Author / Edward Champion
Unanticipated Communiques from 2000
I have learned through Rachel Sklar via Twitter that Google, celebrating its 10th anniversary of collecting private data from individuals to sell advertising, has permitted users to search through the Google index as it existed in 2001. I performed numerous search experiments on several fascinating names and terms, revealing fascinating results, before turning the algorithm on myself, where several frightening emails that I had sent to my longtime pal, Tom Working, were uncovered. There was a specific purpose to “Jimmy.” But revealing this purpose causes one to lose sight of the interpretive possibilities within these deranged e-epistles. So here they are:
Date: Tuesday, September 5, 2000
Subject: enter “the Wolfe”Dear Mr. Working,
Dawn Wells has expressed disapproval at being associated with such a subversive cadre. This has not stopped her from being trapped on the island with the other Survivors. She’ll join our complex love menagerie and we’ll get in a carnal quintet before December. The ink is fresh and the paper is as disposable as a Joel Schumacher film.
Jimmy remains silent with the Washington office for three main reasons – (1) He is hard at work lobbying Congress to declare November 17 as a national holiday in his honor (this works in well with the production start date); (2) he was held up at the Smithsonian, mistaken for a rare elk species that resides in the Amazon jungle (and accidentally stuffed by several underpaid attendants); and (3) all he wanted was a Pepsi.
My safety is intact. I have lathered my body in baby seal oil and I have tested my flesh for flammability. Aside from burning my left eyebrow, I’m okay. And I anticipate applying the Zippo to my right eyebrow with the desired mixed results.
Which brings me to the issue of the Westcoast Six. I know that they’re into this whole comic book fanboy business. But their obsession with kryptonite has got to stop. I’ve called Marty Bernstein in Colorado and he’s flying in tomorrow with a lead box (codename – Pandora) that should settle the matter in a day. This should satisfy the money people for now.
How Jimmy will take this is anyone’s guess. I’ve been concerned that his pancreas will give out before the shoot. But I’ve ushered Jimmy into several free clinics for a second opinion. This is a tricky matter, given his traumatic experience in Washington.
And don’t worry about the Arizona market. We’re licensing Smell-O-Rama from John Waters for this production. Waters himself has expressed minor interest in the project. But he insists that we set the movie in Baltimore. I’ve convinced Waters that we will feature at least three shots of dogshit. He seems content with channeling Divine from the grave.
As you know, this represents considerable snowballing on my part.
“Wolfe” Habernathy sounds like a strong last-minute contender. I am, however, worried about his special requests. Six gallons of Vaseline every hour is a hard thing to come by. But if Habernathy wants it, I’ll just have to tell the Arizona and Colorado people that we just have to hang tough and provide it.
And I’ve got Ron Howard on board. He won’t be directing, but he’ll be appearing full frontal. Our test market scores indicate that a Jimmy-Ron Howard-Tipper Gore three-way will do extremely well in the Flagstaff market. Now I realize that this is an election year. But Tipper’s agent has expressed interest in becoming involved, if only to atone for the scathing censorship campaigning in the ’80’s. I’ve been perfectly honest about the circumstances. But who am I to argue? She wants to do it, if only to secure the smut bloc in Gore’s direction.
Bernstein, however, wants more. He talks deliriously of double-penetration. Can you ask the Wolfe just what kind of film we’re making here? Because the way Marty’s talking, I don’t think we’ll get the PG-13 rating.
I’ve taken care of the AOL problem. Steve Case wants a tie-in deal with the project and that should secure the capital. Never mind that the film takes place in the Middle Ages. But I have William Goldman busy doing rewrites and I’m sure we’ll figure something out.
Date: saturday, September 9, 2000
Subject: jimmy’s seen to that.Dear Mr. Working,
Well, it seems that we’ll have to recruit Ms. R. to inspire Jimmy to get in touch with his dog side. Since Jimmy seems to be fond of flagellation, I would suggest that he be repeatedly punched by her and conditioned to enjoy the fetishistic side of violence. We will keep Ms. R. at a distance and, for her protection, allow her to be in Jimmy’s presence for no more than ten minutes at a time, with several National Guard officers poised to shoot Jimmy’s kneecaps in the event that he gets “a little crazy”.
Ms. R. stands to make a killing off of this. The contract intends to split the profit as follows…
Publisher overhead 25 percent
Tom 20 percent
Ed 20 percent
Ms. R. 20 percent
Jimmy 3 percent
The SPCA 11 percent
Florence Henderson 1 percentI trust that you will agree that the deal is fair. And I wouldn’t worry about the literary angle. Joyce Carol Oates has been commissioned to write the review for the New York Times Book Review and she has expressed to me her admiration for Jimmy’s work.
The bodies, as you know, are a figment of Jimmy’s imagination. Jimmy would understand this, if only he had found a partner for his game of Tic Tac Toe. Sadly, the money people could not provide him with said partner.
Wink Martindale has expressed some interest in having Jimmy on as his first contestant for the new revival of Tic Tac Dough. But sadly, Wink wants to write the foreword of the book. He has tentatively titled his 2,000 word foreword – “I Never Understood My Adam’s Apple.” But sales reports indicate that we would lose 23 percent of the gross should this foreword be included. I’ve been on the phone with the Mark Goodson people trying to find another game show tie-in.
Date: Thursday, September 14 2000
Subject: a shocking developmentDear Mr. Working,
We here at the Walt Disney Corporation have recently learned of your plan (with your two associates, one Edward Champion and a man who is identified only as “Jimmy”) to cast one of our enduring characters, Mary Poppins, in a licentious light. We have also been informed of your attempts to contact Julie Andrews and involve her in this sordid offering.
Please be informed that we have muzzled Julie Andrews and provided her with all the penises that she could possibly desire for the next ten years. Accordingly, she has no interest in your project.
Concerning your use of our trademark character, I have one word to communicate to you – Stop.
While we admire your associative latitude with our creations (for they are, after all, OUR creations and not those of the overworked animators whose vocal chords have been conveniently cut), please understand that we will pursue your two-bit operation with every legal power we have under our wing.
However, your descent into porn comes at a time in which our corporation is considering pursuing similar markets, in much the same manner that we opened up our Touchstone film division to R-rated entertainment in the 1980’s.
Under the aegis of our newly created film division, Pound Politely Pictures, we would like to involve your associate, Jimmy, in Disney’s first multi-million dollar digital video porn feature. While we appreciate the input of you and Mr. Champion, we have come to realize that this Jimmy character is more sexually desirable to our demographic than the two of you put together.
In the spirit of compromise, we intend to throw loose women your way. Please keep in mind, however, that these women have serviced our lonely animators in the past and you may find that they malfunction upon climax.
Again, I request that you refrain from the “Mary Pophercherry” project and consider the benefits that our robots… er… women can offer you.
Thank you for your attention to this matter.
Sid Disney III
Executive InternP.S. Concerning the microwave, it is our hope that you can provide one.
NYFF: Waltz with Bashir (2008)
[This is the thirteenth part in an open series of reports from the New York Film Festival.]
About a week ago, fearing that all of the films were turning my mass into flabby mush, I walked two brisk miles in twenty minutes to take in Ari Folman’s Waltz with Bashir, my fourth film of the day. The movie had been described to me by one critic, who purportedly writes for a newspaper, as “a little fiesta” — a qualification that I certainly quibbled with at the time. I’m not sure that a movie depicting the trauma of war and memory can be accurately identified as a “little fiesta.” Certainly, the real-life figures drawn from the Israeli Army do interpret a break between battles as a “little fiesta,” even if they do not precisely use these two specific words. It is true that these soldiers toil in homemade banana leaf huts on the beach and frolic about just before their comrades get shot in their head. But to suggest that these activities represent a “little fiesta” is, I suspect, missing the point just a mite. I’d like to think that the critic in question was having me on, but when I questioned him about specific points in Israel’s history, he had no knowledge of events that went down in 1967.
A professional animator informed me that he had disliked the film because of its gimmick and what he characterized as “amateurish” animation, but this same gentleman had gone bananas over Shuga, a film that I did not care for very much. But it should be observed that the device of a journalist-like protagonist (here, Folman) who questions various people about the meaning of some hazy memory has its roots in Citizen Kane and numerous personal documentaries. I don’t think that Waltz with Bashir is a documentary exactly. It’s more of a recreated narrative with the appearance of an objective pursuit. Something akin to a memoir played out for the camera. Certainly the animation technique, of which more anon, lives up to this notion of reconstruction. If it is not technically successful, then it is certainly viscerally successful.
But I was determined to make up my own mind. My initial reaction after the screening was somewhat ecstatic. But now that it has been a week since I’ve seen Waltz with Bashir, I see the film with slightly different eyes. This is a film that stacks its deck just a bit too heavily. War is bad, and it doesn’t matter what side you’re on. But this predictable rush to condemn war leaves little for the audience to make up their own minds. Paths of Glory is one of the best antiwar films in cinema, but it was Kubrick’s visual genius and his insistence on wiggle room for the audience that made the film work. Waltz with Bashir offers no comparative anthill. It offers more of a sideways glance for a topic that requires thinking in twenty dimensions and more time than you have for rumination. (As Tom Bissell noted in his underrated memoir, The Father of All Things, Vietnam is a subject that one can easily devote a lifetime to.) Waltz is, however, very good about clarifying something just as troubling: more than two decades later, it cannot be stated with any certainty that war memories match up to the reality. (Come to think of it, this is likewise a subject broached by Bissell, and Waltz with Bashir and The Father of All Things might make an intriguing book/movie double bill, or perhaps “two little fiestas” for critics who cloak their ignorance in uninformed mirth.)
The reality itself is the 1982 Lebanon War, and Folman was directly involved. He fought in the Isreali Army and, now in middle age, he retains a memory of naked young men emerging out of the water before a ruined city. Some key friends figure into this fugue: the long-haired Carmi Cna’an, the teenager who everybody figured would succeed in any science, now living in Amsterdam and fiercely protective of his privacy; Shmuel Frenkel, who has taken up vigorous physical exercise and maintains a bald pate; and Israeli war correspondent Ron Ben-Yeshai, who telephoned then-Minister of Defense Ariel Sharon about the massacres at Sabra and Shatila and was given a peremptory answer to back off.
What is quite interesting about Waltz with Bashir is its production method. Folman tracked down the people who haunted his memories, interviewed them, and then styled an animated narrative around these efforts. He even managed to persuade these people to reproduce their voices for the film. (Only a handful of Folman’s subjects declined.)
Each figure appears flat, representing a clear demarcation along a particular focal point. At times, it’s akin to watching a Flash animation or something involving cardboard cutouts from a pre-digital time. Folman’s team has added layers of smoke and reflections atop this basic approach.
Folman also has respect for his subjects’ wishes. When Carmi Cna’an declares that Folman can draw him as he is talking about war, he requests that Folman not include his son. Sure enough, the camera drifts away from the house as Carmi Cna’an engages in this paternal pastime.
But while the testimony that Folman unravels from his subjects certainly inhabits a feel of a bygone time — an atmosphere enhanced by a decent soundtrack and dutiful pop cultural juxtaposition — Folman fumbles a bit on memory’s false starts. Folman’s best friend and shrink, Ori Sivan, brings up a psychological experiment. When subjects were given photographs containing one false element, they believed that the false element was part of the memory. While Folman has exonerated himself somewhat by presenting this caveat to those seeking truth, he nevertheless remains very determined to align his memories to the film’s final moment: a live-action video clip depicting Sabra and Shatila’s aftermath. And while this footage is heartbreaking, with injustices that made me quite angry, I’m not sure if it is entirely fair to corral the film’s theme of ever-shifting memory to this harder reality. If anything, this piecemeal clip presents additional questions about the relationship between documentation and memory that were better pursued in Standard Operating Procedure. This conclusive curveball not only undermines Folman’s thesis and stubs out the strengths of his early emphases, but I suspect that this eleventh-hour departure was why the critic offered me a diabolical conclusion about war being “a little fiesta.”
Take on Me — The Literal Version
If you somehow missed the original video, watch it first. (via MeFi)
See also The Family Guy version.
NYFF: The Headless Woman (2008)
[This is the twelfth part in an open series of reports from the New York Film Festival.]
Argentine filmmaker Lucrecia Martel — sadly one of the few women represented among the predominantly male auteurs in the New York Film Festival — doesn’t wish to spell out her entire scheme to the audience. She does have a crackling knack for presenting her muzzled puzzle from a subjective viewpoint. In The Headless Woman, Martel’s characters are often photographed from the passenger seat or the back of a car, suggesting that the audience is sitting right next to protagonist Vero, but helpless to intercede as this wealthy woman slips further down the drainage of her ethical predicament. Cinematographer Barbara Alverez confines the vista to medium shots, often static, with subjects in the background often fuzzing out in soft focus. From car windows, smiling motorcyclists pass and point to turn left while the air conditioning leaves those inside perspiring with a comfy gloom. When the camera opts for a long shot, Martel places her characters at extreme edges of the frame. One of Vero’s house workers discovers the remnants of a swimming pool or an old fountain paved over for Vero’s endlessly renovated garden. But there are no visible apples in this garden, presumably because privileged exoneration has made temptation unnecessary. Vero, you see, has driven over what may be a boy or a calf, reaching for her cell phone as the engine purrs on and rendered catatonic by this bump in the ontological road. Instead of stopping and living up to her moral responsibilities, she drives off, refusing to look back and suffering a severe emotional crisis that has her questioning her own powers of recall. We’re left to believe at film’s end that the incident may not have happened, but, by then, the dye in Vero’s hair has shifted from flaxen to black. Martel’s film represents the transformation; the accident is, quite literally, the calm before the storm.
Martel surrounds Vero with endless children who remind her of the crime. Martel makes Vero a dentist, and there is the suggestion here that Vero’s dutiful drilling upon these children’s teeth represents a full-bore assault on wisdom. After the accident, the tougher cavity jobs have been delegated to others. The mise en scene likewise deracinates the top physical features of characters. Vero is visually headless, framed by her own insularity. Vero is not heartless, for she breaks down in tears while attempting to wash her hands of the affair. The faucet malfunctions. She accepts the kindness of a concerned worker. Her head moves out of frame, revealing nothing more than her craned neck behind the partition separating Vero from the audience. We hear the baptismal rush of bottled water pouring down the top of her head. That the crime takes place on a road near a dry canal, filled by the weekend rainstorm precipitating the crime, suggests a theme of liquid replenishment. Vero is doted upon by help at the house, colleagues at work, and cannot even admire her husband in too-tight trunks. The crime, whether real or illusory, has revealed her true empty nature. “I killed someone on the road,” she states to anyone who will listen. But there is no proof, and this insinuates a deeper question of faith: an ethical stretch that is not quite religious spanning along a sinuous road leading to the annual “Smile Day,” where dentists investigate the porous ivory inside young mouths in the name of public service.
But the journey here is not entirely satisfying. Martel remains so determined to juxtapose Vero in a series of tapestries that match her internal despair that the audience does not have a choice but to go along. There is nobody here who truly scolds Vero for being so callous or unfeeling. There is nobody here who does not dote on her. We are left to witness a woman who, like Bartleby, would prefer not to. When police begin investigating details of the boy/calf’s death, we see Vero and those close to Vero craning their necks near the scene of the accident.
And while Martel injects some interesting subtext into her film, the story of a wealthy person who gets away with a crime has been done too many times before. One thinks quite naturally of The Strange Love of Martha Ivers, and it becomes apparent that Maria Onetto (who plays Vero) lacks Barbara Stanwyck’s eclat. This film could have used a Liz Scott-like side character to shake things up. But we do have an intriguing mother representing Vero’s logical development. This woman watches wedding videos from the past, barks at people to rewind moments because her memories are shot, and rattles off such unthinking “You were so beautiful. Why did you let yourself go?” to the snowy VHS bride, who is standing before her decades later.
Martel showed greater flair for depicting unexpected human behavior with The Holy Girl, which followed a religious teenage girl obsessed with a man who groped her on the street. But I suspect the absence of religion in The Headless Woman is one of the reasons why this film doesn’t quite work. Martel is a filmmaker who, like Pedro Almodovar, cannot make a secular film that packs the same punch. Religion is clearly in her blood. Had it likewise been in Vero’s blood, Martel would have had a hell of a movie.