Conflicted about grandiosity? Some fun . . .
Wim Wenders' portrait of Anselm Kiefer made me laugh
To the consternation of the friend I sat with, I chuckled as Anselm 3D showed one of the world’s most serious artists, Anselm Kiefer who aims to remake his nation’s
cultural history and the earth itself using the harshest elements to scour humanity of its patinas, try to fit himself into a cot in a dim garret.
The film in plain old 2-D is on the Criterion Channel now, and sorry, that scene’s not in the trailer, but Kiefer‘s discomfort reminded me of Stan and Ollie flopping around in their upper berth. Confronting his hero with absurdity is surely Wender’s intent.
Wenders had previously shown Kiefer on scaffolding hammering with a two-by-four at a paint-and acid-splattered 30-foot-square canvas, bicycling through his vast warehouses like an ant on toy wheels, walking a tightrope (via CGI) strung between skyscrapers a la Philipe Petite, using a balance-pole capped on one end by a desicated sunflower (Christie’s call’s a Kiefer’s sunflower a “potent symbol of the passage of time and the link between heaven and earth). Coming from the film director* who has peered at depths and peaks of unchecked and/or transcendent ego/obsession in such films as The American Friend and Wings of Desire, his images of an artist who thinks and works on the most cosmic scale, with epic range, is offered with a grain of salt.
Wenders had total free access to Kiefer and full authority to shape his portrait; they seem to be friends, and yes, we must admire ambition, realized. I’ve been in rooms with Kiefer’s art and know their power. Wall-sized pieces (like below) I recall bristling branches, clumps of muddy paint streaked with rain or tears, the loom of doom.
Anselm Kiefer exhibition in white cube/London, England
Yet there are laughs in this movie — which, using state-of-the-art breakthrough audio and visual technology to undeniably impressive effect, is not shy about its own self-importance. So am I to be awed by Kiefer or laugh at his hubris (and the contradiction of his vast profit from it)?
Another thing: There were no people in this film to distract from what his devotion to reclaiming honorable values from the awful past, from let the earth (specifically his vast estate in France) restore itself (with a few markers that a man stopped by). At points I wanted to yell, “Anselm, lighten up! Have a beer! Got any friends?” He’s been married three times and fathered children, but none of that here. Perhaps a skewered view, but it strikes me as misanthropic, reminiscent of Koyaanisqatsi, through which Philip Glass’s arpeggios rippled in juxtaposition with director Godfrey Reggio’s pore-diving closeups of people looking . . not their best. Seeking some warmth and humor here. Like Beckett and Kafka convey, even in their darkness.
OK: You don’t come to Mandel’s media diet for insights into German Expressionism. So speaking of ridiculous entertainment: Thanks to my daughter for turning me on to The Good Place, the goofy Netflix series that presents concepts of ethics in a frame spun from Sartre's Huis Clos and Albert Brook’s Defending Your Life. Congrats to showrunner Michael Schur for propelling Ted Danson, Kristen Bell, William Jackson and cohorts through a Candyland design scheme, broadly, brightly, and surprisingly extending its “Afterlife, this?” premise for four seasons, 50 episodes! My NYC pal A. Leroi once proposed a continuum of serious, seriously silly, sillily serious, and silly. This runs the gamut.
Hard-boileds: Two fast reads, set in L.A., Everybody Knows by Jordan Harper dives deeply into the ugly world of fixer-publicists, would-be body-guards of reputations for the worst of Hollywood’s rich and famous. Thomas Perry’s Hero demonstrates exactly why no one would want to become one, tracking the vulnerability of a woman who kills assailants in the process of an armed robbery, and as a result finds herself out of a job as well as out on a limb, prey for avengers. A third: Set in dry west Texas, Pay Dirt Road by Samantha Jayne Allen is down and dirty, sharp enough to get me to pick up the second in her series, Hard Rain, that starts with a palpable depiction of a flash flood.
Also fast but of a different literary niche: Whalefall, by Daniel Kraus, a compellingly realistic and psychologically acute account of a young man swallowed by a whale. And oddly hilarious Mount Chicago (which I haven’t finished yet) by Adam Levin, a metafiction about — ?? oh, lots of things (personality, fate, free-will, comedy, tragedy, wealth management, sex/love, behavioral psychology, Judaism, parrots all come up. . .
Now about music: Kudos to Calligram Records for releasing in a year a half-dozen albums by accomplished Chicago-area musicians including saxophonist Geoff Bradfield, trumpeters Chad McCullough and Russ Johnson (prominent, happily, on seven current, high quality releases), guitarist Neal Alger and more. All thoughtful and polished works, sophisticated iand virtuosic, original and contemporary yet rooted in truisms of the music’s past. There are players working this niche on plenty of other labels — I think of Seattle area’s prodigious Origin catalog, New York City’s Sunnyside Records and High Note/Savant, typically offering something further advanced than than ‘80s/’90s neo-hardbop, but with that confidence — skirting fusion or modal styles, with skills in composition and arrangements usually for small groups, usually propulsive but not particular for dancing. What a lot of jazz sounds like now.
Reading about music, two recent arrivals: Kosher Jammers: Jewish Connections in Jazz Volume 1 The USA by British author Mike Gerber is a mightily comprehensive overview of the influence of Jews in jazz — I’m quoted about the interest of my South Side high school coterie in the AACM and blues, and taken to task by estimable bassist David Chevan of the Afro-Semitic Experience for an article in which he felt I promoted secular Jewish musicians but ignored or overlooked observant ones (I had written about two of those he thought I’d slighted, Frank London and Anthony Coleman, elsewhere). The Notebooks of Sonny Rollins, edited by Sam V.H. Reese, an unexpected collections of messages the great saxophonist set down for himself periodically from 1959 to 2010. Lots of practice strategies, self-critique and instructions, anecdotes, personal and social reflections, bits of lyrics, shopping lists and doodles.
Rollins is a man of many parts. How do his accomplishments compare to, say, Anselm Kiefer’s?
Wim Wenders is not to be confused with Werner Herzog, whose films about depths and peaks of unchecked/transcendent ego include Aguire, Wrath of God; The Enigma of Kaspar Haiuser; Nosferatu the Vampyr; Fitzcarraldo, and The Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call New Orleans. (What is it about German filmmakers’ fascination with meglomaniacs? Hold on - they’ve been the focus of Welles, de Palma, Scorsese, Coppola, Scott, Nolan, too). Herzog also made an amazing 3D film - Cave of Forgotteten Dreams, bringing us to pre-historic Chauvet Cave art.