Sunday, 6 December 2009

Maestros of the Movies: Charlie Kaufman

Who the hell is Charlie Kaufman? That's the question Charlie Kaufman has been asking himself across the course of his screenwriting career. Not in the trivial sense of delivering six autobiographical pieces when few lives deserve one, least of all that of a cranky Hollywood screenwriter. But in the deeper sense of exploring the human condition and the nature of the conscious self:

- In 'Being John Malkovitch' a struggling puppeteer discovers a portal into the mind of a well known actor, who ultimately becomes a world-renowned puppeteer, bringing the art of puppetry to a mass audience.

- Again working with the Director Spike Jonze, 'Human Nature' concerns a scientist couple's attempts to train a man brought up by apes in the ways of the world, until the freedom of the wild life becomes more attractive than civilisation.

- A fictionalised Charlie Kaufman gains a twin Donald in 'Adaptation', more successful in life, love and work but without his artistic integrity. Charlie struggles to adapt an intriguing work of non-fiction, 'The Orchid Thief', seeking the advice of Donald's screenwriting guru, before finally travelling to Florida to confront the author and her real-life lover and inspiration, with tragic consequences that break Kaufman's writer's block.

- 'Confessions of a Dangerous Mind' is the biopic of the gameshow host and supposed CIA hitman Chuck Barris, directed by George Clooney who opted to strip Kaufman's scripts of much of its surreal and reflexive trickery and go back to source; the movie bombed and Kaufman disowned it.

- 'Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind' was Charlie's first Oscar-winning script, in which the shy Jim Carrey character seeks the help of a medical team who can erase all memory of a failed romance with cookie Kate Winslet from his brain, following her decision to do the same. Two years later, they meet again, just as instructed in their last shared memory, and have another try at mismatched love.

- 'Synecdoche: New York' is Charlie Kaufman's first movie as writer-director, a five-year labour of love in which an alienated and depressed theatre director, Caden Cotard, receives a genius award, funding a project into which he can pour his whole self, a recreation of city life in a gigantic warehouse. Years later, the production has become a world within a world in which Caden Cotard finally relinquishes control to take on the part of a cleaning lady, still obsessed with the artistic problem he has set himself as his mimetic urban creation is abandoned and his own existence ends. It is a dream of life as life is, a rare and fragile thing.

You'll have concluded that a Kaufman movie doesn't lend itself to the one sentence elevator pitch. Though stars queue to work with him, they aren't star vehicles either. Never short of critical acclaim, he's also flirted with popular success; it's prospect has driven him deeper into exploring his self, universalised in the most significant corpus of twenty-first century cinema so far realised.

In 'Adaptation', Nicolas Cage as Charlie Kaufman confronts the aforementioned screenwriting guru with a question: "What if the writer is attempting to create a story when nothing happens?" Larry David asked himself the same when conceiving 'Seinfeld' two decades ago with nine series - fifteen if you include six seasons of 'Curb Your Enthusiasm' - of hilarious consequences. "You write a screenplay without conflict or crisis, you'll bore your audience to tears," comes the reply. Charlie has spent his entire career proving that advice wrong, provoking tears of gratitude and joy in those of us who follow his work.

There is conflict of course: the inner conflict of coming to terms with your self in the world and trying to create something worthwhile out of it; the challenge of artistic endeavor taking on philosophy's perennial conundrums. Beginning with a bang - 'Being John Malkovitch' was the most stunning authorial and directorial debut of the last decade - and ending with a terrifying whimper - I'm convinced I may be living in my own Synecdoche, even though I can neither pronounce or define the term - Charlie Kaufman has broken all the rules of screenwriting. In doing so, he has created a new set of principles for screenwriters - indeed, creative writers of any kind - to follow:

- Write from yourself, not about yourself. There is a Kaufman-like character at the heart of each of his most successfully realised scripts. None of them - even his namesake in 'Adaptation' - are living a Kaufman-like life in the outer world; all of them share one of his inner obsessions.

- Bring the inner world outside. His subjects - the philosophy of mind, the creative process, human nature, the predicament of mortality - are not promising cinematic subjects. But with them, he makes great cinema, by finding a means of untangling them in the outer world, that we all can share, thus proving that big ideas can make big movies, without the conventional virtues of character, plot and story arc dominating their construction.

- Make the unreal real. All Kaufman films are predicated on a ridiculous premise. That's Hollywood. The trick is to make the audience believe it isn't Hollywood for a couple of hours. Charlie takes it further by making movies that Hollywood should never have taken on, and proving those who said so wrong.

- Learn the rules, then break them. Any poet should know their way round a sonnet, but you need a good excuse to write one in couplets of rhyming pentameter. All artists should have a go at drawing from life, whatever their ultimate discipline, however contemptuous they may become of the figurative painter. CK understands the rules of cinema and story telling but isn't constrained by them.

- Trust your audience. So many mainstream movies - and American TV shows - are scripted by committee, that by the time they're made, all the jagged edges of individuality have been smoothed off. We are patronised by such creations, designed for mass appeal, the greatest art form of our times reduced to a marketing exercise. Real artists believe if they resolve a problem for themselves, they resolve it for others.

- Screenwriter good, auteur better. Charlie Kaufman has worked with some talented and individual directors. Spike Jonze has complementary genius: the ability to create compelling visuals from abstract ideas. Michael Gondry also began his career as a pop video maker, but has discovered a talent for intellectually and aesthetically satisfying comedy. But as good as these directors have been, none of them have gone as deep into the Kaufman world as K himself. 'Synecdoche: New York' is a Russian doll of a movie that we may never get to the bottom of, but will keep returning to, happily and unhappily, until we can return no more.

Saturday, 7 November 2009

Guest November 2009: Phil Bowen



Phil Bowen was an ideal guest for our first show. He is based in the south-west, living in Cornwall. Although primarily a writer of poetry and plays, he's also been involved in film and visual art. And the day of the launch show coincided with the first night of his play 'Anything But Love' at the New End Theatre in Hampstead.

We have Phil's hour long interview in our digital archive and  it is now available on my co-host Rachel McCarthy's website - keep an eye out for future interview podcasts. I don't intend to transcribe or summarise our conversation which traced his life from childhood in Liverpool through college in Chester and onto careers as a teacher, publican and writer touching on his favourite music and how it has informed his work as a writer.

His New and Selected Poems 'Nowhere's Far' has recently been published by Salt. He has edited books about Bob Dylan and the Beatles. He is the biographer of the Mersey poets Roger McGough, Brian Patten and Adrian Henri. His plays have been staged in England, Scotland, Wales and the USA. He conceived of 'Adrian's Wall', an art installation for Liverpool Year of Culture 2008. And he has inspired a love of poetry in thousands of children in hundreds of schools as well as staged plays and made films with young people.

There follows a list of links we used in preparing for Phil's visit to the studio:

PHIL BOWEN

Career Resume
Salt Author Page
Nowhere's Far
Shearsman Review
Stride Magazine Review
Anything But Love video
Books on Amazon
A Gallery to Play to - Preview
Dylan Thomas Festival talk in The Independent
Larkin Society talk
Database of Plays (incomplete)
Poetry in Schools
At Port Eliot Festival
Sample Poetry Lesson
Sample Poetry Workshop
Poets on the Buses

Sunday, 1 November 2009

Playlist: November 2009

My memories of the November Show are already hazy and our audio recording is sans music - for copyright reasons you understand - but these are some of the tracks we played:

1. 'When the Man Comes Around' by Johnny Cash off 'American IV: The Man Comes Around'

What better way to kick off than with Johnny Cash singing his last great composition. The chugga-lugga rhythm of his early work on Sun records and Colombia isn't for everyone - it is for me - but few discerning ears can resist the five albums - and one boxed set, 'Unearthed' - he made with Rick Rubin and released on American Recordings.

2. 'The Man With the Child in His Eyes' by Kate Bush off 'The Kick Inside'

Maybe not the most apt way to introduce a school teacher, but even Phil Bowen knows this is a great Sunday morning record. Kate Bush was in her early teens when she wrote it. Most artists spend a career never getting close.

3. 'Wonderful Land' by The Shadows off just about any Shadows compilation you care to name.

Phil still hasn't forgiven Rachel for playing 'FBI' instead. And I haven't forgiven Phil for insisting we play this as well, two Hank Marvin instrumentals on one show...

4. 'She Loves You' by The Beatles - their second single

'Please Please Me' came first but this was their first number one, their best seller to this day, and the record with which they conqueured the UK, America and the world. Phil Bowen comes from Liverpool too, you know.

5. 'I Want You' by Bob Dylan off 'Blonde on Blonde'

One of Bob's more melodious and romantic numbers off possibly the greatest album of all time, purportedly written about Anita Pallenburg, then girlfriend of Brian Jones, one time member of The Rolling Stones and wearer of Chinese suits.

6. 'Suzanne' by Leonard Cohen off 'Songs of Leonard Cohen'

Rare proof that a good poem can become a great song, 'Suzanne Takes You Down' was first published in 'Parasites of Heaven' then recorded by Judy Collins who introduced a nervous Leonard Cohen to the world of music. Mr Cohen is 75 and back on the road.

7. 'Downtown Train' by Tom Waits off 'Rain Dogs'

Still probably Tom Waits most recognisable - and most covered - song, Phil used this as an excuse to reminisce about his publican years, sharing early morning snifters with Keith Floyd in Clifton, Bristol.

8. 'I'll Give You Anything But Love' by Ella Fitzgerald

Phil Bowen's play 'Anything But Love' - a fictitious meeting between Dorothy Parker and Dorothy Fields - was opening at The New End Theatre, Hampstead the Sunday we interviewed him. Ella turns this Dorothy Fields lyric into a slow burning smooch.

9. 'Human Nature' by Miles Davis off 'You're Under Arrest'

Some find the Miles' late work a little too close to elevator music for their liking - we had complaints that said as much - but whatever you think of the eighties synthesized setting, the trumpet playing on this John Bettis/Steve Porcaro written number locks into the melody and never lets it go.

10. 'Human Nature' by Michael Jackson off 'Thriller'

And the complaints continued as we segued into The King of Pop's take on the song which we used to introduce my review of 'Michael Jackson's This Is It'. Not that we cared. The sweet Jacko vocal and limbic Quincy Jones production still move the eighties child inside the noughties man. They use a Michael Jackson CD as a doorstop in the Phonic FM studio, you know.

11. 'Psycho Killer' by Talking Heads off 'Stop Making Sense'

The link was corny - leading into my 'Maestros of the Movies: Alfred Hitchcock' feature - but there's nothing corny about the music, off one of the greatest concert films and live albums ever released.

Maestros of the Movies: Alfred Hitchcock

Alfred Hitchcock was devoted to the production of pure cinema, directing 52 films.

Beginning his 50 year career as an art designer in the silent movies, he was a master of visual story telling, story-boarding every scene. So far as Hitch was concerned, most of the work was done before the cameras rolled. Compare his working sketches of 'The Birds' with the finished product.

He was a master technician, being able to call shots and count frames without needing to be behind the lens, and loved to work within constraints and innovate his way out of them:

- 'Rear Window' was filmed within and looking out of a single New York apartment, that becomes a window on the world.

- 'Rope', possibly the first mainstream movie to feature homosexuals as the - albeit murderous - protagonists seems to happen in real time and be composed of just one shot, in fact ten spliced by clever edits.

- In 'Frenzy', he used a similar technique to maintain the continuity between scenes shot in Pinewood Studios and Covent Garden, London.

- Hitch and his cinematographer Irmin Roberts introduced the dolly zoom, moving the camera in while zooming in to stretch an image, mimicking the experience of vertigo in the film of the same name

- They also pushed blue screen technique further and got better results than any other crew, though his preference for studio over location and love of car shots sometimes gives the modern viewer a sense of unreality; some of the remake of his own 'The Man Who Knew Too Much' was shot in Morocco, but you wouldn't know it

Although his minor works have dated, budding film directors can still learn plenty from his finest creations:

- Direct the audience, not the actors. The cast are there to fake it, the audience to feel it. Method acting made no sense to Hitchcock; you don't need to feel how it is to be a murderer to act like a murderer; and if you're feeling murderous, you won't be a bundle of fun on set.

- Make the film before you make the film. For all his use of ground-breaking set design, Alfred had the first cut down in his head before the clapper board came down. Every frame of the famous shower scene in 'Psycho' was conceived and sketched before it was filmed.

- Tell the story with the sound turned off. Hitchcock began his apprenticeship in the silent German cinema of the Expressionist era, when visuals were primary and music completed the emotional palette; when used, dialogue was there not to carry the plot, but to illustrate it in words.

- Music has more emotional impact than words. Hitchcock's closest working relationships were with his camera men, set designers and, most of all, the composers of his soundtracks. Actors might be fun socially, but were never co-creators. Bernard Hermann's decade long stint as Hitch's own maestro took the sound of movies from the melodic and orchestral to the screeching electronica of 'The Birds'.

- Suspense is the withholding of information: from the audience, from the characters, from the actors. Hitchcock was the master of the long pause: a steady, silent shot while something crucial was happening just out of hearing, just beyond view, became his trademark. He wasn't a horror film maker, but every film maker working in that genre learnt their tricks from Hitch.

Not all of his work will satisfy the modern audience. By the sixties, he was over-stretching himself, making more than cameo appearances to introduce his TV series and working on multiple projects when his best works were his sole obsessions. By the late sixties he'd lost touch with the times. Not all of the comedy in 'Family Plot' was intentional.

His raw material was pulp fiction and cod-psychology and in most of his work, neither plot nor character motive bear too much scrutiny. It was on the occasions when the screenplay transcended its source and the movie-making transcended its screenplay that he achieved greatness; his greatest scenes get beneath the conscious mind and into your dreams.

Saturday, 31 October 2009

'Chocolate Che' Sampler








Acknowledgements are due to the editors of the following publications: Aesthetica, City Lighthouse, Dog, Fire River, Flying Post, Headlock, Odyssey, Orbis, Ore, Shearsman, Smith’s Knoll, South, Spectrum, Staple, Tears in the Fence, Terrible Work, Tremblestone.

Versions of some of these poems first appeared in the chapbook The Duchess of Kalighat, published by Tears in the Fence, after winning their pamphlet competition.




from CHOCOLATE CHE




Chocolate Che

To celebrate Thanksgiving Day
The Yankees baked a chocolate Che
With buttermilk from Camaguey
And cacao from the factory
He founded in the heady days
When cocoa was revolutionary.

He wore a marzipan beret,
Its insignia that rarity -
A perfect star-shaped strawberry -
To strip the comandante
Who took the I from industry
Of the badge that gave him dignity.

They gagged him with a Cadbury’s flake
Imported by the C.I.A.
And stretched him on a rack of cane
Lashed onto a Chevrolet,
Carved him up at Gitmo Bay
With harvest blunt machetes -

Took his head to the Admiralty
As their cut of the bounty
That is La Isla Grande,
Then toasted him with rum flambé
In memory of Hemingway -
Red flames, like the blues, they fade away



Three Buckets for Love

Welcome to my home. I do not live here.
This is the bathroom, it has no bath.
Three buckets for love, a dripping tap.

Frames without doors, the curtains part -
Mama launders bread in her chamber pot.
Welcome to my home, she does not live here.

Her vest bares a rash of day-glo hearts.
Under the arc of a hung bulb stand
Three buckets for love. A dripping tap

Ticks stage left of our netted bed.
Brothers call cues from the room next door.
Welcome to my home, they do not live here.

Papa stirs the pot, tucks in with his spoon -
A black bean soup with bones, twice stewed -
Three buckets for love. A dripping tap

Salutes the dawn. Stool pigeons perch behind
The moon. Two parrots rap on the washing line.
Welcome to my home. You do not live here.
Three buckets for love. A dripping tap.



Che's Hands

Che's grave is not Che's grave.
And the bones in it are not Che's.
And those cold hands in the jar
tucked away in Fidel's pantry -
they are not the hands of Che,
though they are both human
and Che-like. And that wax mask
that impressed the face of Che
did not impress the face of Che.
And those photos of the dead Che
as Christ, with the generals playing
Romans, display neither Christ,
nor Che, nor Romans. And his wounds
are not wounds as we know them.
And all the tales of Che you've read
are not tales with Che in them.
And all these Che poems are not
Che poems, or even poems at all.
And if you took a lock of the hair
of Che, it is Che's hair no longer.
And if you say that Che was a saint,
you either did not meet that Che
or you have never met a saint.
And any likeness at all between
my Che and your Che is coincidental,
if you believe in coincidence,
which Che did not. And if you say
Che lives, then Che lives, although
he doesn't live, and isn't Che.
And if I say Che never lived, then that
is all I have to say about Che.





from MY WHITE GHOSTS



 
If Art Was a Car

If art was a car, I’d take this line for a spin
Round the east fork of Long Island in deep summer
From bar to bar, woman to woman, half a bourbon

Between my thighs, making one curve then another,
Swivelling a circle just because I can -
Now that would be a day, a day worth living.

But art is not a car, and to drive is not to paint
As James Dean or Baby Jayne would surely testify
If their bodies were those of cars that could be fixed.

Or my own uncle, the butcher, chauffeured down the A46
Hand waving out the window, a bleeding finger in its fist,
Then a year later, taking the wall of dawn head on

Like Pollock took on art when the canvas was still empty
As a salt flat in the sun, and the world was young
As my uncle, who didn’t make that corner in his sleep



Bacon Dust

The thrill of sable
Before it’s dipped
Becomes a bottle
That’s launched its ship.
As my last seed
Is sown, I trust
You’ll swallow a dose
Of Bacon dust.

It’s such a con:
Just as I sussed
How an old man
Can deal with lust
Sleep lays down
Its finishing crust -
Label my bag
‘Bacon dust’.

Unframe the windows
Unhinge the doors
Rollup the ceiling
Fold up the walls.
Here stood my body -
This is a bust.
Now hoover up
That Bacon dust.

The art connoisseur
Will say ‘Vintage stuff!’
As he gets a nose
Of this fragrant muff,
Snort it like coke
Or sniff it like snuff,
A line or a pinch –
Pure Bacon dust.

My nerves are jarred,
Racked with paint
Between Cardinal Red
And Crimson Lake -
For a sanguine colour
Sharper than rust
Hand the man down
Some Bacon dust.

Reglaze the windows
Hang up the doors
Rollout the ceiling
Unfold the walls.
Museums are morgues,
Let’s not discuss
The provenance of
My Bacon dust.



The Larkin Lads

Wear wings of jazz
on boots recast in lead:

have one top hat,
a nest for two egg heads

and magic wands
that double up as sticks;

time’s grey magicians
up to their old tricks…

Shuffle with a shrinking pack.
Stuff a rabbit into cats.

Saw young girls until they blur.
Take a hammer. Make it tap

beats out on a pocket watch.
Hear it tick. Hear it tock.

Lend no mind to conjuring
bones out of the magic box

we all end up sleeping in.
Even the Larkin Lads

who’ll close the show in socks
to the hottest licks of jazz.





from RETURN TO KALIGHAT



Grey, Languorous

The old monkey of the mountains
sits in his Bodhi tree
tail plumb as the pendulum
of a cobwebbed grandfather clock.

He’s given up on the world -
all of its comforts, all of its vices -
left his home, abandoned the tribe,
renounced his daughters, rejected those wives,
relinquished his sons. His work is done
and he has done with it.

He seeks the enlightenment
that comes to those who wait.
And wait. And wait alone.

But your passing by has touched him
with an awareness of an awareness -
what if he’s missed out on life’s pleasures
only to retain the sum of its pains?

Face rubbed down with coal,
eyes glowing in their grates,
he hates the world that found him
out while he was searching.

Screech loud as an Eagle Owl’s,
star-shaped as he leaps -
he would surely crush the skull
of any monk who wandered by
on his own path into the mountains.

 
 
Tusker

The old rogue was here an hour ago:
came crashing through the matchwood trees,
stopped our toy train in its tracks,
then forged on through Darjeeling leaves
in search of moonshine and weed.

If he had a mahout, he’d tossed him
as a gumboot buffalo might flick
a tick-picking egret from his hide,
tipped his trunk and bellowed a cry
buoyed up on a full tank of steam.

The elephant men were on his trail
armed with knockout darts and chains -
it takes quite a spike to pierce that hide.
They’d lost their drink, he’d lost his mind,
bloodhound eyes rolling in his head -

A kingdom conquered, then occupied
by the urge to lose, lose it again.
No stash is safe, however contained -
his sense of smell now rice wine primed,
his liver moaning, day and night.

They find him sleeping, vast and grey
as a monument carved from rock.
He dreams of drinking, as drunkards do.
The mountains tremble with his snores.
They cock their guns. Give him a shot.



A Cow Is Dying


Beneath the house of the poet Tulsi
where Ganga mud meets Chunar stone
a cow is dying.

Sheltered under saffron
cosseted beneath a blanket
with fires burning at head and feet
a cow is dying.

Back beaten, legs broken
a cow is dying
and children bring her garlands,
while a sadhu ladles water
onto her lolling tongue.

A cow is dying,
her eyes two balls of crystal
cloudy and mysterious with pain.

A raga is played in mourning
today is the day it speaks of –
a cow is dying

Beside an upturned rowboat
a cow is dying
and when darkness falls
like a great black bird

She will be dipped into the river
tenderly as the bathing of a calf,
a mother swallowing her own milk.




Published April 2nd 2010
Paperback, 96pp, 9x6ins, £8.95 / $15
Shearsman Books
ISBN 9781848611061



The poems in Chocolate Che were written in Cuba in the fiftieth year of the revolution; in India working with dying destitutes and recovering from tuberculosis; travelling up and down the spine of the Americas and into the heart of Europe on the trail of soldiers, artists and monks.

Damian Furniss works images into narratives that are both darkly humorous and strangely moving. Using forms as varied as their subjects, with characteristic verbal intensity and a probing wit, he returns to the fixations of his youth in wry but reflective maturity. Along the way, he encounters the Dalai Lama and Mother Teresa; visits the houses of Pablo Picasso and Salvador DalĂ­, only to find no one's at home; and collects the stubs of cigars that might once have been smoked by Che Guevara and Fidel Castro, but probably weren't.

Praise for his chapbook, The Duchess of Kalighat, several poems from which are included in this, his first full collection:

"Furniss explores India in many varied and astonishing images . . . no poet of promise but a poet of arrival." — Derrick Woolf, Poetry Quarterly Review

"The fire in the poetry roars. In this book the subject is hot and so is the language." — Tim Allen, Terrible Work

"This has a vitality all of its own." —Brian Hinton, Tears in the Fence

"Has strong convictions and a clearly defined sense of purpose. These are moving, transforming poems." —Emma Neale, Scratch



Damian Furniss was conceived on the night England won the Football World Cup. He was educated at King Edward VI Grammar School, Stratford-Upon-Avon (where he was taught in the same room as Shakespeare) and Keble College, Oxford. He lives in the West Country and works in Health and Social Care. His poetry, prose and reviews have been widely published in magazines and anthologies and he has read at festivals and arts centres around the country and at the Indian High Commission. He is currently working on two novels: Shin Kicking and Life Before Death. He is the co-host of The Blah Blah Blah Show, an arts magazine radio show on Phonic FM.

Chocolate Che is his first full-length poetry colleciton.