Whatever Works

This movie is hilarious as it follows Boris Yellnikoff through his bohemian existence as an under-appreciated genius-turned abusive children’s chess instructor who genuinely believes that all others are intellectually inferior. Larry David (aka. George Costanza, aka co-creator of Seinfeld) plays the eccentric, self-titled genius whose vast understanding of the human condition has turned him into a cynical, self-righteous hypochondriac. Written and directed by Woody Allen, the lead role in ‘Whatever Works’ seems to have been created specifically for David, as he plays a more high-strung and odd version of his autobiographical character in the TV comedy ‘Curb Your Enthusiasm.’

After Melody, a young and impressionable ‘nitwit’ from the Deep South, enters his life, the assumption is that her overly-enthusiastic presence will bring Boris out of his dark, self-imposed, semi-suicidal existence. In fact, the contrary occurs, and the young girl is so entranced by his intellectual magnificence that she falls for him, despite his disdain, repulsion and downright resistance to her advances.

For a 90-minute long film, a lot happens as more ‘idiotic’ characters appear and complicate the simple life Boris has built for himself. They interweave themselves in each other’s lives, ultimately proving (according to Boris) that humanity is a failed species. Really, what Allen has demonstrated here is the complexity of the human condition, and the ability for even the most rigid and indoctrinated of people to discover their true selves despite a lifetime of conservatism and sublimated passion. Boris, of course, does not change, and is just as jaded at the end of the film as he was in the beginning.

This film is a must-watch, if only for the clever, witty, side-splitting, monotonously-delivered one-liners from David’s character.
[image from http://www.nypost.com/]

Mao's Last Dancer - Li Cunxin

Li Cunxin is Mao’s Last Dancer – the last of the performing ballet dancers who trained under Madam Mao’s unorthodox curriculum, which combined the staunch militarism of Communist China with the grace and elegance of European ballet. As a peasant boy, and the sixth of seven brothers, Li’s life seemed predetermined by his birth – and indeed all his brothers remain in the village they were born, Li being the only one who escaped from certain impoverishment. Li’s account of his childhood is far from picturesque; marred by starvation, a lack of everything, and the horrors of the Cultural Revolution, the collective experience of Li’s peasant commune is indicative of the desperation and malevolence which enveloped all of China at the time. As with ‘Wild Swans’, I could not help but flinch and wince at the harrowing recollections of human evil which formed a young boy’s memories.

Following years of brutal training, Li has the rare opportunity to study in America with the Houston Ballet. And here is where Li’s masterful storytelling has the ability to take one from the dark well (an analogy from the story) into the expansive sky of the west. This is by far my favourite part of the story; as Li enters the foreign land of the west, he is not only amazed by what he discovers, but such discoveries also begin to undermine his strict and life-long Communist indoctrination. Li discovers America and its little luxuries with such naive innocence that one cannot help but delight in rediscovering the mundane, everyday comforts along with the earnest young man. The warmth of a shower, the satisfaction of a full stomach, the inhibitions of free speech, and of course the marvellous workings of ATMs, where “money comes out of walls!”

While the blurb of the book tells how Li was randomly chosen to train as a ballet dancer at Madam Mao’s Beijing Dance Academy, his dedication and commitment, driven by devotion to his family and the real belief that he could help them through his dancing, were anything but whimsically attained. Indeed, more than an account of the atrocities which characterised China, or the difficulties Li endured to succeed in his profession, or even the stark differences between east and west, this is a story about family. The brightest moments, the ones which dulled even the most painful of circumstances, were those which saw Li’s family, particularly its matriarch, band together to support each other. Li’s unflagging determination to be reunited with his family, despite his deflection, is inspiring and speaks volumes of the capacity for a child to return his parents’ unconditional love. And when Li’s mother, upon hearing his voice after years of estrangement, proclaims, “Ohh, my son! I never thought this day would come before I leave this world. How happy I am...I can die peacefully now,” I could not control the tears.

There is much more I could write about this story. However, this will have to suffice. This is an honest and humble account of one of the few lucky individuals who escaped Mao’s China, but never forgot his roots.

Joseph Kosuth - An Interpretation of This Title

As a pioneer of Conceptualism, Joseph Kosuth’s investigations into the idea of art, or art as idea, have not only sustained his practice for over four decades, but also, I would confidently argue, considerably influenced what art has become ever since.

In the 1960s, the Conceptualists engaged in a project of re-evaluating the institution of art, its beliefs and practices, and above all, its authoritative aura. For Kosuth, Conceptual Art was to change the understanding of the reception of art, from seeing to reading, and consequently question the canonical doctrines of what constituted a work of visual art. The approach employed to perform this institutional self-reflexiveness was a form of harsh reductionism that was condensed all the way down to mere tautology. Basing his practice on the fundamental questioning of linguistic meaning, Kosuth’s works represented what he liked to call “Art as Idea as Idea.” In ‘Art’, one of my personal favourites, the very concept is stripped down to its most essential form – a sheer definition. The work has no conventional aesthetic quality and lacks the laboured skill which an artist usually imparts on his work; yet, it is, quite literally, art. It proclaims itself as such. Works like this demanded to be read and challenged the very to-be-looked-at-ness of Modernism and its institutions; simultaneously pushing the boundaries of what entails art, and redefining the kinds of things art can be.

Last week I took the opportunity to meet Mr. Kosuth – twice! It is, so far, the highlight of my short career. Over forty years after his first important piece – ‘One and three chairs’, created when he was just 20 years old, a fact which is enough to leave anyone with the bitter taste of inadequacy – Kosuth continues to explore the idea of art. ‘An interpretation of this title’ is his latest offering, which can be seen at the Anna Schwartz Gallery in Darlington. This installation comprises, in the artist’s description, a ‘horizon line of two texts by Nietzsche’ and ‘drawings of Charles Darwin, as descriptions of a scientific order being posited’ in Kosuth’s signature neon. Here, it seems that Kosuth is attempting to map the intersection between science and philosophy through the disciplines’ powerhouses, in particular ‘Nietzsche’s relationship with the implications of Darwin’s theories about human evolution’, within the context of art. While the academic/theoretical/philosophical conditions in which this work finds itself exceeds my own grasps and are, instead, discussed with much more authority and accuracy in the artist’s essay on the piece, it can nevertheless be enjoyed on a more basic level. To the untrained eye, Darwin’s figures look more like artistic sketches than scientific diagrams, and the entire piece, which spans four large walls, envelops the looker/reader in its fluorescent warmth. Furthermore, the scale of the work demands one to move and navigate the room in order to take in the whole piece. It is a work, like all of Kosuth’s, which requires lengthy contemplation, rather than just a cursory ‘look’; in short, one must work to understand it. I am still working on it.

The Blind Side

‘The Blind Side’, another Oscar contender this year, tells the remarkable true story of Michael Oher, a homeless African-American teen who becomes the most sought-after college footballer ever. As the ‘token black student’ at a Christian High School in Memphis, Tennessee, Michael has nothing but a practically zero grade-point average, the shirt on his back and the spare one he keeps in a plastic bag. Found roaming around on a cold winter’s night, Michael is taken in by the Toueys, an affluent white family who have never even been to his side of town, for what was supposed to be one night. One night turns into the remainder of Michael’s High School career, where, under the protection and support of his new family, he excels as a footballer and dramatically improves academically. He is now a professional football-player for the Baltimore Ravens.

As the big, but vulnerable and heart-warmingly naive Michael, Quinton Aaron encapsulates the term ‘friendly giant.’ His performance as a humble, unjaded and hopeful child of a broken home demonstrates the fact that violence and hostility are not synonymous with a bad childhood. I absolutely loved Aaron’s portrayal of Michael, and felt instant warmth from his character, despite his initial lack of dialogue. On the other hand, Sandra Bullock, as Leigh Anne Touhy, dominates the screen and story despite her diminutive size beside Aaron; a comical juxtaposition which actually works. Bullock plays Leigh Anne with the type of maternal pragmatism necessary to be an efficient and effective working mum. She fights and cares for Michael as she does her own children, and her genuine love for him is unquestionable in her pursuit to help him fulfil his potential.

This movie was excellent, and made all the more poignant and inspiring by the fact that it is based on a real person, who is actually my own age.
[Image from www.daemonsmovies.com]

Precious

The contradictory themes of hopelessness and resilience are the bases of the film ‘Precious’, and are played out beautifully through the protagonist of the same name. As an illiterate, overweight and poor teenager living in Harlem, Precious’ life has been marred by all kinds of abuses emanating from her parents – verbal, physical and mental abuse from her mother, Mary; and sexual abuse from her father. The movie actually begins with the result of her latest abuse – Precious is pregnant with her second child by her father. And just as one has finished wincing in discomfort and disbelief at such a situation, the young woman is then berated and beaten by her mother, a cold, heartless welfare cheat who blames her innocent daughter for the woes of her life. Precious’ only escape is through her imagination, where she dramatises fantasies of a glamorous life, but even these short intervals are interrupted by an object to the back of the head, compliments of Mary.

Yet while the hopelessness of her situation seems to engulf not only Precious, but the viewers, it is her resilience, the way in which she finally takes charge of her life despite the continual setbacks, which makes Precious the heroin of the story. Through Precious, the human capacity to not only endure pain, abuse and abandonment, but to then emerge from that suffering without losing the ability to love unconditionally is realised. Despite being the results of her abuse, Precious bestows on her children the unconditional maternal love which she so lacked in her life. And it is through this juxtaposition between Precious and her own mother, both underprivileged mothers who deal with their circumstances very differently, where the different facets of human responses are displayed. Mary sees herself as a victim, who must in turn victimise the only individual over whom she has control, while Precious is a fighter, refusing to give in to her victimhood and striving instead to give herself and her children a better life.

As for the performances, Gabourey Sidibe elicits empathy, compassion and finally pride from the audience in her portrayal of Precious, and as the abusive, loveless mother, Mo’Nique can scare even the toughest of viewers into submission – their recent Oscar nominations are well-deserved. Yet, while Mariah Carey’s much-hyped performance as the dowdy social worker deserves kudos, the role itself was minimal at best, and had it been played by anyone else, would not have received the kind of attention it has.
[Image from oscar.com]

Tracey Moffatt - Up in the Sky

[Picture from www.roslynoxley9.com.au - go here to see the entire series]

Tracey Moffatt’s ‘Up in the Sky’ addresses the traumatic experience of the Stolen Generation, a dark piece of Australian colonial history which still has consequences to the present day. As a victim of the systematic dispossession of Aboriginal children – the artist grew up in a white foster home in Queensland – much of Moffatt’s works contain an autobiographical element which provokes the kind of affective response that only comes from lived experience. ‘Up in the Sky’ is no different. Here, Moffatt’s filmographic sequence depicts the psychological trauma of Australia’s assimilation policy with what Felicity Fenner describes as “irony, wit and a wry intellectual approach to negotiating the conflicted intersection between black and white social territory in Australia today.”

In ‘Up in the Sky’, Moffatt engages with the imagery derived from witnessing a traumatic event through her use of art as a visual language that expresses what is felt, rather than recounting a linear narrative . In doing so, Moffatt activates the physical and visceral sensations of her memory to connect the audience (who are not part of the Stolen Generation) to the experience in a way that simple narrative cannot. In this way, Moffat is able to keep the traumatic event in the present, instead of relegating it to the conveniently forgettable past.

Yet, while it addresses one of the most controversial and embarrassing aspects of Australia’s past, ‘Up in the Sky’ evades the kind of direct high-ground political didacticism that can so easily be adopted by a work of this subject matter, or an artist of Moffatt’s cultural background. Instead, the work conveys the relationships between the black and white people of this decrepit outback community ambiguously, in a way that is not so black and white. As the only maternal figure in the work, the audience empathises with the white woman who seems to show genuine love and affection towards her black baby. With the exception of the nuns, who possess the position of authority, all the inhabitants of this dilapidated town – black and white – appear to be sociological victims of some kind, who perhaps were not entirely responsible for the depressing and inescapable conditions in which they find themselves. Here, Moffatt simultaneously subverts and pertains to conventional and colonial definitions of ‘otherness’ By circumventing the clichéd position of Aboriginal victimhood, Moffatt reveals the far reaches of traumatic histories and how the impact of these resonate across race, time and space.

Moffatt’s artistic approach to traumatic memory is atypical of the accusatory, yet understandable, anger that pervades so much work of this kind. Such an approach is refreshing and perhaps more conducive to understanding the events of the past, from a more balanced, but no less poignant, perspective. ‘Up in the Sky’ recognises the sociological ignorance of white Australia’s early colonial arrogance without simply playing the blame game. Instead, what occurs is a journey into the memory of the artist which invites the audience to engage with, and experience for themselves the trauma of the past and its psychological imprint in her present. From here, we are able to actively forge our own opinions and conclusions about the (im)morality of our national history.

Spaces Transformed – Gregor Schneider erects cells on Bondi Beach

[This is a review I wrote a while ago. Schneider's work was brought to Australia in 2007 through the efforts of John Kaldor. Picture from www.kaldorartprojects.org.au]

Driving down Bondi Road on a beautiful spring morning, one does not expect to see a large group of unsightly cages interrupting the scenic coastline of Australia’s most celebrated beach. An obvious and deliberate eye-sore, Schneider’s 'Bondi Beach/21 beach cells' is obtrusively and unapologetically situated amongst the sand and beach goers, just metres from the shore. Once inside these 21 identical beach cells, visitors are welcome to use the 4m by 4m space and amenities as they please. “Importantly”, the organisers point out, “the cells don’t force us to enter, we can choose to take advantage of the cell’s facilities.”

On a normal weekday, the cells are somewhat empty, with the locals going about their daily beach business, relatively immune to the monstrous obstruction. On weekends however, and more specifically Labour Day public holiday, when Sydney-siders all over flock to the iconic site to enjoy a typical day at the beach, the presence of the cells transforms the scene of bikini-clad women, life guards, men in all varieties of shapes and swim trunks, and little children enjoying the sand and surf into something akin to a prison yard. Even more unsettling is the sight of the cells themselves, filled to capacity by a myriad of individuals, all keen to secure a decent spot on the characteristically overcrowded beach. As one life guard observed, “It looks like Guantanamo Bay on Bondi.” Indeed, the stark juxtaposition between the care-free, egalitarian persona of the beach, and the uncomfortable political connotations rendered by the cells is the precise effect which Schneider intended for his audience. “It really hurts”, he explains. “You have this view, the water – and it really hurts to see this at the beach.”

Schneider’s is clearly an art of globalisation, specifically of the state of political prisoners and detention centres. Frieze critic, Dominic Eichler’s observation on White Torture, another of Schneider’s works which plays out the cells motif, has significant relevance to the artist's Bondi installation. Eichler asks: “Was Schneider’s intention to dent the barrier that prevents people (himself included, presumably) who haven’t experienced such deplorable places and practices from empathising with those who have?” In light of such insight, Schneider’s Beach cells appear more sinister and disturbing, evoking dark associations to alienation, confinement and political terrorism (of the kind issued by one’s own government); perhaps a reminder of Australia’s own controversial Woomera detention centre.

But, perhaps even before his critiques on global politics, Schneider is first and foremost concerned with space, and the way in which audience participation transforms the meaning of the spaces he creates. Such is the case with the 21 Beach Cells. The sight of young children, chasing each other through the labyrinth of cages invokes the innocent image of a jungle-gym playground, ubiquitous to parks throughout the world. When two people sit in one of the cells, discussing perhaps the meaning of life, or what was on their favourite soap opera the night before, the image is one of relaxed human interaction, akin to the scene of a coffee shop. When the cages start to fill up with young bikini-clad girls, and their equally undressed male counterparts, however, the allusions start to become somewhat unsettling. Upon witnessing such uninhibited exhibitionism , one is forced to the somewhat related images of, on the one hand, exotic but terrified animals at a circus, put on display, and on the other, exotic-looking but no doubt terrified subjects put out on display in a gentlemen’s club. Finally of course, there is the scene of the cages filled with people of all ages, sizes and nationalities. Such a sight is undeniably the most disconcerting, reminiscent of boat people squeezed into a tiny space as they are forced to travel dangerously across international borders to flee their oppressive home lands, or of news-bulletin images of the same asylum seekers automatically shoved into detention centres upon entrance to a free country.

Despite, or perhaps because of its unsightliness against the backdrop of Australia’s most famous beach, Schneider’s 21 beach cells works. Its disconcerting presence transforms the persona of the relaxed, egalitarian icon into a questioning of human liberties and political freedom. But its effect does not stop here, hence the accomplishment of the work. On a more basic level, the Cells’ interaction with its audience reveals the ways in which human contact transforms the use, purpose and overall image of a space. It is, undeniably, the art audience – in this case, the general public – which bestows meaning on an artwork.