What must be done to escape proselytizing art and its scholars? Rather, can anything sway mass exuberance? Perhaps not, but a more hopeful answer is not yet. If ‘yet’ is ever to come about, though, people should be ready to shout ‘bull’ where and when they see it. Munch’s seemingly indomitable titan has been asking for scrutiny with its long-standing and winded shriek.
A sort of collective self-portrait, The Scream or Der Schrei derNatur (The Scream of Nature) as Munch originally called it is astounding in its celebrity. Even more so is the number of prints produced in the actual ‘Scream’ series – as if an Expressionist vision is something best regimented into acceptability.
The work comes from Munch’s own experience – a mixture of ex/internal elements. But as the beholden representative of something as “enormous” and “infinite” as universal anguish, the painting’s simplistic, near puritanical execution lends itself poorly. One might even expect that the artist’s brooding emotional issues should have yielded more than broad strokes in the likeness of a red-orange sky and an Alopecia sufferer in an undulating shroud. The howling figure in question even seems distracted – apparently not fretful enough to check out whatever’s off to the side.This lack of connection numbs Munch’s intended meaning.
The same as any other artwork that has been chosen and ushered into the annals of history by few and sheepishly commended by many, The Scream requires a double-take. Art needs always to support divergent thought, not homogenous acquiesce.
Timelessness in art means that its effect is either perpetual or metamorphic. This piece is both pleasantly fleeting in its archaic practicality and a marvel in its unintentionally modern bearing. Caught in a Mannerist-Baroque stasis one could only hope to have extended, the artist here demonstrates what has kept his work in the public eye – a slant on the en vogue.
In his own ‘bodegon’ or ‘tavern’ style, Cotan uses an open, geometric background in addition to contrasting lights and darks of budding Tenebrism to accentuate his objects’ eerily lifelike appearance. Each item is meticulously worked to the curve of every leaf and feather in an austere realism later to thrive in Spain. To see this level of devotion in every feature carries a weight founding each element’s standalone quality.
Here in still life did Cotan shine and deliver mundane nature that transcends itself to fantastic results. What it provides is a slice of historic life and also a lesson in the sheer immensity of classical craft technique.
Oddly and fitting enough, Still Life subtly evokes Rene Magritte in how the flora and fauna – practically sculptural in two dimensions – seem superimposed on a comparatively flat, bizarre location.
Though not as recognized in terms of his other work, Cotan nonetheless proves himself a formidable creative mind in any age. His signature pieces are still only in that they may take a short breath while preserving the life within them.
Handling ambiguity is akin to dealing with thieves. Both can backfire and therein lies the challenge and possible triumph of it all. In tackling history hypothetically, Buhrmester’s Dogs intrigues so long as it’s read and not read into. The latter reveals certain incongruities that compromise the grand, haphazard larceny at hand.
That said, casually the work is quick and exciting. Conversational depth and detail work to seamlessly absorb. With characters and band favoritism that echo the personal taste and experience of the author, the ‘possibly true’ is soon realized to be semi-autobiographical. This heightens anticipation to a point as the plot hurtles ever forward in abandon of each preceding event. The reader goes on, feverishly awaiting a twist or even a slight detour away from the expected. Such hope, however, is met with little more than a banally straightforward, hasty wrap-up.
Occupying the greater portion of the book is the planned ‘robbery’ of Led Zeppelin – the resident ne’er-do-wells’ golden ticket to financial independence and pseudo-karmic retribution. In choosing this isolated, factual event, Buhrmester wrote his story before the first word. It’s no spoiler to simply say that $203,000 is taken. It happened, happens here and all else is one-sided conjecture. Truth here is a shiny lure in otherwise murky surroundings. Even with total freedom, though, the authority of this work banks on chance regularly and still needs help. A lack of obstacles, for example, morphs a bumbling redneck into a deadly adversary.
Characters’ amicability is skin-deep – fun in distant caricature, yet headstrong and juvenile in their close-minded pessimism. Frenchy, the sole figure with actual potential in anything other than petty theft is by name alone marginalized. An artistic connection and shot at legitimacy of his with Jimmy Page is thoughtlessly stolen like so many car stereos. Should such a band be applauded then for their shifty plot, simply because they say humorous things and are generally nice when backs aren’t turned? Yes, according to the author, because Zeppelin deserved it.
With so many personal judgments made, especially on those of the ‘burn out, fade away’ crowd, one has to wonder when the spotlight, if ever, turns inward. This scraggly bunch has few redeemable features and is hardly rebellious in any appealing sense of the word. Loose morals are meant to garner praise, though drawing ethical lines at robbing banks seems meaningless when after all is said and done, ‘…getting drunk and stoned and taking about what we were going to buy’ is the only resolution. The journey of this work is like its anti-heroes – selfish, lazy and without greater meaning.
Dogs opens and closes in a record store, the narrator scrutinizing the racks – only ever interested in Black Sabbath. This same bias remains one of few explicit elements in the story. The rest appears secondary and mishandled in a hazy venture best saved for risk free skimming.
A dead Cruz sparkles, while the rest is just so many soap suds
**Spoiler Alert
With a title that denotes a painful loss of tenderness and a color scheme that screams fire engine passion, Almodovar’s latest film distracts itself and viewers from substance with lengthy, ineffectual fuss. It is assumed that one cares for each character and in turn all their varied whims and conflicts. In truth, however, it’s hard to relate to half-truths present here.
Akin to seemingly split personalities, Embraces is more than one movie combined to form a cinematic hodge podge. On one hand, gorgeous part-time hooker Lena (Penelope Cruz) becomes mistress to her day-time boss Ernesto Martel (Jose Luis Gomez), only to pursue an almost obligatory dream of acting and fall for her director, Mateo Blanco (Lluis Homar). Typical theatrics follow hence. Love is made, deceptions are maintained and climax comes in Lena suffering a series of vengeful punishments by Martel, ending in her death.
The other film here tells the cheerfully solemn tale of Harry Caine, a film director turned blind script writer. He struggles to reconcile events that have brought him to present and in so doing ruined his last feature, Girls and Suitcases. By regularly delving into his past with captive audience/employees Diego (Tamar Novas) and Judit (Blanca Portillo), Caine comes to realize that Suitcases’failure stemmed not from personal inability but outright sabotage. He then re-edits the film to much ado.
The ultimate truth here is that Blanco and Caine are the same man. His filmmaking and love affair(s) are apparently inextricably tied to one another – much to his or at least his sight’s disadvantage. Still, viewers are made to believe that every loss was worth it because his (physical) love for Lena was so magnificent. Ironic then that Blanco/Caine himself proves any fiery adoration – even one that robbed him of directorial power – can be forgotten given enough time and the right passerby.
Characters are disingenuous yet everything expected. Martel is vilified in proper love affair fashion as an old (Blanco is no young buck either), infinitely wealthy and influential tyrant. Judit dutifully strives to assist Blanco but is in fact responsible for his misfortunes due to uncontrollable jealousy. Her son Diego, in a desperate twist, is even declared a product of Blanco’s loins. Worse still, there are others as inconsequential as they are ridiculous. Ernesto Jr. (Ruben Ochandiano) aka Ray X plays two roles – a closeted, pimpled bob a la Anton Chiguhr behind a camera and a wanton adult collectively loathed and ignored by the cast.
As a director sometimes chided for his consistent inclinations toward women, Almodovar inEmbraces feels chauvinistic in pervasive male egocentrism. Only the dilemmas of men appear resolved, while femininity either suffers in silence or is a token for laughs. Still, the film falls flat without Cruz onscreen. Dialogue is aplenty, but hers packs the only punches. A corpse, however, or even a pretty memory cannot carry this picture alone. Almodovar may do well to follow his hero’s example in reworking an ardently lackluster work of second-rate drama.
