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![]() Reverse zoom What has video's future done to the present of filmmaking?
What are you doing at this precise moment?
A beautiful sentence written on a page or spoken on screen: it's not
like someone next to you asking, "What are you thinking?" It's a
question about an instant's flash of consciousness, even if someone
scribbled it out hours or months earlier.
What kinds of movies are being made at this precise moment? With
video ubiquitous in our culture, the ability to go out and make
something, to shoot material inexpensively and to edit efficiently is,
in theory, more democratic. But as the technology for making images and
telling stories grows less costly and exponentially more powerful,
stories told today about the process of making stories are more
fascinating than the end result. So which end of the telescope are we
looking from? In terms of cheap, efficient tools, we're well beyond
the
point Francis Coppola cheered for in "Hearts of Darkness: A
Filmmaker's Apocalypse," when he prognosticated, "There may be some
fat little girl in Ohio who's the next Beethoven with a video
camera."
(Or the next Roger Corman.)
You have to shrug and say; it's the story, stupid. Same as it ever
was. A couple years down the line, the process angle will find
journalists offering up more than a few words about the impermanence of
magnetic media. Celluloid lasts decades, but those using video today
will find themselves duplicating material across a series of
increasingly sophisticated digital platforms or perhaps even making an
archival print on celluloid. Cinema pioneer Louis Lumiere supposedly
said in 1899, "The cinema is an invention without a future." But
video
may be a medium with even less of one: works originated on video, if
not
carefully preserved, will become an art form without artifacts.
Several examples from the ninth edition of the Chicago
Underground Film Festival (CUFF), with new work by filmmakers young and
very, very senior, demonstrate how stories are getting told today.
Let's say you go bowling one night a week to get goofy drunk with your
friends, and decide, hey, there's got to be a movie here. That's
"Monday Night at the Rock 'n' Bowl," Genevieve Coleman's charming
first feature, about the punk rock bowlathon-drinkathon that's gone on
for three years at the Diversey River Bowl in Chicago.
Coleman, 26, doesn't apologize for video but doesn't love it,
either. "I am a total film fan, I love the way it looks, the general
organic feel. But there is no way this picture could have been shot on
film. It was simply not an option. I was shooting under fluorescent
lights, with no control at all over the lighting, with thirty-six lanes
of bowling going on simultaneously, about 150 half-drunk bowlers, and a
sound system blaring music out of top-of-the-line speakers. So I shot
on
video, and I have to say the number-one advantage is the complete lack
of planning it allows. I could just show up and shoot whatever I
wanted,
however I wanted, without having to worry too much about anything,
which
was what I needed to do in this instance, because there simply was no
way to plan out what I wanted to shoot. Video allowed me to capture a
large number of things all at once. It also allowed me to use a very
small camera, which I think helped put people at ease. Video cameras
are
much less intimidating than film cameras."
Sounds ideal. "Well, let's face it, it's not film." Then there's
the whittling-down of the ensuing Everest of footage. "I had a pretty
clear idea from the start of what I wanted to capture. The only hard
part was determining how to put everything together to give the right
feel. With documentaries, it's so easy to accidentally exploit
someone,
or to [discover] something great [in the edit], and then realize that
you could make a whole other film about that subject. I worked
with Michael Palmerio, who is a great editor, and we just had to stop
every couple days and say, does all of this contribute to what we want
to show about this scene?"
Jon Moritsugu, maker of brazen, ragged movies like "Mod Fuck
Explosion," describes "Scumrock," the festival's closing-night
film,
as commentary on a different sort of scene, his way of "saying fuck
you
to the digital revolution. Digital is just another way for The Man to
keep the brothers and sisters down," he says with a swagger. A lo-fi
satire about the lives of struggling artists in San Francisco,
Moritsugu
says of the style of "Scumrock," "We wanted to drag video down into
the gutter and push it, you know... treat it like an electronic signal.
So me and the DP [director of photography], Amy Davis, decided to shoot
on analog Hi8. The format has incredible saturation and can look like a
cross between super-8 and Technicolor. Plus, since this is an outdated
format, the gear is totally inexpensive." So digital video can be a
hindrance? "As far as DV, I don't think there's anything wrong with
it as long as the footage doesn't look like a car commercial."
Suki Hawley and Mike Galinsky's impressive documentary "Horns
and Halos" follows the trail of "Fortunate Son," a controversial
biography of George W. Bush by J. H. Hatfield, which, among other
things, alleges the president was once arrested for cocaine possession.
Hatfield committed suicide during the film's production, and Hawley
and
Galinsky do a splendid job of balancing the stressed author's fearful
paranoia with the ebullience of publisher Sander Hicks and his tiny
Soft
Skull Press, which acquired the book from St. Martin's Press after its
veracity was questioned. Hawley and Galinsky, who are married, manage
to
challenge some of Hatfield's assertions while illuminating more
generally the fate of any small man who dares speak out of turn to
power. "'Horns and Halos' reveals the complexities of the decisions
rather than simply the results," the filmmakers say of their second
feature, after 1995's "Half-Cocked."
According to Variety, the digital version of "Star Wars: Attack of
the Clones" was revised by George Lucas in response to critiques in
the
opening weeks. Hawley and Galinsky have been similarly able to revise
their work to make it timelier. "The newest cut has more information
about what's in the book, such as Sander reading the SEC letter out of
the book and Zack Exley of gwbush.com on the Texas Rangers [financial
dealings]. People definitely have a better idea of what's in [the
book]."
In effect, film-festival showings have become test screenings for the
independent filmmaker. "I was just thinking about that a few moments
ago," Galinsky says. "We've been really lucky to have the
opportunity
to show it and see it with different audiences. We do a lot of
screenings for small groups but that's a very different experience
than
watching it with 500 people you don't know. The first screening of the
film in Rotterdam back in January was pretty tortuous. It was
immediately clear which scenes were too long or redundant. We made some
significant changes before we showed it at the New York Underground in
March. That was a clearly improved film, but we got a lot of feedback
that people wanted to know more about what was in the George W. Bush
bio."
"Any normal documentary editor would take at least a year to edit a
film," Hawley says, noting, "it's just now been a year. Without the
resources to sit back and edit a movie full-time for a year, you do
what
you gotta do, and luckily for us people responded to the early versions
which allowed us to review it with audiences and clarify points that
needed it." So one of the little-examined aspects of video exhibition
is that filmmakers don't have to "lock" their work until it's sold.
Galinsky agrees. "The truth is that even if you shoot on film and cut
on video you can learn by screening before you cut your negative, and a
lot of festivals will screen on video. But it's a strange situation in
terms of the fact that there are now so many film festivals and many of
them want a world première. You can only lose your virginity once."
"It's not so much an advantage of shooting on video, but editing on
video," Hawley clarifies. "And being able to finish on video for
festivals now, not having to cut the negative, was an advantage for us,
but I gotta say, that I never would have planned to do it this way.
It's all serendipity that the cut got better and people continued to
show interest and all the variables fell together so that now we can
show the film at Toronto and they'll accept it as a première of
sorts."
"But the cut that we will next show is so far removed from the first
cut we showed in Rotterdam, it wouldn't really be that much of a
stretch to call it a première," Galinsky adds. "This film, because of
its complexity, needed a lot of time for us to feel comfortable with,
and having the opportunity to watch the film with audiences helped
immeasurably."
However, a film print is still necessary if you want to qualify for
Oscars. "We're making a 35mm blowup to qualify for an Academy Award
nomination. The International Documentary Association urged us to try
so
we've been doing a lot of work to raise money," Galinsky says. "The
wonderful folks at the Benton Foundation recently gave us a sizable
grant, as did Mr. Larry Flynt. At first we didn't think we had any
kind
of chance, but the goal gave us a good reason to focus and work on
raising money to get it done. It also gave us a timetable for
absolutely
finishing the film. Having a print will help us to get it into more
theaters and I hope we can even get it out this fall around the time of
the election."
Winnipeg filmmaker deco dawson has gone the opposite direction,
working in a magical, film-specific dream-world, which incorporates
extremely convoluted uses of optical printing and defunct film styles.
"FILM (dzama)" is a dazzling twenty-minute short by the
twentysomething cineaste who shared many roles with Guy Madden on
"Hearts of the World" as well the yet-unreleased "Dracula: Pages
From
A Virgin's Diary." Dawson calls "FILM (dzama)" a "fictional
biography," in which the young Canadian artist Marcel Dzama is played
by the filmmaker's own father, wherein bears, robots, monstrous
forests
and lewd flappers run riot in a whimsical torrent of arcane and
antiquated film styles.
CUFF contributed post-production funding to a new Dawson film,
"Defile in Veil: the futility of purity" which is not ready.
"Dracula," made on a modest budget for Canadian Television, contains
some of the most jarring and hypnotic cuts and shifts in perspective in
any feature film I can think of, yet its effects required finishing on
video. But for his own work, Dawson persists in his anachronistic style
even with plans for his first feature, a fictional making-of of a 1928
Hollywood crime musical called "Broadway." "There will be some
Berkeleyesque production numbers. The film will be an awkward blend of
silent film and early talkies--art versus studio production. I will be
shooting it like the period, black-and-white, and I have
're-pioneered' two-strip Technicolor for the musical numbers."
75-year-old Alfred Leslie, a renowned painter and filmmaker, is
CUFF's Guest of Honor, with two programs, including "The Cedar Bar,"
an experimental video feature about the explosive confluence of
Abstract
Expressionists and critics like Clement Greenberg in Greenwich Village
in the fifties and sixties. Based on his 1952 play, rewritten in 1986,
it appears to be about a presumptuous critic's upbraiding by a claque
of artists during a long night's drinking. Deliriously intercut with
all manner of stock footage, it's a wholly idiosyncratic stream of
half-consciousness that could exist only with current technology.
A notorious 1966 fire in his New York loft, one of that decade's
worst, killing twelve firemen, destroyed most of Leslie's paintings,
drawings and writing. A second program of his work collects "Pull My
Daisy," the well-known Beat souvenir he co-directed with Robert Frank,
as well as shorter works, including "Birth of a Nation," which is a
later retooling of the handful of minutes left from a 150-minute
feature
that had only just been screened by New York Film Festival programmers.
With decades of experience, Leslie comes straight to the point. I
wonder how the editing and shooting efficiencies of contemporary video
had changed his work. "Digital video is an expansion of our tools,"
he
says. "For most people reality is a confirmation of their
expectations.
Artists offer an opportunity to re-see what we think we see."
He's casual about any notion of virtues of drawbacks. "Process is
what you make of it." Once he discovered Final Cut Pro and other
tools,
it was, however, a revelation. "Exhilarating but in the end just as
arduous," Leslie adds. "A difficulty of a different kind. It's
enabled me to exercise more control over my stuff and to make works
that
would have been pretty much impossible for me to carry out without
spending the rest of my life trying to raise the dough."
I bring up Lumiere's quote about an invention without a future. "I
take it he meant moving pictures were an eternal present," Leslie
says.
So was Lumiere ahead of his time? Can a smile be a shrug, I wonder, as
Leslie observes, "No, he was in the moment."
Precisely.
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