The Statement of the Century: The Cartoon Body of the New Yorker

By James Spica

On a daily basis, graduate students in anthropology departments across the nation slave away writing complicated thesis papers and monographs in an attempt to theorize about our cultural leaps and bounds, the ever-changing technological and behavioral puzzle that is the human species. Philosophers and scientists are often in the same quest, studying behavioral and social psychology and other such subjects surrounding human cultural growth. Even art critics ‘review’ our habits and tendencies in wordy, multiple page studies.

It is strange, therefore, and consequently more poignant (not to mention impressive), that the crew of witty cartoonists at the New Yorker do the same work in a simple drawing and short caption. Any cultural statement worth saying about the our culture has been worked somehow into a cartoon at the magazine that has since it’s inception been hailed as being at the forefront of high society.

The most essential aspect of a cultural statement in a humor cartoon is that humor omits (or ignores) the gravity of cultural problems to expose the real truth: life is totally and completely absurd, and we, as humans, make it worse for ourselves.

Take, for instance, Ed Siegel’s critical piece in the Boston Globe (11/23/02) entitled “Off the Wall”, in which he describes how we, as a society are “fixated” on celebrity drama and culture, using Michael Jackson’s gradual downfall as the key example, and saying in conclusion that “the last laugh, though, is bound to be on a society that pays so much attention to Jackson.” It is a critique of the societal magnetic attraction to People Magazine, Star, and US.

Alex Gregory’s cartoon in a 1999 issue of the New Yorker does the same work, but in far fewer, more cleverly, and with added critique and perhaps a little scorn. The cartoon frame is a television, and on the screen a reporter stands in front of some firefighters fighting a fire in a city building. The cartoon’s caption is the reporter telling us “Luckily, none of the people inside appear to be celebrities.” This pokes fun at our society in several ways—our faces being glued to our television screens, our obsession with celebrity culture, and the humor in it shows that in an absurd life, and to boot, we make it worse by our interest in completely irrelevant things.

The electronic, technological stairway that our society is climbing at an ever-growing pace is a staple subject of New Yorker cartoons. A new iPod™ is released every few months it seems, and the internet is completely re-defining our daily lives.

David Sipress curtly and cleverly describes this cultural phenomenon in a simple drawing (from a 2000 issue of the New Yorker)—a man, sitting in an armchair in his library or study, clicks a button on his remote when he wants a book down from the shelf, and it comes right to him.

The cartoon doesn’t even have a caption, and it manages to describe the way in that even a person clinging to older ways of gaining information (books) has allowed technology to permeate his daily life to make it easier, simpler. At the same time, it mocks the fact that most of society’s commonly used electronic implements are, in a way, completely useless. Why would the man use the remote for a book when he could use it for a more advanced pursuit of information?

Arnie Levin’s cartoon from 2001, depicting a tightrope walker in a circus balancing on what seems to be thin air while an audience member turns to his partner and says “It appears to be some sort of wireless technology” notes that technology works its way into the least likely areas of our lives, especially if it’s not really needed.

Bruce Eric Kaplan, of whom Robert Mankoff (the cartoon editor for the New Yorker) wrote “the New Yorker’s Cartoons have often been dark… …but [Kaplan’s drawings] make the Addams Family look like the Brady Bunch”, drew a cartoon in 2003 for the New Yorker of Cupid being irked at the fact that on-line dating has put him out of business—“Fine—if they all want to meet online, screw them.” This critique of the internet’s part in our culture is another classic example of the New Yorker cartoonist’s up-and-coming sense of societal absurdity. Kaplan is joking about both the fact that the internet kills tradition, but might also kill jobs.

These above-mentioned cartoons are simply isolated examples of the great variety and depth of humorous cultural derision found in the form of the single-panel, single caption cartoons on the pages of The New Yorker. This intelligent bunch has no need to write an essay or monograph on culture—they make their statements in a more clever, more humorous, and more compact way. They have chosen the medium that can truly depict the absurdity of life and of modern human culture, and this places them at the forefront of anthropology, sociology, and humor—they certainly are a talented bunch.

Critical Response to Robert Mankoff’s short profile of Bruce Eric Kaplan in The Complete Cartoons of the New Yorker

by James Spica

In a time of great upheaval in political, social, and technological circles in the United States, there is much food for cynical cartoonists. Robert Mankoff, editor for the New Yorker, writes of Bruce Eric Kaplan, in The Complete Cartoons of the New Yorker, “the New Yorker’s Cartoons have often been dark… …but [Kaplan’s drawings] make the Addams Family look like the Brady Bunch.”

Mankoff praises Kaplan as being “the most convincing and funniest portraitist we have of a postmodernist psyche still stumbling out from the shambles of the fading 20^th century.” This is to say that he critiques and recounts the spirit somewhat dazed and problem-ridden United States moving into a new era.

Mankoff clearly believes that Kaplan is on the cutting edge, and rightly so, as he embodies this “view is more widely held among [the New Yorker’s] readers than one might imagine, or, rather, hope.”

The Statement of the Century: The Cartoon Body of the New Yorker

By James Spica

On a daily basis, graduate students in university anthropology departments across the nation slave away writing complicated thesis papers and monographs in an attempt to theorize about out cultural leaps and bounds, the ever-changing technological and behavioral puzzle that is the human species. Philosophers and scientists are often in the same quest, studying behavioral and social psychology and other such subjects surrounding human cultural growth. Even art critics such as Michael Hastings ‘review’ our habits and tendencies in wordy, multiple page studies. It is strange, therefore, and consequently more poignant, that the crew of witty cartoonists at the New Yorker do the same work in a simple drawing and simple caption. Any cultural statement worth saying (worth, in this case, referring to the statement’s truth as a phenomenon) about the United States’ culture has been worked somehow into a cartoon at the magazine that has since it’s inception been hailed as being at the forefront of high society.

The most essential aspect of a cultural statement in a humor cartoon is that humor omits (or ignores) the gravity of cultural problems to expose the real truth: life is totally and completely absurd, and we, as humans, make it worse for ourselves. Take, for instance, Ed Siegel’s piece entitled “Off the Wall”, in which he describes how we, as a society are “fixated” on celebrity drama and culture, using Michael Jackson’s gradual downfall as the key example, and saying in conclusion that “the last laugh, though, is bound to be on a society that pays so much attention to Jackson.” It is a critique of the societal magnetic attraction to People Magazine, Star, and US. Alex Gregory’s cartoon in a 1999 issue of the New Yorker does the same work, but in many less words, more cleverly, and with added critique and perhaps a little scorn. The cartoon frame is a television, and on the screen is a reporter standing in front of some firefighters fighting a fire in a city building. The cartoon’s caption is the reporter telling us “Luckily, none of the people inside appear to be celebrities.” This pokes fun at our society in several ways—our faces being glued to our television screens, our obsession with celebrity culture, and the humor in it shows that in an absurd life, we make it worse by our interest in absurdly irrelevant things.

The electronic, technological stairway that our society is climbing at an ever-growing pace is a staple subject of New Yorker cartoons. A new iPod™ is released every few months it seems, and the internet is completely re-defining our daily lives. David Sipress curtly and cleverly describes this cultural phenomenon in a simple drawing (from a 2000 issue of the New Yorker)—a man, sitting in an armchair in his library or study, clicks a button on his remote when he wants a book down from the shelf, and it comes right to him. The cartoon doesn’t even have a caption, and it manages to describe the way in that even a person clinging to older ways of gaining information (books) has allowed technology to permeate their daily life to make it easier, simpler. At the same time, it is mocking the fact that most of society’s commonly used electronic implements are, in a way, completely useless. Why would the man use the remote for a book when he could use it for a more advanced pursuit of information? Arnie Levin’s cartoon from 2001, depicting a tightrope walker in a circus balancing on what seems to be thin air while an audience member turns to his partner and says “It appears to be some sort of wireless technology”, notes that technology works its way into the least likely areas of our lives, especially if it’s not really needed.

Bruce Eric Kaplan, of whom Robert Mankoff (the cartoon editor for the New Yorker) wrote “the New Yorker’s Cartoons have often been dark… …but [Kaplan’s drawings] make the Addams Family look like the Brady Bunch”, drew a cartoon in 2003 for the New Yorker of cupid being irked at the fact that on-line dating has put him out of business—“Fine—if they all want to meet online, screw them.” This critique of the internet’s part in our culture is another classic example of the New Yorker cartoonist’s up-and-coming sense of societal absurdity. Kaplan is joking about both the fact that the internet kills tradition, but might also kill jobs.

These above-mentioned cartoons are simply isolated examples of the great variety and depth of humorous cultural derision found in the form of the single-panel, single caption cartoons on the pages of The New Yorker. This intelligent bunch has no need to write an essay or monograph on culture—they make their statements in a cleverer, more humorous, and more compact way. They have chosen the medium that can truly depict the absurdity of life and of modern human culture. Without them, we would be nowhere.

Playin’ the Blues (a response to Jon Pareles’s review “Finding Their Way Home, Or At Least To The Garden”)

By James Spica

Legendary rock groups of yesterday, at some point many years after their breakup, will almost certainly re-unite to play the hits once again, setting all differences aside to please an eager audience. Almost every band does this at some point, from the Rolling Stones’ comeback to Billy Corgan’s re-joining the Smashing Pumpkins. The more celebrated half of Blind Faith, Eric Clapton and Steve Winwood, , paid homage to their roots and their short lived partnership in a concert at Madison Square Garden this past Monday.

Jon Pareles, in his New York Times review of the concert notes that whereas most post-band single artists such as Clapton and Winwood would pepper their sets with their big radio hits, the two instead spent their time “cherishing old Americana”, in other words, playing the blues.

The musicians were, Pareles says “just doing their job”, not preoccupied with stardom and showing off. Such modest behavior is in the spirit of the blues in all possible ways.

Pareles also notes that “It was, despite all the musicians’ previous experience, the first full length set together in decades.” This is also different from most reunions—the re-forming of a band isn’t usually more than two decades after the last album.

No Country For Old Ceremonies?

by James Spica

When hosting the 2008 Academy Awards, John Stewart continually referred to the year’s being a time of change. He blatantly and frequently infused his speeches with examples of political change, especially critiques of party platforms. At one point, he, in speaking of the un-popularity of Iraq war documentaries, suggested that war documentary film makers must “stay the course [in spite of the low interest in their films]” or else “the audience wins,” a blatant jest at Republican view of the war. He spoke of the extreme importance of the next election. This political humor, Stewart’s staple and the theme of his Daily Show, about the changing world, contrasted greatly with the fact that the Oscars have not changed in quite a while.

The 80^th Academy Awards ceremony was almost identical to the previous few. Elaborate sets (this year’s included rising pillars) in sparkly colors (especially gold, as usual), red carpet introductions (Regis Philbin conducting most of the impromptu interviews this year), the fashion show aspect of the red carpet (Versace, etc) among female stars, and of course, the movie awards honoring those actors that truly deserve them and the production crews who never seem to.

Daniel Day Lewis, an actor with incredible scope and depth, received the award for Best Actor in a Leading Role, which was a predictable (though deserved) outcome. The Best Picture went to No Country for Old Men, another predictable choice considering its revolutionary quality (among aspects, this film has almost no music at all) and seasoned acting and directing (the Cohen Brothers received Best Director as well). This was much the same as last year, with seasoned and clever director Martin Scorsese receiving both Best Director and Best Picture (for The Departed, a stylistically brilliant film). Best Female Actress in a Leading Role was awarded to Marion Cotillard who played the moving role of famous French Singer Edith Piaf. Best Supporting Actor went to Javier Bardem for his role as a bizarre assassin in No Country. In short, there were no surprises.

The sound production awards went, in large part, to the third film in the Bourne series, the Bourne Ultimatum. The award seemed, as always, rather arbitrary, because proficient sound mixing, editing, and recording, in the days of glossy effects-laden movies, are both fairly guaranteed. The Ultimatum also won Best Film Editing. The costume design award went to Elizabeth: the Golden Age, as the award always goes to the most elaborate period piece (last year’s went to Marie Antoinette).

The documentary, foreign film, short film, and animation awards, though clearly known to the Academy, was probably a little lost on the general TV audience, as these movies are oftentimes difficult to see if one is not in the right city (or country). This, as those who have seen many Oscars ceremonies will attest, is old hat.

The Academy Awards hardly change from year to year, as seemingly every other aspect of American life fluctuates. Perhaps this is some of the appeal—tradition can be comforting and welcomed.

“Oddly Delightful”

The amount of Les Pauls that are thrown about today is depressing—a guitar that beautiful and playable should be reserved for the few that can play them well, such as Jeff Beck or Jimmy Page. But nowadays, anyone and everyone plays one, including guitarists for pop-punk bands such as the new German phenomenon Tokio Hotel.

Kelefa Sanneh, in Wednesday’s New York Times, reviews the band’s American debut at the Fillmore last Monday. Much like A.O. Scott’s review of “Rambo”, she wants to crush the band on any number of it’s absurd and ridiculous aspects, but in the end concedes that the concert was good—describing it as “oddly delightful.”

Most of this “odd delight”, according to Sanneh, comes from the antics of the “gender-bending” frontman and the “surprisingly restrained” songs. Goofy as the band may sound, it seems that the concert was rather a success.

In the day when “teen-pop… …goth-punk boy bands” play Les Pauls, anything is possible.

Almost There, but Not Quite

A Review of “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf”

By James Spica

It is considerably difficult to find good local art. By local art one means visual art in small town galleries; performances in hole-in-the-wall theatres on Main St; art made for locals by locals. Most of the difficulty comes of lack of true culture—many towns are far away from the established cultural influence of large cities such as Chicago or New York. Budgets are smaller, as the size of classic fine arts grants dwindles along with public appreciation. The Whole-Art Theatre’s production of “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf” is a great example of bad local art.

This play is a rather long piece (at 3 hours or so), with absurdist, almost existentialist undertones. The hopelessness of the situation of the older couple (George (played by Richard Philpot ) and Martha (played by Martie Philpot ) spend most of their time bickering with each other, jabbing at each other with names like “snake” and “monkey” in a belittling but childish manner) is reminiscent of Samuel Beckett plays. Many of Beckett’s works are set in single rooms, in which two or four people spend the entire play saying absolutely nothing (they speak, but their conversation goes nowhere). Do not for a moment assume that this play or the performance thereof is in any other way like Beckett, who is quite clever with language. The message does remain similar, though—the absurdity of everyday life is constant.

The acting in this piece left a great deal to be desired—the performances of the younger couple (played by Carol Zombro and Trevor Maher) especially. They overacted their parts in a way that suggested a combination of overexcitement at being cast in a non-school play and inexperience. The girl, in her shrieking and weaving was too goofy for believable intoxication, and the boy, in his drunken bravado and intellectuality, were both rather painful to watch. Also, the pair fell into the trend of budding actors to raise their voices more frequently. This piece was rife with this—too frequently for feigning-drunk to allow.

The older couple, though comparatively adequate actors, were rather boring. This is probably attributable to the play itself—the characters are meant to be very boring people. All the same, during the first act, George was a delight to watch–he did a great job of portraying a man driven to the brink of insanity by a dreadful woman (and a little help from a Mr. Johnny Walker). During the second and third acts, by contrast, he just seemed to drone on incessantly. Again, the play may be at fault here. Whether or not that is the case, the impression doesn’t change.

In short, the performance was brought down in part by the play itself and in part by the actor and actress playing the younger couple. It is not the type of play that leaves a lasting impression—it lacks depth and good acting in a way that deprives one of the desire to see it again. This, unfortunately, is the usual situation with local art.

Critical Response to “You Want To Be A What?”, a review of the theatre production “Grace”

Response by James Spica

Art revolves around current issues, and the debate between religion and science over the origins of earth, as a current issue, makes a good topic for art. This quality about art will ingrain the viewers’ attentions make the art more comprehensible, as well as being a good vehicle for exasperation with current affairs.

“Grace” is a theatre piece about a Science teacher who, believing strongly in evolution, is appalled to discover her son’s dream of becoming an Episcopal priest. The play, according to Charles Isherwood, who wrote a review of the play for Tuesday’s New York Times, is a dismal failure.

This review is a blatant pan. At no point does Isherwood take the play seriously, though he often describes it in an almost serious manner to supplement his sarcastic view of a play which he finds ridiculous at every turn. He describes how the characters are played “with crusty dryness” or lack of “nuance”. His degree of summarization, which comprises a good half of the review, suggests that he thinks, and perhaps rightly so, that the absurdity of this play speaks for itself. He expresses the notion, at the end, that “it is not easy to take entirely seriously the idea of a personal revelation explained by way of a Keanu Reeves movie”, in describing the “mystery of his [Tom’s] calling” as being apparently “borrowed from the Matrix.”

‘Help—My Eyes are Bleeding Out of My Skull and My Brain is Seeping Out My Ears!’: a review of the HBO series “In Treatment”

By James Spica

I have never been to a psychologist and indeed hope the need never arises, but it mustn’t be said I harbor any acute dislike for them. I wouldn’t have any occasion for such dislike. So when I suggest that “In Treatment” might be more boring than the “Angel” series (a show intertwined with “Buffy the Vampire Slayer”, following a group of ghost-buster-private-detectives), which to those who have witnessed “Angel” might seem a strong statement, it is not out of any dislike for psychology or psychologists. Nor do I think that my disgust of this show is born of ignorance of the profession. It is just plain bad.

In Treatment is a dramatic series composed completely around the conflicts between a psychiatrist, Paul, and a slew of his patients. It was originally adapted from a very similar Israeli show, which was evidently quite popular (which may come as a mystery to many, certainly to me).

This show lacks excitement in a most painful manner. It is difficult to comprehend why anyone, save those in a psychological career, would find it interesting. The show is comprised of half-hour-long psychoanalytical dialogues and nothing more. There is rarely even a change of venue (setting—Paul’s office and home are the two main locations). The only variety, in fact, is that of specific problems and emotions of each patient, ranging from a cocky Navy pilot to a wounded young gymnast. Beyond that? No variety of camera-work, no solid plot. In short, an enormous, stifling void that swallows the soul of the viewer.

Much of the point of viewing art is to find a connection with it: viewers choose art that they can relate to. I am sure this is where any appeal for this show comes from. But that being said, there is a stronger concern—everybody has problems. Everybody is aware of this fact (at least most people are), so simply relating to the audience on such a basis is ennui incarnate. Many people can relate to the Laura’s (the young woman who is in love with Paul) predicament. I’m sure some can relate to the other conflicts, and many people can most certainly relate to Paul’s myriad of troubles such as relationship decay and dissolution with work. But there needs to be something more. Heaven knows what this is, but the reliance of a show’s intrigue solely upon the audience’s ability to relate is a boring series.

The saddest thing is that, because of its regularity (it is aired Monday through Friday in keeping with the patients’ appointment schedules, as if we’re seeing it directly out of Paul’s palm-pilot) and relate-ability, the show seems to be meant as some strange sort of psychiatric treatment in itself. Perhaps it is meant only to give satisfaction on the same basis as that of a session with Paul. Whatever the case, this fact is a frightening prospect for our culture and the television’s grip on us. The Reading of books is therapeutic, folks—give it a try.

Art’s Conception at the Hands of Others (critical response to Oscar Wilde’s “The Critic as Artist”)

By James Spica

During a time of artistic redefinition in larger proportion than had ever been seen in such a short period, Oscar Wilde, at the forefront of intellectual thought, was responsible for multiple crucial points upon which fine art hinged. In his “The Critic as Artist”, he not only elevates critics, but explains the emergence of ‘new art’, a subject of much upheaval during a decade (the 1890s) which saw the middle of absurdism and impressionism and emergence of existentialism and fauvism. Such art-theorizing was quite necessary and merited at such a moment.

He makes abundantly clear in this piece that the appearance of ‘new art’ (genres, forms, schools etc.) is born of the conflict between the critic and the artist. He writes; “Each new school, as it appears, cries out against criticism, but it is to the critical faculty in man that it owes its origin. (p.902).” He goes on to expound upon the way in which the critic, in individual (and indeed personal) discovery of meaning (“[finding that] the picture becomes more beautiful than it really is (p.906)… …[via] understanding of others [by way of] intensifying [one’s] own individualism (p.910)”), elevates the art far beyond its maker’s intentions.

This confirms the fact that art cannot survive without the critical spirit, and the critical spirit is likewise dependant upon art as food. It also defines the surfacing of new schools of art and indeed thought. But it raises a fundamental question—who creates the art? This is currently a point of major disagreement and discussion. By Wilde’s theory, the critic may be as pivotal in the creation of the art as the artist himself, because it is the critic that elevates the art, in his “revealing to us a secret of which [the art and artist] know nothing (p.910)”, to a fully artistic status. The late contemporary art theorist Allan Kaprow suggests that the museum curator makes the art art, as it is his word that puts it in the museum, and that which is in an art museum, to the minds of most museum-goers, is art.

Theory Criticism and Criticizing Theory

As art is constantly being redefined by artists and viewers both, and those who can follow it, theorize with it, predict it and chronicle it are generally on the cutting edge of intellectual thought and writing. Writers such as Allan Kaprow (I) come to mind. Pauline Kael is a perfect example of this phenomenon. She makes sure to write about something interesting—if this cannot be the movie, then it must be something else. If this makes her a lesser critic, it also makes her a greater writer.
Kael has no qualms about avoiding the expected critical discussion of a movie— “writing about everything but the movie” was an “accusation” made by those who believe a review must be ‘to-the-point’. Her desire to always write about something interesting, even if it is at the expense of adherence to common critical form, makes her a good writer. Her injection of social commentary into her pieces, as in “Excerpt From Fantasies Of the Art-house Audience—Hiroshima Mon Amour” is a fine example. Writing a review of a film (which isn’t even too abysmal) would nevertheless be less interesting than ideas like “the educated audience often uses ‘art’ films… …for finding wish fulfillment in the form of cheap and easy congratulation on their sensitivities and their liberalism (1).” When one can be writing art & social theory, if one is intelligent, they should be doing so, and Kael is no exception. Her art-theory-oriented thinking can be noted in her view of pop art: “movies… …can combine the energy of a popular art with the possibilities of high art (2).” This art theory may be applicable to the films in question, but the theory can stand on its own. The typical role of a critic is irrelevant to Pauline Kael, and her diversion there-from should be likewise irrelevant to her readers.
Kael does not pander to critical mediocrity. Conversely, she is intrigued by the mediocrity of audience and their artistic-merit-stipulations and opinions (e.g. “…one of the reasons we love movies [is] the pop element (3)”). She is as interested in the audience as in the movie, and seemingly writes just as much about the former as the latter. These attributes make her more than a critic but a theorist and a skillful writer. She goes above and beyond the typical movie critic.
Though Kael does stay on topic in many of her reviews, such as that of “My Left Foot” or of “Top Gun”, but even then has is sharp as a knife. Even then she makes artistic conjectures such as “the result is a new art form: the self referential commercial (4).” Her constant thinking about the re-definition of the film medium and its many different degrees of artistry comes through in her writing, and though some seem to think this dilutes it, in all intelligent and scholarly senses it is infinitely superior to the common critical form.

I-Kaprow is a contemporary artist and professor at the University of California, San Diego.
1. KPFA broadcast review of “Excerpt From Fantasies Of the Art-house Audience—Hiroshima Mon Amour”, 1961
2. Davis, Francis: Afterglow—a Last Conversation with Pauline Kael; De
Capo Press, 2002 (p. 32)
3.) Davis, Francis: Afterglow—a Last Conversation with Pauline Kael; De
Capo Press, 2002 (p. 91)
4.) New Yorker review of “Top Gun”, June 16 1986

“Rambo: Just when You Thought It Was Safe to Go Back in the Jungle”
Review by A.O. Scott
Defense by James Spica

A.O. Scott’s review of “Rambo” is written as if by a chocolate lover who is trying, for argument’s sake, to expound upon the various points of its unhealthiness, only to break down at the end and concede that yes, chocolate is fantastic.
Scott spends most of his time in this review describing the great variety of absurd and overly-heroic happenstances that make up the plot of this movie. At several points in his review, he acts as if he is about to critically “smoke” the movie, but then turns around and admits that it is the absurdity or the heroism that makes the movie bearable in the first place. When he is just about to ridicule the film for its arbitrary setting (“Burma? But why not Burma?”) or the typical action movie hero fodder (“Mrs. Benz is on hand to scream, gasp, fall in the mud and huddle in a bamboo cage, waiting to be raped by the Burmese bad guys or rescued by Rambo.”), he admits that it isn’t so bad, after all. The largest of these ‘concessions’ is the end of the article, where he speaks about “blockhead poetry” (the second of two fantastic phrases in the review coined, it seems, just for this movie: the first being “cucumbersome”).
Mr. Scott, in a relatively brilliant review, by way of his almost childish excitement, prepares viewers for the guilt with which they will enjoy this movie.

An Attempt at Artistry Turns It to Slop
by James Spica

Though it is probably not a question one asks one’s self very often, there are times when one must inquire as to the relevance and artistic merit of someone literally banging music out of their acoustic guitar for hours on end. At what point do the same ten chords played with one’s fist become completely insufferable? Folk music fans will say that this phenomenon is quite tolerable, but even they would cringe upon viewing “Once.”
This film is, to be brutally honest, the closest possible thing to a one-and-a-half-hour-long Cat Stevens music video.
The main problem is that its filming style and content do not match—though it is filmed in a documentary style, there is none of the typical musical group documentary additives, such as interviews, press appearances, and other such things that make such films interesting in the first place. The intrigue of a band documentary comes mostly from conflicts within the band, the bands wild antics, and interviews that expose the true nature of the artists. This movie is an odd conglomeration of mediums: a documentary camera, love-story emotion, and a music video plot.
The filming style may be attributable to the film’s low budget. On the other hand, the lack of balance between music, dialogue, and plot devices belies partial if not complete intention in the way of a music documentary. The long scenes with the artist’s music playing loudly, shaky “hand-held” camera that makes one’s stomach queasy, all are at least partially purposeful. There is a preconception among film-makers as to the ‘artistry’ of a film being dependant on the ‘independent look’ described above. This is why many film-makers praise films like “Gummo.” The musing or experimentalist nature of any film may be stylistic but isn’t necessarily artistic, and the same goes for “Once” It is a travesty that anyone might have thought that an hour and a half of their ‘artistic genius’ would have done anything besides lull viewers into a deep sleep. Of course, the wailing of the main character might make sleep difficult.
Though the characters in the film are played by musicians and not career actors, bad acting is not the most immediately noticeable of this film’s faults. Indeed, for the fact that they were not career actors, their performances were relatively good. It is the subject, content, and plot of the film—the meat, so to speak—that ruins it.
Some might say that, in a fully artistic sense, the intention behind this film is to expose the hopelessness and boredom of life punctuated with brief moments of brightness. The film might convey this, but there must be a better way to do so that burning the eyes and ears of the audience.
This film lacks balance, intrigue, and musical taste to the point of making it intolerable. The best cure would be to make it closer to a typical documentary or closer to a love story—walking the line isn’t always good, especially if one isn’t a proficient tightrope-walker.

Is Zinsser Writing a Children’s Book?
By James Spica

To be completely frank, William Zinsser’s “Writing About the Arts” (ch.18 of On Writing Well) is a bland introductory read—and should be regarded only as such. All information of great import is stated, an example sited, and sights are set immediately on the next point. This is meant for the writer who sits down one day and says “I’d like to write some art criticism,” long before said writer has gone to his second-ever gallery show or writing reading. It seems as if Zinsser is writing to a child—it pains the ears of any person who has any common sense or has read even one review. This piece is for simply breaking the ice, as is noted in phrases such as “a distinction should be made between ‘critic’ and ‘reviewer’” (p. 196), a concept which anyone who had no more than a slight grasp on the concept of writing could figure out for themselves.
Zinsser does hit on one fine point, though—he does not hesitate to note that the critic should be considerably more intelligent than the reader. One should not be limited to writing for simple minds—those who cannot understand intelligent art criticism probably wouldn’t understand art anyway.

Disputes Over Doodles
By James Spica

There is a point in every artist’s life (or afterlife, as the case may be) where publishers and fans alike begin to take interest in the artist’s scrawlings; their doodles. These may be words, drawings, miffed film shorts, the list goes on. The artist must be great and renowned for this to happen—but once it does, debates as to intention and correctness of publication of scratchwork begin to arise. It is Robert Frost’s turn.
In “Editing Of Frost Notebooks In Dispute” by Motoko Rich (New York Times, January 22nd 2008), the author recounts the arguments between poetry critics and Frost scholars as to the correctness of Robert Faggen’s new publication of some of Frost’s work. There are two questions up in the air: is the translation (from scrawl to type) correct, and is it even right to publish it?
The inside thoughts and musings of an artist are interesting and exciting, as with the nature of art being at times quite arbitrary we wish to have a bit of insight into the minds of such vibrant people. Part of the intrigue is whether or not these were meant to be published—one may never know! But one must not mistake all of an artist’s doodles and scrap-work for art—it may only be the musings of a genius, which can be far more interesting.

Viewer Vegetation

by James Spica

We have a little time and a little hope. All the same, the first of two questions remains one of beneficiaries—who can stand the Hollywood writers’ strike, and for how long? The second, more importantly, is one of intellectual effect—will the increasing lack of television writing be directly proportional to the increase of complete drivel?
The answer to the first question is that it may be the viewers that are the main brunt of the strike, depending on the length thereof. Financially, the effect upon the studios is relatively reserved in the short term. The more significant worry is that of those who rely on new programming for daily illumination—“Oh god, what will happen in the next Gray’s?”
The unfortunate side effect to this strike is the surfacing of televised feces—script-less reality TV, intellectually devoid cartoon programming, and, of course, sports. Television, the worst possible form of stimulation, is about to get much worse—and that which is worse than the worst possible is depraved beyond measure. The strike’s eventual effect will be to turn our brains to mush of an even more putrid colour. Illumination via other activities is advised for a spell.

Trancendance and Red Paint: "Sweeney Todd: the Demon Barber of Fleet Street"

by James Spica

I can see it now—some hopeful customer walking into Home Depot with the intent of painting a piece of furniture “candy-apple red”, only to be told by an embarrassed clerk that Tim Burton has just purchased the store’s entire stock—some 8000 cans. Burton actually uses all of said red paint in “Sweeney Todd—the Demon Barber of Fleet Street.”
This film, to be frank, is as “Burton” as it gets—the colors, the hues, the characters, and even the orchestration. There are those who adore his style, and those who do not, and I must unfortunately concede that love or hatred of Tim Burton’s ‘Halloween sensibilities’ will probably make or break this movie for many audience members. That being said, this is one of Burton’s most spectacular films, even when compared with well-known jewels such as “The Nightmare Before Christmas.”
Perhaps the most noteworthy aspect of the film is its superb transcendence beyond the typical filmed musical, the musical movie. It is a significant departure in a positive direction from the conventional way of filming a musical. When compared with musical film staples such as “Singing in the Rain” or “Jesus Christ Superstar”, Burton, in his use of camera angles and generally proficient cinematography, his musical orchestration (the ‘Burton Difference’ between that which is played in the orchestra pit below the stage and that which is played in a massive studio), his props and setting style, and perhaps even his casting, not only raises his film above most musical movies but to proves that he is the best possible director for a film adaptation of such a dark production. The props and settings are phenomenally detailed (the parlor behind the bakery, for instance), excepting the rather horrendous opening scene that, because of too much CGI, looks like a trailer for a video game.
As in most movies, “Sweeney” has a small handful of negative points. Those who enjoyed the film “Lords of Dogtown” for anything other than the soundtrack will find this remark to be in bad taste, but the incessant crooning of prince-valiant-skater-boy sailor will undoubtedly make many audience members wish for his demise by a fatal encounter with a steam-roller. The singing of Mrs. Lovett (Helena Bonham Carter) leaves a great deal to be desired—one may note her strong character-acting getting in the way of her singing voice. The final and most general of these negative points is the artificial sheen that seems to cover the setting in many scenes.
But for the previously mentioned ‘downers’, the humor, drama, and singing remain exciting and commendable throughout. The humor (what there is of it) is assisted by the facial expressions of the actors to the point where it is a bit further than what one might be able to see from a box in a theatre. Depending on one’s personal aesthetic, “Sweeney Todd—the Demon Barber of Fleet Street” may not be one’s favorite film, but there’s something for everyone (except children and the squeamish).