Saturday, February 5, 2011
Thursday, November 11, 2010
010: See a terrible film surrounded by lunatics
As I braced for another salvo of plastic spoons to come raining down from above, I began to question the wisdom of doing this particular Interesting Thing.
On the first Friday of each month, an independent cinema downtown has a screening of 'The Room,' an inexplicably bad 2001 film directed, produced, written by, and starring Tommy Wiseau. The theatre was about 70% full, and the audience consisted largely of 18-25 year olds who looked as though the chief criterion in their grooming decisions was to irritate their parents. A staff member took a shot of alcohol to cries of "Scotchka!" and distributed three massive bags of plastic spoons to the audience.
It was becoming clear to me that this was going to be a little different from most films.
The story opened on what appeared to be stock landscape shots of an American city. The audience shouted,"Meanwhile, in San Francisco!" They drummed on the back of chairs when shots panned across the Golden Gate Bridge and burst into cries of "Alcatraz" when the island prison was shown. And also when a circular staircase was onscreen, for some reason.
Tommy Wiseau appeared onscreen, to wild applause. HI LISA he said woodenly. OH HI JOHNNY she replies. Whenever a character entered a scene, the crowd shouted the greeting, drowning out the characters invariably parroting the line. Next was HI DENNY HI LISA HI JOHNNY and the new character following the couple upstairs to bed.
After BYE DENNY, Johnny and Lisa engage in a protracted and uncomfortable-looking love scene, then a morning shot which introduces the relevance of the spoons.
In the couple's house are a number of picture frames which display artistic photographs of spoons. In the event that, and as long as, the images are displayed onscreen, the audience shouts SPOON and hurls plastic spoons at the screen, at each other, and particularly at anyone gathering spoons from the aisle. Seated in the fifth row, I was guaranteed half a dozen spoons to the head and at least one down the back of my jacket, such was the quantity and angle of attack of the spoon salvos.
MEANWHILE IN SAN FRANCISCO, Lisa's mother made an appearance HI LISA / CANCER / I PUT MY EVIL IN YOU / BECAUSE YOU'RE A WOMAN. The crowd had many catchphrases for the lady. Then later it was HI LISA / HI MARK / HE'S MY BEST FRIEND / SPOON / ALCATRAZ when Johnny's friend Mark showed up to see Lisa. It was uncommon for thirty seconds to pass without some onscreen event triggering the hue and cry of the meme-ready masses around me. Not only were they familiar with the famous passages of dialogue, they had clearly seen their fair share of Mystery Science Theater 3000, and seized opportunities to bellow wit and wisdom at the screen as and when the Muse inspired.
To recount more of the plot would be useless, as the weakness of the production only renders more enjoyable the true pleasure of seeing 'The Room'; being part of an unruly mob. United against the common enemy, we howled and shouted and pelted and threw up our hands.
It was strange, it was fun, and it was $16 well spent.
On the first Friday of each month, an independent cinema downtown has a screening of 'The Room,' an inexplicably bad 2001 film directed, produced, written by, and starring Tommy Wiseau. The theatre was about 70% full, and the audience consisted largely of 18-25 year olds who looked as though the chief criterion in their grooming decisions was to irritate their parents. A staff member took a shot of alcohol to cries of "Scotchka!" and distributed three massive bags of plastic spoons to the audience.
It was becoming clear to me that this was going to be a little different from most films.
The story opened on what appeared to be stock landscape shots of an American city. The audience shouted,"Meanwhile, in San Francisco!" They drummed on the back of chairs when shots panned across the Golden Gate Bridge and burst into cries of "Alcatraz" when the island prison was shown. And also when a circular staircase was onscreen, for some reason.
Tommy Wiseau appeared onscreen, to wild applause. HI LISA he said woodenly. OH HI JOHNNY she replies. Whenever a character entered a scene, the crowd shouted the greeting, drowning out the characters invariably parroting the line. Next was HI DENNY HI LISA HI JOHNNY and the new character following the couple upstairs to bed.
In the couple's house are a number of picture frames which display artistic photographs of spoons. In the event that, and as long as, the images are displayed onscreen, the audience shouts SPOON and hurls plastic spoons at the screen, at each other, and particularly at anyone gathering spoons from the aisle. Seated in the fifth row, I was guaranteed half a dozen spoons to the head and at least one down the back of my jacket, such was the quantity and angle of attack of the spoon salvos.
MEANWHILE IN SAN FRANCISCO, Lisa's mother made an appearance HI LISA / CANCER / I PUT MY EVIL IN YOU / BECAUSE YOU'RE A WOMAN. The crowd had many catchphrases for the lady. Then later it was HI LISA / HI MARK / HE'S MY BEST FRIEND / SPOON / ALCATRAZ when Johnny's friend Mark showed up to see Lisa. It was uncommon for thirty seconds to pass without some onscreen event triggering the hue and cry of the meme-ready masses around me. Not only were they familiar with the famous passages of dialogue, they had clearly seen their fair share of Mystery Science Theater 3000, and seized opportunities to bellow wit and wisdom at the screen as and when the Muse inspired.
To recount more of the plot would be useless, as the weakness of the production only renders more enjoyable the true pleasure of seeing 'The Room'; being part of an unruly mob. United against the common enemy, we howled and shouted and pelted and threw up our hands.
It was strange, it was fun, and it was $16 well spent.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
009: Go to the opera
When people say, "It's not over until the fat lady sings," the fat lady of origin is Brunhilda from Wagner's Ring Cycle. I went to see the first of the four operas that comprise the Ring Cycle, 'Das Rheingold.' The story of the Ring is based in German folk mythology and has considerable overlap with Norse and Tolkienian tales.
Normally when seeing a musical performance I listen to the score beforehand, but I went into this one completely fresh. The best-known music in the Ring Cycle is 'Ride of the Valkyries,' which opens the second opera, while the first has an interesting prelude and is sprinkled with the leitmotifs that occur throughout the Cycle.
Das Rheingold is German for "The Rhine Gold", a mythical treasure guarded by mermaids in the Rhine river. The story opens with Alberich, a gnome, trying to capture the beautiful mermaids who tease and evade him. The set itself is an extraordinary line of rotating columns which tip from horizontal to vertical to fulfill the requirements of the scene.
In this picture, Wotan and Loge are suspended from wires and traverse the columns, which are lit to appear as steps. In the Rheinmaidens scene, Alberich struggles up sloping columns while the suspended mermaids swing away on wires, spotlights and projected bubbles tracking their every move.
After Alberich learns of and steals the Rhine Gold (which has magical properties) the scene changes to a mountaintop where we meet the gods. Wotan(Bryn Terfel) has promised the giants who built him a fortress the hand of his sister in law, Freia. When they show up to collect, there's a protracted argument and the giants agree to return with Freia if Wotan and Loge bring a ransom of Rhein Gold.
The story continues in much the same vein, but really opera isn't about the story so much as the spectacle. The music and themes are created with magnificence in mind, and the huge stage and set all contribute to the sense of occasion; we are witness to heaving and tumultuous events on a grand scale. The opera ends with the ascent of the gods in Valhalla, and as the actors walk up a stunning rainbow waterfall the rainbow leitmotif rings out.
Normally when seeing a musical performance I listen to the score beforehand, but I went into this one completely fresh. The best-known music in the Ring Cycle is 'Ride of the Valkyries,' which opens the second opera, while the first has an interesting prelude and is sprinkled with the leitmotifs that occur throughout the Cycle.
Das Rheingold is German for "The Rhine Gold", a mythical treasure guarded by mermaids in the Rhine river. The story opens with Alberich, a gnome, trying to capture the beautiful mermaids who tease and evade him. The set itself is an extraordinary line of rotating columns which tip from horizontal to vertical to fulfill the requirements of the scene.
After Alberich learns of and steals the Rhine Gold (which has magical properties) the scene changes to a mountaintop where we meet the gods. Wotan(Bryn Terfel) has promised the giants who built him a fortress the hand of his sister in law, Freia. When they show up to collect, there's a protracted argument and the giants agree to return with Freia if Wotan and Loge bring a ransom of Rhein Gold.
The story continues in much the same vein, but really opera isn't about the story so much as the spectacle. The music and themes are created with magnificence in mind, and the huge stage and set all contribute to the sense of occasion; we are witness to heaving and tumultuous events on a grand scale. The opera ends with the ascent of the gods in Valhalla, and as the actors walk up a stunning rainbow waterfall the rainbow leitmotif rings out.
Monday, October 25, 2010
008: Go to a nerd convention
Most of the main tropes of nerdery are lost on me. I don't like Star Trek, Battlestar Galactica, Firefly, or science fiction. I was too old for Pokemon and Dragonball Z and too young for Doctor Who. For some people, these are enveloping subcultures and rallying points, and it was one of these points I visited on Sunday.
Immediately upon entering I knew I had to start a reverse scavenger hunt; that is, write down all the things I saw that would be, in the regular world, difficult to find. Here is my list:
Kid in a bowtie
VHS tapes, for sale, for actual money
Gay Tigger
Troma DVDs
Grown woman wearing a child's backpack
Plastic axe
Japanese cartoon porn
Star Trek costume; wrong ethnicity
Fake assault rifles
Mother/son costume combo
Pikachu pyjamas
Fat princess
Ironic internet hat
An uncomfortable celebrity
Obese samurai
The uncomfortable celebrity was David Faustino, better known as Bud Bundy from Married With Children. He sat alone on a stage fielding questions from a small but enthusiastic audience. One man gave a five-minute précis of an episode before asking his question. The object of adoration stumbled through an answer. It was clear that not only had he not watched his own TV show, he was probably doing massive piles of drugs during the filming and operated at a fundamentally different level of awareness.
Rather than wait on further pearls of wisdom, I headed back into the main hall to see what basement-dwellers do with their hard-earned cash. Video games seemed to be a big draw, as did film merchandising. I bought a T-shirt that declared that in the timeless battle between sparkly imaginary monsters, I was clearly in the Jacob rather than the Edward camp. My allegiance was heartfelt, and also there was no Team Edward shirt in my size.
There is a particular brand of person that I like to call the 'Sad Bastard.' The Sad Bastard mood hung heavily in the air at the convention, clinging to particular people like potato chip crumbs cling to the front of a Dungeon Master's shirt. The saddest thing about a Sad Bastard is the glimmer of hope submerged below several layers of failure and shame. Obvious Sad Bastards moved fitfully about in samurai and military costumes, the stubble on their second chins glinting in the halogen lights. Less obvious Sad Bastards trailed behind their children, new recruits in the subterranean-dwelling, World-of-Warcraft-playing, figurine-having, animated-character-impersonating subculture of outcasts.
Spectacle was never far from view. Here went a Lady Gaga costume; there was an archery booth; further on appeared a missile, a soldier, a racecar. In keeping with the general mood of ultimately disappointing fantasy, the Army and Air Force were there, as was a constant string of professional wrestlers catapulting one another around a ring. A Darth Vader, Boba Fett, and a slightly-too-fat-to-be-sexy-Miniskirt-Star-Wars-Captain girl posed for photographs.
Here, my compatriot Rob threatens me with paperwork and cellphone radiation.
After selecting the least cancerous of the food options available to me and sitting not as far away as I would like from a table of what appeared to be Sheriff of Nottinghams from Space, I concluded that the convention could offer me little else in terms of gawkery or schadenfreude. It was time to go. I trudged past a line of extremely fat teenagers and an ogre wearing a tutu.
I didn't understand any of this.
Immediately upon entering I knew I had to start a reverse scavenger hunt; that is, write down all the things I saw that would be, in the regular world, difficult to find. Here is my list:
Kid in a bowtie
VHS tapes, for sale, for actual money
Gay Tigger
Troma DVDs
Grown woman wearing a child's backpack
Plastic axe
Japanese cartoon porn
Star Trek costume; wrong ethnicity
Fake assault rifles
Mother/son costume combo
Pikachu pyjamas
Fat princess
Ironic internet hat
An uncomfortable celebrity
Obese samurai
The uncomfortable celebrity was David Faustino, better known as Bud Bundy from Married With Children. He sat alone on a stage fielding questions from a small but enthusiastic audience. One man gave a five-minute précis of an episode before asking his question. The object of adoration stumbled through an answer. It was clear that not only had he not watched his own TV show, he was probably doing massive piles of drugs during the filming and operated at a fundamentally different level of awareness.
Rather than wait on further pearls of wisdom, I headed back into the main hall to see what basement-dwellers do with their hard-earned cash. Video games seemed to be a big draw, as did film merchandising. I bought a T-shirt that declared that in the timeless battle between sparkly imaginary monsters, I was clearly in the Jacob rather than the Edward camp. My allegiance was heartfelt, and also there was no Team Edward shirt in my size.
There is a particular brand of person that I like to call the 'Sad Bastard.' The Sad Bastard mood hung heavily in the air at the convention, clinging to particular people like potato chip crumbs cling to the front of a Dungeon Master's shirt. The saddest thing about a Sad Bastard is the glimmer of hope submerged below several layers of failure and shame. Obvious Sad Bastards moved fitfully about in samurai and military costumes, the stubble on their second chins glinting in the halogen lights. Less obvious Sad Bastards trailed behind their children, new recruits in the subterranean-dwelling, World-of-Warcraft-playing, figurine-having, animated-character-impersonating subculture of outcasts.
Spectacle was never far from view. Here went a Lady Gaga costume; there was an archery booth; further on appeared a missile, a soldier, a racecar. In keeping with the general mood of ultimately disappointing fantasy, the Army and Air Force were there, as was a constant string of professional wrestlers catapulting one another around a ring. A Darth Vader, Boba Fett, and a slightly-too-fat-to-be-sexy-Miniskirt-Star-Wars-Captain girl posed for photographs.
After selecting the least cancerous of the food options available to me and sitting not as far away as I would like from a table of what appeared to be Sheriff of Nottinghams from Space, I concluded that the convention could offer me little else in terms of gawkery or schadenfreude. It was time to go. I trudged past a line of extremely fat teenagers and an ogre wearing a tutu.
I didn't understand any of this.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
007: Go to a rock concert
Given my distaste for public events, most music, and general loud noises, it should come as no surprise to anyone that I have been to just two concerts in my life. My third was at the Auckland Town Hall to see The Smashing Pumpkins.
Well, really it's not The Smashing Pumpkins. It's Billy Corgan plus three people who were born about the time The Smashing Pumpkins first started making music. But they were here to play SP music, and I bought a ticket.
I made my way in to the hall after demonstrating to security that I was in possession of nothing more dangerous than a willingness to rock. A cursory glance around told me that there were two types of SP fans: those who grew up, and those who occupied some kind of twilight alternative universe where smelly black T-shirts qualify as business-formal. I navigated the maze of stairs and balconies to my designated level and stepped inside. The warmup band was playing. They were making various loud noises to a fairly indifferent crowd. I left to get something to eat before the main event.
I returned with that rarest of timings: perfect. I found my seat beside a stiff-looking goatee just as the band was coming onto the stage, to a roar from the pit. They went immediately into one of their new songs, and I became aware of something deeply disturbing. To my left appeared a woman in her mid-20s dressed in clinging black tragicware, the folds of her lumpen torso flopping around as she danced with the balletic grace of a rhinoceros who urgently needs to get to the urinal after fifteen beers. She punched the air and flailed about; she twisted her body and closed her eyes; she strode with confidence and staggered with lurching uncertainty. It was with a particularly ambitious lunge and retreat that she fell into the arms of her partner, a man who looked like Russell Brand but on cocaine instead of weed. As he relaunched her I gave him a sharp glance and looked back to the stage.
A thumbs-up appeared an inch in front of my face. I looked at the owner and he grinned. Or rather, he showed his teeth in the Joker-ish way that someone who is incredibly coked-up does when they can't relax their face. I turned back to the stage and there was another thumbs-up, slightly closer to my nose. I was then distracted by the beer being spilled on my shoes by the resident Mata Hari, and, all things considered, decided to change seats.
By some miracle I was not evicted from my stolen seat, which was excellent and gave me a great view of the stage. The band alternated between new songs and old songs—and by 'old songs' I mean songs that were written nearly 20 years ago. I can't imagine what it's like to play ancient music to crowds for 20 years, but Billy Corgan gave short shrift to much of his back catalogue, adopting a twee sing-song tone. Well, as much as he could, anyway.
When people go to hear music this old, they don't want to be entertained; they just want to remember. During "Perfect" I thought of Hamilton and the flats I lived in there. During "Tonight, Tonight" I thought of driving in my high school days. During "Zero" I thought of late-summer parties, and during "Stand Inside Your Love" I thought of long, boring classes. I never thought that I would ever have the chance to hear these songs live, and being there and feeling these things again made me realise how fully this music captured six or seven of the most turbulent years of my life, and how they possessed a vocabulary for expression that I lacked at the time. It was a time when I believed, when I thought things were important, when there were things to be for and against, and when I was still becoming.
And so, for ninety minutes, I leaned forward and stared and listened to this pulsating, brutal rendition of the songs that littered my life. It was fantastic.
Well, really it's not The Smashing Pumpkins. It's Billy Corgan plus three people who were born about the time The Smashing Pumpkins first started making music. But they were here to play SP music, and I bought a ticket.
I made my way in to the hall after demonstrating to security that I was in possession of nothing more dangerous than a willingness to rock. A cursory glance around told me that there were two types of SP fans: those who grew up, and those who occupied some kind of twilight alternative universe where smelly black T-shirts qualify as business-formal. I navigated the maze of stairs and balconies to my designated level and stepped inside. The warmup band was playing. They were making various loud noises to a fairly indifferent crowd. I left to get something to eat before the main event.
I returned with that rarest of timings: perfect. I found my seat beside a stiff-looking goatee just as the band was coming onto the stage, to a roar from the pit. They went immediately into one of their new songs, and I became aware of something deeply disturbing. To my left appeared a woman in her mid-20s dressed in clinging black tragicware, the folds of her lumpen torso flopping around as she danced with the balletic grace of a rhinoceros who urgently needs to get to the urinal after fifteen beers. She punched the air and flailed about; she twisted her body and closed her eyes; she strode with confidence and staggered with lurching uncertainty. It was with a particularly ambitious lunge and retreat that she fell into the arms of her partner, a man who looked like Russell Brand but on cocaine instead of weed. As he relaunched her I gave him a sharp glance and looked back to the stage.
A thumbs-up appeared an inch in front of my face. I looked at the owner and he grinned. Or rather, he showed his teeth in the Joker-ish way that someone who is incredibly coked-up does when they can't relax their face. I turned back to the stage and there was another thumbs-up, slightly closer to my nose. I was then distracted by the beer being spilled on my shoes by the resident Mata Hari, and, all things considered, decided to change seats.
By some miracle I was not evicted from my stolen seat, which was excellent and gave me a great view of the stage. The band alternated between new songs and old songs—and by 'old songs' I mean songs that were written nearly 20 years ago. I can't imagine what it's like to play ancient music to crowds for 20 years, but Billy Corgan gave short shrift to much of his back catalogue, adopting a twee sing-song tone. Well, as much as he could, anyway.
When people go to hear music this old, they don't want to be entertained; they just want to remember. During "Perfect" I thought of Hamilton and the flats I lived in there. During "Tonight, Tonight" I thought of driving in my high school days. During "Zero" I thought of late-summer parties, and during "Stand Inside Your Love" I thought of long, boring classes. I never thought that I would ever have the chance to hear these songs live, and being there and feeling these things again made me realise how fully this music captured six or seven of the most turbulent years of my life, and how they possessed a vocabulary for expression that I lacked at the time. It was a time when I believed, when I thought things were important, when there were things to be for and against, and when I was still becoming.
And so, for ninety minutes, I leaned forward and stared and listened to this pulsating, brutal rendition of the songs that littered my life. It was fantastic.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
006: See an old film in a new cinema
The Orson Welles classic 'Touch of Evil' was playing in a local cinema, so I braved the driving rain and sleet and hail and a lingering odour of popcorn and went.
The first thing I learned was that old movies aren't as good as new movies. I don't mean to say that they're deficient in plot or acting or craftmanship; rather they're on shitty film compared to the pin-sharp digitally-enhanced crowdpleasers issuing forth from Hollywood's highly-polished digestive system. The film was blurry and small and in narrowscreen, if that's a term at all.
Orson Welles filmed his noir in a deep spiritual blackness. There was a lot of visual blackness too. Also a lot of scenes near the start didn't seem to start, only end, as sentences began two or three words in and people left buildings they never seemed to enter in the first place.
All this created an unsettled feeling - was this a bad cut of a good film thrown up on a screen by uncaring money-grubbing cinematrons in the knowledge that anything, no matter how unscrubbed, would find an audience by virtue of its reputation?
By the end of the second reel, I had been caught up in the story and the print didn't matter anymore. A nice thing about old stuff, whether it's movies or music or art or grandmothers, is that you notice influences. There are shots, characters, and mannerisms that come through strongly and remind you of their future echoes in films from the '80s and '90s.
I've got a lot of films to watch—I'm slogging through 1001 Movies You Must See Before You Die—so there's no doubt that when one pops up in the big screen listings I'll put it in my calendar. Some films simply weren't made to be viewed on a laptop.
The first thing I learned was that old movies aren't as good as new movies. I don't mean to say that they're deficient in plot or acting or craftmanship; rather they're on shitty film compared to the pin-sharp digitally-enhanced crowdpleasers issuing forth from Hollywood's highly-polished digestive system. The film was blurry and small and in narrowscreen, if that's a term at all.
Orson Welles filmed his noir in a deep spiritual blackness. There was a lot of visual blackness too. Also a lot of scenes near the start didn't seem to start, only end, as sentences began two or three words in and people left buildings they never seemed to enter in the first place.
All this created an unsettled feeling - was this a bad cut of a good film thrown up on a screen by uncaring money-grubbing cinematrons in the knowledge that anything, no matter how unscrubbed, would find an audience by virtue of its reputation?
I've got a lot of films to watch—I'm slogging through 1001 Movies You Must See Before You Die—so there's no doubt that when one pops up in the big screen listings I'll put it in my calendar. Some films simply weren't made to be viewed on a laptop.
005: Say "hello" in ten languages
Today I become a citizen of the world with a tiny number of international greetings at my disposal. Persons of foreign cultures will look upon me with pity as I mangle their ancient languages with my Anglo-Saxon-driven tokenism.
(Unless you've got a decent set of language packs on your computer, some of these characters are going to display as squares.)
Bonjour - French
こんにちは [koh-ni-chi-wa] - Japanese
Guten Tag - German
你好 [nǐ hǎo] - Chinese
Ciao - Italian
안녕하세요 [ahn-young ha-seh-yo] - Korean
Bom dia [bone dee-ah] - Portuguese
Bore da [Borh-rle dah] - Welsh
Доброе утро [doh-braye oo-trah] - Russian
Now I can follow up conversations with a blank look instead of opening with one. Success!
(Unless you've got a decent set of language packs on your computer, some of these characters are going to display as squares.)
Buenos Días - Spanish
Bonjour - French
こんにちは [koh-ni-chi-wa] - Japanese
Guten Tag - German
你好 [nǐ hǎo] - Chinese
Ciao - Italian
안녕하세요 [ahn-young ha-seh-yo] - Korean
Bom dia [bone dee-ah] - Portuguese
Bore da [Borh-rle dah] - Welsh
Доброе утро [doh-braye oo-trah] - Russian
Now I can follow up conversations with a blank look instead of opening with one. Success!
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