dropped into the extraordinary popular delusions & madness of crowds that is the Berlinale last night to see sexed up snail Isabella Rossellini's Green Porno open for Guy Maddin's hometown remembrance My Winnipeg. Rossellini's sexy shorts, commissioned by a sundance project for the "small screen", recounted the erotic intrigues of flies, snails and spiders - while further episodes take on bees and dragonflies. As it wasn't actually the premiere (that was two days earlier) I was pleasantly surprised when both Rossellini and Maddin came out to introduce their films and later engage in a post coital Q & A. While i had no doubts that the directress would prove scintillating and seductive i was happily surprised by how charming and playful she turned out to be. Maddin was engaging and witty as well - reinforcing my opinion of him as one of the most creative and visually arresting filmmakers working today. His homage to Winnipeg, his hometown of sleepwalkers and snow, is one of the finest examples of a love letters written to a place that i've had the pleasure of watching. His trademark black and white, dimly focussed camerawork (and additional antique film stock) proved just the ticket to summon up memories of retreating childhood and youth, flickering across the silver screen and disappearing like fading family photos in the sun.
11 February 2008
26 January 2008
the long crawl
watching burt lancaster cut through the cold water of an unendurable reality as he makes his way upriver to his lost dreams i think i learned few pointers to improve my own strokes. in fred perry's 1968 film the swimmer, lancaster plays ned merrill, who has removed his white shoes and stripped off his brooks brothers suit as he swims from pool to pool across posh society suburbs on his way to retrieve himself from the deeps. while each of us that takes those long laps in the blue has ample opportunity, between the edges of the pool, to contemplate the why's and wherefore's of our damp compulsion, it seems that ned's belief in his swimming abilities has us all outclassed. as is often said - denial is not just a river in egypt, it seems to also flow through a series of connecticut backyards....
28 October 2007
Pimpin'
last night's screening of The Last Pimp the story of Düsseldorf's larger than life fancy man Bert Wollersheim was well received by the audience which applauded throughout Ingo Hamacher's film as Bert described his life philosophies and insights into the business of sex. beginning as a hair stylist, his extravagant personal style and ability to cut the latest hair fashions brought him to the attention of the sexy underworld of seventies west germany and before long he had his own brothel which he grew into a world renowned sex emporium in the course of his long career in the skin trade. today he's a local pimp celebrity (prostitution being legal in Germany at present) and auto collector and the new documentary follows this rise to stardom.
during the question and answer session after the screening Bert made it clear that he considers prostitution to be one of the most difficult professions and wouldn't recommend it to anyone if they have any other options. he also pointed out that the underworld in which he came of age no longer exists due to the globalisation of crime. the questions and answers soon narrowed to a discussion of the current state of prostitution in germany and its legalisation which, while originally hoped to improve the working conditions for prostitutes, has created a liberalisation of the labor market which has resulted in reduced prices and increased competition - a difficult situation when your capital resources are your own body and psyche....
08 October 2007
12 September 2007
give a fella a hand wouldja pal?
Took a jaunt up to Wismar over the weekend in preparation for the longer trek through the Carpathians next month. Not on horseback this time, but with Deutsche Bahn, taking advantage of the very reasonably priced 'Schönes-Wochenende-Ticket'. Drag up to four of your friends out on a daytrip to a remote village for only thirty three euros! The Carpathian connection stems from the filming of Nosferatu (both Murnau's and Herzog's), which used the medieval harbor town as a backdrop for the Vampyre's nocturnal mischief. The day was spent between the town's renowned brick churches, medieval market square, and eating ice cream by the harbor while watching sailing ships (with real sails no less!) ply the narrow channel. The city museum also made for a bit of edutainment when, upon lifting the white cotton light protection covering one of the vitrines, we were confronted with this pair of severed hands! Once belonging to a sixteenth century murder victim, insult was added to injury when the hands were presented to the judge to establish a case against the accused murderer. Perhaps it was felt that if the accused were truly guilty he would be inspired to confess to his murderous deed when the mummified fingers pointed toward the dock!
29 August 2007
07 June 2007
26 March 2007
lost weekend
despite the sunny weather saturday found me in darkness. sitting in our tiny lichtlblick kino watching peter lorre's singular directorial effort der verlorene (the lost one). the film, made upon his return to germany in 1951, opens with Lorre as Dr. Neumeister, a physician in a displaced persons camp who is suddenly joined by one Nowak, an associate from his wartime past. as the two men reacquaint themselves in the canteen that evening, we learn the truth about the doctor, his associate and their shared dark past. the film is a meditation on murder, seeing, silence and the burial of truth beneath opportunism - themes which would also haunt it's release and subsequent disappearance (after a short ten day run) from german cinemas. the film's relentless confrontation of historical horror was unacceptable in the germany of 1951 which, on the verge of its miraculous postwar economic recovery, could not bear the sight of its recent crimes. lorre, silenced in his homeland, went back to hollywood where he would live until his death in 1964.the next day we left before noon to ride out the the grunewald. in preparation for a planned trek this autumn through the transylvanian countryside i am training to ride (horses, that is). the riding association of uncle tom's cabin (don't ask) has a riding school and so we went out to make the proper arrangements. afterwards, having noted it on the map of riding trails taped to the door of the barn, we decided to bicycle through the grunewald to the selbstmord friedhof (suicide's graveyard) - who could resist? though setting off in a general northwesterly direction, we soon became turned around and lost among the dense network of walking, riding and cycling trails running through the forest. and we weren't the only ones - as we stopped to ask directions from the other cyclists and wanderers we would often as not be asked the same questions - where had we come from? what was down the next fork or over the next ridge? the woods were full of the desperately lost and disoriented - i think i even spied a group of east prussian refugees still fleeing the advancing russians sixty years later. and one can also imagine the looks of horror we received inquiring for directions to the suicide's graveyard... luckily we soon ran into a orchestra conductor out for a constitutional with the faithful hound and young 'protege'. he closed his eyes and waved an invisible baton, directing us through the forest to the banks of the havel where he indicated we could find a map for the remainder of the journey.
our conductor also remarked that the cemetery was no longer known as the selbstmord friedhof nor the alternate name of friedhof der namenlosen (graveyard of the nameless) but was now officially designated the friedhof grunewald-forst (graveyard of the grunewald forest). the old names reflect the history of the cemetery, which was founded by the local foresters as a burial ground for the bodies that they pulled from the river, whose currents had the habit of dropping the floaters from the big city here along the reeds. since suicide is a mortal sin, the local churches refused the dead entry into the their churchyards and the woodsmen provided this ground in the stillness of the forest as a final resting place for these tortured souls. as the years progressed it became a resting place not only for the suicides and unknown dead of faust's metropolis but also for those who preferred to rest in eternity untroubled by the petty badgerings of religious faith.
as promised, after a bit more wandering through the forest we found ourselves on the banks of the havel. the warm sun had brought innumerable families to the water's edge where their children were busy harassing the local waterfowl and being repayed in kind. finding the promised map we soon determined that we were several kilometers southwest of the cemetery. given our propensity for misdirecting ourselves we thought it best to ride north along the havel - keep the river on your right (or in this case left) and all that. the next few kilometers found us dodging butterflies, toddlers, teens and ancients along the bike path until we reached schildhorn where we paused for refreshment before heading back up into the forest.
leaving the waters edge and riding up into treeline, the lowering sun reddened the trunks of the pines. before long, a clue we were headed in the right direction. a wooden sign pointing down the trail and announcing in large letters 'zum friedhof'. heeding, we found ourselves a moment later at the gate of the graveyard. as we wandered between the plots, we spied a small stone with a pair of names, upon which rested a bottle of wine, a lantern and several pebbles. it was the grave of one margarete päffgen and her daughter christa - better known as NICO. singer-songwriter, fashion model, actress, keyboard player and warhol superstar, NICO was buried here with her mother after her sudden death in ibiza in 1988. funny really, as we have been listening to NICO quite a bit lately after reading simon reynolds writing about her in the guardian. her two albums the marble index and desertshore are to be rereleased together this year as the frozen borderline. siren of the lost, NICO was our youthful companion of many a dark and delirious night and we've even a vague memory of seeing her once in concert. our recall of the evening a bit dim, the main thrust being that she was extraordinarily late to come on stage.
leaving the chelsea girl and onward through the graveyard - past the final resting places of the nameless fished out of the river, the unknown soldiers, the russian war prisoners of wwi, lost beloved parents and the children who perished on christmas eve. all of them buried here in the middle of this pine expanse beneath the dome of the sky. as the hour was growing late and the woods were darkening we left to make our way back into the city, the low wall of the graveyard disappearing behind the pale screen of the pines reaching heavenwards from the sandy hills....
28 December 2006
and this morning
snow. granted, i woke late after a silent morning interrupted only by the yawning of cats. seeing a glaze on the roof of a house on the corner i assumed at first that the night air had simply occasioned the frost, but spying a bit closer i spotted the tiny snow specks drifting down from our refrigerated sky. and now it has begun to lay a thin blanket upon the autos, the heaps of dirt piled up by workers and the abandoned bicycles in the street, the snow gods having decided that the solstice and christmas are safely past and the winter can begin in earnest. it eases my heart which had begun to doubt the possibility of snow in this greenhouse world into which we have shut ourselves - pulling fast the door and listening for that doomladen 'click' - like a lone child trapping himself in a dead refrigerator thoughtlessly abandoned on the street.
a few days ago i thrilled to see Unheimliche Geschichten (Tales of the Macabre) at the Babylon. Richard Oswald's 1919 film adaption of five strange tales (authored by Edgar Allan Poe and Robert Louis Stevenson among others) stars Conrad Veidt, Reinhold Schünzel and, most importantly, Anita Berber. I was especially excited to see the film since finishing Mel Gordon's biography of Berber and becoming better acquainted with this dark goddess of Berlin. Berber is presented as 'die Dirne' (the Harlot) in the film's introduction, her portrait hanging in an antiquariat between those of Veidt's 'der Tod' (Death) and Schünzel's 'der Teufel' (the Devil). At the stroke of midnight the portraits come alive, spring from out their frames and, after squirming about lasciviously, begin to read from the dusty volumes which are everywhere in the shop. The five stories which follow are tales of desire, madness and death. a man kills his wife, his crime only to be discovered by her lover, a mysterious lovely perishes of the plague, a man murders his friend for the attentions of a dancer, a mysterious club produces suicides in its members, and a baron is plagued by ghosts after importuning the delicate wife of a nobleman. Conrad Veidt is excellent as Death - his lank figure and skull like visage is bone chilling at first glance. Anita Berber is of course dreamy in this, her seventh film. She had already worked with Oswald several times and had played the lead in his film Prostitution. By 1919 she was the face of the erotic madness which was sweeping Berlin. Her naked dances were performed to acclaim (in the third tale of this film she is the dancer that drives men to murder, mad with desire, and we can witness her amazing talent), her scandalous personal habits were becoming legend, her life of drugs and drink had not yet taken its toll and her fame as an 'incarnation of the perverse' was growing night after night. Though in less than ten years she would be dead of tuberculosis, she was earning the lasting honors and fame which still attend to her memory and which still drive we humble imps of the perverse mad with dark desire...
04 December 2006
the bleak December
a bit of entertainment this evening. Roger Corman's "The Raven" from 1963. Babylon's "Freunde des schrägen Films" has lined up a festival of Corman's work. A festival so big that is has to be shown in two locations - the normal spot wednesdays at the Babylon as well as sundays at the Z-inema on Bergstrasse. This evening's film, loosely based on the poem by Edgar Allen Poe (very, very, very loosely), cast Vincent Price, Boris Karloff and Peter Lorre in the roles of dueling magicians and starred a baby faced Jack Nicholson as Lorre's son and romantic pretty boy. Corman's work always brings me back to childhood, in which many an late evening was spent glued to the TV nursing an unwholesome obsession the fiends and monsters of a low budget horror universe. Despite their spare budgets, cliched sets and storylines as well as the sacrifices made for their rushed production these films were able to create an atmosphere of wonder, fantasy, magic and mystery which remains unrivalled today. Unfortunately I missed Ray Milland in "The Man with the X-Ray Eyes" last week, but will be glued to my seat for 'Death Race 2000' and 'The Wild Angels', where Corman explodes America's open road obsession....and those who live it....to death!
