Dusty Wright's Culture Catch - Smart Pop Culture, Video & Audio podcasts, Written Reviews in the Arts & Entertainment

What's In A Name?

Kathleen Cullen — Fri, 30 May 2025 15:18:06 +0000

What's In A Name? Kathleen Cullen May 30, 2025 - 11:18

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Artist: Nora Turato. Installation view. Courtesy of No Name, Paris Photographer: Thomas Lannes

Visiting the Paris art scene, a gallery titled No Name, featuring art in a show called “A Hundred Ways to Disappear,” proves to be anything but nondescript. An academic sense of art history, combined with innovative curation, left this reviewer wanting to know the details of how and why the selections were made. No Name director and curator Léo Panico was gracious enough to talk with me.

Kathleen Cullen: No Name gallery is in Paris, so let’s start with an overview of the program and the focus of the gallery to familiarize our Culture Catch readers. Also, please describe your role and why you decided to add the curation of this show?

Léo Panico: No Name is a project space founded by the art advisor Patricia Marshall in 2022 with the idea of inviting artists, critics collector and curators to collaborate with us on curating shows, to see what the dialogue between our advisory perspective could be, leaning on the post conceptual and minimalist side of contemporary art, and the one from other professional from the artworld. It requires from both sides–us and our guests–a true desire to collaborate. We, for instance, worked with the Mexican-based artist Dario Escobar, the curator Daniel Birnbaum, the movie producer Jacqui Davies, and the French art critic Armelle Leturcq.

Most of the artists exhibited have rarely been shown in France; we generally collaborate with foreign galleries, allowing their artists to reach a new audience.

PIERRE ALLAIN & STEFANA McCLURE. Installation view. Courtesy of No Name. Photographer: Thomas Lannes

This exhibition is a turning point as it is the first we're doing without inviting someone as co-curator. I wanted to work for a long time on the theme of absence and disappearance as a tempting response to the overabundance of images and words surrounding us. Absence as a refusal, a soft resistance where what is suggested prevails over what is given, the part prevailing over the whole.

KC: You use this quote to open up the information about the show. What does it reference? Did the quote help inspire you, or was it a discovery after you arrived at the theme?

“To look at what you wouldn’t look at, to hear what you wouldn’t listen to, to be attentive to the banal, to the ordinary, to the infra-ordinary” - Paul Virilio

LP: It was a late discovery. This quote reflects on the possibility of looking at things differently, and being alert, more vigilant to what is around. It is hard not to overlook artworks, it requires effort and time from the viewers, especially when the works claim a multi-aspect, which is the case for some of the works in this show. This quote is also a reference to the concept of Inframince developed by Marcel Duchamp in the 1930s that questions the limits between the visible and the invisible, the material and the immaterial, art and non-art. This notion is at the center of the exhibition.

KC: The show contains drawings, media, paintings, sculpture, and even audio. Please tell us how what is really such a wide array of styles all comes under the heading of “ A Hundred Ways To Disappear”?

LP: The idea was not to display an exhaustive list of all possible mediums, despite the title of the show! I was more interested in the possible connections and dialogue between each work. A number of them are related to language and its failure to seize our reality. For instance, Stefana McClure's works from the Films on Paper series, in which all the subtitles of a film are written by the artist on tracing paper and then superimposed and transferred onto a colored medium, result in two illegible white lines on a colored screen. A single image contains an entire film, whose content is unknown to us since all the letters are merging to create two almost continuous and unreadable lines. The meaning is here covered by a layering of words and sentences, as if our desires to know and to always add more could only result in an even more partial understanding of things. Pierre Allain’s sound piece compiles testimonies of people unsuccessfully trying to remember the name of a movie that traumatized them. The work is titled Tip of My Tongue and is about this feeling of lacking words and memory failing us. Nora Turato (image top) employs expressions or sentences that are now empty shells, as they have almost lost any meaning after being so overused.

KC: Since the very nature of art is to be seen, heard, or in some way experienced, disappearing seems almost like the last goal you would have. But when I see the transparent sculpture of Olga Balema, one is suddenly aware of the idea. Can you describe how the work of the artists featured is part of the curatorial choices?

Olga Balema & Jeronimo Ruedi. Installation view. Courtesy of No Name. Photographer: Thomas Lannes

LP: Olga Balema’s work was essential in the conception of the show. For me, her work is redefining what sculpture could be, in a very modest yet powerful way. The reflective and transparent surface of the work almost disappears in the space, but is inviting its environment into it at the same time. A single ray of light transforms it and then irradiates the room. The sculpture evolves throughout both the day and the visitor's displacement in the space. Olga’s work, among others in the show, explores these circumventing strategies, on how not to be upfront and give all the keys for their understanding at once.

KC: I think the show presents an almost ideal challenge to the viewers in that the work may not always be traditional, but at the same time, command attention no matter how subtle - would you agree? Is the challenge part of the point?

LP: I like this idea of a challenge when looking at an artwork. No Name is located in a bourgeois apartment and has a strong presence, with its marble chimneys and moldings on the walls. It requires one to have a significant curatorial perspective if you don’t want to fall into the showroom category.

Some of the works in the show have a substantial presence despite their minimalist and barely visible aspect, such as the large work by Michel Parmentier titled 5 avril 1991 and made of white pastel stripes on tracing paper. The result is a 300 cm x 300 cm (120 x 120 in.) piece manifesting its aura in the room while almost dissolving into the wall. Same with Latifa Echakhch’s Erratum 2004-2013 piece, made of 350 broken tea glasses shattered on the floor. The tea glasses are a symbol of Moroccan culture, the artist’s birth country. Here, lying on the floor, the glass shards form a cutting reflection on cultural heritage, colonialism, hospitality, and femininity.

Most of the works are playing with the notion of afterwardsness, as if what we were seeing were the traces and spectral shapes of past forms.

KC: You have really worked to educate the viewer with a variety of artists' perspectives. Can you elaborate on this with some examples from the show?

LP: This is what makes No Name an exciting project, bringing artists to an audience that is sometimes not familiar with them and that we want to support, in a space that is the opposite of a white cube.

LATIFA ECHAKHCH Erratum, 2004-2013 broken tea glasses scattered on the floor variable dimensions courtesy of the artist

We try to create dialogues between works from confirmed artists and younger ones. In the show, a video of Paulo Nazareth crossing the border between Mexico and the US while disappearing in the sand dunes is facing a sculpture by Matthias Odin. This sculpture consists of an assemblage of various objects related to the domestic sphere that he collected while living in precarious conditions. These works are two different perspectives on migration and roaming, one from one state to another, and one on what it is to be a stranger in your own city, both questioning notions of belonging and domesticity.

KC: Having seen the work in the show, I can attest to the impact of the theme. How has the finished product impacted you as the curator?

LP: I’m surprised to see how all the works continue to grow on you when you share the space with them for some time, and how new dialogues between them are emerging, thanks to the dialogue they allow with visitors. I now see how Berenice Olmedo’s work is related to the classical history of sculpture. The work we have in the show reminds me of a female torso from the Parthenon, Iris, the winged messenger goddess, now shown at the British Museum, but almost as a negative imprint of this classical torso.

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A Hundred Ways to Disappear
No Name
3 Place de l'Alma
75008 Paris
April 11 - June 24, 2025
Instagram
contact: leo@marshallfineart.com

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Tough Enough

Chet Kozlowski — Fri, 30 May 2025 13:29:32 +0000

Tough Enough Chet Kozlowski May 30, 2025 - 09:29

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Film Review

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drama

Moviegoers expecting the Irish film Swing Bout to be a violent boxing movie will instead find a gripping ensemble drama with sharp writing and strong performances. The violence is in the hearts of men (and women) who are working toward their own desperate ends. FYI: A “swing bout” is a filler boxing match, which happens on short notice, when the main event ends prematurely. Swing Bout is in keeping with that: most of the action takes place in locker rooms, toilets, and offices. Fighters train and preen and wait for a chance that may not come.

Everybody’s got an angle in Swing Bout. Everybody wants something, be it fame or fortune or simply to survive. All the players, those gloved-up and otherwise, spew sweat, vitriol, and self-doubts.

The boxing ring is run by two brothers: coke-snorting Jack (Ben Condron) and beleaguered Micko (Frank Prendergast) who have run afoul of gangsters. They have much riding on the outcome of the fights. New fighter Toni (Ciara Berkeley) is anxious to prove her pugilistic gifts against all contenders. “I’m gonna be world champ,” she crows to her manager, the sexy and duplicitous Emma (Sinead O’Riordan). Emma replies, “Everyone’s going to be world champ until the real world champ starts punching their face in.” Toni’s next fight is against her dreadlocked nemesis Vicki (Chrissie Cronin) and Emma tells her to take a fall in round two. Toni objects: “I’m better than this.” Emma’s reply: “We are nobodies. We’re swing bout fighters.” But Emma complicates matters by being in cahoots with Gary (Gerard Kearney) after carrying on with Micko while fucking Jack… well, you get the picture.

Having this many balls in the air requires control, and director Maurice O’Carroll is up to the task. He keeps his camera steady, either gliding along next to characters or rooted midlevel, filming the various clashes in one-shots, heightening the you-are-there authenticity. These scenes expertly ratchet up the tension and subvert the clichés of the genre. Mr. O’Carroll is part of a wave of new Irish films. He’s worked as an editor in TV series and shorts, and his penchant for the long take lays the film’s foundation. This is his first feature.

Swing Bout centers on Toni, played by Ciara Berkeley. Ms. Berkeley is tall and elegant, more suited to Downton Abbey than the ring. Her ferocity as Toni comes as a surprise. Toni punches the air incessantly and blots out noise with big headphones. She bolsters herself with a motivational tape: “The one who looks outside dreams; the one who looks inside awakes,” intones the recorded voice of the Guru (Jack Connors). Toni is dismissed by one character as “a criminal.” To her, boxing is the path to redemption.

But the story isn’t just Toni’s. This is a true ensemble, with many standout performances. Ben Condron is electric as Jack, peacocking in a shiny suit and new cowboy boots. Mary Malicious (Megan Haly) is an able foil. She’s addlebrained from a fight, suffering the blows that we anticipate for Toni. Chrissie Cronin brings bravado and vulnerability to Vicki, who spits and growls but wants most to not disappoint her father and manager Bomber (Johnny Elliot), once a boxer himself. Flann (Baz Black) is a totally tattooed fighter insisting on his shot; his short scene sets the stakes and lingers in the mind.

Swing Bout resembles a stage play in its economy of space while packing a real wallop. And yet, no real fisticuffs come until the climax, despite the constant drone of muffled cheers and blow-by-blow commentary of the fights in the other room.

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Swing Bout. Directed by Maurice O’Carroll. 2024. From Orion Productions. Runtime 90 minutes. On digital platforms.

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Who Is The Mystery Girl?

Robert Cochrane — Thu, 29 May 2025 00:57:32 +0000

Who Is The Mystery Girl? Robert Cochrane May 28, 2025 - 20:57

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Literary Review

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fiction

"Picture This," as Debbie Harry so artfully implored.

A young girl leaves her Northern metropolis, Liverpool, for 1960s London, in the midst of revolution and swinging. She writes reviews for music magazines and pens a shocking novel that was published in 1968 via the respected firm of Jonathan Cape. Feted and reviewed by the likes of Auberon Waugh, in 1969, Baby Love, a title borrowed from the Supremes' hit, became a hugely successful movie, retaining the same title as the book, which then appeared in paperback in both the UK and the US. After such controversy and success, Tina Chad Christian looked set to take the Seventies by storm. She hasn't been heard from since.

There are many flash-in-the-pan successes that clutter the shelves of bookstores and thrift shops. They can be purchased for precious little long after their brief days of glory. Such cannot be said for Baby Love. Copies are scarce, and when they do appear, they command at least $300 in hardback. She isn't a name, in reality, a pseudonym, but a market exists for her sole work, a tract recognised by dealers and those that seek it out. The price and scarcity restrict it from being widely known. Even the few who wish to read it won't have the wherewithal to justify the reading risk of affording a copy.

The film is better remembered than the work from which it was sourced, and remains available. It was the comeback vehicle for British '50s starlet Diana Dors. A non-speaking part where she ghosts the proceedings in a series of poignant flashbacks, as a suicide, the mother of the central character, Luci.

Baby Love was the film debut, aged fifteen of future blonde horror actress Linda Hayden, whose Lolita-like appetites make for uneasy viewing. She auditioned topless for the role. It isn't a tale penned by a middle-aged male novelist, but by a young woman who has lived the story she transcribes, but with raw honesty and nerve shattering gusto.

The film remains a wonderful encapsulation of societal norms in transition. English comedian Dick Emery plays it straight as a lascivious, but extremely pervy friend of the family. Hayden brings a subtle knowingness to the role of Luci, the girl adopted by an old flame of her dead mother as an act of largesse, legacy and kindness. She arrives from the North to a well-to-do London suburb, initially out of her depth, but perfectly adept at reading the vulnerabilities of those inhabiting her new surroundings. She lures her new guardian's wife into a lesbian affair, seduces and nearly kills his son, and has a bold attempt at bedding him. A role played with brilliant, understated bafflement by the late-Keith Barron.

The book is grittier than the film and doesn't remotely read like a first novel in structure, densely plotted and deeply disturbing, with Luci obviously damaged goods, but possessed with an assuredness of character that doesn't make her a victim, more of a creator of them. There's even permission to quote from a Beatles song on the blurb page, another perfect Sixties embellishment. I have viewed a signed copy where Chad Christian reveals in her neatly rendered dedication that the novel was written entirely from her own experience. A confessional catharsis. It certainly reads as such, even if it is adorned in an Aubrey Beardsley-inspired dust jacket of a young girl's face. And it remains relevant, vibrant, and compelling, in the way an emotional trainwreck in motion can be. A beguiling read that merits belated reassessment, whilst brilliantly skating against the grain of current social constraints and taboos.

Linda Hayden recalls Tina Chad Christian's fleetingly brief appearance on the film set, a memory of a frail young girl who only drank distilled water. A trait related to a chronic childhood condition, the author in question mentioned in her interview with Auberon Waugh for the Telegraph Magazine in 1968. She comes across as strangely prim, almost puritanical, having penned a novel that exhibits none of those traits.

Of the first five novelists interviewed for the feature, she was the most immediately successful, but the sole one to never publish another book. It is time for Tina to take a long, belated bow, be that via the plundered memories of those who knew her, or as the woman that the girl became.

A copy of the book is with Faber, who is considering it as a possibility.

It remains a shocking read.

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Passion Play-ed Out

Chet Kozlowski — Mon, 26 May 2025 13:28:11 +0000

Passion Play-ed Out Chet Kozlowski May 26, 2025 - 09:28

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Film Review

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drama

The new film Electra wants to join the ranks of the Deceitful Guest Crashing the Party genre established in films like The Talented Mr. Ripley, Saltburn (which is really just Ripley), and Performance.

It starts off sassy: stylish graphics in the opening credits, characters introduced with freeze frames and name labels. The staging is clever, and there’s an ersatz music video. We watch pretty rich people living decadent lifestyles in Rome. Electra promises a romp with polyamorous couplings.

Journalist Dylan (if that’s his real name) and “girlfriend/third eye” Lucy meet up with celebrity Milo in Rome for an interview. Milo is charming, foppish, and flaky. He has a partner with benefits, Francesca. The pair is all over each other in a restaurant. They invite Dylan and Lucy for a weekend at Milo’s country estate.

What Milo and Francesca don’t know is that Dylan is not who he claims to be. He has an agenda: a heist. He’s there to steal a valuable painting of a unicorn sitting on a chair. “Only a true, pure soul can be a unicorn,” says Milo. “Like me,” says Francesca. What they don’t know is that Dylan is also there to avenge a woman named Electra.

The film Electra wants to be kinky, but runs out of steam. Or nerve. Innuendos are cast, games are played, and beds are swapped. So why, looking back at its many antics, do I only remember the characters sitting down, talking?

The proceedings wind down as the film goes on. Even an eleventh-hour LSD trip doesn’t liven things up. What starts out as sturdy and confident filmmaking, putting us right in the middle of extravagant experience, ends up in long shot, timidly observing. At the end, the most flash it can muster is (spoiler alert) the screen going red when somebody is stabbed.

The actors are appealing. Daryl Wein as Dylan is a convincing Everyman: his confusion masks a deeper avarice. As Milo, Jack Farthing has a sinewy rock star charm. The women fare less well: Maria Bakalova’s Francesca displays a surprise prudery, while Abigail Cowen plays Lucy as a superficial flake. Her role is underwritten, and maybe unnecessary.

Electra is the first feature by director Hala Matar, who is listed as one of three writers in the screenplay, besides Paul Sado and Daryl Wein. Looks like they plotted it out to be an impressive first feature, but had trouble pulling all the threads. They plant clues (the sexual libertines have a painting of a unicorn; get it?), Milo makes furtive phone calls, Francesca whirls around Lucy, donning masks and enticing her to cavort topless in the backstreets of Rome.

But all those are just red herrings, distracting us from the illogic and incoherence of the plot. Sadly, for all its promise, Electra falls short of a passion project.

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Electra. Directed by Hala Matar. 2024. From Level 33 Entertainment. Runtime 86 minutes. Available on VOD.

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A Minnesota Matinee In Manchester

Robert Cochrane — Tue, 20 May 2025 15:16:37 +0000

A Minnesota Matinee In Manchester Robert Cochrane May 20, 2025 - 11:16

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Music Review

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concert review

Gaelynn Lea and James Holt

The Band On The Wall, Manchester

17 May 2025

Manchester is the recipient of sunshine, not rain on a mid-May Saturday. The streets buzz with the clink and chatter of an almost European ambience, as people make the most of the driest stretch of days in many years. The Band On The Wall, however, maintains an inviting darkness despite the change in the weather.

Waiting to be served, I am approached by a small lady in a wheelchair as she glides past potential obstacles with an easy confidence. She smiles, "Are you the support act's father?" Just as I begin to explain that I'm not, the woman beside me announces that she's the mother of James Holt and introduces her husband, the true father sought in the question. Gaelynn Lea, in her motorised chair, immediately scoots across to them. This composer, violinist, and singer I've never seen live, but this almost introduction makes me relish the prospect of the afternoon's performance with an added frisson of anticipation.

The support act, the previously mentioned singer-songwriter James Holt, specialises in confessional, articulate pop maladies. An engagingly relaxed presence, his songcraft is immediately evident. There are shades of Dylan, Emitt Rhodes, and the cohesion of fellow Mancunian troubadour John Bramwell ( I Am Kloot). It's easy to discern why he's garnered admiring plaudits from many, including Brian Eno. The songs are reflective and complex, with sixties sway and swagger, and by his admission, they aren't always the happiest, but therein lies beauty. "The Wedding" fillets his sorrow over a failed love interest who marries another guy, a surprisingly up-tempo affair given the loss attendant in its subject matter. This elicits a playful heckle from Gaelynn, who is perched at the back of the venue, as she berates him for enjoying a good wallow in despair, which he manfully agrees is true. I would recommend his "Sanguine On The Rocks" release to those in search of new aural delights, a treat that will not disappoint, nor indeed will any of his work.

When Gaelynn takes the stage with her guitarist Richard Carter, there's a faint ripple of anticipation. Because of her small stature, she plays her violin like a cello. It is a perfect arrangement, an inspired compromise. Her sound builds via loops and pedals, and with a knowing nod to her accompanist, with whom she shares an eloquent rapport and fluency, the show begins. The songs are unique confections that enter the heart and haunt the soul. At times her voice fuses with the violin, as though it, the instrument, and she are as one. The sound has a gypsy baroque element, neither country or folk but a beguiling hybrid of both with a sense of refined classicism. An enchanting and mesmerising energy pervades. As she performs, an expressive reverie is present in her eyes. There's an element of Cyndi Lauper to her voice, along with the dedicated concentration of an artist in perfect fusion with her evocative creations.

Lea is promoting the music she wrote for Daniel Craig's Broadway portrayal of Macbeth, and introduces these pieces a little apprehensively on account of them being aired out of context, but she needn't have worried. They are beguiling and work above and beyond their initial purpose as incidental motifs to complement a revered drama. Their pathos and musicality become extraordinary. She expresses her disappointment that many of her favourite musical moments were cut from the play, but is grateful that she got to hear them, albeit once, from a Broadway stage, in an empty, darkened theatre.

Her haunting ballad "Some Day We'll Linger In The Sun," written about her husband, a beautiful gesture she only confessed to much later, is one of the afternoon's highlights. At times, I felt tears rise as the music soared and flowed. Later, she even whips the crowd into an audience participation sing-along. All too soon, the magical reverie is over, the moment flown. Her intrinsic artistry is slowly reaping the recognition her diligent efforts deserve. Collaborations with Low have raised the stakes in her favour, as did her Tiny Desk win (video at top) in 2016. Her first visit to the UK in several years, these shows are a timely reminder of her unique gifts. This Manchester gig is the Minnesota natives' first matinee performance, a uniqueness she is happy to experience and embrace.

Afterwards, Gaelynn mingles with her audience for a chat, a captivating soul with an infectious giggle. On the metro, I was deflated to realise her compact discs had slipped out of my not-quite-sealed rucksack. Beyond the initial sense of loss, a faint hope rose that they'd be found by someone who'd take them home and discover moments of grace from my lost tracts of musical delight. Perhaps matinees, though a thing of the past, might have a bright future. A new kind of afternoon delight in Manchester, Minnesota, and beyond.

Gaelyn Lea revue

What a superb revue , totally captures what was a magical concert.

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Labors of Love

Chet Kozlowski — Mon, 19 May 2025 22:15:31 +0000

Labors of Love Chet Kozlowski May 19, 2025 - 18:15

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Film Review

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drama

The family in the new Portuguese film Autumn is close. Maybe a little too close. Mom is cupping Dad's balls when interrupted by a call from their Son, who's packing for college. Mom leaves Dad hanging, so to speak, to go help Son find his bongos.

Later, Mom will lament that her son "was raised in my belly. Closer would be impossible. But since he came out, he's just been getting further and further away. Sometimes I wish he would come back inside me." Yikes.

Dad is a man-child, a self-professed "adventurer," who doesn't appreciate Mom's angst. But even he reacts to the coming separation when wrestling with his grown Son. Their coupling goes into slow motion, and the camera lingers as he holds the boy, smelling him in.

Then there's Sister. She, too, is touchy-feely and makes goo-goo eyes at her brother. (Dad won't see Sis as a woman until she is half-dressed and in distress. Again, yikes.)

Maybe it's how they do it in the country. The family is isolated and has spent a life in close proximity, their only contact with the outside world being those who come off the occasional train.

Autumn (more literally translated from the Portuguese as My Little House) is the debut feature of Portuguese director António Sequeira. It's a first film, and the choice of subjects in first films can be revealing. Is it wrong to see a sexual subtext running under these scenes? Does Autumn simply display the joys of being in a demonstrative family? All we can safely assume is that the film is a labor of love.

Dad Octavio (Miguel Frazão) is a burly Zorba type, singing and dancing, and expecting everyone to join in. To him, life is all happy-happy joy-joy. He is given to racist jokes, wrasslin', and hunting gifts on birthdays. Mom Susana (Elsa Valentim) is the family’s soul and dutiful center. Son Tomas (Salvador Gil) is ambivalent: he'll leave to start a new life, but also doesn't mind having his feet rubbed (and kissed) by his doting Mom. And Sister Belinha (Beatriz Frazão) has plans of her own to escape. She aspires to attend fashion school in Germany. She presents her brother with a shirt she has sewn, and is put off when she sees Son’s new girlfriend sporting it.

Autumn bursts with color. The family home is a glorious mess, a riot of tapestries and tchotchkes. You want to live there yourself. Autumn is fast. It zips along, flashing subtitles and riding a score of pop-ish songs that overexplain easy emotions.

But speed doesn't mean substance. No one in the family has been bruised by the ways of the world. For all the commotion, viewers may realize that they're not seeing much. The characters, with the notable exception of Mom, don't really ripen or mature. They get older, yes (in one of the film's more fun flourishes, young Mom and Dad stroll along the beach, Dad in front pontificating. Matching shots of Mom have her holding a baby, then an increasingly older child, until she is old and is burdened by a fully-grown Son on her back.

That's not to say Autumn isn't entertaining. Its zest can be contagious. It's a stylish exercise, reminiscent of other joie de vivre movies, and you might well get swept up in the ruckus. Even so, Autumn has all the elements of an impending storm, but the storm never comes.

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Autumn. Directed by António Sequeira. 2023. Portuguese with English subtitles. 114 minutes.

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But You Can Never Leave

Chet Kozlowski — Thu, 08 May 2025 13:19:19 +0000

But You Can Never Leave Chet Kozlowski May 8, 2025 - 09:19

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Film Review

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film noir

A man wakes up in a cheap motel room. A woman lays next to him bathed in blood. He tries to wake her but she’s dead. He can’t remember what happened but does recognize her as the half naked woman who knocked on his door earlier, claiming to be pursued, and ran into the bathroom.

We are clearly in Film Noir territory.

Over the next 100 minutes or so, the intriguingly titled Cinema of Sleep will switch us back and forth between past and present, terror and regret, substance and style. We’ll track the man’s effort to vindicate himself. But hey, he’s on his screen too: in a cutaway, we see that the man sits in a darkened movie theater, watching himself waking up. Shadowy figures surround him and accuse him of murder. As they lead him out, the man pleads for someone—anyone—in the audience to help. But everyone in there is asleep in their seats.

Cinema of Sleep takes place mostly in that motel room. It’s the tale of refugees. The man, Anthony, is from Nigeria. He’s looking for a job, planning to bring his family to the US. He and his children are inveterate movie-goers. He assures them, “I will be invisible, but you will feel me in the cinema.” He speaks with them by cell phone when the reception is good, but they have their own problems and appear to be in imminent danger (when reception is poor, he rants: “This is America! I thought you always had cellular service!”). The woman, Abrihet, is escaping an abusive marriage. She’s from Ethiopia, an immigrant like Anthony. They are “stuck between two worlds,” she tells him.

Cinema of Sleep is in black and white, its aspect ratio, or screen shape, a tight square that confines the action and heightens the claustrophobia. Its handheld camera recalls Cassavetes’ Faces in some places, Ulmer’s Detour, even Lynch’s Eraserhead in others. Its characters bring up Casablanca and The Maltese Falcon, and its credits are superimposed over Charlie Chaplin’s 1917 film The Immigrants. And don’t forget the nod to Herk Harvey. An old TV set in the room is propped on a chair and tuned to a channel that shows silent movies.

Cinema of Sleep comes from writer/director Jeffrey St. Jules, whose other features include 2014’s Bang Bang Baby and 2024’s The Silent Planet (Cinema of Sleep was made in between those, in 2021, but is only now available on VOD). Mr. St. Jules made his bones as who The Globe and Mail has called “Canada’s master of the surreal short form.” In this film, Jordan Oram’s cinematography and Dev Singh’s editing are crucial to the aesthetic vision.

As Anthony, Dayo Ade commands the screen (the filmmakers know the visual impact of a very dark-skinned man in a very bright white shirt). He runs the full range of emotions, and his performance is intense and nuanced. Getenesh Berhe is an able foil as Abrihet, the woman of mystery, whose distress turns to warmth. The pair’s relationship grows and anchors the film, especially in their extreme closeups while recounting their pasts. Other notable cast members include David Lawrence Brown and Felix Montogomery as seedy detectives, Olunike Adeliyi as Anthony’s wife, and Jonas Chernick as Anthony’s neighbor Frank, a hipster who knows the score.

Speaking of scores, composer Darren Fung channels Bernard Herrmann, providing lush music that would make Hitchcock proud.

Cinema of Sleep touches on dislocation, family, connection, the illusion of film and its restorative power. The good news is that while it echoes other films, it does so with depth and affection. Cinema of Sleep is not just a genre exercise. It’s bold and original.

__________________________

Cinema of Sleep. Directed by Jeffrey St. Jules. 2021. Available on VOD. Runtime

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A Lifetime In A Night

Gary Lucas — Tue, 06 May 2025 01:16:50 +0000

A Lifetime In A Night Gary Lucas May 5, 2025 - 21:16

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Theater Review

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theater

By Róisín Nolan

We went to the premiere of Conall Morrison's engaging new production of Colin Murphy's The United States vs. Ulysses, which opened on April 3rd, 2025, at the Irish Arts Center on 11th Ave and 52nd Street in New York City, and highly recommend it if you're a fan of Joyce's novel.

I'm extremely partial to Joyce—my favorite guitarist after Groucho Marx—and Ulysses is my favorite ever book, now largely (sadly) more widely unread than ever (do most Gen Zers even read? Judging by the demographic of the audience last night, apparently not). A famously "difficult" novel that needs to be absorbed at least twice before the full richness of its poetic language and design kicks in, I first stumbled across a bootleg copy way up on a shelf in our house growing up in Syracuse—a copy that my father liberated from the Zeta Beta Tau frat house at Syracuse University.

James Joyce in Zurich 1917

Funnily enough, this kind of random encounter with a supposedly "smutty" book sure to corrupt the impressionable youth of America is exactly what the prosecuting attorney in this courtroom drama (a play within a play couched as a March of Time CBS radio show) warns the judge of in his argument to ban the book in America after its first publication in Paris in 1922. In the early '30s, publisher Bennett Cerf aimed to publish the book in America through his newly established firm Random House, and needed a test case to refute charges that it was "obscene" once and for all. His attorney more or less smuggled an imported copy of the book into the US in plain sight of customs officials, where it was seized as pornographic literature, thus setting up this trial.

In 1934, after the conclusion of this trial, Cerf successfully published the first authorized US edition of Ulysses. The ensemble cast, imported from Ireland for this production and juggling both American and Irish accents when acting out passages from the book itself, is superb, and really gives a flavor of the impassioned controversy this revolutionary novel sparked. A reverie during a five minute courtroom break in the trial turns into an extended riff on the phantasmagoric "Circe" episode set in Dublin's "Nighttown"—and there is plenty of Molly Bloom's (then) shocking sexually frank language from her "yes I said yes I will Yes" soliloquy counterpoised with the judge's long-winded delivery of his (happy for us) verdict near the end.

Bravo to the Irish Arts Center for bringing this first-class production to NYC. The play will run through June 1st, 2025.

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Mild Thing

Chet Kozlowski — Thu, 24 Apr 2025 14:37:20 +0000

Mild Thing Chet Kozlowski April 24, 2025 - 10:37

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horror

Call of the Void is billed as "cosmic folk horror." It's a genre mash-up, combining a cabin in the woods, demonic rituals, mind control, and warnings from Mother Nature. The film opens and closes with posterized images of twisted tree trunks accompanied by an ominous score. However, what’s sandwiched in between is a surprisingly conventional narrative.

The story centers on Moray, a city dweller who's retreated to the woods. She's there to heal from the recent death of her brother. Moray's solitude is interrupted when a group of young adults move in next door. Rather than being a nuisance, they play music (yet another recent rendition of the folk song Black Girl, Black Girl, which is renamed the more PC My Girl, My Girl), which attracts Moray, who takes a break from sketching to listen in. They are Lucy who is obliging and the only woman, Cole who is surly, Darryl who is the affable and the only Black person, and Sterling who is secretive and doing his doctorate on something called "psycho acoustics." Her neighbors share breakfast with Moray and invite her on a hike. She resists but is won over. "You guys are so interesting," she tells them. "You don't seem to care too much about the real world." They have a particular affection for another traditional folk ditty, The Cuckoo.

In the woods, Moray detects the group dynamics are a little off: Darryl appears to be odd man out, especially in a game of Marco Polo (Cole reminds him "You don't have to do this," even as he primes him. But for what?) Sterling, clearly the leader, keeps insisting everybody drink the water from bottles he supplies. But Moray has her own and is left in the woods after dark. Annoyed, she pokes around and finds evidence that more is going on than she bargained for.

First time director James B. Cox sets a creepy table. He builds tension well, without benefit of jump scares or gore. His pace is leisurely and confident (he works from his own script). Conspiratorial conversations seep through walls. Degrees of darkness guide scenes: shapes rise out, figures move in mirrors and behind translucent windows. The mystery deepens as the shadows do.

The cast is professional and their performances are solid, given what they have to work with. Caitlin Carver (Moray) has been in Chicago Fire, I Tonya, and Netflix’s Dear White People; Mina Sundwall (Lucy) in Netflix’s Lost in Space; Richard Ellis (Sterling) in TV series like S.W.A.T. and The Rookie; Christian Antidormi (Cole) in Starz's Spartacus and Netflix's The Lincoln Lawyer, and Ethan Herisse (Darryl) in Nickel Boys.

In the end, Call of the Void turns towards the personal. It won't spoil anything to say that the last thing the viewer sees before the closing credits is the dedication "For Mom."

_____________________________

Call of the Void. Directed by James B. Cox. 2025. From Nighthawks Entertainment. Runtime 93 minutes.

Thank you for watching and…

Thank you for watching and taking the time to review Call of the Void. I thoroughly enjoyed reading your thoughtful comments on our film.

Cheers, James

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Porcini, Fisticuffs, Pastis, and Murder

Brandon Judell — Sun, 20 Apr 2025 21:52:11 +0000

Porcini, Fisticuffs, Pastis, and Murder Brandon Judell April 20, 2025 - 17:52

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thriller

If you are of a certain age and blessed with an artistic bent, you just might remember the critically acclaimed thriller Stranger by the Lake from 2013. Directed by Alain Guiraudie, here is a lovely paean to French gay nudists who engage in fellatio, tanning, sodomy, the backstroke, and some friendly conversing about the silurus, an invasive species of catfish that eats everything, including ducks and fellow siluruses.

Oh, no! I feel a metaphor coming on.

Yes, there's also a queer, mustachioed murderer on hand, indeed a silurus of sorts. The hunky, tanned, noticeably endowed Michel (Christophe Paou) one day, when he believes all of his fellow bathers have left the beach, drowns his lover, which is an effective but not highly recommended way to end a relationship, especially if there’s a witness on hand.

And the sweet, attractive-with-a-low-fat-body-count Franck (Pierre Deladonchamps) is certainly a witness, but not the sort who discloses crimes to the authorities. Instead, he falls feverishly in love with Michel, and the duo have graphic sex with the aid of body doubles, no doubt to avoid upsetting their mères and pères when the old folks stream Stranger on Amazon Prime for the equivalent of $3.99 in euros.

Now you might be asking, "Why bring up Stranger by the Lake since this review is not focusing on that critically acclaimed, highly entertaining, tense, noirish exercise in gay outdoor-erotica?" Well, for three reasons.

One: The film changed my life. I immediately stopped dating LGBTQI+ serial killers after viewing it.

Two: Stranger's director, Monsieur Guiraudie, has a new offering that was featured at last year's New York Film Festival and is now hitting art houses.

Three: Misericordia has numerous similarities to the director's earlier work while still being quite dissimilar.

Well, for starters, misericordia is Latin for mercy. Relatedly, there's the "misericorde dagger," used to deliver mercy killings during the High Middle Ages, speeding mortally wounded knights out of their misery. Aha!

Anyway, Monsieur Guiraudie has explained: “The title came to me while I was writing the script. For me, mercy exceeds the question of forgiveness. It has to do with empathy, with understanding others beyond any morality. It's about reaching out to others."

However, the mercy strewn about in these two features is anything but selfless. In the former film, Franck is passionately in love with and continually aroused by his neck-slitting man-killer. In Misericordia, a horny, romance-hankering priest (Jacques Develay) is all too ready to absolve the object of his affection, an admitted one-time killer, from a future in a dank cell or worse.

This reminds me of Voltaire's statement: "God is a comedian playing to an audience that is too afraid to laugh." In a Guiraudie offering, God's creatures might not be doubling over with merriment, but you do sense that several are ready to spout a smile . . . and the critics are ready to spout superlatives for Misericordia.

Playlist: "A Dostoevskian masterwork [by] one of the greatest filmmakers working today."

Wall Street Journal: "A sickly funny thriller."

Cahiers Cinema: "The best film of the year."

The antihero here is the thirtyish, not-unattractive Jérémie (Félix Kysyl), who's at that transitional stage of life when one slowly sheds off the bloom of youth while simultaneously displaying the shimmer of future middle-agedness: a transitional stage where men can still play the flirty fool and be forgiven.

Well, we first meet our Jérémie in his auto driving down an empty country road in southern France from his home in Toulouse. The foliage is already red and yellow, so winter can't be far behind. His destination: Saint-Martial, a small town with a population of 238 as counted in 2022.

Jérémie grew up there but has been away for quite a while with no immense yearnings to return. So why now? Circumstances. He's an unemployed baker of breads, his girlfriend and he are no longer an item, and of more significance, his mentor, the man who taught him all about yeast, has suddenly died, a heterosexual master baker he loved with all his heart, an affection that was not returned at least romantically.

Jérémie drives up to his old boss's home to pay his respects. There the new-borne widow, Martine (Catherne Frot), welcomes him into her home and asks the out-of-towner to stay in the old room of her son, Vincent (Jean-Baptiste Durand). Vincent, now married, used to be Jeremie's close childhood friend. He accepts.

Jump to the funeral where the priest intones: "Jean-Pierre left home early to learn his trade as a baker. He devoted his life to giving us bread." Do not mourn, he continues: "We Christians believe that death is not an end. We believe it’s simply a passage into the kingdom of love and light."

That's encouraging.

Afterwards, there's a dinner for family and friends, and folks wonder whether Jérémie will continue the now-shuttered baguette business that services the town and surrounding villages.

Won't the inhabitants just shop for gluten-filled pastries at grocery stores now that Jean-Pierre is dead?

No! No! No! There's no comparison, some insist. This is France, where people live by their bread.

Jérémie ponders the offer, but not before Vincent again and again angrily accuses him of wanting to hook up with his mother and orders the "interloper" to leave town. If Jérémie had, this would have been a very brief film.

What follows is much drinking of pastis; hunting for newly sprung-up porcini in the woods; a possible seduction of a rather heavyset villager; some physical wrangling; a murder; and a small-scale police hunt among the loveliest of landscapes.

Interestingly, when asked if Misericordia is a romance besides being an example of film noir, Monsieur Guiraudie replied: "At first glance, I'd say yes. There's a real love story underlying the whole film. But there are hidden ones as well . . . . Our hero is at the center of this circulation of desire, and little by little he finds himself a prisoner of the village."

Another question he might have been asked is, isn't it also a sly black comedy? One huge joke as intended by Voltaire's God? Of course.

(Misericordia is still playing at a few theaters, although it’s better appreciated with wine than popcorn. Fandango.com will tell you where. While still not streaming, Apple TV+ and Mubi seem to be announcing its forthcoming presence on their sites. Of course, you can always check out JustWatch.com for the final word. Also, I’m told Stranger by the Lake is available on the Criterion Channel, Strand Releasing Amazon Channel, plus a few others you can seek out on your own time.)