A barritone. At first, I assumed it was my cabaret-singing neighbor (who’s performing in “Croon” at the Firebird Cafe, 365 West 46th St., Thursdays-Sundays through Nov. 2. Call 212-586-0244 for times and reservations.) but it lacked his flair. (and the songlist is different, too.)
‘Kickers
I recently informed a disappointed Allen & Co. that greg.org is not considering a bid, and my reasons for not getting plastic surgery have nothing to do with not knowing where Stephanie Seymour gets her fat harvested. But thanks to Elizabeth Spiers, I now have an excuse to visit New York Magazine.
Though she explained the origin of her new weblog’s name, The Kicker, on her own site, where I come from, um, down on the farm, ‘kickers are boots, boots that connect up from time to time with piles of dung. This may explain why Spiers put a connection–or link, as they say ’round here– to my site.
All of which led me (via Google, the indie’s Lexis-Nexis), to Lillian Ross’s 1995 New Yorker hangout with her 10th-grade, Manhattan private school girlfriends, “The Shit-Kickers of Madison Avenue.” You all must read it. And not just because now, eight years later, these are the women making notes for a vapid tell-all book about the publicist industry when they should be dolling up Lara Shriftman’s invitations with a “cute stamp.”)
Pentagon Memorial: S.N.A.F.U.
Peter Max, who presumably made art protesting the Vietnam war during his cosmic 60’s hippy days, clearly found alternate paths to self-actualization, paths which lead to becoming The Official Artist for any and every sense-free bureaucracy he could find.
With all the service he’s given the Federal Government–including the INS and the Federal Energy Regulatory Commission–perhaps he was under the impression that he didn’t need to pay income taxes on that $1.1 million. [And when you realize Max’s sentence was teaching art to schoolchildren, you wonder who really paid for his crimes: the artist or the kids?]
Anyway, now that that pesky expert jury has disbanded, the talent-blind administrators of the Pentagon Memorial project got back to business as usual, namely, commissioning an Official Piece Of Crap from Peter Max. According to the WashPost, the Peter Max Pentagon Memorial Fundraising Poster will be available for sale at http://www.att.com/mil [Q: Isn’t that page’s title, “AT&T Military Headquarters,” exactly what Ike warned us about?], which is unusual, since Max’s most widely distributed recent work was the cover of a Verizon phone book.
The most annoying thing: At one time, the Military Industrial Complex did produce some amazing art.
[thanks, Tyler, for just ruining my day]
“Kieslowski Season!” “Tarantino Season!” “Kieslowski Season!”
To explain how I came up with my Souvenir series of ultimately inter-related short films, I went into an extended discussion of Krzysztof Kieslowski’s Dekalog with someone recently. Now it turns out Riverside Studios in London is screening the entire Dekalog starting Sunday as part of its Krzysztof Kieslowski Season.
It’s not like it used to be, when you could only see Dekalog in festival screenings. Now there’s a 3-disc DVD version available, marginally better than the 2-disc set released briefly in 1999. There’s also a boxed set of Three Coleurs out now. Still, Kieslowski’s films can be visually mesmerizing; see them on the big screen when you can. [Unfortunately, I’m getting to London on the 15th, three days after the Season ends.]
At the opening of his discussion of Kieslowski‘s work, the Guardian‘s Derek Malcolm reminds us that Pulp Fiction closely beat out Three Colours: Red for the 1994 Golden Palm at Cannes. What kind of world would we live in if Kieslowski, not Tarantino, had won? Hint: Tarantino describes his latest films, Kill Bill, as a “duck press of all the grindhouse cinema” he’s ever seen. If it’s all the same, I’m going with wabbit.
Links which don’t entail writing long essays
Alana’s wonderful Venn Diagram, “Compleat Diagram of Strange Persons 2003” inspires me to refine the similar universe I have post-it noted on foamcore under the bed. Stay tuned. [via TMN]
As befits a Washington hipster, Listen Missy posts in near-realtime about K Street and her friends&fans post back. We all post because we care, Steven. Because we care.
Coming yesterday: A limited-edition Lost in Translation soundtrack CD, complete with on-the-set pictures by Sofia Coppola. [via Fimoculous]
TMF, TML runs a piece on covering the death of George Plimpton that his a little close to home. “Jacob Weisberg, Editor, Slate: Well, it’s a no-brainer. Really, what do you do? Call a couple of people up and then transcribe their responses verbatim? And, you know, failing that, cut-and-paste quotes from existing interviews. Probably one of the easiest forms of journalism there is.” [Jacob, have I got a story for you. via Gawker]
Australian Mall out, Architecture Mall in at WTC Site
A couple of weeks ago, the Port Authority bought out Westfield America’s lease for the retail areas of the WTC site, temporarily emptying one chair at the master plan negotiating table. The square peg mall developers from Australia just couldn’t accept that South Street Seaport, SoHo, Times Square, Rockefeller Center, and Lincoln Center were all the mall Manhattan needs right now, thanks.
But as the Observer reports, yesterday uber-leaseholder Larry Silverstein announced deals with three of the biggest brand names in the architecture business to “collaborate” in designing the office towers envisioned in Daniel Libeskind’s master plan. Norman Lord Foster, Fumihiko Maki, and Jean Nouvel will each design an office building, which will sit alongside Santiago Calatrava’s train station and the David Childs/Libeskind Freedom Tower, creating a veritable archipalooza of classy-ness. Larry’s bubba‘d be so proud.
There’s been alot of anxious hyperbole about what the WTC site will eventually look and feel like, how the process is going, and the supposed failures associated with Libeskind “losing control” over his “vision.” More and more, this process–and the proposed greatest hits list of architectural statements–reminds me of the master plan for Berlin’s historic hub, Potsdamer Platz.
Renzo Piano created the master plan, which was divided, charmingly, into the Sony Center and the Daimler Center (which Piano also designed). Related: An exhibit, “Planning Potsdamer Platz,” was at the National Building Museum (among other places) in 1999. And The Potsdamer Platz: Urban Architectures for a New Millennium, a book by Yamin von Rauch.
Fixing K Street
It’s the dialogue, stupid. (Or is that, “It’s the dialogue. Stupid.”?) After only three episodes, I’m getting fed up with the uncertain, equivocating, sometimes borderline incoherent dialogue that constitutes the majority of HBO’s K Street. I know it’s improvised, and that non-actors are supposed to be non-acting, but unless the unacknowledged agenda of the producers is to show that no one in Washington knows what the hell they’re talking about–ever–something needs to be done. Politicians are expected to deliver content-free platitudes or sermons on camera; everyone else (except for the vaguely metrosexual Californian) needs to have something–anything–to say.
Seriously, if these people are expecting to get paid to consult, they need to cough up some value-added, and I haven’t seen any since Carville delivered his one-liner to Howard Dean in Episode One. You don’t need full-blown scripts, but Sunday should be Googleday for the K Street crew, yielding some talking points for each character.
Why, even the most cursory surf of anti- and pro-RIAA sites and articles would’ve yielded a meatier discussion and plausible pitch for the RIAA’s business than the K Streeters put out. Ditto the Saudi thing this week. I hope “Nobody reads beyond the cover of Time magazine” is just a line, not a scriptwriting strategy. Even so, waving it around and calling it story is like putting your textbook under your pillow and hoping it’ll soak in while you sleep.
Some other suggestions:
1) If you want to play an inside game, play inside, fellas. For example, in the music sharing episode, why did Francisco make the appointment for the pitch? Wouldn’t it more intriguing if the stalker-y lesbian lobbyist knew someone at the RIAA? Or if she was expected to know someone, but she had to beg off because of undisclosed restraining orders?
2) Speaking of inside games, why not turn up the heat with some actual headlines? Check out Talking Points Memo, where Josh Marshall’s been posting up a storm about actual Republican lobbyists, who, like K Street star Mary Matalin, just left the administration, but who are setting up shops to help companies get sweet rebuilding contracts in Iraq. Nice work if you can get it, and you don’t have to worry about ratings.
3) Of course, you could combine #2 and 3: The Register reported in April that Hilary Rosen is rewriting Iraq’s copyright laws.
There. That’s five value-adds right there. Just call my people if you’d like some more.
World Enough, and Time
For a couple of years before I left the corporate world, I had a film in my head: I’d interview my grandfathers–two men who lived within a couple of miles of each other yet who led rather different lives– seeking advice on whether I should get married and, if I did, whether I’d get divorced someday. I’d explore the extent to which our families affects us, the ways in which we are likely/prone/destined to become like our parents.
But there was an IPO, a huge gig in Europe, etc, etc, I kept putting it off. Make a little more money, I thought, and making films’ll be that much easier. I got engaged, so one question of the movie was already answered, but some big ones remained. Then in 2000, one grandfather passed away; followed, within a couple of months, by the other. I’d waited too long.
After my grandfathers’ deaths, completing their film became an imperative, a way of dealing with (our/my) their loss. I started shooting, not quite sure how it’d turn out. I figured it’d become clear, eventually. That was August 2001.
All through the Fall of 2001, I could barely bring myself to screen the tapes I’d shot. Indirect explorations of personal loss seemed a little, well, it seemed like there were bigger issues to deal with at the time. Souvenir November 2001 was, in part, a way to make sense of things; SJ03 is a first attempt at returning my attention to my earlier questions: how do our family and our past influence us? How do we deal day-to-day with someone’s absence?
With a little more mental bandwidth this summer, I started re-viewing the earliest footage we shot for my grandfathers documentary. A little time has helped, and I think I can see a way to cut some of it into a Souvenir-length short. In the mean time, however, I’ve had to revisit the whole idea of timing.
It seems the Andrew Marvell phrase, “world enough, and time” is popular among those who find themselves on the short end of the time stick. This week, I and my family have suddenly joined that crowd. And all the “understanding” I thought I’d gained gets wiped clean, and again, I feel the raw imperative that I have to do something. For a time, I feel like I have to focus, not on memory, but on living, before it is, again, too late.
On regime change I CAN support
Last week, I stopped by a party to celebrate the first issue of Artforum under its new editor, Tim Griffin, who I’ve known and admired for years, ever since he was edited the late Artbyte with ICA Philadelphia’s Bennett Simpson. (For some of their collaboration that stayed online, check out the great show they curated at Apex Art in 1999, too).
Combined with Eric Banks‘ impending relaunch of Bookforum, I think there’s some good art readin’ to be had. [Subscribe here or here.]
How can I be sure? Well, Tim started by putting a photo by my boy, Roe Ethridge, on the cover. Roe’s work rocks; I’m a huge fan, even though, in the headshot he did for my Souvenir press kit, I don’t look anything like Beck, Andrew W.K., or Fischerspooner.
WTC Plan Revisions revisited
Felix Salmon posted an admirable, in-depth, and probably a bit too optimistic review of the revised WTC site master plan. LMDC’s offering Libeskind’s whole 35Mb Powerpoint deck for download, so knock yourself out.
Then today, Felix tried to envision what the rebuilt site would look like from the ground rather than from the god-like aerial views we’re accustomed to seeing (Libeskind’s as susceptible to the god complex as any architect). Again, Felix seems a little optimistic. He rightly points out the difference between a master plan and an actual site plan.
But I still think Rafael Vinoly’s criticism of Libeskind’s proposal as “graphic design posing as architecture,” holds sway. I frankly fear the quality of the WTC site visitor’s experience is about as well planned as the peace in Iraq.
Meanwhile, over at TMN, Clay Risen elucidates some of the fundamental flaws and threats of the LMDC/PATH/Silverstein process. The primacy of maximum rentable square footage over city planning and architecture is not unique to New York. (As the mind-numbing sameness of Risen’s–and my, I should say–Washington DC’s built environment demonstrates.) But maybe it’s just understood that Real Estate rules in New York; Real Estate and Pataki. It’d take more than a terrorist attack to unseat that regime.
On Wacky Mormons
The Observer‘s Tim Cooper apparently gets to fly out to LA, hang with a gang of lapsed Mormon Utah filmmakers who’ve crossed the line from sketchy to audacious by sneaking their no-budget film’s press kit into studio executives’ offices, and call it work.
Entertaining read, at once inspiring and distasteful. And yes, I know what BRT means; it’s why Nu-Skin is based in Provo, Utah.
Advice for Shooting Authentically in New York City
Directors: If you are concerned when your writer proposes to populate your circa 2003 New York City streetscape with the following characters, please rest assured that these are not fantastical or implausible, but just the opposite. They are as real as real gets.
1) An older man in a yellowing undershirt and trousers carrying a large zither many blocks from the nearest zither repair shop or flea market.
2) A younger woman in an ever-so-slightly too-small Chanel tanktop and slacks, with large (Chanel, obviously) sunglasses on her needs-a-touchup blonde hair, Jimmy Choo shopping bags in the crook of her tanned arm, screaming into a tiny cell phone nestled gingerly between her french manicured nails and her made up face, “Well then I AM a bad dog mommy, because I still have to go to Barney’s!”
On Two Things in Texas
But not the two things I’ve heard are in Texas: Austin Chronicle Editor Louis Black talks with Tim McCanlies, the man behind the smartly written, wonderfully animated and woefully underrated The Iron Giant and the just-opened-in-Austin Secondhand Lions.
And Marc Savlov talks with Elizabeth Avellan, the quiet sane-sounding producer behind Robert Rodriguez’ films, including the recent Once Upon a Time in Mexico. Note: she’s also his wife. [via GreenCine]
Looking at The Sun
You know how, on a cloudless afternoon, when you’re working in your orange grove, or driving your airboat in search of alligators, or maybe settling into lounge chair with a just-before-five cocktail on your unusually prominent, screened-in veranda–which the gal over in the developer’s office calls an “outdoor room,” but which, to the unindoctrinated northern eye, really looks like the marmoset habitat at the zoo, just minus the trees–and, for a fleeting instant, the glint of the sun reflecting off the belly of a jet flying north at 41,000 feet catches your eye and causes you to look up?
To a man on that plane, for a few minutes, anyway–at least three, but not more than five, it’s really hard to say when it began, since staring out the window is a somewhat novice, absentminded activity to which the man, a very frequent flier, rarely resorts, unless it’s a flight going into LaGuardia around magic hour, in which case he hopes the approach is across Brooklyn if he’s in A/C and up the Hudson if he’s in D/F (and yes, in addition to the Delta Shuttle, which offers but one class of service, there are planes where the first class seats are lettered A/C and D/F, so you can’t jump to the conclusion that the guy’s always flying coach, poor bastard, even if this particular plane is operated by an airline called Song, which is Deltan for “Southwest,” and which eschews a first class section for all leather seats in colors–plums, pumpkins, chartreuses and AOL blues–that signal “edgy” and “hip” and “out of the box” in the suburban Atlanta corridors of brand management power, corridors where the same self-defeating imperative to prove one’s corporate coolness explains locals’ fervor for “Hotlanta, which is a lot like New York. Really.” and the commissioning of flight crew uniforms from their daughters’ must-have bag designer Kate Spade, which are, with an enthusiastic lack of awareness, bespangled with Office Space-style “flair”), not that either side will offer a view this trip, what with his plane flying either over, around, through, or into a hurricane, a phenomenon which looks stunning from the international space station but which is turns the plane’s rows of windows into more than enough lightboxes to preview simultaneously every slide of every grandchild of every tanned, facelifted, tennis-braceleted busybody on this plane–that glint is revealed to be a perfectly round, white reflection of the sun itself, which pans across the dark green Evergladian landscape 41,000 feet below, like a helicopter searchlight on Cops, only much faster and wider and in daylight (by definition, duh), or like the moon, hanging low enough on the horizon when you drive along the unlit freeway at night that it ducks behind trees, warehouses, and billboards.
Supply Side Jesus
[via BoingBoing] Al Franken’s book includes a comic strip of Supply Side Jesus, which is now online at Buzzflash. It’s pretty hilarious, but, in the grand SNL tradition, it peters out toward the end (and I don’t mean St Peter, either).
I’ve heard Franken shilling for the book on the radio; sometimes, he’s hilarious, sometimes, he’s only nominally funny. He’s certainly funnier than James Woods, but the left still needs some better humor to break out of its little pity party. Less O’Reilly idiot-bashing, more of the geniuses who gave John Ashcroft his own soundtrack.