(for those who require one)
And, of course, that is what all of this is -- all of this: the one song, ever changing, ever reincarnated, that speaks somehow from and to and for that which is ineffable within us and without us, that is both prayer and deliverance, folly and wisdom, that inspires us to dance or smile or simply to go on, senselessly, incomprehensibly, beatifically, in the face of mortality and the truth that our lives are more ill-writ, ill-rhymed and fleeting than any song, except perhaps those songs -- that song, endlesly reincarnated -- born of that truth, be it the moon and June of that truth, or the wordless blue moan, or the rotgut or the elegant poetry of it. That nameless black-hulled ship of Ulysses, that long black train, that Terraplane, that mystery train, that Rocket '88', that Buick 6 -- same journey, same miracle, same end and endlessness."
-- Nick Tosches, Where Dead Voices Gather
-- Nick Tosches, Where Dead Voices Gather
Taris, roi de l'eau
(Jean Vigo; 1931)
On its face, Taris, roi de l'eau was a short film about French Swimming Champeen Jean Taris . . . not too different in conception from any number of Pathe or Movietone newsreel items . . . but for its brevity if nothing else, Jean Vigo's second creation was possibly his boldest statement. With its repeated employment of purely cinematic devices, its own grace seeming in conflict with the order of that which it documents, the film almost ridicules, rather than celebrates, the physicality of its subject; rendering a perfect before-the-fact antidote to Riefenstahl's fetish opus, Olympiad.
I've often wondered . . . and I fear I'll never know the answer to this . . . whether Busby Berkeley, who made a career of using cinema to transcend the purely physical, had this film at least partly in mind when he created the By a Waterfall sequence of Footlight Parade. Probably not. Like Vigo, he just had an innate understanding of the medium's potential.
What more does any filmmaker really need?
In Part Nine of The Hitchcock/Truffaut Tapes, Alfred Hitchcock's voice drips with what can only be described as amused contempt as he speaks of Daphne du Maurier's 1938 novel Rebecca as a kind of literary hangover of Victoriana. A "novelette", he calls it; humorless, a wheezy work designed to pull in the women and nothing else. He seems somewhat astonished that François Truffaut could entertain the notion that the adaptation he directed for David O. Selznick in 1940, his first American film, was a picture he really wanted to make; at least in the miserably faithful manner he was forced to execute it throughout the production (a circumstance he attributes to Selznick and the success of Gone With the Wind). "It's not a Hitchcock picture", he says, with all the economy one could ask for.
The mention of Selznick's 1939 commercial behemoth sparks another desultory round of joke-telling. Truffaut leads off with an old one, using a delivery that (in any language, I don't doubt) has 'doom' written all over it. Hitchcock then points out, not unkindly, that the joke is . . . not exactly new; then proceeds to tell one of the many variations handed down through time.
I don't know why the people who produced these excerpts, knowing they had 50 hours of tape to fit into 12 hours of broadcast, decided to include these passages. If it weren't for the personal dynamic they sometimes (not always, and not on this occasion) reveal, they'd be a massive waste of precious time.
When this desultory lull passes, things become terribly strange. Returning to Rebecca, Hitchcock begins to marvel . . . sounding genuinely puzzled . . . at the propensity for what he himself labels "Hitchcock films" to linger in the retrospective ether for so long and with such frequency. Voicing this dilemma, he asks how it is that his work, especially his work in Hollywood, never dates, stays as fresh and as vital and as brilliant as the day it was wrought; even in the case of films made 20 years prior.
The extreme (and I do mean extreme) narcissism of this statement . . . which I suspect had even Truffaut's eyebrows raised to the ceiling; which doesn't stop him from falling for it . . . leads me to think this is another instance of Hitchcock toying with his interviewer. Yet, as I say, he sounds utterly serious.
And who knows but that he was serious? By 1962 there were few directors in the history of cinema with as high a public profile as Alfred Hitchcock. He was a household name; a registered trademark both in spirit and in fact. Since 1955 he'd been in America's living rooms as the genial, avuncular, wry toast presenter of Alfred Hitchcock Presents on CBS (later on NBC). He wasn't the first director to invade homes in such a fashion. Cecil B. DeMille hosted the Lux Radio Theater on the NBC Blue network (later CBS) for 20 years, after all. But Television, as everyone knew all too well by the 1960s, was a far more powerful medium; and anyone featured on it week after week in those days instantly became one of the most recognizable people on earth.
Just imagine what that can do to a movie director, even one already semi-well known as Hitchcock. Never strangers to the more lurid strains of vanity, many filmmakers were so convinced of their creative primacy that a natural resentment was spawned toward those who got all the attention, namely the actors. They didn't create cinema; they just brought suckers into the tent, as it were. But Hitchcock was one of the very few who, by his determination and razor-sharp marketing sense, was able to vault himself into the public eye . . . and stay there. Everyone in America knew that voice, that grim countenance, that "Good Ev-e-ning". Most people in his day could not have picked, say, Fritz Lang or Frank Borzage or even Billy Wilder out of a lineup. But everyone knew who Hichcock was, even if a goodly number weren't completely certain what he did besides host an anthology series on television every week.
And I ask you, who wouldn't be a thoroughgoing narcissist in the face of all that?
The discussion weaves through the use of Special Effects in Rebecca, the absence of them in Jules et Jim, and how it was David Selznick got the Academy Award for Rebecca and not Alfred Hitchcock. And then it's over.
Poets are both clean and warm
And most are far above the norm
Whether here or on the roam
Have a poet in every home! #9
Andy Warhol's Silver Flotations
(Willard Maas; 1966)
In April of 1966, the Leo Castelli Gallery in New York opened an exhibit by the true Jay Gatsby of American art, Andy Warhol. Silver Clouds, as it was called, consisted in its entirety of a roomful of silver, metalized plastic pillow-shaped balloons inflated with helium and oxygen. They floated . . . that's all they did . . . held aloft by the gallery's own air vents. In comparison to Warhol's yellow and pink Cow wallpaper exhibit then-ongoing in another part of the gallery, this was a dynamic work, but it was not without its charm for some.
Willard Maas, the poet, filmmaker and off-camera star of Warhol's 1964 film Blowjob, was so taken by the installation that he decided to put these inflated bags of air on film (perhaps, who can say, sensing a theme in light of his fellatory participation in the earlier work). The result, Andy Warhol's Silver Flotations was his enduring contribution to the Warholian ether all New York seemed to be floating in in those days, and it is our offering today.
No. 43 out of a series of 48 from Gallaher Tobacco, Virginia House, London & Belfast
"I guess I was never cut out to be a stool-pigeon. A guy like me needs real he-man, out-door stuff--and if I couldn't get a kick out of playing in the Technicolor production 'Northwest Passage,' my name wouldn't be Beery. The book's a best-seller, and believe me, it's a rare treat to land the opportunity of playing in such a great yarn. My favourite part? You bet!"