Wednesday, May 18, 2011

It's Canadian...But is it Art?

I don't know why, but my gut reaction to anything "Canadian" is automatic embarrassment. This is especially true of the arts. Sure, there are exceptions gross in number--Alice Munro, Guy Maddin, Richard Wagamese, The Sweet Hereafter, Da Vinci's Inquest, Joni Mitchell,--but in general, "Canadian-ness" is not a positive attribute, arts-wise. It feels forced upon us.

How many of us suffer through sub-par works of art on a daily basis? Mediocre poetry on bus station billboards, book stores stuffed with pompous and clever 'character studies,' our airwaves held hostage by Celine Dion for a portion of every hour, all under the banner of promoting "Canadian" art.

I find TV to be the most galling example. Nothing is more humiliating than turning on the CBC and seeing their slate of pleasant, non-threatening, awful television shows. Has anyone ever laughed at Corner Gas? Or Little Mosque on the Prairie? The Americans and British run rings around us, TV-wise. And it's not because they have more money or better actors, it's because they're willing to offend people.

Good art is offensive--maybe a more polite way of saying that is, good art runs the risk of being offensive. The greatest American novel, in the minds of Ernest Hemingway and many others, features a character who refers to his best friend as Nigger Jim. And every few years someone tries to ban that book (Huck Finn) from schools. No such fight ever goes on with Canadian art.

(That's not true--Neil Young's "Cortez the Killer" was banned in Spain. But the Spanish know as much about art as Canadians do.)

Now here's the rub--Canadian art is, for the most part, state-funded. It's in the government's interest not to offend people. But of course, The Powers That Be can't run the risk of being seen as fuddy-duddies. Hence the popularity of the faux-edgy state-sponsored art work, e.g."Gay Love on the Reservation."

The point isn't that homosexuality or reservation life couldn't be part of great art, but that those traits neutralize the artistic impulse if they're added to an art work to spice it up, rather than being of the essence of that art work. Meaning, if you're writing about gay guys on the reservation, or about anything else, there better be a good story at the heart of it.

That's the difference between a movie like Philadelphia, which says, "let's celebrate gayness as intrinsically noble, and reward ourselves for having the correct view of gayness," and a play like Angels in America, which looks at nobility through the lens of gayness. One is a story of cardboard characters and cheap sentiment; the other is a work of true drama and therefore creates genuine emotion.

On paper, it's a lot easier to pitch a Philadelphia than an Angels in America--and the pitch is what government-funded art revolves around. Does it sound arty? Will it reflect well on our institution? Then here's some dough.

If it sounds arty and can be explained easily, then it's probably disingenuous and no good. If you don't believe me, try explaining your favorite movie to a friend who hasn't seen it: "See, it's about this family of mobsters...a guy finds a horse's head in his bed...and they hide a gun behind a toilet...heck, I don't know, just see it."

Now try explaining the plot of a Lifetime Network movie: "A woman learns to love her mentally retarded sister."

Tolstoy believed that what defined a work of art was its inability to be distilled--meaning, the only way to understand what a work of art is, is to experience it.

The quality that makes the Canadian government sign a check is a quality of no use to the artist, and possibly of serious harm.

Learning to write or paint or play music is a skill. Learning to pitch is a separate skill. Unlike a talent show, which attempts to commodify art, an Arts Council attempts to commodify the pitch itself. Hence, the nice, pleasant, utterly unwatchable TV shows that fill the CBC's timeslots.

Contrast this with the BBC. British television features a string of abhorrent main characters, vile authority figures, and non-politically-correct treatments of social issues. The result? Black Adder, Prime Suspect, Faulty Towers, Cracker, The Office, and so forth.

The organizing principle of all these shows is not to enlighten, but to entertain. To entertain is to speak to someone as equals--"Here's a joke I think you might like." To enlighten is to speak down to someone--"You need to change the way you think, and here's why."

This is not to say that popular art isn't without its problems--anyone who has ever heard Nickelback can testify to that--but the problem in both cases is one of pandering. The soulless alt-rock band panders to its audience, while the television pitchman panders to the council. In both cases the results are the same--works of art that may be fashionable and may be popular, but which are empty at their center.

The flip side of the bland and vacuous art work is the stylistically-challenging-for-the-sake-of-being-stylistically-challenging art work. This could be seen as a reaction against the bland and vacuous, but they have more in common than they'd admit. The Canadian author who says, in effect, "storytelling is childish and bourgeois, so I will fill six hundred pages with my incoherent ramblings in order to disabuse you of your desire for a story," is cut from the same cloth as the mullet-headed singer who starts his show with, "Winnipeg is the rockin'-est city around!" Neither treats the audience as an equal. Neither is in the business of truth.

Canadian authors excel at postmodern, hip, empty works of art. We don't learn how to write for an audience--we see that as disdainful, as prostituting our talents. Literary theory is seen as the real proving ground--once you get the proper theory behind you (usually some mixture of Marx and Freud taken from a post-WWII European intellectual who himself [and it's usually a guy] never produced any art worth a damn), THEN you can start to write.

I believe literary theory and literature have as much to do with each other as a hot dog and a warm puppy.

A lot of people bemoan the reductions in arts funding that the Provincial Liberals and the Federal Conservatives have rolled out. But maybe in a way, this is what Canadian artists need-- a kick in the ass, a chance to reflect on why we make art and what role it's supposed to fill in our community. Does a Canadian Content law that shoves fifteen minutes of Nickelback and Celine Dion down our throats every hour really nurture an arts scene? Are there better ways to do this?

If we're willing to honestly examine the governing wisdom of the Canadian art scene, we will see a disjunction between the conditions which produce great art, and those which produce the warm glow of self-satisfaction that derives from "supporting the arts." Maybe, when the political pendulum swings around and arts funding comes back, we can use that money for works of substance and vision, and avoid the cheap, the dogmatic, and the offensively inoffensive. Now that would be a Canadian-ness I could get behind.

Tuesday, March 8, 2011

Louis CK on the decline of America, and whether Rumsfeld is a lizard

Louis CK has passed Patton Oswalt as my favourite comedian. This isn't even a bit he does, it's just a discussion with a radio show about the hell that Corporate America has created--and us, by supporting the Starbucks and Barnes and Nobles of the world instead of local businesses. I don't know if I agree with him completely, but he makes the best possible argument. I think you'll like it.
Part One below:

AND...he asked Donald Rumsfeld point-blank if he was a lizard:


Monday, February 28, 2011

Sunset Limited

I don't think I'll see another movie this year that will hit as hard as Sunset Limited. Dark, but amazing.

Saturday, February 26, 2011

Apocalypse Now Redux: eleven years later


Like most people, I associate Apocalypse Now: Redux with the other "enhanced" (read: ruined) films from 70s and 80s auteurs: the Star Wars movies where Greedo shoots first and Han steps on Jabba the Hut's tail, the E.T. where all the guns have been changed to walkie-talkies. It's been a decade since I saw the Redux, and I remember being vaguely disappointed, especially when Coppola threatened to discontinue producing DVDs with the original version on it.

For the last few weeks I've had a hankering to watch Coppola's Viet Nam masterpiece, now that I have a TV setup worthy of it. While I wanted a copy of the new Blu-Ray release which includes Hearts of Darkness, Eleanor Coppola's astounding documentary, I had to settle for my "Dossier" DVD version, which splits the film(s) onto two discs and does zero remastering to the original film.

Yesterday night I watched Apocalypse Now, and this morning and afternoon I watched Apocalypse Now Redux. And while it's hard to top the original film, the Redux stands as a worthy edition for a number of reasons.

There are parts of the Redux, namely the scenes with the Playboy Bunnies and the French rubber plantation, which seem completely incongruous with the original film. The characters seem different in the Redux version: watching Martin Sheen's Willard playfully steal the surfboard of Robert Duvall's Colonel Kilgore is hard to reconcile with the tight-lipped and grim Willard who executes the wounded woman aboard the sampan a mere forty minutes later. To watch the Redux is to drastically reconsider who many of the characters are.

Yet there are also scenes in the Redux which fit perfectly within the original film. Watching Marlon Brando stand in the doorway of the cargo container where Willard has been imprisoned, reading to him dispatches from Time Magazine, is one of my most vivid memories of either film. I was actually surprised when it wasn't in the original. Ditto a short scene at the beginning of the film where Lawrence (Larry) Fishburne's Clean asks Willard why he enjoys war, and Willard replies something to the effect that you can't discover what you're made of locked away in some factory in Ohio. Perhaps these scenes are a little too explicit, but they add details to the film that reinforce who the characters are. The plantation scene and the Playboy nonsense disrupt things.

I still wish that I had the Blu-Ray, because the Dossier DVD doesn't cut it. The filmstock of the original is grainy and changes in quality from scene to scene. It's also ludicrous that the first halves of both films is included on one disc, and the second halves on the other. Why not put each film on a separate disc, or both on one? It's not like DVDs can't hold that much.

Ultimately the original is better, but the Redux is not a "fallen" version. It's an expanded version, and while it doesn't improve the original, it does enrich it. No one will ever make a film like Apocalpyse Now; judging from the Oscar nominations, no one even bothers to try. For that reason, the more available footage of Willard, Kilgore and Kurtz, the better.

Tuesday, February 8, 2011

Alternative Nation at the AV Club

I’ll never get Korn and Limp Bizkit. I’ll always consider nü-metal a symptom of the nihilism, self-absorption, and arrogance percolating in American culture in the late ’90s, before it flowered into something really ugly a few years later. I find nothing inspiring about this music. I feel that I am right about this. But I suspect this opinion is meaningless, because I’m just playing the role nü-metal wanted me to play. I was the adult now. The '90s were almost over and they put me right back where I started, on the outside looking in.


From Stephen Hyden's "Whatever Happened To Alternative Nation?", some of the best music writing I've ever read. Part Nine went up today; the first few chronicle the rise and fall of Grunge and Alternative, usually contrasting two bands that arose from similar scenes but with different sounds or ethics. Last week was Oasis and Radiohead; a previous installment looked at Soundgarden. This week things took a nasty turn with a look at the horror show of the late nineties, Limp Bizkit, Korn et al.

My brother Dan was born a year and change after me. He loved Limp Bizkit. I loved Nirvana. I definitely got the better side of that exchange.

Sunday, January 30, 2011

Sunday morning music

I felt like throwing up some music videos, so I did. They're across the board, because I'm eclectic, which speaks to an inherent wisdom and cultural tolerance in my character. Also, I like web pages that take ten minutes to load. Makes me nostalgic for the good old days.


Radiohead doing Bodysnatchers live:


The Black Keys recording in their studio at Mussel Shoals:



Hamza el Din playing "Helalisa" on the Oud:



Jeff Healey introducing the Tea Party playing "The River*":



Chris Whitley doing "O God My Heart is Ready," maybe his most badass performance:






...and Whitley doing Robert Johnson's "Hellhound on My Trail (forgive the hat):"




* You have no idea how hard it's been to be a fan of The Tea Party after that douchey Republican movement started. Why couldn't they name their movement Sum 41? Or Creed?

Friday, January 28, 2011

Dad was tough enough but not much on planning. At eighteen he'd left the Ozarks planning to work for big dough on the oil rigs of Louisiana but ended up boxing Mexicans for peanuts in Texas. He slugged them, they slugged him, everybody bled, nobody got rich. Three years later he came back to the valley with nothing to show for his adventure but new scars ragged around both eyes and a few stories men chuckled at for a while.

Daniel Woodrell, Winter's Bone

Daniel Woodrell's writing is unique. Some writers have a gift for description, others for dialogue, but it's rare that those strengths go together. In the wrong hands description is the most tedious of elements; in Woodrell's hands it's electrifying.



Gail said, "Does he know? Sonny?"

"Not from us. If he knows, it's from somebody else blabbin', 'cause we never." The eastern side of the rut belonged to the government and a wall of trees grew near the road. Branches overhead rent the sunlight into jigsaw pieces that fell to ground as a jumble of bright shards and deckled crescents. Beer cans and whiskey bottles and bread bags uglied the gully between the rut and the woods. Ree said, "The army'll still take you even without the full amount of teeth, won't they?"
I'm just about finished Winter's Bone. I have another book of his called Tomato Red that I might start after I've finished the semester's reading.* As novels and as films, Bone and True Grit make nice companions.


*Ishiguro's Remains of the Day, Cormac McCarthy's No Country for Old Men, something by Pat Barker, something by J.G. Ballard that isn't Crash, Tom Rob Smith's Child 44 and Jim Thompson's Pop 1280. The Smith book was allright and the Thompson was great, though the ending was a bit confusing--not in the good way, just the feeling of, "That's it, huh?"