Hey, everyone. "Moriarty" here with some Rumblings From The Lab.
Here’s the last Frank Bascombe column this year, his 20th overall since he started contributing to the site. It’s been a nice run so far, and I look forward to seeing what he uncovers for us in 2003!
First up, Frank wanted to talk to you about a movie, something he normally doesn’t do. Seems that something got under his skin in a good way. Check it out...
AICN fans, I just want to talk briefly about something incredible that is happening in a movie theater near you RIGHT NOW.
Gangs of New York is one of the most intense movies I’ve ever seen. I don’t want you to think that I’m stretching the term intense too thin when I describe the opening ten minutes. I was nearly brought to tears, sobbing. I kid you not; a movie has never had that affect on me. Martin Scorsese, and his use of music, Thelma Schoonmaker and her editing wizardry, Peter Gabriel and his drum pounding beat laying so perfectly over the images that were raining down from the screen, my chest was pumping when it was over.
Sure, like everyone else I’ve been waiting a long time for a new Marty movie. So when this finally landed in my neck of the woods, I had to see it. Being a movie lover, and a self admitted literary and cinematic snob, this movie has every thing a man such as my self could ever ask for.
What you ask? Violence. Brutality. Savage beauty. Raw landscape. This movie kicks and screams for the better part of three hours. And at it’s heart, intensely beating as it is, sits a performance for the ages. Daniel Day Lewis is without a doubt the finest actor working in film today. If you doubt that statement, or if you’re not sure who he is, take this movie in, today, tonight at the latest. What he pulls off with out so much as breaking a sweat is nothing more than the greatest magic trick ever. Which is making you believe that there is actually a human being as intense as Bill “The Butcher” Cutting. From the use of his physical ailments, heaped on him by Marty and his descriptive exposition, to the language that must have take years to perfect, Mr. Day Lewis delivers the greatest performance since DeNiro’s Jake Lamotta in Raging Bull. Will I ever be able to look at Mr. Day Lewis again and not instantly think of this performance? No. Can you sit back and retell this movie to any one of your friends with out talking about the knife throwing sequence. Or the “I’m America” line? You can’t. There is nothing like it, today, yesterday or what I can imagine awaits me cinematically in the future. No award show is needed. Hand him best actor Golden Globe and Oscar statues right now. Let him save on airfare.
The rest of the movie would be perfect if the thespian Alpo twins were not in it. Cameron Diaz and little Leo. These two, combined have only a sliver of talent in comparison to what there up against in Daniel Day Lewis. That’s the only problem with this movie. Everyone else can’t keep up. Marty is to good, smart, savvy, brilliant I dare say, to have anyone even close to Day-Lewis’s talents on the screen with him. But do those actors exist?
Finally the location. It’s New York, sure it looks a little like a set, but the illusion is real, and we only see the whole thing a handful of times. The dead bodies lined up in the end? Amsterdam walking down the street, alone, on his way to the knife show? It’s delicious, wonderful, and a revelation. This movie is about a time and place. America at it’s infancy. You’re not likely to find a movie that will hold your attention, show you as many tricks or keep you glued to the screen as The Gangs of New York. Marty has finally done it. With the help of many people, from cinematographer’s to his long time editor, to the production designer, created a movie that hands down is the best of the year. Just this once, will Hollywood have the smarts to do what’s right. What is just. Award this man with Best Picture and Best Directing Oscars.
I may not agree with everything Frank has to say about that film, but I can respect the passion he’s got for it. Now, let’s move on to his forte, reviews of new books that you’ll be able to pick up soon. You remember books, right? Pages? Words on them? Frank’s got the goods, so listen up...
Another year goes by, more books fly by your shelves, some staying the course, others just taking up space. Sadly we've seen a lot of filth this year, more than usual. What I don't see is the pile of hot garbage lessening, it grows like a cyst. How? Why? These books go back to their publishers, get written off as remainders and get tucked under some one’s Christmas tree. But Why? Big Business waits for no one, and this business of books seems to be flattening out, hardcover’s have got to come down in price, or publishers are going to be pulling up stakes faster than you can say corporate scandal. This year past we saw Paul Auster make a flash, Richard Price (not yet) with his searing portrait of the inner city, Chuck Palahniuk delivered once again, although slightly uneven as it was. Jonathan Santlofer comes alive with The Death Artist and is matched only by Rugged Land and their deliveries of wonderment, Silent Men and Henry’s List of Wrongs. And last December Craig Nova slipped Wetware past everyone, go back and read that again. Finally Tim O’Brien launched another grenade at his generation with July, July, which haunts me to this day. And Mark Costello, robbed of the National Book Award with his brilliant novel Big If. Let’s hope the New Year makes things cleaner and smoother in the book world. Until then,
It’s Not a Secret If I Don’t Tell Someone…
CHEESE MONKEYS by Chip Kidd
Harper Collins
Chip Kidd is primarily known for his work as a graphic designer, that’s right, a graphic designer. Do you even know what that means? You've taken his work for granted, year after year, book after book. For instance, did you know that the stunning images populating book jackets are actually put together by professionals? Graphic Design is an art, a fine art, and in Chip Kidd’s case an incredibly valued asset. Graphic designer’s the world over know his work, and I'll bet you can't name one jacket he’s designed. Let me help you. The Border Trilogy by Cormac McCarthy, Cities of the Plains, The Crossing, and All the Pretty Horses, his most famous, (to me at least). Mr. Kidd stunningly designed Jernigan by David Gates, Turn of the Century by Kurt Anderson (of course Dell butchered the trade paper back cover of Turn of the Century, but what can you do with a publisher that thinks to dig a hole you need to use a nuclear weapon), and a good many of Andrew Vachss books. John Ridley’s The Drift a recent accomplishment, and one of his previous books Love is A Racket. Oh!, he’s done some stuff for Crichton, but who cares, once you get past the cover design, it’s contents only remind me of what it’s like to eat one to many bran muffins. Not Kidd’s fault by any stretch. He’s done the forth-coming cover for the new Richard Price novel The Samaritan, and the wonderfully sublime The Death Artist. Ultimately he’s on the post office wall for his talents as a designer and that’s it. When I heard he was actually sitting down to write some fiction, toss his hat in the ring, well that got my attention. How could someone so talented limit himself to one outlet, he can't, couldn't, didn't.
Chip Kidd obviously loved his training, he adored art school, it’s an adorable training ground, your’s truly having first hand knowledge. It’s the only place that I know of where you can actually spend four years of your life doing exactly what you want. You have the creative impulse, that frequency? Going to art school is a place where you can spend all of your time with like-minded people, attempting to achieve the same goal. Which in many cases is never reached, but all the same, it’s about creative excellence, which Mr. Kidd has is spades. You either have “it” or you don't. Art school sorts that out for you. You do “it” what ever “it” may be, because you have to, you can't do anything thing else. The desire is that strong. And it’s thrilling to have that desire; it really is, makes getting up in the morning easy.
In his novel, we meet our narrator, as he is about to embark on his journey into the abyss that is higher education. Strangely he’s running off to a state school where he’s decided to the alarm of everyone, his parents included, to major in “Art”. Ultimately he ends up in a place where art is secondary to liberal arts. Colleges must populate the world with English majors, they must, they must!!! Liberal arts degrees are more common than obesity in America; you don't even need a rock to hit one. What’s so pleasing about Cheese Monkey’s is that it captures those incredible moments at the beginning of every artist’s career that are unforgettable. That one teacher, who affected you, changed your thought process, left a mark. For me it was freshman foundation teacher who taught three-dimensional design. For Chip Kidd it’s the guy who invented the double mint chewing gum wrapper; Winter Sorbeck (a creation by Mr. Kidd, I think). Introduction to Commercial Art is a foundation class that really gets you going on the basics of what some people take for granted in life, like; street signs, storefront signs, book jackets, candy wrappers, shoe logos, company logos, you get the idea.
Sorbeck, or the incredibly, insanely demanding teacher that Kidd has dreamt up, and it’s not hard to at art school, where everywhere, is a brilliant psycho holding a key to your GPA. The guts of this novel are where Sorbeck imparts his wisdom through his teachings and his demanding classroom mannerism. He devours his students. Chews them up for bad, lousy, lame, tripe-like projects, and then backhand compliments those who do put forth an effort. Some of his musing on the creative process, or the crit’s as they like to call them in art school, are savagely scathing, to put it lightly. To read this book because of Chip Kidd is one thing, and worth it, just for that. To read this tiny flawed gem, as research into why art school is what it is, perhaps a better reason. I’d like to see his original manuscript for this book. I’ll bet my lunch that it’s four times as long, not broken down into two “semesters” and filled with juicy facts, fictions, verbs, wild musings and general genre style that we only get a glimpse of in this truncated version.
And I’ve got a word on the package. Find the hardcover, buy it, put a plastic slip around it, save it, and cherish it. The paperback version of the hardcover is brilliant, but lingers in the shadow of its paper over board predecessor.
AMERICAN EDGE by Steve Schapiro
Arena Editions
It’s a sad commentary on the state of visual art to say that black and white photography has been all but forgotten, but I don’t mind saying it. It’s thrilling to me that it’s been discarded for the safer, faster, shoot from the hip digital imaging that’s going on. What’s happened to the craft of image making? Has it gone away, completely? Is it all celebrity based, Annie and her gang of superstars? Herb and his band of muscle men? Bruce (Let’s Get Lost; Chet Baker story) Weber and his completely all male visions of perfection? Sure they all share the same theme, but it’s not what the medium is all about, it’s a small part but not the whole onion. Why am I thrilled? This leaves the forgotten world of silver and emulsion to me, and a small collection of traditionalist’s.
Arena Editions has gone out of its way to supply the world with a classy collection of black and white photographs, this time from a photographer that I’ve never heard of. Garry Winogrand, sure, he’s a hero of mine, I’m not ashamed to admit that. Some people like Shaq and M&M, but me? I’ll take mine, and yours are fine. Really they are, and I’m happy the rest of the world has forgotten these images, leaves more room at the museum, for me.
Steve Schapiro worked for Life Magazine, did some celebrity work, Brando, Pacino, Godfather stuff. The bank doesn’t care how you get it, but you’ve got to pay those bills. In American Edge his style, function, performance, candid and relaxing vision is on hand for everyone to discover. Can we get past the 60’s? Is there another generation that matches it with as much painful change as it suffered through? I doubt it, but you could make a case for the early 1800’s, not a healthy time to be alive, anywhere. The industrial revolution was in full swing, JFK was making coal, The Beatles ushered in a new sound. Flower power was alive and well, and music was doing something weird by infusing this generation with enough energy to protest a war that no one wanted to fight. Strange times indeed. Along the way Steve Schapiro used his camera to document his time, and wound up capturing the innocence and emotion that was drowning in leftist protest.
Race plays a huge role in his work, and the images in American Edge have a hypnotic quality, a self-contained energy, and vibrant power, almost indescribable. Early on in the book two kids shoot up in an alley, the dark tones jiggle with intensity, the camera is almost as high and shaky as they’re about to become. It’s followed by a bizarre society shot, taken at a swank restaurant. Three people sit dressed to the nines over a table filled with empty glasses. Is this a banquet? A wedding? You’ll catch a glimpse of a waiter in the background, and a Ward Cleaver type sitting between his two June’s in the foreground. Both women have an alarmingly stunning set of pearls, nearly choking them, off set by the center of the scene, the father, husband, or pimp’s part line in his mildly graying dark coif.
Moving through the front half of the book we meet Coney Island above and below the boardwalk, reminds me of Bruce Davidson, a little, and that’s saying a lot. We see snippets, composed sneakery, peeping almost is Schapiro with his camera. On the stoop, taking pictures of men in repose, high, drunk, smoking cigarettes. Lover’s date, Schapiro is there, kids embrace, Schapiro see’s them, not the other way around. We stumble upon images that defy explanation. A ten-year old boy dances with a woman, who must be his mother, in the living room, I think, (please don’t let it be a hotel room) he’s in a suit and she’s in sexy lingerie. And they’re laughing, giggling and smiling. It’s disarming, your guard is down with image sequencing, and then this comes along. Then we see the Kennedy’s, Nixon, LBJ, all smiles, they’re world still intact, what a time it must have been. Can you imagine? Tina Turner flanked by Ike, with their portrait hanging behind them. She with her plunging neckline, he with his ice-cold stare. These celebrities jump out at you, and Schapiro sprinkles them through his work. It’s not posed, it’s casual, and they seem to be off guard, which makes them so much more appealing. Music, 50’s and 60’s, the slamming of two sounds, are profoundly displayed through the eyes of our visual narrator. Blacks, Whites, men and women, never knowing what hit them, Schapiro styling them all together like a possessed composer. Somewhere in his travels a white house on the side of a road makes an appearance, it’s almost a throw away, then you can read some graffiti on the side of the house. “I love anybody that loves me”. This heart-wrenching image is followed by RFK being mobbed by people as his convertible rides down a street. His arms wide at his side, reaching out, touching as many hands as he can, and he’s smiling, always smiling.
What are captured here are a time and a place, the people, good and bad, marginal and mainstream. Politely paced and accurately sequenced for maximum effect, Arena Editions has done it again; with American Edge they’ve given me another reason to stand by the old way of doing things.
Thanks, man. See you in the New Year.
"Moriarty" out.
