As part of the never-ending celebrations of all things French here in Brazil, which has so far included everything from electro popstar Sébastien Tellier to cubist Matisse, photgrapher Henri-Cartier Bresson has been honoured with an exhibition of more than 100 photographs from around the world. Considered the father of photojournalism, the exhibition brings together images that span his career, from more famous ones such as Behind the Gare St. Lazare (perhaps his most famous photograph) to others displaying the breadth of his travels around the world.
Having gone to see the Walker Evans exhibition only a few weeks ago, it was fascinating to see how distinct each photographer's style was and yet how in many ways, they share similarities. The curators of each exhibition seemed to pick up on differences more, demonstrated by the organisation of the photographs: whilst Evans' work was neatly separated out into series and also chronologically, the Cartier-Bresson was much more wild, with photographs with seemingly nothing in common side by side, apart from the vivacity that united them all which Cartier-Bresson managed to capture (and, arguably, instilled in them himself). Most of Evans' work was austere, capturing the harsh conditions of an economically fragile nation, compared to the Francophone's more "colourful" portraits of life. And yet they both strive to bring together elements of journalism and art to their photography; Evans may be tied to the former and Cartier-Bresson to the latter, but one pick out these elements in both their work nonetheless.
I'd seen some of Cartier-Bresson's work before, in my godfather's books, on the internet, on posters, etc., but much of it was still unknown to me. To see such a variety of his photographs in one place truly felt like a privilege. There seems to be so many sensations running through each picture, from joy to sadness, from serenity to excitement, from tragedy to comedy. Some images seemed so composed and based on pre-existing styles of art, such as the picture above, whose winding stairs reminded me a lot of German Expressive Cinema, and yet others seemed authentic and vibrant reflections of life that were captured without preconceptions or pretensions. One particular photograph that I was amazed by was of a stream in Japan; a little foam had built up on top of the water and had been dragged by the current, forming wisps of white against the darkness of the water. It the lines looked so meaningful and purposeful, it was as if it had been painted on the water.
But I would have to say that personally, Behind the Gare St. Lazare still ranks as one of the most impressive photographs I've ever seen (of the relative few I have seen). A clear example of "the decisive moment" Cartier-Bresson came to be known for, the picture shows the moment before a man steps into a perfectly still puddle of water. On closer inspection, one sees that the man's actions are also mirrored by a dancer on a poster on the wall behind: layers upon layers of reflections. Asked about how the picture came about, he replied, “There was a plank fence around some repairs behind the Gare Saint-Lazare train station. I happened to be peeking through a gap in the fence with my camera at the moment the man jumped". As the French would say, pas de quoi.
Last Sunday, I went to see a Brazilian production of Tom Stoppard’s ‘Rock ’n’ Roll’. My knowledge of Stoppard only extends as far as watching ‘Shakespeare in Love’ (which he wrote the screenplay for) and knowing about ‘Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead’, a play about two minor characters from ‘Hamlet’ who take centre stage and become the main focus of the entire play; incidentally, there’s a film version of the play with Gary Oldman and Tim Roth playing the eponymous characters but I haven’t got round to seeing that either. Having missed its initial run at the NFT back in 2006, a production directed by Trevor Nunn, I was reminded of it when my cousin mentioned seeing it in San Francisco earlier on in the year. When it appeared here in São Paulo, I jumped at the chance to see it, spurred on even more by the thought of what a Brazilian perspective might bring to an English play.
The story follows Jan, a philosophy lecturer in Cambridge in the 70s who decides to go back to his native Czechoslovakia to fight for his communist beliefs, much to the dismay of his mentor Max. As the years roll by, we see how Jan and his friends are treated by the regime whilst simultaneously following the lives of Max and his family in Cambridge. All the while, we see that the one thing that speaks to these characters, that sets generations apart, that divides governments from the people, and keeps one’s faith and beliefs intact is rock n’ roll.
First off, I’ll apologise in advance for the cheesy pun in the title. I thought of going for something like “Rock ’n’ Roll crashes like a Led Zeppelin”; probably a much better title, but then I didn’t think it was that bad. Plus, you can never go wrong with a Rolling Stones reference.
The play is essentially about 3 things: communist theory versus examples of its practical use; the difference between the brain and the mind, i.e. rationality and sensibility; and the power of rock ’n’ roll. Over the course of its 3 hours, it delves deep into the three topics and their inter-relationship, not only within the play but on a wider context as well. I must admit that much of the detail in the dialogues that explored the first two subjects was lost on me, though perhaps that’s because I wasn’t aware of many of the Portuguese technical terms. I feel that to understand it better, I’d have to read the text again in English to have a better grasp of it.
On a more dramatic level however, I felt it somewhat hard to relate to the characters. Since it was an adaptation for a Brazilian audience, it was inevitable that they should tailor it in ways that would make more sense to those sitting in the stalls and beyond. Yet it seemed that they’d pushed this too far, made it too Brazilian. It’s more than likely that this decision was made due to its length and thematic content, but I couldn’t help thinking that this added “Brazilianness” distracted from the play’s text; people seemed to be laughing more at the slapstick tone the production adopted (at times) than Stoppard’s ironic dialogues.
This may sound a somewhat elitist attitude to take yet I’d rather propose it as a cultural observation, especially after what my Brazilian cousin said. She saw it her in São Paulo as well as San Francisco and our opinions were the complete opposite: she felt more at home with the Brazilian production than the more austere American one, which I imagined I might’ve enjoyed more. It makes me wonder then, whether theatre is not as universal an art form as something like cinema: does a play require more adaptation than a film, or can it simply be translated and left at that? Or, conversely, do films actually require more than just subtitles for us to truly understand them?
This is probably too large a question to be answering here and now, best left for a rainy day. As sorry as I’d feel for anyone who’d attempt to tackle that question, I felt even more sorry for the man sitting behind me during ‘Rock ’n’ Roll’. In one scene, Jan and … are having a prolonged discussion about communist theories and its many heroes and central figures. Towards the end of the scene, one of them makes a joke about Karl Marx that drew a laugh from the audience. I overheard the man behind me turn to his friend and ask, “Who’s Karl Marx?”. The poor guy was probably dragged along to the play and didn’t imagine he’d have to be sitting through 3 hours of this on a Sunday night…
Tuesdays are always great for a jaunt to a museum here in São Paulo; not because of some astrological reason of the alignment of the planets on Tuesdays, or some numerological notion of Tuesday being the second day of the week (or third, depending on where you're from). It's simply because museums are free. This does of course mean that they are inevitably much fuller than one would expect during the week, but it's a concession one must be willing to make in such circumstances. Last week, I went to take advantage of this at the São Paulo Art Museum (MASP) to see a new photography exhibition that has just opened here on the work of Walker Evans (pictured above).
Born at the beginning of the 20th century and living until the mid-70s, Evans was best known for his work during the Great Depression when he travelled across the United States documenting its effects for the Farm Security Administration. Emblematic 8x10 photographs from all four corners of the economically-crippled power lined much of the walls in the exhibition, showcasing bleak landscapes and impoverished farmers. On top of this governmental work, Evans also toured Alabama with writer James Agee to do a story for Fortune magazine on the lives of three rural families. The story never ran but Agee's text and Evans' photographs were developed into the seminal book concerning the Great Depression, 'Let Us Now Praise Famous Men'. This series of photographs was also on display at the exhibition; unlike his others on the same subject matter, Evans opted for a much more personal insight into these families which included many close-up portraits. The aesthetic beauty here comes from the shades of gray that bring life to the faces of his subjects, falling in between the searing white Alabama sun and the dark shadows cast on the barren fields.
Evans also went to Cuba on an assignment in the mid-30s for Carlton Beals' book 'The Crime of Cuba' about dictator Gerardo Machado. The different environment provides a fresh and interesting contrast to the Depression photographs. Whilst Evans still captures the poverty on show as he did in his home country, such as a photograph showing a poverty-stricken mother begging on the street with her three children sleeping around her, there was clearly a fascination with this wildly different culture. One particularly enigmatic photograph shows an elegantly dressed cuban man standing in the street; the stark contrast between the man's dark skin and his crisp white suit makes him stand out remarkably from his surroundings.
The exhibition was largely chronological which allowed one to see Evans' development as a photographer relatively easily. In his early work from the mid- to late-20s, much of it demonstrated more aesthetic concerns; many photographs showed his interest in geometric patters and ideas of perspective as well as relations between light and darkness. Much of it was reminiscent of De Chirico both in terms of his use of forms and shapes and of chiaroscuro. As a whole, the exhibition presents Evans' development of a concept of photography as documentary art, not only capturing reality as the camera sees it but also drawing out aesthetic elements within that. Over time, one sees how Evans' sensitivity to capturing human expression became the priority at the expense of traditional notions of aesthetics. This is most evident in his 'Subway' series, which saw the photographer taking pictures of passengers of subway trains in New York. The framing and focus is often imperfect and the lighting somewhat muddy. Yet there is something undeniably intriguing about the photgraphs as they present images that vary from comic to tragic, and always verging on poetic.
Most of his photographs are found in art museums these days. Should you chance upon an exhibition of his in the near future, it'll certainly be worth the visit.
And so, after 3 blissful weeks in London (and one spectacular weekend on Planet Bestival), it's back to Brazil for another year. This time, however, I've already got some work lined up, thankfully. I'm currently doing translation work for the Sao Paulo Film Festival at the end of October, translating all the synopses and directors' biographies for the festival programme among other things. It's not the most glamourous job but it does mean that I'm contact with the festival organisers; if all goes to plan, I'll also get some work during the festival itself, on site. Here's hoping. The other big news is that I'm moving out of my current home (living with a family friend) and getting my own place nearer the centre of Sao Paulo. It may be a tiny studio apartment, but having somewhere you can call your own is truly incomparable to staying in someone else's house, no matter how nice they (or the house) is. I'm looking forward to the experiences this new environment will bring, whatever they may be.
My 3 weeks in London were mostly filled with nostalgic catch-ups, meeting people I hadn't heard from in a year, if not more. But between all that, I did also manage to watch one film, Lars Von Trier's 'Antichrist'. To call it grossly controversial is an understatement.
The story is a simple one: an unnamed couple, Charlotte Gainsbourg and Willem Dafoe, mourn the death of their child who fell out of a window whilst his parents were having sex. Feeling the burden of guilt upon their shoulders, Dafoe, a therapist, decides to take his wife to their cabin in the woods to deal with the grief, their so called "Eden". Through a series of exercises, Dafoe tries to remedy his wife's constant anxiety attacks, but he soon learns that his wife may not have been all that she seemed. Cue all the explicit violence that you will doubtless have heard of by now.
If reducing the film to such a dismissive synopsis seems unfair, I assure you it's only because it's exactly how the film seems to treat the subject matter. Von Trier has always been for his themes of mysogyny, his emotional manipulation of the audience, his struggle to push the boundaries of tasteful (and tastless) cinema, and I do applaud him for that. Yet 'Antichrist' just seems like a step in the wrong direction. For all the theological and mythological sybolism that the film offers, 'Antichrist' is not that far from the gorefests of 'Saw' and 'Hostel'. Von Trier may start off with a true desire to explore the darker sides of the human condition, but he soon gives in to the shock factor that lacks any substance. The infamous shot of Gainsbourg performing a clitorectomy is so graphic that it completely removes one from the dramatic moment; up until then, you're involved with Gainsbourg's unstable character, torn between sympathy for her grief but disgust at what she's done to her husband. The tension mounts as you see her grab the scissors and you're on the edge of your seat. And then comes the close-up and all that suspense vanishes instantly.
I won't lie and say that the film is terrible, some of the cinematography is truly stunning and the first half of the film is compelling. But it certainly doesn't merit the accolades it's apparently receiving, especially when so many of Von Trier's other films offer so much more. If this film is being deemed art because it puts aside narrative conventions in order to make the audience respond in an emotional level, then I would say that even those works of art which purport to do the same thing have some meaning behind it; as 'Antichrist' wears all its meaning on its sleeves, it's hard to see anything behind showing us a bleeding vagina. On a last note, I can't help but find it horrendously ironic that the director who fervently espoused purely aesthetic cinematic devices in his Dogme 95 manifesto opens his film with the most over-the-top montage sequence I've seen in a long time. For all its beauty, I couldn't help but think of this scene of a student film from Family Guy.
This week I saw an altogether different film, the sublimely uplifting "Up" (excuse the pun), Pixar's new film. Pixar have been producing masterpiece after masterpiece in recent years; last year's 'Wall-E' seemed to be their piece de resistance, capturing astoundly beautiful images and some truly magical scenes. What surprised me most about the film is how adult it is, particularly the opening 20 minutes; a wordless introduction to Wall-E and his world, the film dares to challenge its younger audience's attention span whilst evidently intent on mesmerising the older people in the cinema. When I went to see the film, there wasn't a single child there. Pixar had topped it with 'Wall-E' and there was no way something could be better. Or so I thought...
'Up' is the story of 78-year old Carl Frederiksen, all alone in the world after his wife's recent passing away. All his life, he'd promised to take his wife to South America to see the great waterfalls there but sadly she never made it. Intent on fulfilling that dream, Carl ties hundreds of balloons to his house and lifts off into the skies, beginning his slow journey southwards. What he didn't count on was for any company on the trip, especially not little cubscout Russell, only after his last badge to fill his sash. And so, amid adventures with talking dogs, childhood heroes, and colourful birds, Carl learns the true meaning of paradise.
As ever, Pixar delivers another terrificly fun and touching tale. In essence, this is a buddy movie with two unlikely lead characters, both of whom are simply excellent. Behind his gruff exterior, Carl is a romantic at heart, trying to desperately to live the dreams he and is wife had; Russell, meanwhile, is a curious little trooper whose befriending of Dug the talking dog and Kevin, a large, multi-coloured dodo lookalike, only seems to get in the way of Carl and his watefalls. The film does become more focused on action-adventure towards the end, with Carl and Russell trying to escape from the villainous Charles Muntz, making for some spectacular chase scenes in, on, and under a huge blimp in the sky. But the film's most outstanding sequence is not within its action-packed denouement, but rather at the very beginning of the film, a montage of the lives of Carl and his wife Ellie, charting their first meeting as 6-year old aviators all the way to Ellie's death, beautifully scored by Michael Giacchino. Its tone is so melancholic and its theme so adult, something never before seen in a Pixar or Disney film.
Perhaps it's not so surprising nowadays to see relatively dark subject matter be included in kids' animated film. After all, Japan has always treated animation as just another form of storytelling with no specific audience demographic; it's only in the West that the cartoon has been designated as something predominantly for children. I'm sure some parents will decry the notions of death and loss (which appear more than once in the film, albeit subtlely) being presented to their kids. Then again, I doubt if many parents could explain the concept of death in such a touching and meaningful manner.
