A TOWN CALLED PANIC

A Town Called Panic 

Director: Vincent Patar, Stéphane Aubier

Starring: Horse, Cowboy, and Indian

Year: 2009

Bumper: Ryan Wilson

All for One...

Okay, so you have an hour and fifteen minutes left of consciousness.  It's been a LONG goddamn day and you want to laugh.  You could go with Woody--he's short and sweet, and there'll be laughs of course, though probably more of the chuckle variety.  Or, you could throw yourself out the window and into a pool of psychedelic clay.  Which is it then?  Exactly. 

I stumbled into our quiet time in the house after walking the dog, exhausted, probably still hung over, though I don't remember for sure, and looked at the screen, incredulous.  Somewhere between the hours of 2 and 4, since the death of the nap, we engage in movie time--usually a few episodes of Kipper the Dog or Oswald the Octopus.  Granted, not white-hot material, but our gentle son enjoys pleasant characters being kind to one another, sorting out banal conflicts with understanding and ice cream.  And we enjoy lying prostrate, nearing alpha phase, attempting to block out the external world for 60 - 90 minutes.  Enter the mayhem that is Panic.

"What the hell is this?" I asked, rubbing my eyes.

"It's raw genius.  Sit down," Sarah said.

For the initial viewing, I missed the first fifteen minutes during which "the plot" is unveiled.  Horse, Cowboy, and Indian live together in Horse's lovely house in the French countryside.  Cowboy and Indian have blown it, forgotten Horse's birthday, so they scramble to get a gift to the party in time.  They settle upon a brick barbecue grill, which they plan to build together.  After accidentally ordering 50 zillion bricks instead of 50, all hell breaks loose and stays broken... and loose. 

Underwater finned creatures, mad, sadistic scientists, holes in the earth leading to pools of magma, foals clobbered by giant snowballs--there's too much to list with any degree of coherency.  But that is this film's genius.  It is coherent and insane--because friendship, forgiveness, and a sense of lusty fun win the day. 

Our 3 and 1/2 year old is rapt watching this subtitled film, completely oblivious to the fact that what's being said is an actual language (and what's being said is almost as funny as what's on the screen).  The visual storytelling and the claymation are profoundly beautiful, detailed, and specific.  It takes a special film to supply equally potent left hooks of raw comic brilliance to the jaws of children and parents.  And no, Pixar doesn't do this.  Aside from the brilliant-on-all-levels Wall-E, Pixar winks at parents with knowing pop culture references while dazzling the kiddies.  Pixar is undeniably awesome in scope, craft, precision, and marketing power, but the films lack what Panic offers--a pure, madcap soul. 

THIRTY-TWO SHORT FILMS ABOUT GLENN GOULD

THIRTY-TWO SHORT FILMS ABOUT GLENN GOULD
Director: François Girard
Starring: Colm Feore (as Glenn Gould) and some real-life people doing interviews
Year: 1993


Bumper: John Maurer


Did you ever meet an artist and think to yourself afterwards, “I loved his art, but I have to admit—that guy was kind of a prick!” No doubt these experiences are fairly run-of-the-mill. The artist’s profession is well-stocked with megalomaniacal egotists (not that other career paths aren’t!)—a crowded koi pond of mechanically gaping holes hoping to snag a few pellets of your fish food. I’ve met amateurs whose attitude alone could boost them into the big leagues. In fact, it almost seems to be a requirement. And many who lack the knack adopt an affected-yet-effective snobbishness, seemingly to allay all doubts or fears we may have that their genius is indeed genuine. Ever see Miles Davis perform? When he turns his back to the audience because who gives a fuck about those people? Exactly. But dang. Good stuff, right?? Like any real-world situation worth subscribing to, it’s conflicted. We tolerate these prima donnas so long as they dish up somethin’ tasty in return. But come’on. A friendly artist now-and-then (who can still pack a punch artistically) would be a delightful departure from the norm. More Andre Agassi and less John McEnroe; more Brett Hull, less Eddie Belfour.

I don’t know where in history this “mad genius” stuff gets launched, but I’m thinkin’ Beethoven, maybe? (Also queue bump Immortal Beloved.) In any case, it’s likely tied up in that whole Romanticism gig; like one’a those meat-zealous entrées that gets wrapped in bacon (and while I’m on the subject, bacon bits in salad is another pork-inspired culinary aberration that invokes my gag reflex). During that period, the individual gets put on a pedestal and artist-worship surpasses art-appreciation. The People magazine of the day would have profiled Marie Antoinette beside “Wolfie” Mozart, comparing wigs, white stockings, and bedroom wit. But enough about that rant: this movie’s about one of the usual suspects—an asshole that shits gold.

And speaking of launch parties, this guy got invited to a pretty big one. His performance of Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier Prelude No. 1 was sent packing for deep space aboard Voyager, where someday some so-called intelligent life-form may give it a whirl after piecing together the binary arithmetic that is engraved in a gold platter (good luck, guys!). (Ironically, this album cannot be purchased on Earth for copyright reasons.) The rewards will be sublime. Assuming you’re into that kind of thing and your mood is properly tempered to receive it—it’s a little pastel for my liking. Saucier fare featured in the film includes Bach’s Invention No. 13 performed at break-neck speed in Gould’s head in the section entitled “45 Seconds and a Chair” (at his level, an actual piano becomes a superfluous appendage, apparently—any chair alone will suffice) and the second movement from Beethoven’s Sonata No. 13 (uncannily, another number thirteen) aired from his Hamburg hotel room while nearly holding the chambermaid hostage as audience (for which she later thanks him for the imposition).

But my hands-down favorite would have to be his “contrapuntal radio documentary,” The Idea of North—the first installment in his Solitude Trilogy, in which he orchestrates recordings of several people rambling ad nauseam, as if they were instruments in an hour-long symphony (no piano music here, folks). The piece is made palpable through a behind-the-scenes peek at him (er, Colm Feore) passionately conducting the pre-recorded radio show from scripts of the spoken text. Without listening, you would think something grandeur and operatic was being performed (think Ode to Joy), not three Canadian hill-billies droning on about the weather. Gould had obviously begun to lose his marbles, and that’s usually where I begin to get interested. A corollary to this phenomenon would be the shady, misunderstood father from Strictly Ballroom (if you’ve not seen this classic, queue bump now!). I’ve always been fascinated by this champion-turned-chump—how his hapless flirtation with the avant garde brings about his imminent demise. But I liked his squirrely dancing, dammit.

Another famous pianist-turned-recluse who’s playing is a little more my bread-and-butter also warrants comparison: Thelonious Sphere Monk (queue bump Straight, No Chaser). That’s right: Sphere. No confusing the guy for a Square. Gould quits playing in public at 31 (thus the division of the movie into 31 parts plus the end credits, I’m guessing; and/or, alternatively, it could have something to do with Bach’s Goldberg Variations, which has 32 movements that, like the film, open and close with an aria—incidentally, his performances of this composition are widely considered definitive and his tombstone features the first few measures). Monk closes shop at 54. They both pour on plenty of gravy until we’re all salivating for more, and then… bam!: pair of cold turkeys. No comeback tour either; though the two of them performing together as a duet (playing pianos, playing chairs, orchestrating hill-billies, whatever) is a savory hypothetical consideration.

Monk stopped talking in general the year before signing off, so the reasons remain obscure. Gould, in contrast, loves to hear himself pontificate and circuitously explains in “Gould Meets Gould” how he stops publicly performing on moral grounds: the artist shouldn’t have to pander and, in turn, the public shouldn’t have to praise. (Luckily, writers can often just hide behind the covers of a book and avoid all that awkwardness—spoken word aside.) He continues to record, however, since it provides a comfortable anonymity, greater longevity (think Voyager!),better outcomes (i.e. the pursuit of perfection through multiple takes in the studio), and, well, a sustained income. Ironically, his recordings are marred by the sounds of him humming along to his own playing, so the “perfection” part requires a little imagination on the listener’s part. Sure, people in the know say his recordings are amazing and that you start to tune out his unnerving vocal accompaniment after the umpteenth listen. But really?, must I? Strangely, none of the recordings in the film have one iota of humming in them, which is a bit of an unfair representation. For the same reason, I can’t stomach much Keith Jarrett either, and I realize he’s widely-considered primo in jazz circles (er, spheres). Humming always reminds me of old ladies at church, and I didn’t sign up for that. Sorry.

Anyway, I always imagined myself in some fashion living in Gould’s world. Not Gould’s, specifically (how presumptuous!). But the eccentric hermetic lifestyle, locked away from society in a virtual cave (usually a slummy downtown apartment, in my imagination) to cultivate in solace various avant thoughts and to nurse multiple creative afflictions: piano, poetry, painting, etc. This would not only be partly by choice but partly out of necessity, since: a.) I can’t seem to turn off the voices (and have grown somewhat attached to them, besides which), and since b.) my experience thus far had proven lackluster in the relationship department; likely due in part to my stellar lack of generating enough personal space to let another person in. But as Gould demonstrates, even a voluntary loner may eventually grow desperate for contact—subjecting casual acquaintances and distant family members to lengthy monologues at odd hours and pill-popping what time remains to quell the emptiness.

To my great fortune and lasting satisfaction, somebody busted down that door and helped tidy up those inner spaces for me, and we’ve been co-habitating in harmony (staccatoed with occasional dissonance, like any healthy composition) ever since. Sure, the voices are still there. But they no longer enslave me. For the most part.

Thirty-two Short Films is a quirky, creative take on a quirky, creative dude. (OK, Gould’s a little debonair for “dude” status. But you get the picture.) Cultivate your Inner North and explore a version of genius. Scarf and gloves recommended!

Fin.