Oscars 2012: Live Action Shorts

Most years (all years really), my selections in the Short Film categories for my Academy Awards ballot have been selected purely on a basis of how interesting their titles sound or their country of origin. Fortunately, this year, I was lucky enough to come across a showing of the live action shorts nominated for the award. Thus my choices are not based upon national favoritism nor titular appeal this year, but on actual cinematic quality. And needless to say, there is quite a bit of it, especially in spans of time shorter than how long it takes me to dress myself in the morning.

Pentecost (Ireland, Peter McDonald & Eimear O'Kane)

Pentecost features an extract from the life of a young Irish Liverpool FC fanatic. Said fanatic, better known as eleven-year-old Damian Lynch (Scott Graham), also happens to be an altar boy at the local church. Unfortunately, this results in quite a conflict of interest. After Damian accidently (but, let’s be real, not really) causes Father O’Toole to tumble from the altar one woeful day at mass, he is placed under a three-month probationary period during which he is separated from his beloved footie.  Most tragically, Liverpool happens to be playing the European Cup Final during this time. Damian’s father offers his son a choice- to redeem his sins by performing faultlessly during Pentecost Mass and be able to watch the match, or to cause another scandal and never set eyes on football again.

During its 11-minute span, Pentecost condenses a storyline in such a way that wouldn’t function in any other amount of time. The footie/religion parallels in the film are impeccable, especially when a priest is giving his altar boys, Damian among them, a speech which more closely resembles a locker room pep talk than any type of religious motivation. The pacing and shooting style of the film makes it incredibly entertaining, and the final scene cuts the buildup in a way which makes Pentecost my near favorite of the bunch. In truth, Pentecost shows that, to Damian especially, individual passion is the real religion.

Raju (Germany, Max Zahle & Stefan Gieren)

An Indo-German fusion, Raju tells the story of a German couple, the Fischers, that travels to the growing Indian metropolis of Kolkata to bring home an Indian orphan, Raju. The two quickly fall in love with their new child, but are just as quick to lose him, literally. When Raju disappears in a street marketplace, his adopted father’s desperate quest to find him reveals that the Fischer’s temporary loss is part of a far larger problem.

Raju carries a fairly generic theme in that it revolves around a central premise of love, family ties, and morality. Painfully bittersweet, it brings into question the value of a promising future versus a familiar past. Perhaps the most poignant detail of Raju is the hazy, seemingly unrelated scene which accompanies the titles of the film. Only after the end credits roll did I have an audible “ah-hah” moment and put together its meaning, which summarizes Raju perfectly. Overall, however, the film does teach one clear thing- do your research before bringing home a foreign orphan.

The Shore (Northern Ireland, Terry George)

Carrying the most name recognition (I could actually whisper-yell “I know about that dude” during the titles of this film), The Shore centers on an Northern Irish expat who returns to his homeland nearly three decades after having left, an evidently American daughter by his side. Aforementioned dude Ciarán Hinds plays Joe, who finds a terrifying degree of discomfort in ever discussing his mysterious childhood friends, Paddy and Mary. However, due to the persistence of his daughter, Joe attempts to seek reconciliation, revealing the origins of the group’s falling-out in the process.

The Shore isn’t anything unconventionally exceptional when it comes to short film, but it does carry the weight of a feature length film in the confines of its 30-minute span. Most of the film projects a rather perplexing yet somber tone, broken by one quite lengthy and equally hilarious instance of comic relief involving a horse chasing down a group of workers, and eventually the resolution, which turns the film from “what is happening here and why is it depressing” to “feel-good.” Overall- nothing exquisite, but not at all bad. I have a nagging feeling the Academy will take this bait.

Time Freak (USA, Andrew Bowler)

A snappy science fiction comedy, Time Freak ‘s plot revolves around a young quantum physicist’s discovery of a working time machine. However, Stillman (Michael Nathanson), the physicist, decides to use his invention for things other than visits to the 1800’s. In fact, he develops an obsessive need to fix imperfections of a much shorter timespan- that very day. Hilarity ensues, and Stillman’s misadventures are further complicated by the intervention of his friend.

Some stranger’s openly projected commentary of “good ol’ American cinema” from somewhere in the back of the theatre fits this film pretty well. No Nicolas Cage or explosions, but Time Freak is straightforward, upbeat, fast-paced, and not at all ethereal or confusingly profound. It is constantly funny, and its witty ending wraps it up well. It’s clearly the only American short film, and a welcome one.

Tuba Atlantic (Norway, Hallvar Witzø)

In Tuba Atlantic, Edvard Hægstad plays Oskar, a lonely old country man who carries a seething aversion of seagulls, and is also dying in six days. He is visited by the lively Inger (Ingrid Viken), who is part of a religious “Death Angel” club which assists the dying in their final days. Initially Oskar, who is attempting to squeeze every bit of value from his final days, is quite apprehensive about his designated Death Angel. However, following some bonding involving the mowing down of seagulls with a machine gun, Oskar welcomes Inger’s help in sounding off a transatlantically loud tuba (literally, I shit you not- he actually built the thing) in order to contact his estranged brother in America one last time before his own imminent death.

If there were a grand checklist of characteristics Nordic films commonly have, Tuba Atlantic would have filled out every single one. Complete with a chilly and airy atmosphere, warm sweaters, quirky and highly improbable events, stray violin chords, and a grizzly old man, the film screams Norway. This combination works quite well. The film is unusual and amusing, yet equally touching, seagull genocide aside. In close competition with Pentecost, Tuba Atlantic is my top pick, but maybe that’s just my affinity for stray violin chords speaking.

All five films in this category share such overarching thematic similarities that I am forced to wonder whether these short film makers have some sort of secret occult collaboration society; all entries this year focus on fixing some type of mistake. Whether it is Damian’s atonement in Pentecost, the father’s moral dilemma in Raju, Joe’s attempt to restore ties in the Shore, Stillman’s very literal mistake fixing in Time Freak, or Oskar’s final amends in Tuba Atlantic, all represent a will to straighten out muddled pasts. And all are quite effective.

My pick: Tuba Atlantic.

My alternate: Pentecost.

What will probably win: neither of the above.

Pedantic Social Commentary No. 3: Procreation.

Last year was a milestone year. There were two clearly documented instances of people finding it within the realm of possibility that I could have children. Actual children. Offspring which I had produced. It was highly unnerving.

Instance number one happened during a regular doctor’s visit. I had just finished grumbling about various ways in which my body was failing my standards when my doctor interjected with “You’re that girl who came in with her little child a few weeks ago, right?” He quickly ascertained from my look of “what you have just assumed is in all realms of terribly, horribly wrong” that he was mistaken. We moved on. He took my blood pressure, which was probably elevated.

Instance number two took place while I was picking out a scrawny Christmas tree at Home Depot, with my mother no less. As always, the man who wrapped the trees and who I’d imagine had the highest splinter incidence of any job chainsawed off the very bottom of the trunk so the tree could drink its water or whatever it is that trees do. As a good-hearted gesture he offered the cross-section of the trunk he’d just created as a way of measuring how old the tree we were about to mutilate was, asking if we had any “little ones” at home who would appreciate these tree age dynamics. My mother responded with “just one” clearly (or at least to me) referring to me, her only child. Tree man forced a smile and handed the tree fragment to me, adding “oh you have one.” He was also promptly met with the look of “what you have just assumed is in all realms of terribly, horribly wrong” and attempted to reclaim the tree fragment. I kept it anyway. Why is there an age limit on interest in trees?

What I suppose I’m trying to get at here is that, provided this were any time before 1900, I would probably be mashing up cornmeal for a troupe of my own youngins by now. But this was the year 2011 and I somehow found it utterly inconceivable (insert Vizzini here) that I could have possibly procreated by now. Hell, as far as I’m willing to go at this point in time is drafting Punnett squares of what my hypothetical offspring would look like mixed with good looking celebrities. No actual uterine parasites allowed in here, no way!

To be quite honest I can’t even imagine any time in the future where I would look upon having children as a legitimate possibility. I mean my current interest in offspring really does not extend beyond:

1. Naming them
2. Clothing them

I’ve had extensive experience with the children of others and I’m just really not a huge fan of jam hands and screaming and non-rational humans and I don’t care what kind of hormones I would be under the influence of because I would still most likely not find child rearing all that thrilling. And I could really care less about what lackluster genes I pass on (oh yeah fuck you Darwin!).

Chances are I’ll have a complete motherly turnaround when it’s far too late and I’m some old curmudgeon who attempts to impregnate herself with a turkey baster, but I really just can’t see myself being responsible for another living, breathing human being when I can barely make myself breakfast. I suppose I’m just another product of changing societal attitudes regarding not seeing children as some sort of grand prize in life, and I certainly won’t judge those who do choose this, but thus far, I really, really can’t fathom having a mini-me of my own.

So preemptive sorry, (non-prospective grand) parents.

Bird & Schneller's Sonic Arboretum 22-12-11

If someone were to ask me to describe ideal pneumonia-inducing weather, I would probably draw upon last Thursday's in Chicago as the prime example. Luckily, I only had to endure a good half-hour while waiting in a rather disorganized and disgruntled line in front of the Chicago Museum of Contemporary Art. Even if I am to potentially die from exposure, my experience one indoors was worth every bit of lung I may or may not cough up.

What I'd been standing in line for was a long awaited Andrew Bird show. I had attended one last year at the Fourth Presbyterian Church, which was quite good, but I hadn't gotten the Bird fix I needed. This year's show, which took full advantage of the Museum, was far more of a happy combination of both art and music.

As much signature to Andrew Bird as carefree head-shaking and performing barefoot, the Sonic Arboretum, as the installation is know, focused on Bird's idiosyncratic gramophone-like horn speakers (made by Ian Schneller), and how arrangement of sound can come to affect surroundings.

The show itself was quite good. Bird announced preemptively that he was a tad sick (I'd guess on account of the weather), and apologized if he had to turn to instrumental pieces only. Somehow, with the help of copious glasses of water, he pulled through, dishing out favorites like Skin Is My, Plasticities, Tables and Chairs, Lazy Projector, It's Not Easy Being Green, and something I deeply regret not to have recorded- Effigy. The open floor provided plenty of room to move around and, of course, to creep closer and closer to the stage. The horn speakers did their work as well, occasionally bursting with sound and surrounding the audience with Bird's crooning and layered instrumentals. It was a relatively short performance, but a great one. And Bird definitely deserved a full bottle of Nyquil for being able to squeeze out an encore.

The installation was rightfully stunning even long after the show had ended. As intended, the gallery of the MCA  was open to wander through as recordings of Bird playing vague instrumental tunes and harmonizing (recorded earlier by Bird in the same museum) seemed to both lead and accompany visitors through every room, while still retaining their own presence. A very particular effect was achieved. Bird himself puts it best:

"As a composer, I am interested in how one's environment and the scale of a landscape affect one's musical imagination; how seeing a storm approach, pass overhead and continue eastward can calibrate the mind to hear music beyond the 8 bar phrase. How the surrounding walls of sand stone at Zion National Park provoke their own frequencies, or the wind strumming through a field of prairie grass has its own phrasing. A steamy mossy forest in the northwest has a certain grain and texture." (Event Pamphlet)

This really did give a walk through the gallery far more dimension than one in silence, and seemed to seamlessly tie the installation in with the regular works. Schneller's speakers were a work of art on their own, serving both a stellar aesthetic and auditory purpose. If anything, the Sonic Arboretum was a sensory wonder.

(As a side-note, I strongly suggest a listen to a recording of Bird's live show at the Rio Theater earlier this year.)

Pedantic Social Commentary No. 2: “I was born in the wrong decade.”

It’s another epidemic among today’s sullen, pseudo-nostalgic plebeians to pine for life in another time period.

Somehow, many seem to be under the impression that, in the late 1800’s, life was entirely comprised of listening to Debussy and wearing frilly frocks to parties in the garden, the sole historic event of the 1940’s was the dress silhouette, and the late 1960’s were all about peace and love and John Lennon. And so on. Life was just better in the olden days. Who needs technology? Your Kindle is evil. Modern day is b-o-r-i-n-g.

Take what seems to be that uncontrollable, festering obsession with the 1940’s. Pinup bathing suits, cat-eyes, and victory rolls run rampant. Resurrected images of Casablanca, Rita Hayworth, and Rosie the Riveter reach every dark, damp corner of pop culture. 40’s vintage is chic. Go polio, war, and a myriad of various -isms! Wait, okay, maybe not that last bit. But hey, life in the 40’s wasn’t about that. It was about fashion, and victory rolls… and Casablanca.

For some reason, severe social inequalities, an overwhelming abundance of potentially deadly day-to-day situations, and crippling diseases have all been selectively omitted from our visions of history. Understandably, tuberculosis holds a slightly less pleasant connotation than Tchaikovsky’s Polonaise, but we still long to hop into a time machine and crank the lever to 1879.

We pick and choose certain aspects from history which appeal to us, creating a romanticized version of the past which we see in cinemas and old photographs and Marilyn Monroe t-shirts. Why? Because for some reason, we can never be content with what we have. For some reason, the far-reaching conveniences of the internet, modern transportation, and polio vaccines pale in comparison to the falsely constructed glamor of the past.

The eerie abundance of status updates phrased something along the lines of “I was born in the wrong time period” (oh, the irony) makes me wonder: given the chance, would half of these people last a day in 1776, 1879, or even 1969 without feeling the deep dark chasm lack of internet has left in their hearts? How could they possibly tweet about Napoleon’s comeback at Waterloo, or sitting around in a bomb shelter during the Battle of Britain?  More importantly, how would they feel about dying in their mid-forties?

Of course, I can’t say I wouldn’t gladly turn back the clock to 1918, 1815, 1720, or even 2000 B.C, but only on the condition that I partake as an observer, and preferably for a short amount of time. There’s nothing quite like experiencing history firsthand, but it’s another thing to live in it.

What I would guess to be my attempt at such an experience is collecting its relics. It’s no question that I’m fond of old things. Hell, I spent a week’s wage on a WWI Brodie Helmet. Antiques are how I get close to history without having to actually experience it (or seek out a time machine), while still retaining modern conveniences. I would never willingly transport myself to the Western Front (not out of lack of respect, but out of sheer self-preservation), but if I can own a fragment of it, it’ll do. It’s why I enjoy a good period drama, why I do listen to Tchaikovsky and Grieg and Satie, why I have a rather wide array of old, mismatched china gathering dust on my shelf. I enjoy these little glimpses of history, but I avoid living in the past. Frankly, I wouldn’t trade my current spot in the time-space continuum for any time period. Not even the Jazz Age. Sorry Hemingway.

Although very, very far from his chef d’oeuvre, Woody Allen’s Midnight in Paris explores quite a good and relevant point- the prettily-painted versions of history we crave to live in were once someone else’s mundane reality. Chances are, people of the forties saw the 1800’s as far more glamorous than their own time, just as discontented youths several decades from now will be collecting I-Pods and yearning for the long lost days of the newspaper and of skinny jeans, seeking to experience the past just as we do.

This longing to have been born at some other point in history can be explained, but it is neither rational not practical. It’s just another episode of selective blindness, either to the problems of the past, or the conveniences of the present. 

Unintentionally Procured Wehrmacht Mail

One of the greater miracles of Eastern Europe is the overabundance of 20th century remnants, especially of the Second World War. Lithuania especially, due to its  role as the battlefield between Germany and the Soviet Union, tends to have gathered quite a bit of interesting trinkets. Thus, it's really no wonder that the flea markets there are a WWII fanatic's paradise. From Wehrmacht helmets, to Soviet fighting knives, to propaganda-ridden postcards, a good Lithuanian flea market is guaranteed to vacate wallets.

Last summer's damage at the Klaipėda Sea Festival's flea market turned out quite interesting. A loot of an old Cuban cigar case and a pocketful of Lenin-blazoning Soviet lapel pins already captured, I came across a Russian man who had splayed out countless German and Soviet relics on the sidewalk. Using only hand gestures, we managed to communicate price information quite well and, somehow, I ended up with an old German letter.

In the rush and fog of my purchase I had been oblivious to the fact that I was buying a specimen of Wehrmacht Feldpost.

Feldpost, as it was known, was meant for simple, inexpensive, and secretive communication with Wehrmacht soldiers and was used by Germany throughout WWII. Addressed to an R. Flöser in Wilhelmsfeld and postmarked August 13th, 1942, this letter is clear correspondence with a soldier of the front. I somehow had the luck of choosing the least legible one of the bunch, so deciphering the exact addresses and details has proven to be quite a challenge. Not to mention the letter itself, which can only be described as a cryptic scrawl. I could guess that the letter is meant for a soldier in Battalion 23191, but my finds are truncated there. Therefore, most of my purchase remains a mystery, possibly to my benefit.

And the letter itself. Have a crack at it.

Useless Yet Aesthetically Pleasing: Arms & Armor

Sadly I've neglected Artilleries these past few weeks, so I'll attempt to redeem my absence in the coming month.

One of my favorite things to rummage through online museum collections for has got to be metalwork, especially arms and armor. The intricacy in the design of medieval and Renaissance armor is simply fascinating.

Of course, most of the armor found in museums today is flamboyant for a reason. Glitz and glam were not very necessary on an actual battlefield, so most of the armor used in combat was not quite so elaborate as it was practical, and most did not survive to present day. Further, following the explosion (forgive the pun) of firearms use following the Hundred Years' War in the mid 15th century continuing through until the early 1600's, metal armor slowly became obsolete. It failed to protect against modern weapons, and was unreasonably cumbersome (most suits of armor weighed 30kg or more). Thus, armor became a type of formal or ceremonial dress wear and was eventually considered bygone in practical use (don't tell the Swiss Guard).

Armor of Henry II of France, ca. 1555.

Shield of Henry II of France, ca. 1555.

Shaffron of Henry II of France when Dauphin,
Romain des Ursins, ca. 1490-1500.

Gorget, French, ca. 1600-1625.

Burgonet, Italian, Filippo Negroli, 1543.

Reinforcing Buffe with Tilting Targe,
 German, 1560.

Shaffron and Crinet, Franco-Italian, Romain des Ursins,
ca. 1480-1495.

Gorget, French, ca. 1660-1610.

Burgonet, Italian, Lucio Piccinino, ca. 1575.

Swept Hilt Rapier, English, ca. 1600.

Dress Sword, English, Matthew Boulton,
ca. 1790.

And a bit of modern "dress" armor from
Dior's Fall 2006 Couture collection.

Who is this Guy anyway?

Unfortunately, The Gunpowder Plot is yet another textbook case of a cultural phenomenon being misinterpreted as a social statement piece. I’d imagine a casual remark to November 5^th would be something along the lines of “Bonfires! Those cool looking masks from V for Vendetta! Rise up against the machine man!” In reality, Guy Fawkes and the Gunpowder Plot of November 5^th represent far more than a goatee and a few anarchical tendencies, so here’s the full story.

Guy Fawkes, or Guido Fawkes as he is also know, was born in 1570 to a family which regularly attended the Church of England, yet had strong Catholic history. In 1591, after selling his father’s estate, Fawkes fought for a very Catholic Spain, a country which had lost its armada to England only five years prior, in the Eighty Years War. Fawkes soon rose in ranks and became a junior officer, later travelling through Spain to recruit supporters for a Catholic rebellion in England, with little success.

In 1604, Fawkes joined a group of thirteen pro-Catholic conspirators in England seeking to rid the throne of King James, a prominent protestant. Meeting in an inn in London’s Strand, the group devised a plan to use gunpowder to blow up the House of Parliament. Urban legend dictates that the original plan was to dig a tunnel beneath the House of Lords, but this was never proven. Instead, Fawkes and his fellow conspirators leased a room in an undercroft beneath the House of Lords, filling it with 20 barrels of gunpowder. Fawkes’ task was simply to light the fuse, then escape to mainland Europe.

Fawkes with some fellow Gunpowder Plot conspirators.

However, in an attempt to protect Catholics in parliament, the group sent an anonymous letter to Catholic-friendly Lord Monteagle, warning him to keep away. Monteagle showed this letter to King James, who ordered a search of the cellars below the House of Lords, where Fawkes was discovered, holding nothing but a match and a watch.

Fawkes was detained and tortured (on the rack) extensively, eventually revealing details of the Gunpowder Plot and admitting he had wished to blow up the House of Lords. The trial of Guy Fawkes and eight other conspirators took place in early 1606. All were found guilty and condemned to be hanged, drawn and quartered, and otherwise mutilated. During the day of execution on 31^st January, 1606, Fawkes was the last to be hanged. However, Fawkes jumped from the gallows, breaking his neck and avoiding the pain of the process of his execution.

In celebration of King James’ narrowly escaped assassination, Londoners began a tradition of lighting bonfires with effigies of prominent Catholic figures or Fawkes himself. The tradition quickly evolved into Guy Fawkes Night, also known as Bonfire Night, and continues today far outside of London.

Several notable rhymes concerning the Gunpowder Plot exist, most notably this one:

Remember, remember the Fifth of November,
The Gunpowder Treason and Plot,
I know of no reason
Why the Gunpowder Treason
Should ever be forgot.Guy Fawkes,
Guy Fawkes, t'was his intent
To blow up the King and Parli'ment.
Three-score barrels of powder below
To prove old England's overthrow;
By God's providence he was catch'd (or by God's mercy*)
With a dark lantern and burning match.
Holla boys, Holla boys, let the bells ring.
Holloa boys, holloa boys, God save the King!
And what should we do with him? Burn him!

Although only part of the Gunpowder plot, Guy Fawkes became its figurehead. Anywhere from T.S. Eliot to Harry Potter, Fawkes has left his mark. He most notably appears in David Lloyd’s 1982 graphic novel, V for Vendetta, in which the main character, V, seeks to represent the anti-establishment mentality of Fawkes, and imitates both his appearance and plot. Fawkes surged again in popularity following the 2006 release of the cinematic rendition of V for Vendetta. Both the graphic novel and subsequent film consisted of a rebellion against a dystopian society (rather than Fawkes actual mission, which was far more along the lines of religious extremism), turning Guy Fawkes into an image of fighting against tyranny and giving him what can only be described as a cult following.

The mask as it appears in V for Vendetta.

Thus, the Guy Fawkes image used in V for Vendetta became a staple of numerous protest movements and organizations, most recently OccupyWall Street and the hacking group Anonymous. In fact, it is so widely used that it is the top selling mask on the internet. Ironically, Time Warner profits from every one of these masks sold due to copyright claims stemming from V for Vendetta.

Occupy Wall Street has been quite keen on the Fawkes mask.

Let’s face it, the real, rather sadistic objectives of Guy Fawkes are largely masked (da dun tss) by the image propagated by V for Vendetta today. T.S. Eliot had it right in his Hollow Men; Fawkes may have not had overwhelmingly benevolent objectives, but he fought for a cause. This is the core, and seemingly sole message Fawkes transmits today. Through selective omission and the blurring of history and cinema, Fawkes somehow no longer represents religious extremism, but a fight against tyranny. And sitting around bonfires.

Condensed message here: Use the mask all you’d like, just make sure to remember [remember] Fawkes’ original intentions.