No Home Here: An Unashamedly Obsessed Review of No Country for Old Men
Despite all the recent accolades and the prophesied sweep in the awards, there are not enough great things to say about Ethan and Joel Coen brother's film adaptation of the Cormac McCarthy novel - No Country for Old Men. Ever the avid fan of anything resembling existential cinema, I fell in love with this film the first time I saw it, which was alone in a multiplex theater on New Year's Day at 10pm. It was nearly a moment of personal, existential crisis. And finding that I couldn't escape the narrative world of the film in my thoughts, I took up the book and read.
The filmmakers are quick to point out that the critics recognize this film as one of the truest, most appropriate and altogether closest adaptations of a book for the big screen. They are not wrong to boast about this. The stark and austere visual palette of the film matches so carefully the terse and matter-of-fact nature of McCarthy's fiction. This is a story that could only go down in south Texas; dusty, barren chaparral and all.
Without spoiling any of the bitter tragedy and languid terror of the plot, I have to say that a narrative like this might be the best Christians can hope for in a film. Reminding us that life is often darkly senseless and full of remorse, we might recall the reason we first grasped at hope and found ourselves just looking for a way out. In the face of a nameless evil, what is the sum of all your life and longing? Maybe the great benefit of this story is its aid in helping us remember the questions, once again or perhaps for the first time.
My simple word to you is: See this film. Read this novel. If you need any convincing, consider the scene below. How many deals with the devil do we make each day?
Recorded at a mountain studio in east Tennessee and released independently, Garner's is a sound definitely grown from the ground. Earthy, honest and plaintive; Mourning Birds beckons back to the folk ballads of a simpler time and at the same time casts a shadow of unease on its own mirth. Compiled with a handful of friends giving sparse and simple accompaniment to his guitar, Garner's first effort includes six tracks that display the enigmatic range of moods that make this burgeoning songwriter and storyteller a haunted soul not soon forgotten.
Songs like 'Bury the Hatchet' and 'June and God' usher the listener into the quiet moments of human longing and the subterranean rage that either break our spirits or make us whole. These stories of squandered love and utter desperation place us as near voyeurs in the midst of lives unraveling and eroding before us. Idiosyncratic yet empathic, the images conjured up by Garner's characters evoke a time and place hauntingly too near. Other songs, like 'They're All Gone', move hesitantly out from the shadows. In his way, Garner captures a glimpse of hope's somber release, the silent joy of discovering that some of life's darker doubts and questions cannot be answered, not yet. For now, let's sit and listen.
Son to a life-long and road-weary Country 'n' Western picker, Garner comes by his music honest. While not too concerned with slaying the forefathers of his genre or recreating the wagon wheel, Joe Garner has been able to move in and inhabit the best sensibilities of a songwriting once known as Country Music, but upon its exit from the country now labeled 'Roots'. May his roots grow deeper; we'll sit and listen.
Whatever committed readers might frequent this blog deserve an explanation as to why there has been such a recent drought of posts. Well, besides transferring universities, having a child and moving back to the States to take a teaching post, I have applied myself to the development of something altogether new and different. A bit of history is required.
Upon learning that we would return to Jackson, TN and our alma mater Union University I was happy to discover some friends and like-minded partners in the project of cultural engagement modeled in the post posted here. We set to planning a regular meeting time for discussing theology and the arts and actually found that more interest than we expected existed among students. So, we opened up the conversation to anyone and everyone that wanted to take part. This project has been labeled The Society for Critical Imagination.
We are happy to report that this semester has so far seen surprising numbers in attendance at weekly meetings, excellent presentations from faculty, staff and students, and the establishment of a podcast for the society. Maybe more than any of these milestones, we are glad for the spirit of the conversation adhering quite closely to the expectations outlined in our creed. It seems that we have unearthed more questions than answers, and to our minds that constitutes a huge success.
Please feel free to make use of any and all of the resources available through our blog and know that you are always welcome in our meetings. We look forward to finding out where things will go with this initiative, and of course, we would appreciate any support we could receive. I heartily welcome your feedback and input. Thanks for your patience.
Announcing the new EP from Will Gray, along with the launch of a new website and myspace...
At a time when the music industry is facing a crippling moment of self-evaluation, artists have to fight tooth and nail to win an audience. Getting signed by a record label is no longer the given that it once was; sadly, many talented artists are left out in the cold these days. Fortunately, the grassroots ethos of the indie music faithful has created and sustained the voluntary connections that keep the music flowing. Through electronic word of mouth and communal hot spots in the blogosphere, we can still find out about the freshest music being made. In an online culture of perpetual recommendations, I can confidently say that Will Gray has something truly unique to offer.
His music has a gravitas that can't be found anywhere else in hip hop and a certain carefree exuberance that folk music lost a long time ago when it started singing to itself. Will captures all the trauma and drama of rap's prophetic voice with none of the self-defeating irony of those that claim "We Don't Care." While the folksters keep whining about administrations and social ills and religious fundies, Will's moan sounds a good bit more like the scourged man of God in Job when he cries out in prayer "How long?!?" Let the beats draw you in and the soul will bring you back.
Find great pre-order prices on the new EP and lots of other merch at Will's new site.
Also, watch out for upcoming posts from this artist here.
Damien Hirst 'Beyond Belief' White Cube, London 3 June - 7 July, 2007
What more can be said about this recent exhibition? Especially the sparkling highlight of the show For the Love of God, Hirst's diamond encrusted, platinum encased human skull?
8,601 VVS to flawless diamonds...
1,106.18 carats in total weight...
In the UK, 2nd in value to the Crown Jewels...
I have to say that the piece is truly stunning and well worth all the hype and media attention it has garnered. Hirst's skull is probably the most remarkable accomplishment of contemporary art. Not to detract from Smithson's Spiral Jetty or Barney's Cremaster Cycle, but this most recent product by Hirst must be the most significant piece of contemporary art to date. Let me qualify that grand compliment.
I am a committed fan of Hirst's work and have an abiding appreciation for the lineage of his practice, especially the earliest works, but I, like others no doubt, have observed a serious decline in the quality of his recent productions. It is almost too obvious to say that Hirst's art has become an international brand, more high class commodity than avant-garde creation, but maybe it should be stated clearly once more. The once refreshingly wry and unrefined sentiments about life’s temporality and death’s perpetual villainy in the form of over-the-top sculptures involving the animal carcasses and life cycles and installations of medical magic have come to possess maybe the greatest monetary value of any art works around but little meaning in the face of their ongoing reproduction. We are beginning to see that we must now take Hirst at his word when he seems to feign that it’s all about the cash.
Despite the glitzy haze surrounding this recent work and the fact that the rest of the exhibition resembles a formulaic museum retrospective and not a very interesting slice of new work, the sheer potency of Hirst’s skull cannot be dismissed. I think the skull will be remembered as his crowning achievement (pun intended!) for the simple fact that it has accomplished his highest aims for art and at the same time embodied consistently the spirit of all his overall body of work.
One of the more attractive features of Hirst’s legacy has been the irrepressible attitude of the common man at work within his practice. Due in no small part to his rather rough, working-class upbringing in Leeds, Hirst brings a simple, often crass perspective to bear on the makings and meanings of contemporary art. None too subtle, he bashes the often vain sophistication of the art world with a deep interest in art that surprises its audience and confronts real life.
With a persistent concentration on the imagery of death, Hirst has pushed aesthetic debates about what can be considered ‘art’ and at the same time leveled biting cultural critiques at the broader society and its specific attempts to escape the realities of death. In this way, he has made name for himself that rivals many international trademarks. Basically, I think that Hirst’s work constitutes a modern appropriation of an interesting and explicitly Christian format from art history—the memento mori. This Latin phrase means ‘Remember that you will die’ and represents a body of art that involves specific symbols of life’s fleeting condition (e.g. flowers, hourglasses, and skulls!) in a tradition of handsomely crafted genre paintings. With this framework, I see three important or overriding categories of death imagery: natural death (i.e. the animals and life cycles), the clinical aesthetic (e.g. the Pharmacy installation), and the death of painting (i.e. the butterfly mosaics, spot and spin paintings).
In this way, Hirst employs the aesthetic of minimalism and a tongue-in-cheek appreciation for the commodity fetish of late capitalism (a posture he learned from Jeff Koons’ philosophy of art as ‘the best that money can buy’) in the service of grand gestures about the most common and elemental features of the human experience: birth, sex and death to name the central core. Thus, For the Love of God must be the natural apex of this sort of practice, for, as the artist himself explains, what could be a grander gesture in the resistance of death than a diamond-encrusted skull smiling back at you?
But of course, the importance of this work does not rest merely on the qualities of the aesthetic object. The fact of the matter, however, is that the atmosphere of pomp and circumstance surrounding the work cannot be explained through the customary language of experiencing art that informs the common fare of art criticism today. As one who has seen the piece, I can say that the experience of viewing the work rehearses the strictures of a medieval pilgrimage to see a holy relic and resembles very little the casual strolls through contemporary museums we usually take. Indeed, the act of assembling with other worshippers outside the gallery and then journeying through the gallery to the dark room where one finally gains that private audience with the skull must awaken latent spiritual sensations in anyone who has ever visited the ruins of an ancient temple or a historic cathedral. For many, the experience of Hirst’s skull may be the most religious event of their lives or the closest to the traditional structure of an officially religious sort of worship.
As Jerry Saltz has pointed out so well, Hirst’s attention to death imagery is devoted to a bold affirmation of life. At the risk of neglecting the complexities of nuance and ambivalence so highly regard by the art world, Hirst intends his work to send audiences home thinking about their own lives and the certain death that awaits us all. So, I happily join the ranks of the worshippers in enjoying the sly irony of the skull, and after all the fun of seeing it, I marvel even more at the gesture represented by the work. Anytime I can get my education about a piece of art from the confident and engaged musings of a security guard, I’m happy. In providing the impetus for so much essential outsider interaction with a piece of contemporary art (i.e. security details around the work, unprecedented media coverage and basically making a gallery show a broadly relevant and entertaining cultural event), Hirst has popped the bubble of art world exclusivity for a moment; hopefully just long enough for an inquisitive elect out of all the uninitiated masses to find something to latch onto inside the discourse and maybe an opportunity consider some important questions in a fresh way. That sort of prospect I can’t resist.
View a brief overview of the show and an interview with the artist here.
Also, check out another interesting interview from a few years ago at a major retrospective in Naples, Italy. See below.
Since this was the most I got to see of the Hayward's exhibition of Antony Gormley, I thought I would offer a photo essay instead of the normal fare. Due to enormous queues over Saturday and Sunday, we were unable to actually make it in to see the show. I guess that fact proves the now worn-out accolade that the press continues to circulate about Gormley being the sculpture laureate of the nation. I hope to catch it next time.
Maybe you saw a newspaper line from several months ago about a woman who purchased a drip painting at a thrift store and subsequently set out on a quest to prove its authenticity as an original Jackson Pollock. Well, the press about this story, which has been ongoing from many years now, was promoting the release of a film about Teri Horton and her potentially priceless drip painting. This documentary was recently recommended to me because it contained a great demonstration of art world hubris. Specifically, it was supposed to show the insular and deluded character of the art world in relation to the plight of the everyday person/art world outsider. Indeed, the protagonist of this bizarre story does widely represent the interests and values of the average individual in that she has absolutely no knowledge of modern art and even less respect for the complexity of the contemporary art world. Basically, she embodies the sort of commonplace derision that most people direct at art and the unpractical and useless 'nonsense' that operates in that world. Her vitriol is actually a huge step up from the even more popular attitude of complete dismissal, but it is the ire that she conjures up when facing those art world representatives that really makes this film even watchable.
While I don't wish to debate the entertainment value of Horton's rants about the art world (she is quite an endearing character with the ever-popular, odd combination of spunk and nastiness that we can only appreciate in the elderly), I would like to redress the balance a bit on this story. The quirky nature of the story actually cements interest in this documentary despite the really poor efforts of the filmmakers. At many points I felt I was watching a heart-warming interest story on the local news instead of an unbiased and objective effort at documentary film-making. While the lionization of Teri Horton and every other art world derider may draw mass appreciation for this film and its sappy fable, no one actually gets a fair sense of what's at stake in this story.
Despite the fact that it seems the filmmakers intentionally selected the most reproachable comments from the art world representatives sampled here, the film never manages to bring the same level of analysis to bear on the simple, yet crude protagonist. For all her hopes that the amazing find might yield even more amazing dividends, we can find no hint of interest or curiosity for the artist that may in fact generate her millions. Teri Horton, more than possessing a work of art, is indeed quite a piece of art herself, and not in the classically beautiful sense but more in the ironic Haim Steinbach or Jeff Koons sense. Consider, for instance, Horton's endgame should the whole project not work out for her: “Before I let them take advantage of me,” she said, smiling broadly, “I’ll burn that son of a bitch.” (from the NY Times 11.09.06 review). In this way, she offers an excellent starting point for viewing art as pure commodity, and to their shame, those who produced this documentary failed to ever draw attention to this glaring character flaw. If they had, their audience might begin to see that the same hollow pursuit of money and fame that Horton so easily vilifies the art world for is quite at work in herself. Unfortunately, the remarkable and more interesting story of how Horton attempts, however naively, to use this quest to right the wrongs in her own life remains undeveloped and unsatisfactorily explored. Even more unfortunate is the fact that the real victim of project is Jackson Pollock, a character that surely could have appreciated a story about second chances.
