Genius and Junkie: Burroughs in Britain

Date: 14 March 2001 | Season: Burroughs in Britain, Miscellaneous

GENIUS AND JUNKIE: BURROUGHS IN BRITAIN
Wednesday 14 March 2001, at 6:30pm
London Tate Britain Clore Auditorium

Cult author Iain Sinclair, film curator Mark Webber and Tim Marlow (BBC broadcaster and editor of tate: the art magazine) come together to revel in and debate the impact of the great American Beat novelist William Burroughs on the underground arts scene in London.

Focusing on the 1960s and 1970s, when Burroughs lived for a number of years in the city, this exciting event will include screenings of two films Burroughs made in collaboration with the British film-maker Antony Balch, The Cut-Ups (1963) and Towers Open Fire (1967).

Antony Balch, Towers Open Fire, 1963, 16mm, b/w, sound, 10 min
Antony Balch, The Cut-Ups, 1967, 16mm, b/w, sound, 19 min

PROGRAMME NOTES

Like Seeing New York for the First Time 2

Date: 22 April 2001 | Season: Century City

LIKE SEEING NEW YORK FOR THE FIRST TIME
Sunday 22 April 2001, at 3pm
London Tate Modern

LIKE SEEING NEW YORK FOR THE FIRST TIME: 2
Six Extraordinary Films of Manhattan in the 60s & 70s

Two programmes of films selected by Mark Webber for the Tate Modern exhibition “Century City: Art and Culture in the Modern Metropolis” (1 February – 29 April 2001), presenting six unique views of New York in the 60s and 70s.

SOFT RAIN
Ken Jacobs, USA, 1968, colour, silent, 12 min

View from above is of a partially snow-covered low flat rooftop receding between the brick walls of two much taller downtown N.Y. loft buildings. A slightly tilted rectangular shape left of the centre of the composition is the section of rain-wet Reade Street, visible to us over the low rooftop. Distant trucks, cars, persons carrying packages, umbrellas sluggishly pass across this little stage-like area. A fine rain-mist is confused, visually, with the colour emulsion grain. A large black rectangle following up and filling to space above the stage area is seen as both an unlikely abyss extending in deep space behind the stage or more properly, as a two dimensional plane suspended far forward of the entire snow/rain scene. Though it clearly if slightly overlaps the two receding loft building walls, the mind, while knowing better, insists on presuming it to be overlapped by them. (At one point the black plane even trembles.) So this mental tugging takes place throughout. The contradiction of 2D reality versus 3D implication is amusingly and mysteriously explicit. Filmed at 24fps but projected at 16fps the street activity is perceptively slowed down. It’s become a somewhat heavy labouring. The loop repetition (the series hopefully will intrigue you to further run-throughs) automatically imparts a steadily growing rhythmic sense of the street activities. Anticipation for familiar movement-complexes builds, and as all smaller complexities join up in our knowledge of the whole the purely accidental counter-passings of people and vehicles becomes satisfyingly cogent, seems rhythmically structured and of a piece. Becomes choreography. (Ken Jacobs, New York Film-makers’ Cooperative Catalogue #5, 1971)

ZORNS LEMMA
Hollis Frampton, USA, 1970, colour, sound, 60 min

Zorns Lemma has three parts. The first part is only a few minutes long and consists of black leader with a voice-over reading of a simple poem from The Bay State Primer used to teach children the alphabet. Each of the rhymed couplets in the film features a letter of the alphabet, not always at the beginning of the line, but as the initial letter of the subject of each couplet. For example, for “D” we have “A dog will bite a thief at night”. For “Y”: “Youth forward slips, death soonest nips”. The second and longest part of Zorns Lemma is comprised of a gradually evolving forty-five minute series of one-second shots. It begins with twenty-four twenty-four frame close-ups of metallic letters of the alphabet against a black background, followed by twenty-four frames of black. The alphabet has been abbreviated by omitting the letters “J” and “U”. Then follows twenty-four twenty-four frame shots of words filmed from signs, windows, graffiti, and so forth, mostly from lower Manhattan. For three more cycles, this series repeats, always in alphabetical order with one word for each letter of the abbreviated alphabet, except for “I”, which in the second cycle is replaced with a word beginning with “J”. Throughout the film, either “I” or “J” will be represented in any one cycle, and the use of an I word or a J word will alternate periodically. Similarly, “U” and “V” will only be represented one at a time, though instead of alternating, U words will abruptly and permanently replace V words later in the film. In the fifth cycle, a series of replacements begins when a shot of a fire is found in the place of the expected X word. Irregularly (every one through ten cycles) another image replaces the shots of the words until every letter has been replaced. At this point, part two ends. The third and final part of Zorns Lemma serves as a kind of retroactive explanatory articulation. It consists of what seems to be a single long take of a man, a woman and a dog crossing a snowy field, though actually there are three dissolves used to cover the breaks between camera rolls. On the sound track over this “shot” is a portion of Robert Grosseteste’s “On Light: Or the Ingression of Forms” read by six alternating female voices at the arbitrary rate of one word per second. This medieval mystical text, though somewhat difficult to follow because of its choppy presentation, reprises some of the basic themes of the film. It is about the nature of light, whose role in the cinematic process is almost too obvious to miss, and whose centrality has been asserted by filmmakers and film critics from Josef von Sternberg to Tony Conrad. More importantly, though, it asserts that a small set of mathematical ratios is fundamental to the composition of the universe. This comes close to summarising Zorns Lemma itself, where Frampton has composed as many elements as he could in multiples of twenty-four. From the number of frames per second of sound film projection, to the number of frames each image in the second part of the film is projected, to the (adjusted) number of letters in the alphabet, the entire film seems to be guided by the same set of numerical relations. [
] The alphabetical schema is not only familiar to every literate person who can speak English, but is highly overlearned and therefore easily accessible from memory. The relationship between units of part two of Zorns Lemma is simple progression. And, since simple progression is the only relationship between these units, the storage and organization demands on the viewer are minimal. (James Peterson, Dreams Of Chaos, Visions of Order, Wayne State University Press, 1994)

NECROLOGY
Standish Lawder, USA, 1970, b/w, sound, 12 min

In Necrology, a twelve minute film, in one continuous shot he films the faces of a 5:00pm crowd descending via the Pan Am building escalators. In old-fashioned black and white, these faces stare into the empty space, in the 5:00pm tiredness and mechanical impersonality, like faces from the grave. It’s hard to believe that these faces belong to people today. The film is one of the strangest and grimmest comments upon the contemporary society that cinema has produced. (Jonas Mekas, Village Voice Movie Journal, May 1970)

The credits listed at the end of the film are woefully incomplete. The following is a complete breakdown of the relevant statistics regarding Necrology.
Total performers: 325 (190 male, 135 female)
Credited performers: 76 (53 male, 23 female)
Uncredited performers: 250  (138 male, 112 female)
Frames of darkness between escalator and cast: 329 (28.5 black, 300.5 grey)
In examining these statistics, certain patterns come immediately to mind, patterns which raise serious questions about Lawder’s integrity. Most obvious is the implied sexism of the credits. Only 17.04% of the women in the film are credited, whereas fully 27.75% of the men receive credits. Furthermore, all but two of the women’s credits reflect sexual stereotyping, and of these two, one is pejorative (“fat teenager”), and in the other instance, the woman is identified as working for men, as social director for a YMCA. There are other disturbing structural patterns as well. If this is an unmanipulative film, how does it happen that there are so many round numbers (250, 300) and threes ? Consider the following: fifty-three men credited, twenty-three women credited, thirty more men than women credited, three more uncredited men than total women, etc. Most disturbing is the fact that before the credits there are three more frames of darkness than total performers in the film. Why the discrepancy ? Two of the extra frames can be accounted for. One may be the hand which reaches into the frame at one point; one could conceivably be Audrey who is thanked in the credits; last frame, however, is totally inexplicable, though it corresponds to the one frame which is half black and half grey. We must assume that this is a totally frivolous structural symbol, since Lawder provides no resolution to the mystery. Some people might argue that viewers would not generally notice such details. Perhaps this is true on a conscious level, but who can deny the powerful subconscious impact of such disturbing discrepancies ? (Nick Barbaro)

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Floating Through Time: The Films of Larry Jordan

Date: 4 May 2001 | Season: Larry Jordan | Tags:

FLOATING THROUGH TIME: THE FILMS OF LARRY JORDAN
4 & 5 May 2001

Oberhausen Lichtburg Filmpalast

Cinematic Duplicity: The Twin Worlds of Larry Jordan

Whether concerned with reality or the unconscious world, each work by Larry Jordan is a small wonder, a unique excursion both outwards and within. Although best known for his fragile animations, he has continued to work with live photography throughout his life. In his animations, images are liberated of their intrinsic meanings allowing the viewer to derive their own interpretation as the filmmaker travels along his inner journey. By contrast, Jordan’s live action cinematography frequently captures a direct sense of place, retaining a connection to the world at large. Presenting raw, untreated footage, he documents the essence of his world. All of his work conveys a sense of exploration and self-discovery, an aspiration to higher things. Images may be inspired by dream visions, or arise from a state of complete openness. Often working in an extemporised manner, by embracing chance and fortune, Jordan is free to wander through an infinite range of possibilities.

“Animation is, I guess you’d say, my interior world, and the live films are pretty much my interface with the real world. I may use some quick cutting, but I don’t use a lot of optical printing or manipulation of the image. I like to see the raw image from the real world, that excites me on the screen more than a manipulated image. Even in animation, I like to see flat-out what’s there in front of the camera, and see if the bold un-art-ised image can’t be the strongest thing. I used to feel I had to get out of there and work with people in the world, to keep that connection going. I couldn’t just stay in the studio and do animation all the time, so I’d go out to try to capture ‘spirit of place’. The world is miraculous, but people working in film don’t feel that’s enough, I guess, not exciting enough to an audience. I’ve tried to find ways of putting the real world, the way it really is, into the live films at some level.”

Jordan’s interest in film began while studying literature at Harvard. He attended the university’s film series, seeing Cocteau, Clair and Eisenstein, as his high school friend Stan Brakhage was beginning his own serious investigation of the medium. Jordan realised that his interest was more with the image than the word, and on returning to Denver he began working the tradition of the avant-garde trance film. Moving to San Francisco, he became involved in a creative group that included Robert Duncan, Jess Collins, Philip Lamantia, Kenneth Rexroth and Michael McClure. Inspired by this artistic milieu of poets and artists working outside the mainstream, Jordan shot Visions of A City, a portrait of a place and that of a friend, combining trance vision with a sense of alienation.

“The city is hard and impersonal, hence, the reflected image. The man emerges out of this, is there for a little while, and then is absorbed back under the hard surface of the city. What’s really important to me is that it’s a little glimpse of San Francisco in ’57 – it’s hard to find that anywhere. It’s also a portrait of Michael McClure in 1957, the only one that moves. Film has done very badly at documenting the world as it really is, whereas still photography has done very well. So much energy in film has gone into the mental construct, the script, the drama, the fairytale; so what have you got that’s a time machine ? You’ve got Man with a Movie Camera, Berlin, Symphony of a City and a few films of New York.”

For many years a 15-minute silent version existed, and was occasionally shown as a background at poetry readings. Jordan always felt the film was not particularly tight and in 1978 he returned to the footage to reshape it. By condensing the film and adding a meditative raga soundtrack by Bill Moraldo, he built a freewheeling, but concise city symphony. At this time in the late 1970s, Jordan also assembled Cornell 1965, an evocative document of the artist whom the filmmaker considers his mentor. After meeting in 1955, Jordan corresponded with Joseph Cornell for 10 years. He occasionally did photographic assignments for him, and eventually moved to New York to help with box construction and film editing. 

“With Cornell, I learned a lot about box making; I didn’t learn about filmmaking, and I don’t collage the way he collages. I tend to work in a concentrated manner. I don’t have the same sensibility as Max Ernst or Jess, and feel closer to Cornell, in that there’s no aggressive agenda like with the Surrealists.”

Max Ernst is the other most obvious visual inspiration in the development of Jordan’s techniques, directly influencing his eventual style of animation. The early collage films used a moving camera tracking over a still image, until a moment of enlightenment set him in a new artistic direction.

“In the very early 60s, you couldn’t just go to the bookstore and find an edition of Max Ernst collage novels, but my friend Jess had both of them. He loaned them to me and I loved them so much that I photographed each one – page after page after page. I was putting the negatives in the enlarger and the images would come up in the solution one after another. All of a sudden I realised that I was, in a way, watching a movie in very, very slow motion. By that time I knew enough about film to know how you could single frame things and I thought “I could go out and find engravings and cut them up and make them move !”. It hit me that if you cut up engravings they would have that very photogenic look because there is no half tone there, just white background and black lines, which photographs very well. There would be the surreal element of disparate images coming together and there would be a casting back to another time with that material, it seemed to make sense.”

Aside from the optical aspects of his vision, aural inspiration plays a direct role in the creative process. Jordan has often spoken of filmmaking in musical terms, comparing his approach with that of a composer, and believing that the essential focus in both arts is timing.

“It’s the internal timing that makes all the difference. I’ve a very strong feeling that whether you’re talking about a documentary or a drama, you can get away with some faultiness in almost any area, in sound, colour, or movement, but films that don’t have good timing don’t work, no matter what genre. The best films are the ones that handle the temporal element the best. I’ve been lucky – I’m not a musician, I don’t read or play music, but I feel very strongly that films are a kind of visual music in the sense that the farther I went with animation, the more I realised that my problems aesthetically were the same as the composer’s, centred mostly around the timing. So long as I just kept feeling like I was playing some kind of visual, musical composition, then things would go down the way they should go down. If I tried to force something to be long or slow then it felt superficial or stilted but if I just kept a fine, light tension like playing music then I was okay.”

The use of music in Jordan’s films is incredibly sensitive. Given his impeccable choice of accompaniment, it’s not surprising that he sees his role as an animator being similar to that of a composer. To complement his strong sense of intuition over soundtracks, a certain amount of synchronicity contributes to the marriage of sound and image, and the correct piece of music often arise in a completely spontaneous and unexplainable manner. The soundtrack for Hamfat Asar was a cut from an LP that was purchased on impulse from a discount record bin. One track was found to run exactly the length of the film, even dividing up into 3 movements to match the visual continuity. Duo Concertantes won first prize at the Ann Arbor Film Festival as a silent film and existed as such for 2 years until Jordan turned on a radio during a coffee-house screening in San Francisco. The broadcast was found to fit the film perfectly. After calling the station to find out what it was, he tracked down the sonata by little-known 18th century composer Giovanni Battista Viotti, which has played with the film ever since.

“The process is usually different on each film, whether it’s mystical, or synchronistic. I have something that I say, though I don’t know how exact it is, but if I can feel that I have been working on the film in the same spiritual vein as the composer of the music, then I can put the two together. Whether that’s what it is I don’t really know, but it’s really intuitive. Sometimes I go directly to a piece of music and it’s the first thing I think of, but often I go through a lot of things and eliminate. That’s the way the animation has always worked as well, I eliminate nine things out of ten, and one thing is right for the film.”

For Postcard from San Miguel, his most recent cine-poem, the music was present throughout the filmmaking process. After hearing a performance of “Pavane” by Gabriel FaurĂ© shortly before travelling to Mexico, Jordan took along a cassette, listening to it on a Walkman while shooting to make the pace of filming match the flow of the music.

While many of the live action films seek to capture the pictorial essence of a particular location, it is the mood that becomes the over-riding theme of The Old House, Passing. Deciding to make a ‘ghost film’, Jordan and 3 friends read classical supernatural literature to get into the correct frame of mind. Their discussions were recorded and subsequently used to plan the shoot, which took place in an archetypal haunted house. Though he used out-dated stock, Jordan was surprised to find that the footage he got back from the lab was extremely dark. Being initially disappointed with the result, the film was left unedited for a year.

“After seeing the main character, John Graham, in a film by Ben Van Meter, I got inspired about the project. I remember sitting down in my studio one day and without looking at the footage I thought I’d write down a stream of consciousness list of images from memory. Then I cut the film that way, and not only did it work, but I’d listed all the images that were good, and none that weren’t good. It originally had a straight-line narrative, but now it’s completely elliptically cut. You can’t see a story directly, but it’s there floating around you all the time. I’ve since used that form of cutting on about six other films. I consider it a surreal game of free association, not to be played if there are going to be any interruptions or any equivocation.”

Jordan’s style of animation reached its pinnacle in the 1980s, when he realised two remarkable works. Sophie’s Place is an 86-minute, in-camera edited improvisation that took 7 years to complete. He regards the film as an “alchemical autobiography”, in which unfixed images intimate ancient Greek or Gnostic spiritual wisdom. Stan Brakhage has referred to it as “the greatest epic animation film ever”. Jordan followed up with The Visible Compendium, reaching further out, simultaneously travelling in many different directions. It’s the culmination of everything he has learned as an animator, a carefully constructed sequence of disparate scenes assembled to a sound collage of collected scraps of audio.

“I’m not a scholar, but I have read and absorbed, I think deeply, a lot of the major world religions. For many years I was intensely into Buddhist Tibetan beliefs. I had a classical education and I studied Latin for many years and the ancient world came alive to me. Religion, so long as it’s not formal, is very potent for me. My feeling is that all these things buzz around in my head and get into the films, but if I try to do anything consciously, like make a scene that represents something from the “Bhagavad-gita” or something – forget it, it just looks awful. I have to stay away from meanings for the symbols.”

A vivid sense of the spiritual world emerges from the animated films. It’s a common misconception that Jordan works as a cinematic magician, like Kenneth Anger or Harry Smith, using a system of pre-defined codes to communicate his ideas. He’s keen to make a distinction, claiming that he is an alchemist working without a codified system. It is important to be aware that the filmmaker no more knows the meaning of the symbols he uses than does the viewer.

“I do believe in an underworld, a classical underworld. I think Jung would call it ‘the collective unconscious’, where if I open the door, the images that we all recognise will come out. If there’s any seeming meaning that appears to you, while the film is on the screen, that’s what it means and it will be different for everybody. I don’t want the animation films to be like most film work, which is a reference to something that has been photographed in the past. I want the films only to exist while they’re on the screen and not refer to anything in the past. It’s a Rorschach, in other words.  A symbol is not a metaphor. Those are two separate words and two entirely different meanings. A circle is a symbol and you could write ten books about a circle and you’d never come to the end of the meaning. A symbol, by definition, is not definable.

“Some people ask questions after the screenings, that always centre around the idea that I have a secret language of symbols, that I know what they mean and the audience doesn’t. I have to explain that I don’t know the meaning of them any more than the meaning of my dreams.”

By resisting obvious definition, and by continuing the dualistic approach of interior animation and exterior photography, Jordan has been able to build a considerable catalogue of human and spiritual experience. In allowing everyone to decipher the images in an individual way, he is able to speak to all of all us through his extraordinarily personal films.

Mark Webber

Based on a telephone interview with Larry Jordan, 13 March 2001. Thank you Larry Jordan, Joanna McClure, Milos Stelek, Dr. William Moritz and Alex Deck.

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Larry Jordan 1: Real Worlds Imagined (Live Action Films)

Date: 4 May 2001 | Season: Larry Jordan | Tags:

REAL WORLDS IMAGINED (LIVE ACTION FILMS)
Friday 4 May 2001, at 10:00pm

Oberhausen Lichtburg Filmpalast

Larry Jordan, Triptych in Four Parts, USA, 1958, 16mm, 12 min
A kaleidoscopic document of the West Coast in the beat era, and a search for spiritual adventure. 1 Portrait of artist John Reed; 2 & 3 The quest for the sacred peyote cactus; 4 The family of Wallace Berman. 

Larry Jordan, Waterlight, USA, 1957, 16mm, 7 min
The transition from land to sea, and from day to night and day again. The filmmaker embarks upon a personal journey of discovery, to find out what is actually in the world and not just in his own mind.

Larry Jordan, Big Sur: The Ladies, USA, 1964, 16mm, 3 min 
An impulsive cine-poem of the mostly nude ladies at the Big Sur Baths, set against the incredible California coastline. By editing entirely in-camera, the filmmaker preserves the exhuberance of the moment. A celebration of light, the sun, the joy of living.

Larry Jordan, Visions of the City, USA, 1957-79, 16mm, 9 min 
The poet Michael McClure emerges from the reflected image, only to be absorbed into the hard surface of the city. A hypnotic photo essay that captures the rhythmic and melodic essence of San Francisco, 1957.

Larry Jordan, Postcard from San Miguel, USA, 1997, 16mm, 10 min
Jordan’s most recently completed film is a poetic postcard of San Miguel de Allende, set to music by Gabriel FaurĂ©. The atmosphere of the past is evoked through the town’s colonial architecture, punctuated by lines from Lorca.

Larry Jordan, The Old House, Passing, USA, 1966, 16mm, 45 min
A young couple and their daughter spend their night in an old house and become magnetically involved with the past life of its occupants. Slow moving and dark, this ghost-film revolves around an elusive plot that has been elliptically cut by experimental editing from memory. With the drama subverted, the film develops into a representation of a mood, as the human world merges with the spirit world.

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The Joy of Subversion: Blonde Cobra & No President

Date: 13 July 2001 | Season: Miscellaneous | Tags:

 

THE JOY OF SUBVERSION: BLONDE COBRA & NO PRESIDENT
Cambridge Arts Picturehouse
Friday 13 July 2001, at 10:30pm

Two underground archetypes, born of a deep disgust with existence, finding rapture in the rubbish dumps. Ken Jacobs and Jack Smith, doyens of the downside, were united by the gloom that saturated their everyday lives. With their shared horror of Technicolor America, they rose from the cesspool to revel in the garbage heap.

Not so much non-narrative as anti-narrative, these films constantly defeat and undermine their own success through their editing and structure. Private and social taboos are cast aside in two manic paeans to hopelessness.

Some people call it independent, experimental, avant-garde, underground, beat, trash, degenerate, incomprehensible, absurdist baloney. Some people don’t understand and some people don’t deserve to understand. Cinema of parody or cinema of paradise? Take these jewelled offerings, these fragments of true FREE CINEMA and run with it. (You might never catch up.)

Ken Jacobs & Bob Fleischner, Blonde Cobra, 1959-63, 33 min
Jack Smith, No President, 1967-70, 50 min

Screening as part of the 21st Cambridge Film Festival.

PROGRAMME NOTES

Cinema Auricular: Cinema of the Ear

Date: 13 October 2001 | Season: Cinema Auricular

CINEMA AURICULAR: CINEMA OF THE EAR
13 October – 21 October 2001
London Barbican Centre & Tate Modern

A season of film and video as part of the ELEKTRONIC festival at the Barbican.

It might seem logical to suppose a historical and natural link between electronic music and abstract or impressionistic films, but there are surprisingly few examples of films that were made in direct collaboration between filmmakers and composers or musicians. However, there is a significant body of films that ‘borrow’ or re-appropriate recordings of contemporary music, and a number of works for which their makers have assembled soundtracks which may, if separated from the visuals, be heard as extraordinary electronic compositions. In such films, electronic, tape music, noise, primitive sampling and musique concrete come together in chaos or harmony to accompany astounding visual constructions.

The film series of the Elektronic festival will present screenings in which the sound and image complement each other on the highest level. It will feature an international selection of historic and contemporary works by Bruce Conner, Malcolm Le Grice, Peter Tscherkassky and others, and a live music and film concert by Phill Niblock. Composers whose unique works may be heard of the soundtracks include Edgar Varese, Christian Fennesz, Terry Riley and Karlheinz Stockhausen.

The series will open with an informal screening in the Barbican Pit Theatre on the afternoon of Saturday 13th October. Between the films, Mark Webber and Gregory Kurcewicz will be playing recordings of rare and wonderful electronic music. Come down to our level and see what you’re in for.


Seeing Sound: Lightning Strikes the Optic Nerve

Date: 17 October 2001 | Season: Cinema Auricular

SEEING SOUND: LIGHTNING STRIKES THE OPTIC NERVE
Wednesday 17 October 2001, at 7:30pm
London Barbican Cinema

Optical sound on 16mm film – a lightbulb reads a strip of amorphous black emulsion on clear celluloid and it somehow makes sound sense. Since the 1930s artists have examined and exploited the possibilities of drawing or printing a soundtrack. Two senses combined and confounded, both musical and cacophonous. Can you see what you hear?

Oskar Fischinger, Ornament Sound, 1932, 7 min
Norman McLaren, Dots (Points), 1948, 3 min
Barry Spinello, Soundtrack, 1969, 10 min
Richard Reeves, Linear Dreams, 1997, 7 min
Pierre Rovere, Black and Light, 1974, 8 min
Lis Rhodes, Dresden Dynamo, 1974, 5 min
Chris Garrett, Exit Right, 1976, 3 min
Jun’ichi Okuyama, My Movie Melodies, 1980, 7 min
Guy Sherwin, Musical Stairs, 1977, 10 min
Peter Tscherkassky, L’ArrivĂ©e, 1998, 3 min
Taka Iimura, Shutter, 1971, 22 min

Screening introduced by filmmaker Guy Sherwin.

PROGRAMME NOTES

Peter Kubelka: What is Film 2

Date: 10 November 2001 | Season: London Film Festival 2001 | Tags: , ,

PETER KUBELKA: WHAT IS FILM? 2
Saturday 10 November 2001, at 4:15pm
London National Film Theatre NFT3

THE MATERIAL OF FILM: TOOL AND PERSONALITY

“Film is a transparent sculpture. The material is servant and teacher. Form cannot be transferred and therefore content cannot be transferred. The event of Cinema is unique.”

Featuring selections from the following works:

Emile Cohl, Le Cerceau Magique, France, 1908, 6m
Len Lye, Free Radicals, USA, 1958, 4m
Stan Brakhage, Mothlight, USA, 1963, 3m
Owen Land (Formerly Known As George Landow), Film in which there Appear Sprocket Holes, Edge Lettering, Dirt Particles, etc., USA, 1965-66, 5m
Karin Hörler, Frisch, Germany, 1987, 2m
Bruce Conner, Valse Triste, USA, 1979, 6m
FrĂšres LumiĂšre, Voltiges, France, 1898, 1m
FrĂšres LumiĂšre, Indochine, Enfants Anamites, France, 1898, 1m
FrĂšres LumiĂšre, La Course en Sacs, France, 1898, 1m
Stan Brakhage, Window Water Baby Moving, USA, 1962, 12m
Paul Sharits, T:O:U:C:H:I:N:G, USA, 1968, 12m

The complete list of films in the repertory, and the themes covered, may be subject to spontaneous change during the course of the presentations.


Harlot + Screen Test #2

Date: 24 February 2002 | Season: Andy Warhol Tate

HARLOT + SCREEN TEST #2
Sunday 24 February 2002, at 3:00pm
London Tate Modern

Early sound films from the Silver Factory.

Andy Warhol, Harlot, USA, 1964, 67 min
Andy Warhol, Screen Test #2, USA, 1965, 67 min

Harlot was Warhol’s first sound film, but subversively the sound is disconnected and consists of an out of frame discussion between Ronald Tavel, Billy Name and English poet Harry Fainlight. On screen four superstars (and a cat) eat bananas in an exotic tableaux vivant. Tavel directs Screen Test #2, commanding the transvestite star Mario Montez, who executes a tragic but convincing performance in the face of mockery and scorn.


Beauty #2 + Space

Date: 5 March 2002 | Season: Andy Warhol Tate

BEAUTY #2 + SPACE
Tuesday 5 March 2002, at 6:30pm
London Tate Modern

Scenes from the life of Edie Sedgwick.

Andy Warhol, Beauty #2, USA, 1965, 66 min
Andy Warhol, Space, USA, 1965, 67 min

Further portraits of socialite and muse Edie Sedgwick. In Beauty #2 she auditions a new boyfriend as an off-screen acquaintance provokes her with snide comments and questions, initiating a complex psychological situation. Space begins with a planned scenario in which different characters read eight unconnected scripts, but soon degenerates into casual talk, food fights and folk singing.