Collaborative Distribution: Music, Literature, Film

In a few recent chats I've had with Jonathan Rosenbaum while he's been in St. Andrews, we've talked about the difficulty of distributing certain films. This could be the result of the film being 'too experimental,' that the director is not well known, or the way in which the filmmaker tries to distribute the film (independently). Additionally, film festivals often receive so many submissions that preliminary screening is done by an army of volunteers that are not very representative of the festivals themselves (they may have vested interests in certain types of films, little film experience, etc. etc.), so the 'traditional' way of finding an audience for a film is relatively unreliable. So, how do dedicated, but relatively new filmmakers find an audience for their films?

In a talk Jonathan Rosenbaum gave at St. Andrews on cinephilia (he was partly drawing from this post) he mentioned a 'viewing party,' where he got together with a group of interested people and watched Uncovered: The Whole Truth About the Iraq War. The event, as he described it, sounded very much like the 'film act' of Third Cinema, where a group of people would get together to watch a political film as a sort of political rally. Solanas and Getino thought that alternative methods of screening such as this would be an effective way to circumvent Hollywood (and dominant political) ideologies - I'm oversimplifying for the sake of a blog post, read here for the real stuff. Regarding the 'film act,' Solanas and Getino say: "We thus discovered a new facet of cinema: the participation of people who, until then, were considered spectators." In this situation, the audience members become actors and filmmakers, or perhaps it is more proper to say that everyone involved becomes a 'participant.'

To a certain extent, musicians already follow this model of distribution. Although it would be difficult to reconcile the goals of Third Cinema with the goals of (most) musicians, musicians do still run up against hegemonic forms of distribution similar to Hollywood in its relation to the distribution of films - that is, it is relatively impossible to sell a film or an album through common channels (Border's, etc.) without a media presence. Thus small independent bands do not tour for ticket sales, they tour for exposure in the hopes that they will build a fan base and receive positive press. Even if most bands do not become famous rockstars by touring, they do build a presence that is difficult to extinguish.

Filmmakers have yet to really tap into this method of distribution for the most part. It is true that they have their own methods of distribution, notably film festivals for aspiring filmmakers. As noted above, however, the festival market is anything but easy to tap into. Therefore, it is a great deal different than the band that is able to book a small show for 30 or so people. Certain artists have attempted to hybridize their distribution, for example, I know that my friends in The Braille Tapes often offer novels written by members of the band for sale at their shows. Writers tour as well, in a slightly different sense, offering readings and book signings (although, this is already part of the mainstream method of distribution - so it may not be tenable for relatively unknown authors).

I find it somewhat surprising that filmmakers have yet to really validate an operation such as this, because movies are a relatively easy medium to transport outside of mainstream channels of distribution. What I'm proposing here is not that filmmakers contact local theaters to arrange screenings (although this can't hurt either), but that they arrange small screenings in homes or other willing venues for a very small fee (or, by donation). At the event, the filmmakers can present their film, answer questions, and meet interested folks (who are potential small distributors themselves).

'Touring' with films in this way would go far in circumventing the problems emerging filmmakers face when trying to market their films. This is not a new phenomenon. As I mentioned briefly above, political Third Cinema filmmakers 'marketed' their films in the same way. Of course, their goal was not to sell their films, but to build a political congregates dedicated to a particular cause. But how different is the goal of the emerging filmmaker? - the goal is still to build a network of relations and support of the filmmakers' art, political or otherwise.

It is probable that the myth of Hollywood still cripples such efforts. The myth of succeeding at a film festival and being bought up by a production company, etc. There are limit cases that continue to propagate this myth, but by following it filmmakers are forgetting or leaving behind new potentials for their films. The potential to turn 'audiences' into 'participants' by bringing them an affective experience. Perhaps this is unglamorous, but all the more important for being so - a form of distribution based on hard work and real people, not a transcendental ideal.

If anyone can think of films or people that are working this way, please let me know.

En Attendant Godard, A Review

Last night I had the chance to catch a new film by Dr. William Brown, En Attendant Godard. I was lucky to be there, because as far as I know this is the first time it has been screened, and the screening room was packed! I'd say that there were around 30 people there, and I ended up sitting on a table because all of the seats were taken! That aside, there are some very interesting things to say about En Attendant Godard.

To quickly summarize: the film is about a young man who starts off on a quest to find his father, the filmmaker Jean-Luc Godard. It becomes clear that this character has actually never met his 'father' - and perhaps isn't really his father at all. Thus, we are left with the meanderings of a bored youth in true Godardian fashion as he travels from the United Kingdom, to France, and finally, when somebody tells the man that Godard isn't in France, to Switzerland. Throughout each step of the way, it is almost as if the characters pass through various films by Godard starting with Breathless. The protagonist steals a car, picks up a young woman giving surveys on the street (about Godard nonetheless), shoots a cop (it is implied), etc. At first, it seems as if Brown is borrowing from Breathless, but soon the characters stumble into a full-fledged rendition of Weekend, a film so distinct, and bizarre, that it becomes clear that this is not a remake of Godard films, but that the characters are literally passing through them experientially. Eventually, the characters do make it to the home of Jean-Luc Godard, but I won't reveal anymore about the story - it is best to see it for yourself.

The style of the film is very interesting - if the writer-director can be called an auteur, then William Brown as the writer-director-producer-editor-actor-etc. needs a new term altogether. What is significant about this, however, is that Brown is unafraid to wield this much power over the medium, and as a result the film becomes something ontologically different. If La Nouvelle Vague treated 'the camera as a pen,' then Brown must have his brain directly wired into the filmmaking apparatus. The film shifts between narrative story, interviews, still images, titles, words imprinted on the images of the film, between monochrome, blue, red, and white filters, different speeds and slownesses, and probably more that I cannot recall. It is as if we see the thoughts of Brown himself. Although, Brown isn't one to naturalize any of these discourses, of course - in several scenes we are quite aware of the presence of the filmmaker and the fact that he is filming. In one scene, we even hear Brown giving our lead character's lines, as the character emotionlessly repeats them. This is perhaps one of the most important points about the film: that what the viewer is experiencing is not reality, but a series of images, and - as one intertitle states - "images lie." The film is about more than a quest to find Jean-Luc Godard, it is about characters from the age of images trying to negotiate 'reality.'

For me, the most interesting thing I experience while watching this film was the pull of some particularly existential refrains. In Chaosmosis, Felix Guattari describes existential refrains, which anchor subjectivity in certain ways. These refrains at their most basic level are things that are experienced by a person repeatedly. Part of the argument Brown makes in his film is that the 'culture of images' disseminates these existential refrains in the form of images to such a degree that they are reality, they are existential. This may not sound like an altogether new argument, but what is new is that Brown is able to operate on the viewer's own 'refrains' through making this argument. For example, certain elements - sounds, images, etc. - in his film pull you towards experiences of other Godard films. The deep voice from the TV is reminiscent of the computer from Alphaville. It may not be the voice from Alphaville, but it nonetheless creates an unrepresentable refrain - an experience, for the lack of a better word - for the viewer familiar with this film. And for fans of Godard, familiar with the entirety of his works, refrains crystallize throughout the viewing of the film. This is a story for the culture it describes.

Perhaps this isn't a 'review,' considering it is not very comprehensive. I really just wanted to get some of my thoughts down on something that I think is a new potential for filmmakers and filmmaking. I'd like to return to this later, and discuss some of the other issues in the film, such as the beginning and its declaration as a low budget, 'minor' work of art. Perhaps, I'll get the chance to view the film again. I've missed a lot of interesting, and amusing things here, such as the part of the film where they travel to Michael Haneke's home to film his door, which - I can't recall whether it was Brown himself, or one of the characters that made this statement - they will 'send to Haneke in the mail.' Well, I hope he likes it!

The Ambivalence of the Future (Flash Forward)

Theoretical concepts and practices are always ambivalent, because they are never so simple as to have the same effects on each situation where they are applied - not to mention their (un)ethical perversion by certain figures. Marx's proletarian bands together in one instance to earn better wages, but has the creative potential of its subjectivity stripped in another. Deleuze's Plane of Immanence takes power from transcendence and hands it to the material subject in one instance, but is reason enough for the IDF to explode holes through peoples homes in another.

In Deleuze, Cinema, and National Identity David Martin-Jones shows that the 'time-image' is not a simple term to be applied to a film narrative. In one instance, this concept might lead to the liberation from a particularly restrictive or painful national/historical narrative, but in another it reterritorializes without liberation from this negative-narrative - or worse, it reterritorializes in terms of an even more damning narrative. It is not enough to see that the time-image is present, because the concept itself does not imply positive liberation.

This post isn't about the un-Spinozist use of these ideas, however, it is about the new television show from David S. Goyer and Brannon Braga, Flash Forward. The premise would make J.J. Abrams proud: there is an event where 'all' humankind loses consciousness for 2 minutes and 17 seconds. During this brief period, they see where they will be in 6 months time. Everyone sees the future. Except for a few shady characters that we know little about, of course.

I've watched the first two episodes of Flash Forward so far and the driving force behind the show is clear: the characters must reconcile what they have seen of the future with what they are living in the present (and perhaps their pasts as well). The main character, Mark Benford, for example, is a recovering alcoholic. In his vision of the future, he is drinking again (not to mention working on the 'case' of the visions while be hunted by a mask-wearing swat team). Benford's wife, Olivia, is with another man. In the present, neither Mark nor Olivia want their respective futures to come true, but can they avoid it?

It gets more complicated: in Olivia's 'vision,' she actually has emotions for the man she apparently has left her husband for. We could venture to say that these visions are actually affective as well then, at least for the 2 minutes and 17 seconds that they last. They are not just images, but embodied experiences.

The question central to this show, going back to the discussion of the time-image from Martin-Jones's book, is whether or not the characters can 'change' the future - or rather, if they can reterritorialize the narrative in terms of their best interests. Time and lived experience immediately become experimental, a very ontological Body without Organs. Of course, we're only two episodes in, so we'll see how malleable these potential (Virtual, or not? We cannot say.) futures are.

One thing is certain: the future is ambivalent. It carries no particular meaning that is not tied to the lived experience of the characters. Just like the concepts discussed briefly above, the value of the future directly results from material actions/consequences.

LEA Special Issue: Dispersive Anatomies

I've just had a paper published about J.G. Ballard's Crash by the Leonardo Electronic Almanac in a special issue titled 'Dispersive Anatomies' - guest edited by Sandy Baldwin and Alan Sondheim. I suppose the publication date just missed its timeliness... but so it goes.

LEA SPECIAL ISSUE: DISPERSIVE ANATOMIES

Guest edited by Sandy Baldwin and Alan Sondheim. Gallery curated by Mez Breeze.

This special issue, guest edited by Sandy Baldwin and Alan Sondheim, considers the network as dispersive anatomy. As the call for papers stated, "A fundamental shift in the way we view the world is underway: the abandonment of discrete objects, and objecthood itself. The world is now plural, and the distinction between real and virtual is becoming increasingly blurred, with troubling consequences within the geopolitical register. This shift is related to a cultural change that emphasizes digital deconstruction over analog construction: a photograph for example can be accessed and transformed, pixel by pixel, cities can be taken apart by gerrymandering or eminent domain, and our social networks are replete with names and images that problematize friendship, sexuality, and culture itself. One issue that emerges here: Are we networking or are we networked? Are we networks ourselves?" The resulting texts and works deal with this fundamental shift in new and illuminating ways.

http://www.leonardo.info/LEA/DispersiveAnatomies/DispersiveAnatomies.html

Ramin Bahrani, My New Favorite Director

Following up on director Ramin Bahrani, I've recently watched his two earlier feature films Man Push Cart and Chop Shop. I was going to post about each of these films separately, but I've decided to roll it into one post about the director.

Man Push Cart (2005) follows a Pakistani immigrant, Ahmad, as he sells coffee and bagels in New York from his pushcart. Unlike the other pushcart vendors who have vehicles, however, Ahmad literally pushes (and pulls) his cart into place and back to the warehouse for an hour each day. Along the lines of Bahrani's other films, the many shots that make up Ahmad's daily routine add an extra layer of existentiality to the film.

Along similar lines, Chop Shop (2007) follows a young boy named Alejandro (Ale) on his daily routine working at auto repair shops in the Iron Triangle. Ale lives in the back of one of the shops he works at and learns auto-body repair from his boss and the other people who work at the shop. Although similarly 'existential,' some of the actions of the characters, such as prostitution and theft, are notably darker than the events of Man Push Cart.

I've already posted a bit about Goodbye Solo (2008) here. After watching Bahrani's earlier two films, however, it is worth mentioning that Goodbye Solo retains much of the characteristics of these first two films.

In my earlier post on Goodbye Solo I pointed out that Bahrani is an Iranian-American and completed his Master's thesis project (from Columbia) in Iran. I found this significant, because his filmmaking shares a great deal of similarities with other Iranian directors, particularly Abbas Kiarostami. After already pointing out scene-for-scene similarities between Goodbye Solo and Kiarostami's Taste of Cherry, I was surprised that Chop Shop opens almost identitically to Taste of Cherry! Each film begins with day laborers looking for work - the difference being that Chop Shop follows one of the day laborers, whereas Taste of Cherry follows a wealthier citizen.

Perhaps the most noticeable aspect of Bahrani's aesthetic, however, is his unique neorealist attention to detail. Each of these films documents the lives of working class people, but at the same time expands the existential situation beyond their day to day affairs by developing a particular psychological understanding of the main characters that is firmly based in an ontological understanding of their lives. For example, the main chracters in each film are generally all working towards some monetary goal (purchasing a taco truck, a vendor's cart, getting a new job), but this goal is a way to connect with something immaterial. It is this immaterial 'thing' (desire?) at the center of each character's existence, that makes each film unique. For example, Ahmad is working to earn enough money to buy his own pushcart, which will allow his son to move in with him. This is clearly connected with atonement for something that is never revealed, but that his son's grandmother clearly blames him for (it is clear that his wife died, and her mother blames Ahmad, but it is never revealed why she blames him).

Because of this almost algorithmic approach to filmmaking, each of Bahrani's films is a fascinating case study of a working-class minority in the United States. What I think makes Bahrani's films especially valuable, however, is how this approach demystifies the ontology of the 'other.' The Pakistani pushcart vendor, the Latin-American street youth, and the Senegalese cab driver's lives are shown to be uniquely difficult, but they also share the same family dramas, economic hardships, and secret aspirations as the people that interact with them. Although it sounds like a cliche, what Bahrani's films do best is make you look at the people who are so completely other to you and realize that their unique situation is just as unique as your own.

Solanas and Getino's Problem with Film Criticism

Jack Attard told me about this interesting article he read - 12 great foreign films you won't find here - by Mick LaSalle, film critic for the San Francisco Chronicle. Jack and I were having a conversation about the distribution of global films, and LaSalle offers some good, if ambitious, solutions to folks who want to expand their global film watching. The article is good, even if his list of movies is pretty Eurocentric. Jack was telling me that LaSalle has a sort of cult following in the San Francisco area, or at least among readers of the San Francisco Chronicle, so I started reading what was available by LaSalle online.

I find a lot of things LaSalle has to say interesting, but I started to notice that he is clearly building an Ethos that positions itself as above the average movie goer, and often incites response from readers (he likes to respond to 'hate' mail publically in his column). This sort of positioning turns me off as a reader, not because I'm looking for something objective, but because I'm wary of some sort of appeal to 'mastery.' I'd rather read reviews that clearly outline the reasons for the opinions of the reviewer. Take this question and response for example:

Dear Mick LaSalle: Is it idiocy or sacrilege to watch "Casablanca" and think that it's really not such a great film? Having just seen it again, I found it rather awful - melodramatic, poorly scripted and acted, and bordering on boring.

Paul Holtz, San Francisco

Dear Paul Holtz: It's not sacrilege or idiocy, because you're not a critic. You're simply doing what 99.9 percent of the public does (and maybe 50 percent of critics do): You're mistaking a personal predilection for an aesthetic judgment. You don't like it, but that doesn't mean it isn't great. It means it's not your cup of tea. That's OK for a nonprofessional, but a critic should be able to tell you why a movie is good, even if he or she doesn't enjoy it. Or, conversely, a critic should be able to explain precisely why a script that has been loved and lauded for 70 years is actually lousy - and why no one else has figured that out until now.

It is all fine and well for the critic to understand what I'm assuming LaSalle is referring to as formal features of a film (he uses the terms good and bad), but I was having a problem with the rhetorical positioning of the critic over the average viewer - as well as stating that there are 'good' formal features and 'bad' formal features. I'm not sure I understood why I was having a problem (gut reaction) with these features of his answer here, however, until I came to this passage from Fernando Solanas and Octavio Getino's Towards a Third Cinema:

The placing of the cinema within US models, even in the formal aspect, in language, leads to the adoption of the ideological forms that gave rise to precisely that language and no other. Even the appropriation of models which appear to be only technical, industrial, scientific, etc., leads to a conceptual dependency, due to the fact that the cinema is an industry, but differs from other industries in that it has been created and organised in order to generate certain ideologies. The 35mm camera, 24 frames per second, arc lights, and a commercial place of exhibition for audiences were conceived not to gratuitously transmit any ideology, but to satisfy, in the first place, the cultural and surplus value needs of a specific ideology, of a specific world-view: that of US finance capital.

The critic, or at least the way that LaSalle is invoking the critic in his response, serves as an arm of this homogenizing apparatus. The entire goal of this apparatus is to divorce film from its social role in order to turn it into a consumer product by creating a subject that demands a particular (critically acclaimed) product. While this clearly damages the distribution of alternative films (foreign, independent, experimental, etc.) by crowding the market with a particular type of product, it is doubly-damaging in the sense that it creates a subject, an average film viewer, that cannot understand alternative, potentially political, products.

We can all think of someone that loves Hollywood action movies, but just can't understand the point of documentaries or 'art' films. This person has been cut off from a wealth of films, not to mention points of reference for understanding the world. This person has also become very valuable for the Hollywood film industry.

Now, I'm not saying that LaSalle is a tool of Hollywood - I haven't read nearly enough of his reviews to make a judgement like that (and it appears he certainly is not a tool of Hollywood, considering the articles on French and UK productions I posted above). But even this concept of the critic that appears as a refrain in his response to reader letters inherently carries with it values that pre-emptively oppress minor works of cinema, or even the idea that cinema could be a political tool (Solanas and Getino's militant cinema). Of course, if LaSalle did not include this refrain in his works, perhaps he wouldn't have the luxury of such an established place at the San Francisco Chronicle.

Oh Mumblecore.

This made me laugh out loud, so I had to repost it. This is from the blog Cinetrix. There are more, just click here to visit the original post.

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