Guided by Voices: A Brief History

By Jim Greer

Grove Atlantic Inc.  $2150

 

Guided by Voices: The Electrifying Conclusion

DVD, Plexifilm, 4hrs, 20min.  $24

 

Reviewed by Chris Robinson

 

It’s been almost a year since Guided by Voices played their final show, but with the spate of GBV related releases in 2005, you’d never know it. This year has witnessed the release of a biography of GBV, a second CD collection of odds and sods (Suitcase 2: American Superdream Wow), the re-release of the band’s 1992 classic, Propeller, and, most recently, a DVD of their final show (this list doesn’t include the half dozen or so cds released this year by GBV’s main man, Robert Pollard.)

 

I stumbled upon GBV in 2001. Ironically, given the band’s infamous proclivity for booze, I’d just stopped drinking.  Sobriety, though, didn’t stop me from falling hard for GBV. No band has grabbed me with such force since I first dug The Who as a tenth grader at Brookfield High in 1982. The Who were the voice of my teens. Their music was a release from whatever fuck me ups were goin down back then. GBV, who are heavily influenced by all things Brit rock, notably The Who and The Beatles, was, on one hand, a bolt of the past whacking me inside and out, but it was also something deeper. These were chord progressions I’d have played. Robert Pollard’s articulated the primal, the everyday with deceptively simple, often cryptic lyrics about life, about our always failing search for THE/ANY/A Truth.

 

When I saw the band live, what struck me most about Pollard and his merry band of Ohio players, was their unabashed controlled recklessness. They always played on the edge. Their shows often ran as long as three hours and by the end, the band was usually visibly drunk and teetering on the brink of self-destruction. That they never fell off that edge is a tribute to their balance. They knew how far they could go, even when it didn’t appear that Pollard could walk, let alone sing. That was the genius of GBV, they always defied.

 

–

 

Written by Jim Greer (ex-critic with Spin Magazine, former bass player for GBV, and one time fucker of Kim Deal), Guided by Voices: A Brief History (or Hunting Accident, the author’s preferred title), traces GBV’s roots from Dayton, Ohio basement band to their final show in 2004. Using interviews with family, friends and Pollard, Greer takes readers through the band’s ten years of anonymity in the 1980s when they made a handful of home made records (during which time Pollard worked as a school teacher), their ‘big break’ in 1993 when they were ‘discovered’ at the New Music Seminar showcase at CBGB’s, and their subsequent rise as the so-called “kings of indie rock”.

 

What comes across is that Pollard is a man of many contradictions. Depending on whose speaking, Pollard is either an asshole, idiot, genius, or a loving, loyal and deeply generous man. In short, Pollard comes across as a human being. And that, kids, is the essence of GBV. They’re just a gang of neighbourhood friends who are making/playing music out of passion and, most of all, for fun. Their members are older than most pop stars (Pollard just turned 48), and they aint the most attractive bunch (then again, neither is Aerosmith).

 

When you see GBV, you see a bit of yourself, not the person you imagine yourself to be, but the one you REALLY are; the passionate, sloppy, lethargic, indulgent, feckless piece of beauty and ugliness that is you. Unfortunately, most folks don’t want to see their true selves. They want Bono, Stipe, Chris Martin, guys who themselves play make believe and pretend to be the something special that they sure as hell aint. As Steven Soderbergh writes in the book’s foreword: “I would rather be Robert Pollard than me, but I’m glad I’m not.”

 

Want evidence? Check out Guided by Voices: The Electrifying Conclusion. Recorded in 2004 on New Year’s eve, this dvd captures the band’s final performance. Running at an astounding four hours (I watched it all, baby), this is as close as it’s gonna get to experiencing the beautiful mess that is GBV live. The band – including guest appearances from the many previous members of GBV – the band struts and stumbles through over 60 songs covering their history. Watching GBV is like running a marathon, Pollard seems to say, “Look man, we’re gonna keep playing eve if it means you’re leaving first.” If you’ve never seen GBV live, you’re bound to think that this is a band that doesn’t want to stop, that loves and needs to keep going. But, this has always been the nature of their concerts.

 

What sucks is that GBV stopped first. They should be heard on every fucking radio station around. Pollard should be a millionaire, hailed on par with Lennon and Townshend. But then they wouldn’t be GBV.

 

“GBV isn’t famous,” writes Soderbergh, “because people are stupid. It’s good that GBV isn’t famous, therefore it’s good that people are stupid.”

 

-

 

GBV starter kit for stupid people: Before you by the book and dvd, hear the music first. I’d start with either of their classic ‘lo-fi’ records Alien Lanes (1995) or Bee Thousand (1994). Hold on… while you’re there pick up one of the band’s ‘hi-fi’ records Isolation Drills (2001) or Do The Collapse (1999 – make sure you skip over the track, Hold On Hope, Pollard’s dreadful attempt at mainstream success.)

 

 

Unpublished Review

Silent Bob Speaks: The Collected Writings of Kevin Smith

Miramax Books

$18.95

 

It’s easy to have an extreme reaction to Kevin Smith’s collection of Internet columns. On one hand you can write them off as manic musings of mediocrity. On the other, they can be deemed a rare portrait of a down to earth ‘everyman’ (or ‘everynerd’ in Smith’s case) who just happens to be a cult celebrity.

 

The truth, as usual, is cloudier.

 

If Smith weren’t a (relatively) well-known filmmaker this book would never have been published, let alone written. And yet, paradoxically, this is what makes Smith’s book so interesting. He’s not a particularly deep thinker or good writer. He curses and bitches, writes about lap dances and masturbation. He slams Reese Witherspoon (“Man, I don’t like her… … [She] comes off faux-erudite as all hell, and condescending to boot”) and Britney Spears, but ooohs and awes over David Duchovny, Ben Affleck (“If I were gay, I’d let him plow my fields of anal gold in a heartbeat.”), Tom Cruise, and every cast member of his film, Jersey Girl.

 

The first part of the book follows Smith as he casts for his film, Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back. As he prepares for each casting session you get the impression that Smith is a fish out of water, a guy who can’t grasp how he got to this position of privilege. Smith seems to be living out the ultimate nerd fantasies. Unfortunately, Smith’s nerdy behavior undermines much of his writing. In his most intimate pieces (about seeing his wife pose nude for a painting, and confronting his ‘morbid obesity’), Smith’s writing is honest and heartfelt. Too often, though – perhaps to avoid losing the respect of his fan boy followers - Smith deflates these raw moments with sardonic and flippant comments.

 

By the end of the book, Smith seems naïve, petty, and selfish. His interviews with Affleck and Cruise fail to show you what it is that he finds so special about these men. Affleck and Cruise clearly know how to work a room. And as legitimate as Smith’s feelings are about these two actors, you can’t help but feel that they’re working him too. Later, Smith writes what amounts to a series of vacuous love letters to the cast of Jersey Girl. By this point, Smith’s excessive fawning reveals an insecure man, smitten with anyone who accepts him. Those who can’t tolerate his work – like Reese Witherspoon – are ridiculed with the petulance of a teenager.

 

The Collected Writings of Kevin Smith is certainly an honest and revealing book, just not in the way that the author intended.

 

 Unpublished review

Have the recent incidents of Alec Baldwin and David Hasselhoff crossed the line between public and private or is it good that we see the unexpurgated humanity of celebrities?

 

In April, a recording of a phone message Baldwin left for his daughter was mysteriously leaked to the world. On the message, a fuming Baldwin blasted his daughter and referred to her as a “thoughtless little pig.” In May, video of an intoxicated David Hasselhoof, taken by one of his daughters, was leaked to the press. Neither incident flatters the stars but has the line between public and private been pushed too far?

 

Gossip and inane public behaviour is one thing, but does the public really need to know how these people act in their personal lives? In our daily lives, we are always involved in gossip about colleagues, friends, and neighbours. We all imagine what others might be like. We occasionally witness unfortunate moments in a person’s life, but rarely do we want to go any further. In the recent cases of Michael Richards, Don Imus, David O. Russell (who is shown in a video leaked on the net berating Lily Tomlin and behaving like a lunatic on the set of his film, I Heart Huckabees) and Mel Gibson, these were celebrities doing or saying something stupid in public. Tough break for them, but that’s life, whether you’re a celebrity or not.

 

However, the leak of Baldwin and Hasselhoff’s material takes us into a rarely seen private world, one that it likely too close to our own. In one sense, we enjoy gossip and idiotic public moments because on a relatively superficial level it shows us that these celebrities are just like us. However, the Baldwin and Hasselhoff tapes containing harrowing material that few of us want to see perhaps because it too shows us a side of humanity that we all know too well. Who hasn’t shouted at their kids or lost their cool in public? Let’s keep in mind that is always missing from the incident: context. Whether it’s Baldwin or Joe Blow down the road, an unfortunate incident is not isolated. Who really knows what prompted Baldwin’s rant? We only have a slice of a tape. Had his wife and daughter been playing games with him (as he asserts)? Had repeated efforts to reach his daughter been thwarted? If so, then it’s understandable that the man would get frustrated. With Hasselhoff, the video of his drunken ramblings isn’t really a bad thing. The guy has a drinking problem. Best thing to show an alcoholic is footage of themselves while they’re sauced. However, did it really need to go public? Wouldn’t it have been enough for Hasselhoff alone to see how pathetic he looked? Why should he endure public humilation? He didn’t commit a sin by being an alcoholic. These two men, it seems, are being punished, not because they have a temper or drinking problem, but because they’re celebrities. That seems unfair and unnecessary.

 

Conversely, this shows us of the problematic nature of celebrity. Celebrity filters out difference. It is homogenous. It paves over the rubble to make everything flat and smooth. Celebrity reduces people to types, removing the complexities and contradictions (or, as Jack D. Ripper called it in Dr. Strangelove, the “essence of their bodily fluids.”). We create false myths and elevate people to a status that filters out their essence.

 

We simple slugs often strive to live up to statures that are inherently false. As such, we continually chase something that isn’t there and never was. That’s where drinking, diet pills, television, botox and paxil come in. And yet, we’re not fools. The dirt of the hero constantly fascinates us because we know it’s there. We’ve been in the slime ourselves. Yet, when we seek it out in these ‘heroes,’ it’s frowned upon (because it’s reduced to gossip magazines); we’re called vultures, gossip mongers. But it’s wrong because we are just seeking a bit of ourselves in our ‘heroes.’ We don’t want to know how perfect they are, we want to know how faulty, fucked up and human they are. We want to know, paradoxically, that David Hasselhoff and Alec Baldwin are are just like us.

 

A cynic might say that neither argument is valid. The real motivation behind these private incidents is publicity. Does anyone remember Tommy Lee and Pamela Anderson’s home sex movie? This “accidently” leaked movie didn’t harm either career. In fact, it likely gave Tommy Lee new life.  Alec Baldwin certainly wasn’t shy about grabbing some airtime on The View to discuss the issue and defend himself. Given that Hasselhoff’s career in North America was basically non-existent, the video can’t really do any harm. And if Germans (where Hasselhoff has carved out a successful music career) can tolerate his chintzy pop music, surely they can handle another embarrassing video.

 

Maybe we should all follow suit and start airing our dirty laundry.  With all our faults, complexities, and contradictions out in the open perhaps we could get on with living our own lives instead of constantly desiring or emulating others.

The Animation Pimp By Chris Robinson ISBN: 1-59863-403-8 Available on Jun 19, 2007 (200 pages) Ready to Buy? Save 10% online now! List Price: $24.99 Print Edition: $22.49 Pre-order Now Book details: Features | Table of Contents | Author Bio Description For five years, Chris Robinson wrote a monthly column for Animation World Network (AWN) called The Animation Pimp. Although it began as a way for Robinson to let off steam in his role as director of one of the world’s largest animation festivals, the column quickly gained a cult following and just as quickly became a platform for the author’s frank, provocative, and frequently very funny musings on the world of animation and his own life. The Animation Pimp collects the best of these pieces, which range from the nuts and bolts of running a festival to sex, death, superheroes, aesthetics, and the living dead. Robinson’s unhinged prose is accompanied by some eighty drawings by the award-winning German artist and animator Andreas Hykade. In the spirit of Hunter Thompson, Nick Tosches, and Richard Meltzer, The Animation Pimp is an outrageous, funny, and ultimately truthful account of the chaos and glimmers of illumination in an art form and a life. Features An official book from AWN Press. Includes original drawings by a well-known, cult artist/animator. Appeals to animation fans as well as readers who are interested in popular culture. Provides an insider’s look at the world of animation and animation festivals. Table of Contents Foreword by Nick Tosches PIMPOLOGY FESTIVALS AND THEIR DISCONTENTS THE AESTHETICS OF ANIMATION SEX & DEATH STYLES OF RADICAL ANIMATION IDENTITY POLITICS TUBULAR DISTRACTIONS HUMAN FRAILTY SEASONAL DYSPHORIA FRINGE BENEFITS WHO’S WHO Author Bio Chris Robinson Chris Robinson is an Ottawa-based author who has been a director of the Ottawa International Animation Festival (OIAF) since 1994. A noted animation commentator, curator, and historian, Robinson has become a leading expert on Canadian and international independent animation. His writings on animation, hockey, and all facets of culture have appeared in many international publications including Salon.com, Animation World Magazine, Stop Smiling, The Ottawa Citizen, Take One, Cinemascope, and The Ottawa Xpress. In May 2004, Robinson was the recipient of the President’s Award given by the New York chapter of animators for contributions to the promotion of independent animation. Robinson lives in Ottawa with his wife Kelly and their sons Jarvis and Harrison.

http://www.courseptr.com/ptr_detail.cfm?group=Animation&isbn=1%2D59863%2D403%2D8

“I don’t understand this.”

Jan Lenica, Ottawa, 2000

 

Ottawa. It is a Sunday afternoon in late July. It is unusually hot. We are in a bar. Many unusual characters are sitting outside at the cobblestone patio. They sit in dirty white plastic chairs drinking out of dirty white plastic glasses on dirty white plastic tables. The sound of birds are heard in a tree near the patio. Ah the birds…the birds….the birds. An elderly man passes. He stops to give change to a cheerful, smooth dancing panhandler before passing under the tree, entering the patio and sitting at a table down stage centre. He is a distinguished, but sad looking man in his 70s.  At the same time a young middle age man arrives and sits at the same table. M is unshaven, with thick unkept brown hair, wrinkled clothes, spectacles. He is pale and tired. The older man, J,  carries with him a solid patch of grey hair, a black suit, red tie….not literally of course. They are meeting.

 

J: You’re late

M: You just arrived.

J: I am old. I told you many times.

M: So leave earlier.

J: You don’t like old people do you?

M: Why do you say that?

J: I’ve told you about my poor health many times.

M: No you haven’t. Once maybe.

J: Nevertheless.

M: Most of you become lazy and silly.

J: Stupid youth.

M: You should know.

J: I see you’ve had another late night.

M: You’re right. I was busy working on this bloody article.

J: Why do it? You haven’t even seen half the work.

M: Everyone told me you’re a master.

J: You listen to them?

M: Have you read my work?

J: No.

 

At this moment, the thundering sound of a wild, panting animal is heard.

 

M: What the hell is that?

J: It’s Ubu. I thought you might like to talk with him and the others.

 

A group of men join the two. They are thin, pale faced expressionless men with black suits, black ties and stiff white collars. They sit. In the next moment,  a man with an ugly white spandex outfit swoops out of the air and sits. Lastly, Ubu, a fat, grotesque, cone headed creature arrives panting quite heavily. At the table up stage left sit two academic looking men. One is a bearded Professor in his early 40s. The other is a dark haired, casually dressed Wigger in his late 20s. Up stage right is a table of three young ladies. Each is dressed with blue jeans, tshirts and sneakers. Muttering from these tables is heard throughout the scene.

 

U: Shittr! By my green candle it’s fucking hot today.

J: Must you be so vulgar?

U: Fuck you old man. I should drop your head in the bin with the others. Where’s the shiitr?

 

Ubu leaves in search. A smashing sound is heard followed by a woman’s screams.

 

Waitress (in a very high pitched intense voice): Excuse me!!! Thank you for breaking the glasses! I appreciate it!!!

 

U: Go boil some potatoes mangina and take a long goatee ride.

 

Waitress punches Ubu and runs away.

 

M: (ignoring Ubu): Who are you?

J: Who do you think I am?

M: That’s what this is about.

J: Yes.

M: Poland. 1930s.

J: Poznan. Capital. Cosmopolitan.

M: I heard Poland was a backward country.

J: What does this mean?

M: Fuck if I know. Everything’s backwards to dylesics. Sounds to me like Poland needed a babysitter.

J: To hear you call Russia and Germany babysitters is astounding. A babysitter cares for its youth. They destroyed it all. Your generation knows nothing.

M: What about the gulf war?

Professor: Welles! (He continues to be heard while C and J talk)

J: (laughing). Yes, you’re little tv war. You need two armies to have a war. Your generation knows nothing of war. Words like tragedy and catastrophe, survivor and disaster have become bastardized and applied to any minor mishap: a football match, a stock market drop, road rage….it’s sad really.

P: Bunuel!

J: Words. Like dropping the kids off at the pool and blowing a trumpet with your ass to tell everyone.

M: So we’re  all a bunch of rhinos ?

P: Borges!

J: In a way, yes. Your generation simply follows whatever new trend, leader or movement comes along. The German people were like the rhinos.

P: Godard!

M: The rhino analogy assumes Ionesco was clear cut in his ending. Right and wrong is blurred. Berenger is deluding himself. He carries his beliefs, but where does it get him? He is alone.

J: Hitler, Reagan, Bush. All of them supported by rhinos. 

P: Kubrick!

M: This is your weakness. Your world is too black and white. There are few options. You present a Rhinoceros with two choices: follow the leader or be left behind. Things don’t work out that way. There are many in-betweens.

Wigger: Booty Call!

M: Our lives are dictated by a mouse.

 

Ubu returns.  He farts, wipes his nose, and pulls at his underwear…we assume.

 

M: Close to home?.

J: This type of grotesque is very close to me.

Lady #1: …African mud for my brother’s hair or it will fall out

M: Are you not an accomplice?

Lady #2:…baby went potty today.

J: I’ve said many times that each of these people are me. My violence, banality, and anger.  I have attempted to use popular forms to smuggle my ideas. l have found new viewers and maintained my…..self.

M: In the end no one but the intellectuals and academics understand what you’re trying to do. It’s the old tale of speaking to the converted.  Forty years later and I can’t even find your damn films.

Lady #3: … must be very proud.

J: What more can I do? I am a barbarian who has trampled the gardener’s flowers. I am guided by my intuition. You now watch my films and write…do you not?

M: Were you a horny teenager?

J: What?

M: You heard me?

J: I don’t understand.

M: It’s simple. Where you out lookin’ to get laid as a boy?

J: Were you?

M: Of course. I wanted to drill anything with a hole. But I never knew the rules.

J: Did you love?

M: Love? Love was not required. Love was a hole that needed to be filled. Sex to me meant love which meant five seconds of IMMENSE SATISFACTION,  nothing more. Love was but a notch on the belt that cloaked my big balls.

J: I don’t understand.

M: Never mind. What is it like to love and be loved by your father?

J: It is.

M: For whom?

J: My father was my biggest influence. He introduced me to art, music, politics. He taught me to embrace new ideas and take risks. I miss him very much.

M: My first father beat me. My second father told me that ‘it was the sixties man’.

J: I’m sorry.

M: Why? I’m here. I am no better, no worse then you at my stage.

J: Shall we begin?

M: Why not?

J: Will they understand?

M: Who cares? They complain anyway.

 

Act 2 Scene 1

 

A sidewalk. The sun is shining brightly. It appears earlier than before. The birds chirp. M walks toward a building and see his friend M. Tete looking out from his window.

 

M: Tete! Hello.

T: Bonjour. Voulez-vous monter? Je me prépare pour aller au travail.

M: Ok.

 

M exits stage right.

 

We are now inside Monsieur Tete’s apartment which resembles A’s apartment…which you have not yet seen. M knocks. T answers. M enters stage left.

 

M: Hello head.

T: Quelle vie!

M: What do you mean?

T: Je pourrais faire mieux que ça.

 

T proceeds to assume the form of Stockwell Day, Ol’ Dirty Bastard, Nick Tosches, and Jan Lenica. Finally he returns to form.

 

T: Il faut que je me rase.

M: Why?

T: Parce que tout le monde se rase. He shaves.

T: Il faut que je me brosse les dents.

M: Why?

T: Parce que tout le monde se brosse les dents. He brushes.

T: Faut que j’aille travailler. Vous venez avec moi?

M: Why?

T: Parce que je vous le demande… nigaud!

M: Ah…yes

 

T and M enter the office. It is very similar to Berenger’s office, which you have not seen yet unless of course you’ve seen the film then you know what I mean. Inside employees work with dull, mechanical precision.

M: Ummm…I meant to ask you this before, but what happened to your face?

T: C’est une assez longue histoire. Un jour, au travail, je me suis mis en pétard contre la maudite routine tout autour de moi. J’ai pété la gueule d’un collègue, on m’a saqué et je me suis retrouvé à la rue. À une réception, un soir, je me suis écoeuré en écoutant un maudit couillon de bourgeois faire un grand discours tarabiscoté, et je l’ai tiré en pleine tête. Quand j’étais en prison, j’ai appris qu’il ne fallait surtout pas se servir de sa tête. Quand je suis sorti, on m’a donné beaucoup de médailles.

M: And how does this relate to your face?

T: Il y a un prix pour tout.

M: Sell out.

T: Mauvaise tête. Mauvaise tête.

M: What are you saying?

T: Il faut écouter la raison.

M: But reason comes from the head.

T: Pas du tout. La raison est tout autour de vous. Votre tête vous remplit de doutes, de mensonges et d’illusions sur vous-même.

M: Like Berenger.

T: Voilà. Parfaitement.

M: (While jumping from the office window C shouts) Long live Berenger!

As M falls a fat masked man in a decidedly ugly spandex suit swoops down to save him.

 

Act 2, Scene 2

F: Hello. I am here.

M: Yes, so you are…but you’re early. Your film doesn’t start until the early 1970s.

F: Yes but you said you needed a link.

M: True enough and you did save my ass.

F: There you have it.

M: Ah well…it also gives me the opportunity to mock your outrageous outfit. What are you…70 years old…a fat ass…a big gut and you’re flyin’ around in a goddamn white spandex suit with the letter F on it. (laughing)..does that stand for Fat? Fucker? Flatulence? (M is now coiled over in laughter).

F: I do not understand the humour. I am Fantorro: the last just man.

M: I’ll say…you’re just the last man to wear that bitch ugly outfit. Christ…didn’t you see Xmen?

F: (Baffled) What?

M: They wore all these pansy ass spandex trunks in the 1970s but now they wear cool black leather. Very sophisticated.

F: But what about the animals?

M: What about the fuckin’ animals? What’s more important: looking good and saving the human race or looking like a he-bitch while savin a bunch of god damn animals?

 

F flies away in tears before falling into a crowd of flowers. So much for F. It appears that M is not very interested in F’s work. It comes off as yet another individual in crisis film that he has seen far too many times and will see again.

 

M: Pussy!!!

 

Act 2, Scene 3

M is left on a deserted street not unlike one he will encounter later. He sees a mansion. A woman waves from a window. He enters. Throughout this scene we have no dialogue but only music. Imagine a George Pal sci-fi film scored by Norman McLaren.

A woman opens the door and raises her head to acknowledge M.

 

The woman lowers her head and steps back. M enters the hallway and is led into a waiting room. While he waits a tube streaks out across the room and rests on a table. A head follows. The head rests upon the tube. A factory like process begins culminating with a lightbulb effect in the head. The woman enters and looks deep within M’s eyes. She leads him to the dining room. They sit. Her hair ruffles. M reads the paper. The two play toss the potato and giggle. Every dropped potato means another drink for the loser. A glass smashes. The party is over. The woman glares at M. Many potatoes have been lost. She lowers her head and imagines a man entering the home and resting his hat on the coatrack. She dreams thrice. M finds himself in a bedroom. She is naked. Her back to him. He suddenly remembers his family. Grandma and the birds…the birds…ah the birds. Grandpa and the lawnmower. Uncle dancing and farting. The other uncle who married the cousin went gay and then nay. It was all there. The flowers fell in the garden before he stepped on them. They always did.

 

M has become a head. Nothing more. The woman caresses him. She fondly whispers in his ear, licks his chin and kisses his mouth. He is stagnant, unable to move, but desperate to leave. He moves. He leaves.

 

Act 3, Scene 1

A room. C and A enter the room. The room is all done in black and white.. Up stage right is a bed with a chair to its left. Center stage we see a table and chair. Up stage left is a fireplace with mirror and mantle above it. Left of that is a sofa chair. Upon the sofa is a gigantic capital G.

 

M: So how long has this been here?

A: Well one day I came home after a particularly fine day. I was watering the flowers…writing, and preparing to eat when suddenly this A appeared. I was obviously startled, but as it wasn’t harmful I didn’t bother to do much really.

M: But then it started to interfere with your daily activities?

A: Indeed. All movements were blocked by this aggressive beast. I couldn’t eat, water plants, write, or leave. I tried to break it, kill it, and sneak by it, but it just kept re-appearing.

M: But it finally left?

A: Yes, but no sooner was it gone then the B appeared.

M: And when was this?

A: 1964.

M: And since this time the entire alphabet has appeared?

A: That’s correct. They are now in their second cycle.

M: It must be quite awkward. How to you get about?

A: Well in 1964, I was an exile in France and very much intimidated by the language. I tended to stay home a lot.

M: Yes…but its seems to be about more than that. I sense that you are living, to borrow from Frederic Jamieson, in a prison house of language.

A: Well once it was very much that, but I have learned to adapt and tolerate.

M: So you have given in?

A: What choice do I have?

M: You could leave?

A: Where too? I’ve left once already from France to Germany and still they follow. There is no escaping.

M: So I’ve been told.

 

At this moment a crash is heard off stage left. Within moments, a man enters. He has a mustache, bowler hat, and is dressed very similar to A. He also has two wings attached to both arms.

 

L: Sorry about that. I’ve still trouble making landings.

A: You’d think after some 38 years of flying you would at least have learned how to land!

L: Yes well…the same can be said for airplanes. (to M): Are you ready to go?

M: Yes. (To A): Well..thank you for your time.

 

M and L exit left. A waves to them. He turns around and returns to his plant. Suddenly he kicks G and returns to his chair. G grabs A and throws him to the floor and stomps, then dances, on him. All fades to dark.

 

 

Act 3, Scene 2

 

M and L arrive in the streets of what appears to be an empty town. While talking M and L walk back and forth across the stage. Occasionally strange creatures appear including a man-bird, crocodile with a woman in its mouth, and a dinosaur.

 

M: So I’m not quite clear about what is going on here. I understand that you flew in, dumped your wings and then wondered aimlessly around this dreadful, deserted town (a man-bird flies over) meeting a variety of strange creatures. Then they try to alter your brain and birds appear to eat you and you fall.

 

L: It’s quite simple really. Like Berenger, I am an individual. I do things my way. I will not conform to society’s restrictions. If I want to fly, I fly.

M: Yet you seem as horny as any other man given your attempt to steal the woman away from the crocodile.

L: I am only human.

M: So you are basically this normal, average guy just trying to survive in what you perceive to be a very bizarre and hostile world?

L: Precisely.

M: (sarcastically) Well…that’s… interesting. At least there are some nice pictures. I don’t understand… haven’t we seen this theme already?

L: Look I am in this film. I am not responsible for what he does. If you want answers, ask him. I’m just doing my job.

 

L flies away in a huff

 

M: Wait..come back. How the hell am I going to get out of this place? (Resigned): Shit. Detroit. I hate Detroit.

 

Act 4, Scene 1

M walks and walks and walks and walks. It is dark. He enters a forest. After an hour he realizes he has lost his way. He is scared. He wants to go home. Sounds echo through the forest. The moon shines bright. Fireflies fly. He sees flowers sprout from the ground. A mojo rises. A skeletal, handicap creature with only a skull and high heels arrives and nods M his way. They walk. They pass leaves, flowers, amputated creatures. All the time they are under the eyes of them. Whispering, muttering, and murmurs are vibrant throughout the forest. Suddenly something appears. It is a human shape.

 

M: Living man have mercy on me.

U: Shittr, what the green candle are you yappin’ about.

M: I have lost my way.

U: Well bully for you. Do you have money?

M: A little.

U: For money I will be your guide and take you through these circles of despair beyond the amputees, the fireflies, the whimperings,  and this horrid Dante analogy.

M: What about the eyes?

U: Shut your gob.

M: Pere Ubu, you must lead me beyond this darkness towards the gates.

U: Look. I’ll cut your balls off in a minute. Shut up.

M: What is this place?

U: Well you know. He got older, his father was dying. He was in America. This is his dream. This is a vision of a world that he imagines once was but no longer is.

M: But why the high heels and the skeleton. Is he…you know…a bit…ummm…funny?

U: Who the hell isn’t a bit funny. You should talk. Orange shoes. Talk about pussywear.

M: Yes, well… M sees the head of a German soldier floating in the river this is a land of murder, paranoia, and random brutality.

U: Why do you think I’m here? (Wipes his nose) Remember it is not long after this that we meet. He visited me twice. (picks his ass).

M: Why does it get worse? Surely it should get better. Why so grotesque?

U: Shittr. This is what he has seen and lived. Why do you ask so many damn questions? Why the need for fuckin’ answers all the time. What more do you want?

M: That’s a question, idiot.

U: Shittr!!! I’ll bury you.

 

Ubu pulls out an ax and chases M. M flees the forest. He sees a thin, pale faced man bicycling. M runs up and hops on the front of the bike. They bicycle off stage left.

 

Act 4, Scene 2

A2: What are you doing?

M: Just go…a madman is chasing me.

A2: There’s no one there.

They slow down.

 

M: Who are you?

A2: Adam II.

M: Hmmm…I don’t really know you, but I did see a clip.

A2: Damn producers.

M: Shall we walk?

A2: Alright.

M: Where are you headed?

A2: Poland.

M: What’s there?

A2: Home.

M: Whose?

A2: His.

M: It’s too late.

A2: Why?

M: It’s over.

A2: I’m curious.

M: Why?

M: It’s human nature.

M: Remember the cat?

A2: There is no where else to go.

 

They go on.

 

Act 5

The same patio. It is still sunny. It is still hot. Everything is the same except the thing. Ah…the birds. The birds. The birds.

 

J: Late again.

M: Sorry I’ve been trying to summarize what I’ve seen.

J: Who am I?

M: You are whoever I want you to be.

J: Who do you want me to be?

M: I don’t know. To know I must know who I am.

J: Who are you?

M: Right now anyone I want to be.

J: That is nonsense. Answer the question.

M: I am who I am which is not unlike who you are.

J: But you don’t know who I am?

M: Yes.

J: Will they see it? Will I see it?

M: If they will.

J: It’s not always so dark.

M: I know. There is a lot of humor here, but it is black.

J: Like Keaton…

M: Exactly.

J: Keaton films were simple, richer and more honest. Chaplin wanted to be a great artist. Keaton wanted to make people laugh. In the end, Keaton became the greater artist.

M: Your earlier films were richer when they were simple. Then you got muddled up in your thoughts. Also, Keaton ended up broke, drunk and doing beer commercials.

J: Even Keaton became a rhino.

M: And you?

 

Just then Ubu grabs Lenica, farts, and carries him away.

 

Curtains fall.

Originally published in Ottawa 00 catalogue. I don’t get it either. Was trying to do Lenica meets Ionesco meets me

Watching the 2006 video by Al Qaeda’s number two man, Ayman Al-Zawahri is at once disturbing, surreal, and strangely comic. Filmed inside the terrorist cell’s TV studio, surrounded by professionally lit backdrops of terrorist ‘heroes’ and a photo of the World Trade Centre burning, the stiff and awkward Al-Zawahri delivered an ominous warning to the world that “we will attack everywhere.”

 

Despite Al-Zawahri’s very real threats, the whole scene looks rather comic, like an outtake from a Hollywood comedy like Naked Gun or any James Bond movie. You can imagine that Al-Zawhri is recording this in Al Quaeda’s fancy secret lair, a technologically advanced hideout hidden inside some remote island mountaintop. In a sense, it’s to be expected in our image-saturated society. As flesh and blood as these guys are, for most of us they remain TV characters. Although the victims of 9/11, the London and Madrid attacks etc… probably feel quite differently, our exposure to these villains has been almost completely mediated by media and specifically, Television.

 

And with life apparently imitating art (or rather Hollywood), our mass media soaked minds inevitably begin conjuring up conspiracy thoughts –which are, of course, triggered by Hollywood. Az-Zawahri’s video is so professional looking that you start to imagine that it’s being masterminded by the Dustin Hoffman and Robert De Niro characters from the political comedy, Wag The Dog. Which then leads you to start thinking: “Are these guys for real or is this some U.S. government/Hollywood production to create and maintain an atmosphere of fear and paranoia.”

 

History has had its share of absurd looking villains. We love to caricature real and imagined figures of terror ranging from Charles Manson to monsters (eg. Pixar’s animation film, Monsters Inc.)and even death itself (in Woody Allen’s Love and Death or Bill and Ted’s Bogus Journey). Most famously, Adolph Hitler, despite coordinating some of the most unspeakable atrocities in human history, has become a caricature, his awkward facial features an endless target of parody and ridicule. In fact, even during his reign of terror, Hollywood feature films, in particular Warner Bros. and Walt Disney cartoons routinely parodied Hitler. Of course, few at the time knew the extent of Hitler’s carnage.

 

It’s inevitable that we snicker and mock these nightmares of reality. Having a face to define intense and extreme feelings of hate, rage and murder that few of us can understand brings us a sense comfort, the illusion of understanding, and a target for our own hate and fear. It is the nature of humanity to want, to need to understand everything. Like Columbo, we don’t want any loose ends. We want everything to make sense and have a compact resolution like a reliable Hollywood movie (it’s not just the ‘bad’ guys, we also do the same with the ‘good’ guys. Just as Bin Laden has become our modern day Dr. Evil, Bush—depending on your views – has been promoted/defined as this cowboy superhero superhero/cowboy.) This is also a very dangerous way of living life.

 

By reducing complex, confusing and often illogic events that have no clear roots to a single face, voice or person, we risk becoming inhabitants of Plato’s cave where we think we are seeing reality, but are really seeing only the shadows of things. Television, Hollywood movies and the mass media in general have become the modern form of Plato’s cave. For many, our experience of the world is defined by mass media. Where we get our news and opinions often dictates how we decipher the world.

 

Al Queda – like the Nazis – clearly understand the power of television and film. In fact, propaganda films have been important tools for many governments (our very own, National Film Board of Canada, was established as a propaganda tool to promote the war effort). Hitler used filmmaker Leni Riefenstahl to make propaganda films like Triumph of the Will that promoted the superiority of the Germans. Then there’s Hollywood, perhaps the most successful propaganda machine ever, influencing everything from morality to the types of sneakers we wear.

 

The very idea that a villain is using video and television to transmit their message to the world seems like a scene from any number of movies where the villain somehow manages to interrupt regular programming of every TV channel to explain how he’s plotting to destroy the world. Amazingly, Al Queda has done just that and without having to figure out just how one would go about taking over every TV channel in the world. All they have to do is post a video on the internet or pop some cassettes in the mail and, presto, the network interrupts regular programming without even being asked to. Which begs the question: we know why Al Queda are releasing these tapes, but why are networks giving them airtime? Is it a case of appropriating one form of propaganda to create another? Is this text propaganda?

 

If only Superman was here. Then everything would be alright.

 

 

(unpublished text for Ottawa Citizen, August 2006)