Hyperkult

P.S. Obviously the scan-and-upload process kind of scrunched my writing. I’m too tired to link to Flickr.

Photo credit: Omar Omar, via Flickr

After a year-long run of critic’s screenings and what a friend and I call “The Junket Circuit,” I have to admit that I’m quite the apathetic filmgoer these days. I hate to call myself a former film critic, because I don’t think the title is accurate at all. While I feverishly punched out reviews at my old job, I was often disillusioned by the process and frustrated by the quickfire pace of internet publishing. I myself don’t really read film reviews—maybe the occasional Andrew O’Hehir, Anthony Lane, or LA Weekly article, but not much else.

What the job demanded I do was keep up with every theatrical film release known to (wo)man, from Quantum of Solace to more obscure fare like Reprise, a really lovely Norwegian film that quietly came and went last year. The fact is, during my tenure as an active member of the film journalist cabal, however low on the totem pole, I was uniquely wise to how the game works. You start to see things differently when you’re privy to the special dance that critics and PR reps do, especially when you’re a part of the sometimes-sordid process.

I was also spoiled. Free movies were a given, as were afternoons at The Four Seasons in Beverly Hills, eating really good pasta salad, swilling Pellegrino, then chomping on a chocolate chip cookie while waiting to interview Colin Farrell. I would often emerge from junkets with a stupid or nonsensical story to tell, like smelling of Colin’s cologne after our one-on-one (we never touched, it was just that strong); trying to escape a roomful of pervy porn journalists at the Girlfriend Experience junket, only to run into Larry Flynt at the hotel restaurant; or sitting down with Gael García Bernal at the Chateau Marmont, listening to him speak about how purposely singing badly (in Rudo y Cursi) was kind of like losing one’s virginity.* Those were the days.

Now, I feel really disconnected from film. What’s coming out this week? You got me. Someone had to explain what I Know They Serve Beer in Hell was to me, and apparently it’s some kind of vulgar cultural phenom. This is due in part to the fact that I don’t own a television (true story), but more because I don’t really care. It’s like someone’s poured a vial of “I don’t give a shit” tonic into my morning tea. I’m not sure what caused the shift, but movies just don’t excite me very much at the moment, and they haven’t for a while. My Netflix account has gone from “long dormant” to “cancelled,” and I’ll only pay to see something if a group of friends wants to go. Even then it’s more about the pre- or post-movie drink or milling around the Arclight bookstore afterward.

All this cogitating came about because I noticed that Lars von Trier, a director who I’ve long admired, released a new film in the States yesterday—a movie I have zero interest in seeing. If you’re at all familiar with von Trier, you know that watching one of his movies is often tantamount to emotional torture, but at least they’re well made and say something about life’s absurdities, heartbreaks, contradictions, and on.

Antichrist I’m judging based solely on the violent descriptions I’ve read online. Usually I’m much more diplomatic about this kind of stuff, but do I really want to see a film about a child’s death, the parents’ psychological undoing, and featuring a climax (literally?) of genital mutilation? The answer is a resounding “no.” I just don’t want to go there. I don’t wanna.

It’s not that I don’t want to be challenged—for the love of God, I wish more movies were challenging in a good way. This just sounds like self-imposed cinematic flagellation, and after experiences with Salò, Irreversible, and Funny Games (both versions), I think I’m over the whole “shock tactics for profundity” approach. Antichrist may be nothing like any of those films, but as moviegoers we’re blessed with the power of choice. Sometimes you’re in the mood for Gomorrah, and other times you need an afternoon filled with perennially-rerun TBS favorites; I’m talking Back to the Future followed by She’s All That, and maybe you’ll luck out and catch Robocop on one of the basic cable stations around dinnertime. Not that I know anything about this, because I don’t own a television. Sigh. So right now, I want less Criterion fare and more British Elle, scoops of sorbetto, re-runs of the O.G. 90210, sunshine, bunnies, et cetera. Jeanne Dielman will have to wait.

On the other hand, there’s always room for more 90210.

*I think I still have the tape of Gael saying this. I hope I do. At the time, it necessitated several rewind-and-relisten takes because I really am that pathetic and helpless when it comes to hot, Spanish-speaking men.

I love Swedes.

More at TheFunTheory.com.

Photo credit: Nick Night; Yohji Yamamoto A/W 1988-89 Campaign

How did I miss the news that Yohji Yamamoto recently filed for bankruptcy protection? Too much of ‘tha Book, not enough of The Cut these days, I guess. The silver lining to this sad, if not surprising, news is that Yamamoto will continue to design virtually uninterrupted while an investment firm pumps cash into his struggling business.

What an unfortunate segue into Wim Wenders’ Notebooks on Cities and Clothes, a really great movie about Yamamoto, identity, place, and other esoteric micellenany that somehow relate back to fashion. I discovered the film Designer Imposter-style, thanks to Netflix. As in, the red envelope gods spied on my rental queue and pulled a “If you liked Marc Jacobs & Louis Vuitton, you’ll love…” Only this movie is no shabby second-best a la Primo!; it came out in 1989, long before that digital purple fairy I mentioned was flitting its way around Jacobs’ Parisian workroom. What Notebooks achieves that MJ & LV doesn’t is a deeper level of creative brain-picking, one image maker framing another. Oh, yes, Wenders will go Spinoza on your ass…or something like that. Expect a side of philosophy with footage of Yamamoto’s runway shows, and an equal amount of visual fodder for ogling.

While watching, I was struck by how prescient Yamamoto’s designs were, especially since they were born during a decade of of sometimes-fabulous, sometimes-wretched excess. The man knows women, knows bodies, and sure as hell knows beauty—the lasting, relevant sort that even finnicky fashion types can’t dismiss years later. The only thing really dated about the film is its soundtrack, which is actually quite fabulous: think Terminator score meets that of an ’80s-era porn film.

Watch the trailer for a taste of what to expect. It ranks up there with Unzipped as one of my favorite fashion documentaries ever made.

I forgot my camera, so my friend's iPhone had to suffice.

It was some combination of dumb luck and benign universal energy that allowed me to score tickets to Thom Yorke’s secret show at The Echoplex on Friday night. Well, secret insomuch as L.A. Weekly tipped readers off to rumors of the show last Wednesday, and on Friday morning it was officially announced that tickets—all things considered, reasonable at $20—would go on sale at noon. Cut to: frantic text messages between my friend Luisa and myself, multiple browsers open to TicketWeb.com, and serendipity intervening to finalize the sale. A verbal stream of “Holy shit!” was all I could muster afterward.

By 7:30 PM, the line snaking around The Echoplex had reached critical proportions—long and filled with antsy fans muttering “Fuck, can we get in already?” My guess is that the unusual holdup had to do with crowd control and the CAA and VIP lists up front. Because, make no mistake, this was one of “those shows”: suited industry stiffs with ear plugs were peppered throughout the crowd, awkwardly shuffling their legs alongside the likes of Kim Gordon, Daft Punk, and the moody girl behind us who yelled something about needing a milk crate to stand on because we were too tall. The hype machine (figuratively speaking, not the website) was working overtime. I was more preoccupied, though, with the fact that we were actually there and about to see Thom perform for a crowd of a few hundred. “This will never happen to us again,” I kept uttering incredulously to Luisa. Granted, I can be hyperbolic at times, but when you’ve grown up listening to Radiohead and are about to see its lead singer preview new songs with his freshly-formed supergroup (including producer Nigel Godrich, Joey Waronker, Mauro Refosco, and Flea), “excited” doesn’t cut it as an adjective.

His set consisted mainly of tracks from The Eraser, which he went through in order. Live, the band went light on the album’s pervasive blips and bleeps and overally sleepiness, and made them much more danceable. I’ve seen Thom play Eraser songs prior, at least in fan-captured YouTube videos or the odd TV appearance, but I’ve never seen him so effervescent as a performer than Friday night, not even with Radiohead. We’ve all witnessed his frantic “Idioteque” moves, but imagine that flailing, crazed energy consistent over the course of an evening, punctuated by a schoolboy’s grin. What happened to our sulky Radiohead frontman?

I had heard none of the new songs before that night, and the immediate standouts were “Skirting on the Surface” and “Judge, Jury, and Executioner.” Post-show I’ve settled on “Feeling Pulled Apart By Horses” as my favorite. I blame the sexy, ominous bass line.

Driving back down Sunset after the show, Luisa and I could only describe the experience, the songs, and his palpable exuberance as so “Thom York-ie.” I count myself lucky to have beaten the odds, the wily scalper/hackers, and a catastrophic TicketWeb crash to have witnessed it.

Tom Ford's Dreamy Cherry Heels for YSL; Photo credit: Jak & Jill

Tommy Ton of Jak & Jill recently replaced The Sartorialist’s Scott Schuman as Style.com’s Fashion Week street style photographer. I’ve been mulling over that phrase lately—”street style”—which used to connote subversiveness; the alt-culture to fashion’s mainstream; “real” women and their punky, sassy, couldn’t-care-less outfits that designers might steal from for inspiration. But with the rise of blogs like The Sartorialist in recent years, Carine Roitfeld, bless her heart, society women, and MODs (Models Off Duty) are the streetwalkers of choice—in the non-courtesan sense. I hardly think that Average Jane Fashion Lover can afford the Balenciaga booties or the Christopher Kane gorilla dress* that we’re seeing so much of these days. You might say “street” now means Bergdorf Goodman, or Opening Ceremony if we’re lucky.

Then there are the independent style blogs, which do capture anonymous tastemakers at their best. It’s those I’m attracted to a little more, though there’s definitely a trend continuum and sometimes an unshakeable sameness that makes it difficult to differentiate Iekeliene from random-girl-with-amazing-taste. I guess that’s why they call them “trends.”

But as much as I muse about the changing nature of fashion these days, how the avant garde has been dwarfed by editrixes and other on-and-off the runway insiders, I still love the work of Schuman and his cohorts. The pictures are fun and aspirational, though if I see one more pair of black gladiator platforms I might impale myself with my own Givenchy knockoffs. You see, I fall prey to what the magazines are pushing as much as anyone else.

Daria Werbowy is SO street, yo. Photo credit: Jak & Jill

And who exactly is Tommy Ton? Am I so horribly out of touch that I just discovered his blog a few weeks ago? Is that his real name, and why am I picturing him as a slim, skinny jean wearing, long lost member of the Misshapes?

Wait, I just Googled him. It could be true.

More of Ton’s photography on Jak & Jil and Style.com.

*Kane does have a high street facsimile of said dress in his collection for Topshop, which is already sold out online. I’m not gonna lie: it looks pretty cool, and the fact that the gigantic crocodile’s mouth strategically lies over a woman’s, uh, nether regions, made me laugh.