post until he gets taken down like a bitch.

So here's my point: when Tarantino does shit like this he bores me. Now there's two types of boring though, there is slow boring and there is expectant boring. I'm a big fan of slow boring. Tarkovsky, Kubrick, Tarr, Antonioni, those guys are masters of this. This is the use of time as a medium.
Tarantino's movies have become more and more about building up tension and, more and more, he does it artificially by filling long scenes with tedious dialog. When it works it works, and though I have problems with it, Deathproof is a brilliant success. You wait and you wait, and then eventually you get to that sweet ass chase scene at the end, Kurt Russel gets his skull crushed and it is so worth it.
Here's the difference between the two: the first is not dependent on the payoff as you are not meant to be waiting for something to happen. You are inhabiting a space, and the film is not promising anything except for the perpetuation of that space. It's not about what will come later, it's about now.

The latter, however, and Tarantino's ouvre especially, is entirely dependent on that payoff. If it doesn't deliver, it wasn't worth it.

This scene didn't deliver.
Inglorious Basterds was alright.

Clonehunter St.

2009-08-26T17:39:00.000-07:00

Oh god this was so difficult.
Between deciphering Blender's labyrinthine keyboard commands and overcoming the dread of poor design choices early on, I have persevered and finally like where this is going.

I'm working on the environments for a movie and I actually think that I can do it satisfactorily. Nice.
Now SOMEBODY PAY ME!

I'm not going to watch Transformers 2.

2009-07-06T23:18:00.001-07:00

Ever.

Man, Ebert is fuckin' smart.

2009-03-05T23:24:00.000-08:00

http://bventertainment.go.com/tv/buenavista/ebertandroeper/index2.html?sec=6&subsec=offret

http://rogerebert.suntimes.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20090304/REVIEWS/903049997

Now I'm excited.

Watchmen, Tarkovsky and the Nature of Film

2009-03-03T01:08:00.001-08:00

The date of Watchmen's cosmic release on 3.6.09 looms large, almost entirely for me because it is also the day that I present my senior project for the last time. With this project being hypothetically finished in two month's time, I'm trying to think of myself as a legitimate film maker, and have been considering more than ever before the nature of the medium. The Watchmen graphic novel was created with that exact intention: to define and exploit the unique characteristics of the graphic novel as an art form as they never had been before by using meta-narrative, dense history and imagery, unconventional chronology, etc. Ideas such as these are why Alan Moore considers the work unfilmable, but I do not quite agree. A film adaptation could not possibly tell the same story, but if created with the strengths of the new medium in mind it could potentially be a great, pivotal and, most importantly, distinct work.

A glance at Metacritic has it now at 35%. I will hold off judgment until I see it, but at the same time I'll wager that my argument stands based on what I know now. They were caught in the most obvious pitfall of the project: a too strict interpretation, trying to capture the uncapturable while hobbled by reverence and without a true understanding of the current environment. As precise as the visual realization may be, it is the easiest to adapt since they are two visual forms. They can get the dialogue straight off the page and follow the story to the letter, but that is ultimately pointless since those elements already exist in a time tested form. The problem of an adaptation is one of justification. The fanboy yearns for a direct translation and pecks at every misstep, seeing duplication as success. Such, I believe, is Zach Snyder. Subjectivity renders this an impossible task, however, and the joys it brings are fleeting and utterly superficial.

The main problem, however, and ironically the key element of my own aesthetic, is time. To adapt Watchmen, there couldn't possibly be enough. As an experiment I could try to read Watchmen in the total running time of the final cut, but I wouldn't dare. I would let my eyes linger, re-read passages and flip to earlier sections when I felt the desire. Here is a strength of the novel: it can be absorbed at leisure. The finite nature of film, however, is to me its greatest strength; not in terms of the span of time, but the sense of it.

The films of Andrei Tarkovsky speak their own language in the history of film. Meditative, poetic and spiritually enthralling, they crawl glacially across quiet scenes, relish in stillness and the miraculous nature of the moment itself: the one that was captured at that place long ago that would otherwise be lost forever, that you witness and become a part of by seeing it and feeling it. No other medium can accomplish this. It is the Moment that is key to film, a sculpture made from the substances of light, sound and time. Terry Gilliam gave up on Watchmen, insisting that it would have to be a series. I expect the film to rushed since I think every chapter could easily be given an hour.

I hope I'm wrong. I hope Dr. Manhattan sits on Mars, contemplating and reliving every moment of his life, for as long as he is when I read it (fanboy that I am) but it is unlikely that I will give Zach Snyder any credit for filming the "unfilmable."

Words of the Body Surrounding (unfinished)

2009-02-07T00:01:00.000-08:00

1.
Glistening fibers strung like muscles stirred, arching in delicate patterns across the skeleton of the warehouse his home. Hundreds of prisms hang from girders in the air, and a thousand points of light dance on the surface of his immense cocoon. The sun has appeared through the holes and broken windows of the east wall and it is time for the man to awaken. He feels pressure, calm and comforting like a deep breath all around him, remembers dreaming of a murmuring crowd of wispy phantoms, and then the release as the tendrils of his living nest unwrap and expose him to the chill of fall air. There he hangs like a puppet on a rack, stretching weakly, relieving himself and letting it fall a hundred yards to the ground. A tin can is held before him, soon joined by a battered spoon. Carefully, he is fed; and with a shake of his head he ends the meal and begins his day.
He is lifted, passed silently between tangles of wiry appendages reaching out from the monstrous growth that has filled the vast space of the industrial hollow. The great living mass spills in from the collapsed south wing and can be seen through smoke and fog rising up beyond like a mountainous insect shell pocked with scaly black flesh. He looks out at this with a child’s love and wonder, and he sees it beautiful.
The sunlight hits a carefully placed mirror and is reflected onto an open area on a concrete outcrop, what remains of the eighth floor and, visible far below past lines of pipes and layers of iron grid work, the still waters of the first. He is set before an old school desk, all around which, neatly stacked and organized, are treasures. One of them is selected and held in the light. He finds where he had left off the day before and, joining the sounds of running water and distant machinery, he begins to read.

2.
Marianne walked ahead, singing a quiet song and swinging by the arm an ancient teddy bear. Rose kept finding herself farther behind.
“Stay where I can see you,” she called.
“Okay mommy.”
It was a long walk, it was cold day, and neither would speak again until they arrived.
Mayburn was a labyrinth of empty streets and crowded slums. They reached the end of Greenwich St. and saw in all directions the remnants of old riots and battles. Those that left after the Arrival and the violence that followed never returned, and now only the desperate lived here, or the rare few, like Rose’s father, who had stayed. Eventually their footsteps softened as they fell on thick cut grass. They heard birdsong and picked wildflowers as they went. This was where her father was caretaker.
He had been a professor, and he lived on the grounds of the old university. It had remained an active community for some time, students and their favorite teachers who saw the isolation as an opportunity to live as they wanted. Rose had fond memories of the brief time when she knew the idyllic world that her father and his fellow idealistic founders had imagined when she was brought here at Marriane’s age by her mother a short time before her death. Rose’s mother had run, only returning when she had no other choice.
She remembered kind children, musicians, writers and scientists, gardens and forests, a city within a city. They tapped the river for electricity and painted the streets with light, except on the clearest nights when it would all go dark for the sake of their ramshackle observatory and the crowds that would gather to gaze with reverence at the stars.
She once asked him why her mother had left. He went with her to a building under a tall radio tower to a room filled with men and women scribbling on notepads with headphones on their ears. He took a pair and slipped them on her head.
The sound was like a dense forest of creaking trees, and then it was like waves crashing in a howling cave, and then it was like a hammered church organ, and then it was like whales singing. She could not listen easily. The strange sounds repulsed and frightened her, but they carried the impression of a will, an alien intention, emotions that she would never know and memories of an existence that she could not fathom. Pain there was, peace, solace, and endless loneliness.
“The mountain,” he said, “wasn’t there when you were born.” She could see it past the balcony at the edge of the city. On that day the light caught it so that it shined slick, red like blood.
“It came here and we didn’t know when it would stop growing. She got scared like everybody else and she took you and your brother away with her, took you where I couldn’t follow. But we don’t have to be afraid, Rose, you can hear it for yourself.
"It’s talking to us.”
She knew two years of happiness before the city was up in flames once again. In a neighboring country a war had broken and its refugees passed through Mayburn. Dressed in tatters, hauling their dead and maimed, she remembered no children with them. The school tried to help, tried to feed them, tried to keep them safe, but there were too many. The food ran out and hope faded quickly. Fights grew into riots, riots grew into battles, and the city was at war even before the militia came.
Then the mound joined the fight.
Rose had gone often to the radio building to listen. She never heard the same song twice, but it was always calm, somber, fleetingly uplifting in its own strange way. Nothing could prepare her for that night in the dark basement of the school’s strongest building where she heard a new side of it, held in a corner, deafening through her father’s hands on her hands on her ears. It filled the room and shook the earth: a cacophonous grinding howl of a great mass moving, writhing around them, churning like thunder as if inside a monstrous body at war; pure, terrifying, boundless rage of a magnitude inconceivable, unprecedented in the light of their sun.
Father didn't want her to see but she couldn't help it. Everything was crimson, mangled, slippery with gore. The rags were clothing, the shells once bone. It was silent and they were alone again, the mound and they. At night another sound came, shuddering through their feet, heard through ears pressed against the earth.
Sadness, loneliness and infinite guilt. The weeping of a god.
Not long after, Rose left Wayburn. She would only return when she had no other choice. Of all the horrors she had seen and had yet to see,

3.
Now the school was empty, entirely given over to the native flora and fauna apart from roughly trimmed avenues leading to the main buildings and one crumbling hovel. Marianne bolted through the open door of the overgrown tenement house and up two flights of stairs to the door of the small apartment where her grandfather had lived for forty years while everything around him was stripped away. She pounded the door with her fists and squealed with delight. It was not until Rose caught up some time later that the door finally opened, as much as it would allow, and Marianne squeezed through to embrace him.
Rose entered cautiously and closed the door behind her, greeted by the smell of mildew and the sound of laughter.
Filling every inch of the room, blocking the door and covering the windows, were books. She must have looked accusing accidentally. “I tried to clean up,” he said, grinning through an unkempt white beard.
An adjoining room had been given over to Marianne for their rare visits, filled with toys, children’s books, pencils and paints which had slowly covered the walls, and it was here that she was sequestered when he caught Rose’s pained glare.
She stood still while he approached, lifted a hand to brush her hair away, revealing a bruise on her face.
They sat in the kitchen and he put a kettle on an old gas stove. They did not speak for some time.
“He wasn’t always like this.”
“Yes he was. First time I met him I knew. Did he ever tell you what he did in the war?”
She shook her head, looking at his dirty bare feet.
“Well he told me, and I wish he hadn’t."

Laika, Pursuer :or: The Death of Sirius (Preview)

2009-01-26T22:30:00.000-08:00

Albums of 2008/Thailand Analysis/State of the World

2009-01-19T08:24:00.000-08:00

I entered the the year 2009 jet lagged, sober and sexless ('case you were wondering) in Bangkok, Thailand drowning in a torrent of familiarity. This was my first New Year's in a city, and it was theoretically a foreign city, 12 hour time difference making it literally on the other end of the earth. But I found myself in a mall (one hell of a mall, might I add, holding the nicest movie theater I've ever been in on its top floor and in, its subterranean catacombs the largest aquarium in Southeast Asia) listening to hip hop, watching a DJ spin from afar by a great glowing Christmas tree, the Thais having assimilated Christmas and New Years as a single epic occidental annual bonanza (this despite having their own new year in April).
2008 was another significant step toward making the world a smaller place, without diversity or identity in an uncomfortably uniform cultural landscape. The world community is a great thing, I believe, but I do not want this. Let a culture be its own.
It has occurred to me my awareness is limited to the developed world. The fact that I am oblivious to this submerged authenticity that I seek is a comforting thought, really, having been lamenting that the world is continually being stripped of its secrets and feeling that what is yet to be found and brought to light is especially precious. And though what I want personally is of the art/rock/weird/futuristic school, I'm sure I would be amazed by the wealth of diversity that this world MUST hold. The problem, on a larger scale, is that this is no longer how we define ourselves.
What follows is what I listened to that was released this past annum, and it is a globetrotting hodgepodge, music at its best when it is of its own place.

Frightened Rabbit - Midnight Organ Fight
I love Scottish rock singers unconditionally. When I find one that is a woman I will marry her.
Frightened Rabbit are dudes, unfortunately, but Midnight Organ Fight a great album that makes such predicaments as heartache, leprosy, decapitation, possessed arms and whatever an organ fight is into rousing, triumphant obstacles to be overcome with gusto and bravado. I'm sure I will return to it when my relationship with Lorna, lead singer of Haggis Meat, turns sour.

Portishead - Third
Nobody know what genre this is. Portishead, flagship trip-hop stalwarts of the last century, have returned with something that is famously a departure. There are drums, there are guitars, there are beats and melodies, but they are assembled into something that can't (yet) be categorized, and for this it is remarkable. Is this a new genre? Is it something that will be emulated and mediated? Even more remarkable is that this is an odd, personal and challenging work that will make that very difficult.

Spook of the Thirteenth Lock - Spook of the Thirteenth Lock
One of few albums on this list that arrived to too little fanfare (Pitchfork missed it) and that is influenced more so by traditional influences than contemporary ones. This is an Irish band that sounds like Irish music, but with delay pedals and an anthemic rock edge. Ambitious compositions, versatile musicianship, brooding lyrical passages and dense vocal harmonies make this a compelling listen, one that was just a review away from putting this band on the world stage. I'm sure they'll get it next time.

Juana Molina
Once the premier TV comedienne of her native Argentina, she made a dramatic departure into the world of music, first in the territory between electronic and folk, then straying more toward folk, and now something that can be tied to no place or label. This is a world of her making, filled by her voice and her sounds set layer upon layer. It is strange warm, and welcoming.

Fennesz - Black Sea
For a long time, when asked what music I listened to, I would say that I didn't. Aside from what my parents played and a few scattered movie soundtracks, nothing appealed to me; I heard nothing with which I resonated, and there was no music with which I defined myself. At some point I began to realize that there was a sound in my head that I wanted to hear, and I began to look for it. This is the closest thing on this list to that sound, and the closest to what I cultivate as a musician. For that it is very special, and on its own terms it is a thing of incredible beauty.

Bleeding Heart Narrative - All that was Missing We Never had in the World
Deserves special mention as the oddest thing I heard this year. The long winded title is a clue that it is enigmatic and pretentious, moving from industrial loops and delay pedal drones to strikingly beautiful piano, string and vocal passages. At times it is sublime, reminding me of the smell of old books, the texture of wood floors. It's pretense is often an obstacle, however, particularly when it come to the lyrics. Closer Lillian Gish is well worth the investment, but the repeated line "You are not what you think you carry, you are not what you think you carry yet," completely fails to be meaningful or evocative.

Los Campesinos - Hold on Now, Youngster
These Welsh rascals are probably a little older than me, but I have never felt this young. I can only catch glimpses of this mythical energy vicariously through pop music, and while ENERGETIC music is not hard to come by, Los Campesinos are a raucous natural formation, the energy of cats playing. It's the density, the obsession, the narrative passage that remind of Withnail and I, the burning desires and passions brought vividly, effortlessly, vibrantly to life. The labyrinthine melodies of Sweet Dreams, Sweet Cheeks are too much to take in, as if each of the seven members wrote their own song and the only way to fit them on the album was to mash them all together and it works spectacularly. My love for ...And We Exhale... grows exponentially with each listen, and it may have inspired me to get my first tattoo: "I am incredibly sincere" wrapped around my forearm. These kids are bursting at the seams with pure pop magic (they released their second album six months later, for the love of God!) and if they are to burn out sooner for shining so brightly then we will pay the price. Fortunately their mark has already been made, a great loving gash across the face of the earth at the speed of light, all thanks to the shrinking of the world in these remarkable times.

Pictures of Thailand 3

2009-01-17T18:05:00.001-08:00

Pictures of Thailand 2

2009-01-17T18:02:00.001-08:00

Pictures of Thailand 1

2009-01-17T17:56:00.000-08:00

Staw Man, Radio Tower

2008-12-16T17:08:00.000-08:00

New Music

2008-12-04T01:28:00.000-08:00

Here.

Prospector

2008-12-01T00:30:00.000-08:00

The Circulatory System

2008-12-01T00:28:00.000-08:00

The Simultaneous Successes and Failures of the Lethahedron or: Effigy, Impermanence, and Influence in the Digital Age

2008-10-21T16:57:00.000-07:00

The Lethahedron is a symbol designed to be an ideological weapon. Representing Apathy, that which does nothing to prevent its own destruction, an attack on the Lethahedron is an attack on this aspect of ourselves. Based on the idea that such a symbol is as powerful as those that see it, and given that the only intentions of the Lethahedron are to be seen and to be destroyed, the two primary forms of its existence have specific guidelines:

1. The Mortal Lethahedron:

The drawn Lethahedron should be represented in public, and on as large a scale as possible, by perishable materials so that its impermanence is more apparent. Those observing it are welcome to participate in its destruction.

Special care must be taken with the environment in which it is created. since it is ideally a positive symbol and the most important aspect of it is the manner in which it is destroyed. Its destruction, then, must be a positive act.

At 4AM on the morning of October 3rd, 2008 I attempted such a large scale drawing with dirt on the campus of my school. It was almost entirely unsuccessful, due to the difficulty of the process of drawing with large amounts of dirt, the surprisingly large amount of dirt that was required, a lack of preparation for the amount of dirt required and, finally, an unsatisfactory amount of dirt due to time constraints (people in Brooklyn start walking their dogs at 5 am, and I felt especially conspicuous). The ultimate failure, detailed later, was that it could not be easily documented.

2. The Digital Lethahedron

It should be assumed that that the Lethahedron's effect is as tangible as any other ritualistic act. Its power, dependent on it being witnessed by a large number of people, is limited due to its fleeting physical existence. Its range is extended, however, if it is documented and perpetuated, something which has never been easier due to the prevalence of the camera in the life of the individual and the indefinte reach of the internet and its memes. As there are guidelines for its creation, so too are there for its documentation. Since the primary focus of the symbol, again, is its destruction, the focus of any documentation should be this act rather than the symbol itself.

On October 9th, 2008, I created a Wikipedia entry for the Lethahedron, meaning to begin this aspect of its manifestation. The name, meant to be unique so that it could be easily tracked, was chosen since it recieved no hits from a Google search. Wikipedia, however, found fault with this and, informing me that I had five days to improve the article, deleted it after four, describing it as "Patent Nonsense."

Static Fish Idea (Spoilers)

2008-09-16T22:47:00.000-07:00

This a preliminary script for a short comic to be done in the next month or so.

------------------------------------------------

A black helicopter lands atop a secluded military installation. A suit steps out, hastily dressed and carrying a cup of coffee, then is greeted by a young, professional agent.

Agent:
Good afternoon, sir, welcome to the West Pole.

Suit:
Good afternoon to you too, son, now would you mind telling me just what exactly in the sam hell I am doing out here in the middle of nowhere on my golf day?

They walk through an enormous, heavily defended gate into a dingy elevator. The agent presses a button marked "Freaky Stuff."

Agent:
Sir, you are familiar with the element codenamed "Slippery Cowboy?"

The suit, mid sip, drops his cup of coffee and stares, wide eyed, at the agent.

Suit:
I know it won us the cold war.

Agent:
That's a start. What I am about to tell you is Tip Top Secret. On any given day for the rest of your life you may be chosen to be killed by random lottery.

Suit:
Tell me.

The pair exit the elevator into a vast subterranean futuristic room built around the remnants of an ancient looking archway.

Agent:
You know that it masterminded the Secret Siberian AIDS War, but the fact is that it has consistently been one of the most influential forces in world politics for an indefinite span of history. I can tell you that it invented Coca-Cola, wrote the Gettysburg Adress, presided over the signing of the Declaration of Independence and then personally delivered it to the King of England.

They enter an endless hallway. Scantily clad women bearing lobotomy scars greet them cheerfully as they enter.

Agent:
Slippery Cowboy has been the head of Skull and Bones since the group's inception and served as Santa Claus from 1902-1956. The fact is that this country would not exist without it, but that is just the beginning. It was reportedly an advisor to 300 European kings over the span of of 500 years and personally orchestrated the rise, fall, and undersea reemergence of the Roman empire. We recently discovered references to it in Sumerian texts depicting it as the God of Snakes and Low Low Prices.

They enter another dingier, smaller elevator. The suit looks like his mind has been blown.

Agent:
Then, nine years ago, it disappeared after a particularly hostile G8 Summit poker game. Ever since. . . well, you know.

The Suit gawks mindlessly. His nose is bleeding.

Suit:
What does this have to do with me?

The doors open on a small room dominated by a vault door. The Agent punches a code and opens it.

Agent:
Two days ago it was found and recovered in a bar in El Paso. I present to you, sir, Maruhaim the Lamprey Prophet.

Lying in a puddle on the floor of the lavishly furnished room is a lamprey eel the size of a car.

Lamprey Prophet:
KHLKKAKSHHAHKAHKKSHACHHSHKKK!

The suit is now bleeding from his eyes and ears. He pulls out a cel phone.

Suit:
Mr. Senator?

-----------------------------------------------------

It hasn't really got a point yet.

2008-09-15T01:29:00.000-07:00

Recent Tunes

2008-09-15T00:51:00.000-07:00

This is pretty much an album. Haven't got any titles. Stuff I worked on over the summer, all improvised and pieced together in Audacity, created almost entirely with heavily manipulated bass guitar. Often found myself critiquing them and then listening on repeat.

for fans of: drone, ambient, electronic, sound collage, spooky stuff. A little noisy, maybe a tad shoegazery at times.

Stream here.

1.mp3

2.mp3

3.mp3

4.mp3

The Glorious Debut

2008-03-25T20:18:00.000-07:00

Things on my mind? Nope. Nothing.