What happens in confession stays in the confessional

A wise man once said, "There's no lesson to be learned if there's no one left to learn it."

I guess I could classify myself as a moderate. I hate being a moderate. It's like I should shit or get off the pot. I'm liberal on war and drugs, but I'm conservative on gun control and other hot button topics. I like to think I'm no ones bitch (although I'm probably lying to myself) and that I control and govern myself without "help" from the United States of America. I guess this is why I became so enamoured with punk. It's like there was a bunch of people like me saying what I thought before I'd even thought it. It's just a big "fuck you" to everyone and everything, and I like that. Most people and things need and deserve a big "fuck you."

Movies deliver a less blunt and rude "fuck you" in most senses. Movies tell stories, and you can draw from them however you like. I know pable talked about Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas before, but this is a perfect example for me. This movie is all about making your own choices and living by your own standards and rules to me. They lived in their own dimension, which is what drugs do for them. They lived outside mainstream society, but within it, and that is my goal.

I'm my own goddamned person and no one can take that away from me.

How Many Surrealists Does It Take To Screw In a Light Bulb?

So a while back, I was working with some of my students on a piece that was clearly non-linear. There was a clear divide in the group, but of course I only managed to hear the half that was frustrated and confused – the half that didn’t want anything to do with all this weird, arty bullshit, the half that wanted to get laughs and get paid. They wanted an explanation for what was going on onstage – and, hell, they deserved one – but what could I say? I didn’t understand it, either. And I’d usually end up going home equally frustrated.

So I went home and started channel-surfing and (astoundingly) what should be on but Institute Benjamenta? I used to be obsessed with the brothers Quay, but I hadn’t seen this movie of theirs in years. I stumbled into the middle, but it only took a few minutes for me to get swept up into the – "action" isn’t the right word, "story" isn’t the right word – but whatever it was, I was captivated.

Every twenty seconds, there’d be another image, another transition, another big ball of ideas with no explanation behind it – and, Jesus, it was liberating. The sense that I’d been obsessing over what people would think of a quirky line of dialogue – and to see someone who just didn’t care, who would create movement for no other reason than the fact that it was sort of interesting to look at, who would cry so unapologetically to fuck narrative, fuck reality – why be yoked to reality when the world of the imagination is so much more compelling?

And I envied it, too – it’s a courage I’ve never possessed. Even in my most expressionistic pieces, I’ve never been able to fully abandon fairly conventional plotting and characterization. But the absolute triumph of form over content is something that’s truly breathtaking to witness.

(Tangential thought – reviewing shows for the Minnesota Fringe this year, and particularly pieces like Audiographic Synesthesia, I was struck by how far modern surrealism has drifted from its roots – that originally, it was an expression of rage, of contempt for the rising middle-class social mores, a scream of disgust against everything that they held to be sacred. Now, it’s come full-circle: surrealism has been fully embraced by the middle class, something that rich white kids churn out to demonstrate their sophistication. It’s truly disheartening to witness.)

So I’m a Julie Taymor fan, for many of the above reasons. I guess I’m surprised by the degree of hostility in Andrew’s reviews – at worst, her movies could be viewed as silly, pointless intellectual exercises. I don’t really get the outright anger directed towards her work. That kind of rage is reserved, for me, for work that I find ideologically repugnant – so I suspect that I’m not grasping the fullness of your point.

I’m in no position to defend Across the Universe (not having seen it), but I can say that the appeal of Titus for me wasn’t simply some kind of cerebral masturbation – it’s the fact that I was actively moved, consistently startled, frequently laughing and always engaged. It’s certainly possible that this is because I’m bringing something to viewing the movie that’s not inherent in the movie itself, but that’s still a valid part of my viewing experience, no?

I can’t help thinking of the actual lyrics of Across the Universe:

words are flowing out

like endless rain into a paper cup

they slither while they pass

they slip away across the universe

pools of sorrow waves of joy

are drifting through my opened mind

possessing and caressing me...

What do those words mean? I have no fucking idea. And the answer, I suspect, is that they don’t mean anything. They’re a collection of sounds, seemingly random but far from arbitrary. I’ve listened to the song hundreds of times and I’m not tired of it yet. I can’t articulate exactly what it is that keeps dragging me back to Taymor’s work, any more than I can articulate exactly what it is that the lyrics to this song mean. But I know that they resonate with me on some level beyond language, that they both evoke something very real for me, something I’ve experienced many times before.

Just not when I’m awake.

Titus: The First Twenty Minutes

Alright, Julie. What gives?

I don't like you. I don't like you Julie Taymor, because you think sooo highly of yourself that you assume people will be willing to sit through 3 hours of your bullshit art direction without anything else to carry us along like, say, a sooooul?

Lucky for you, Shakespeare provided a story. So he gave you some semblance of a plot. At least it wasn't another Across the Universe mess where you don't even feel obligated enough to string a respectful plot line between your fancy pants bedazzles and shmefrazzles. At least you had a story with some sort of depth to work with. Only, you know... you don't give a shit about that. You rely on Anthony Hopkins and Alan Cumming to over assert themselves so that we maybe sorta feel like what's going on outside of the fantastical imagery matters. But you don't really care that they're trying. You don't expect them to try. You probably couldn't have cared less if they hadn't.

The language is forced. Jessica Lange is awwwwful. The imagery is disjointed. It doesn't work in any cohesive fashion, and is overbearingly "clever" to the point of pretentiousness. And it doesn't come out of the story. You take your ideas and you force them into the source material.

Your work isn't inspired, it's flaunty and self-congratulating.

I'm only twenty minutes in and this shit isn't worth my time.

I hope you get hit in the skull with a brick.

Love,
Andrew

P.S. What the fuck is this bullshit with the little boy? It's retarded and cliche to the point where I can't even find and use a constructive vocabulary. Fuck this shit. Fuck shit piss. Piss shit. Ass.