Archive for the Comics Category

The Monday Intertitle: Moonday Intertitles

Posted in Comics, FILM, literature, Painting with tags , , , , , , , on March 31, 2014 by dcairns

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Thanks to Gregory Robinson for a review copy of his book All Movies Love the Moon, Prose Poems on Silent Film.

Said poems are inspired by intertitles, which we like here at Shadowplay. It’s a very handsome book, though as a purist I prefer the authentic intertitles to the recreations — but I guess there’s a copyright issue there, and also a certain pleasure in being able create new versions of old title cards. As for Gregory’s additional words, they are very poetic indeed ~

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HOW IT FEELS TO BE RUN OVER (1900)

It begins with an accident, the inevitable result of both ten thousand objects both real and imaginary cosmically tumbling, colliding at the nexus where silver meets secondhand meets skin. The burst of light is the birth of movies.

Before you, a dirt road. A carriage passes, then a cyclist, both stirring a cloud of dust that settles on an automobile. The car is far angrier, making mad S shapes in the road, darting forward like a shark. Logic says move, but you have grown too heavy in this dream and the car is impossibly close. It breaks out of its world into yours, a pharaoh crossing over, a moth errant unto light, and Oh! Mother will be pleased.

A pause. Here is death, an old woman whispers over popcorn. I knew it would happen like this. In movies mortality makes your acquaintance, inscripting your bones.

The one on CITY LIGHTS at the end is particularly fine.

Another plug, while I’m here. Friend of Shadowplay Paul Clipson is not just (just?) an experimental filmmaker, he’s a projectionist, and his limited-edition book of projectionist’s drawings, REEL, shows a creative solution to a practical problem: identifying approaching reel changes.

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You can buy it here, if there are any left.

 

Shit Happens

Posted in Comics, FILM, literature, Mythology with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on January 4, 2014 by dcairns

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THE VAMPIRE HAPPENING is a late-career travesty from Freddie Francis. It was pretty obviously going to be terrible post-synched nonsense from the off, but I kept watching, lured in by two strange, pataphysical coincidences. Firstly, the vampire lady is called Clarimonde, which is the name of the vampire in a film I made, also called CLARIMONDE. The name comes from the Hanns Heinz Ewers story I was adapting, and he got it from another story, La Morte Amoreuse, by Theophile Gautier. Having discovered that one, I pilfered a speech from it, using the beautiful translation provided by Lafcadio Hearn, thus involving three masters of the supernatural in one fourteen-minute film (or four masters if you count me. OK, four masters.)

The second coincidence occurs at the airport scene near the start of the film — European seventies horror movies are addicted to airport scenes — see also THE HORRIBLE SEXY VAMPIRE, BARON BLOOD, and especially LISA AND THE DEVIL. This is odd, since airports are the least supernatural or Gothic places in existence, although they are very seventies. Even today.

(I never thought of them as spooky until I found myself at Marco Polo Aeroport coming back from Pordenone, and it was entirely deserted. And after I had a nice chat with the man working the baggage x-ray (when they airport is quiet, these people are relaxed and fun to chat to) I was proceeding into the echoing depths of the empty air-mausoleum, and his voice boomed out of the tannoy wishing me a happy flight, by name. THAT was spooky.)

The weird coincidence though was a voice on the PA announcing the next flight to “Slabovia,” which is a fictional East European country, sort of an anti-Ruritania, invented by me for a Channel 4 education programme called The KNTV Show around thirty years after Francis made his film. So how did it end up being name-checked in THE VAMPIRE HAPPENING?

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(Belatedly, I worked out that the name used was “Slobovia,” an obsolete abusive nickname for any Eastern European backwater which I’d inadvertently come very close to using myself. Al Capp seems to have invented it in Li’l Abner.)

This intrigued me. It seemed very much as if the universe wanted me to see this film. So I watched it. It was terrible. There was a torture chamber and some sexy trees. Bad jokes. Awful acting. It ended, and I seemed to hear the universe chuckling.

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Tree porn: this is genuinely presented as if it’s meant to be sexy. The “legs” part with a creak in the breeze…

Still, photographically it’s often splendid, as you’d expect from Francis — the location is magnificent and he captures it in rich, deep, dark hues. The happening itself is chaotic and ugly, though — a handheld riot of fake fangs and fake tits. The script is embarrassing, with Ferdy Mayne repeating his count bit from THE FEARLESS VAMPIRE KILLERS but with horrible material — you feel bad for him. I can’t quite work out FF’s attitude to the bucketloads of nudity he’s required to show: either he had contempt for it and just ladled it on with a weary, “You want flesh? Here you go!” approach, or else like Ken Russell he was uncritically keen on the female form and so didn’t exercise any quality control. Quantity over quality. This works in THE DEVILS — goes towards realism — but seems defective in a brainless exploitation flick.

Still, the flopping, goose-bumped nudies cavorting through Francis’s drafty castle are some kind of antidote to the cascade or airbrushed centrefolds who tumble headlong through THE WOLF OF WALL STREET, seeming strangers to body hair and even pores. Even a shit film can induce a kind of nostalgia for when sex objects were human.

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Remember, Remember

Posted in Comics, FILM, Politics with tags , , , , , , on November 5, 2013 by dcairns

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Re-watching V FOR VENDETTA to get in the mood for Government Detonation Day. My, the dialogue is worse than I remember it. I haven’t seen a London as unconvincing as this since LIFEFORCE, which the movie somehow resembles. An odd thing — while Americans say the word “bollocks” quite charmingly, with just a hint of becoming self-consciousness, and British actors generally say it quite effectively, when American writers put “bollocks” into British mouths, it doesn’t come out right.

So for the first hour I was kind of wondering why I’d given this film kind of a pass at the time. True, its heart is in the right place, more or less — it’s still probably the most gay-friendly blockbuster, big movies generally lagging far behind comic books and the rest of the culture when it comes to these issues. And there are good shots, a few decent action scenes and montages. But that weird fake London thing comes back to haunt it — we get used to Hugo Weaving’s mask after one scene, but never get used to Natalie Portman’s accent. And the filmmakers (James McTeague and the Wachowskis) compound the awkwardness by casting Stephen Rea as the other major British character. He does OK, but a whole level of unease could have been stripped away by casting a Brit.

Alan Moore objected to the changes made to his comic (“All I’m saying is, just give me the deal you were happy to give [Superman creators] Siegel and Schuster for decades: don’t mention my name and don’t pay me any money”) but I think tying the film’s fascists into the real-world neo-cons was a brave and admirable move — had the film proved a hit, we could be enjoying more political blockbusters. The bigger betrayal was cutting all the talk of anarchy. The other biggest change is trading an atomic war backstory, which barely worked in the eighties original, for a biological terrorist attack — this is OK in itself, but leads to a lot of time being spent on the 9/11 truther conspiracy plot (which never made sense to me — the human experiments preceded the rise of fascism?), exposited through wooden verbiage and wedging out more piquant material, like the mean, DR PHIBES details of V’s vendetta — in the comic he kills a pedophile priest with a poisoned communion wafer, thus disproving the miracle of transubstantiation. And does the Wachowskis’ love of kink lead them to make slightly too much of Natalie P in her little girl costume? Possibly.

The rhythms of the film are also odd — to deal with the overwritten dialogue, the actors all underplay and talk fast, both of which are approaches I like but in particular the fast talking sits oddly with the standard action movie portentousness, It’s like the pompous self-importance doesn’t have room to breathe. Arguably a good thing, but it doesn’t quite play.

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But it gets better — first with Sinead Cusack’s cameo — bring on the great actors and things generally get better — again the dialogue is sometimes unsayable but she sells it. And then in my favourite chapter from the comic, the Valerie sequence, the most faithfully adapted part of the movie, thank God, Natasha Wightman’s voice-over does just what it needs to. I always find this bit very moving in comic and film.

At the same time, as she moves from doubt to anguish, Portman finds her dramatic footing and simultaneously limbers up for GOYA’S GHOSTS, part of her Trilogy of Torture which has either yet to be concluded or climaxed with YOUR HIGHNESS which tortured the audience.

And I still feel a thrill at the Houses of Parliament going up at the end. “It’s a shame, though — it’s a nice building,” said Fiona after we saw this on release.

“Yeah, but, can’t make an omelette…”

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Of course, the film’s lasting significance is the face it gave to Occupy, that anti-political political movement (whose spokesman is surely Russell Brand). Alan Moore was amused by the irony of a piece of Warner Brothers marketing being commandeered by an anti-corporate movement — every mask sold adding dollars to the WB coffers. But he was also a little touched, I think.

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