James Crump shines a light on the iconoclastic earthworks artists — and such massive projects as Nancy Holt’s “Sun Tunnels,” above — in TROUBLEMAKERS
TROUBLEMAKERS: THE STORY OF LAND ART (James Crump, 2014)
IFC Center
323 Sixth Ave. at West Third St.
Opens Friday, January 8
212-924-7771
www.ifccenter.com
troublemakersthefilm.com
In the 1960s, a small group of experimental artists rejected the gallery system and the traditional art market by turning the planet into their canvas, creating monumental, often apocalyptic “earthworks” in far-off locations in the American Southwest that were nearly impossible to find. Director James Crump explores who these iconoclastic pioneers were and what they accomplished — and, in some cases, are still doing — in Troublemakers: The Story of Land Art. “The idea of land art is to relate to the idea of the globe, especially after the spaceship, the first picture of the earth, [gave] you the idea that earth is an object, so the idea for these artists after 1963 is that you can shape something, which is a sphere,” explains arte povera expert and art historian Germano Celant, who goes on to talk about the influence of airplane flight and Marcel Duchamp. “So the idea of looking from a high level is changing the perspective, your knowledge about art. And you can design it, you can draw. The area of view is a change in the history of art. It’s all this kind of convergence of information — technology, information, and history — that makes land art.” Crump (Black White + Gray) concentrates primarily on three artists, Robert Smithson, Michael Heizer, and Walter De Maria, combining rarely shown archival footage, photographs, and film clips with old and/or new interviews of artists Carl Andre, Vito Acconci, Charles Ross, Willoughby Sharp, Lawrence Weiner, and Nancy Holt (Smithson’s widow) and gallerists Paula Cooper and Virginia Dwan.
James Crump interviews Lawrence Weiner about the land-art movement in TROUBLEMAKERS
Dwan, a major supporter of the land artists, shares compelling stories about the individuals, both their personalities and their working process, while Acconci discusses the movement from a more philosophical angle, referring to the minimalist, conceptual earthworks as “an exchange with nature” that was “a new kind of religious pilgrimage.” Using bulldozers, excavators, and even earthquakes as their brushes, these artists carved, dug, and constructed massive projects in places that very few people would ever get to see, more concerned with the earth, the sun, and the vast landscape of the planet than with creating art that could be shown in galleries and museums and sold to collectors and corporations. Crump examines such remarkable projects as Smithson’s “Spiral Jetty,” Heizer’s “Double Negative,” De Maria’s “The Lightning Field,” Holt’s “Sun Tunnels,” and Ross’s forty-plus-year work-in-progress, “Star Axis,” some of which you can still see today. But earthworks, which were in part a response to the Vietnam War, were not a rejection of the city itself; Troublemakers shows many of the artists hanging out at Max’s Kansas City on Park Ave., where they ate, drank, and made professional connections. But one artist who avoided that scene was Heizer, who just had a show at Gagosian in Chelsea and did not participate in the making of the documentary. “It’s not worth anything,” he says about his art. “In fact, it’s an obligation.” A refreshing look at an utterly intriguing moment in twentieth-century art — and at a movement that takes on new meaning as the planet is in peril as a result of climate change — Troublemakers opens January 8 at the IFC Center; Crump will participate in a Q&A following the 4:25 screening on January 9.
Japan Society’s January edition of its Monthly Classics series harkens back to its past with Teinosuke Kinugasa’s lush, vibrant jidaigeki film, Gate of Hell; the society sponsored the movie’s U.S. premiere at the Guild Theatre in December 1954, the first Japanese color film ever to be shown in America. Set during the twelfth-century Heiji Rebellion, the samurai drama, based on a play by Kan Kikuchi, focuses on Morito Endo’s (Kazuo Hasegawa) dark, absurd obsession with Lady Kesa (Machiko Kyō), a married woman who is very much in love with her husband, Wataru Watanabe (Isao Yamagata). After protecting Lady Kesa and helping defend his lord, Morito is offered whatever he wants by Kiyomori the Monk (Koreya Senda). The court laughs at Morito when he asks for Lady Kesa’s hand in marriage, but when Kiyomori decides to humor him, Morito opts to pursue his goal, no matter the cost, or the humiliation.
“Now look, you cats may know more about junk, see,” square film director Jim Dunn (William Redfield) says midway through The Connection, “but let me swing with this movie, huh?” Adapted by Jack Gelber from his play and directed and edited by Shirley Clarke, The Connection is a gritty tale of drug addicts awaiting their fix that was banned for obscenity after only two matinee screenings back in October 1962. In 2013, it was released in a sharp new fiftieth-anniversary print, beautifully restored by Ross Lipman of the UCLA Film & Television Archive, which you can see January 8 as it kicks off the Museum of Arts and Design’s new “Eye of a Director” series. The inaugural program, which continues on Friday nights through February 26, focuses on the work of Clarke and her daughter, documentary filmmaker Wendy Clarke. The Connection takes place in a New York City loft, where eight men are waiting for their man: Leach (Warren Finnerty), the ringleader who has an oozing scab on his neck; Solly (Jerome Raphael), an intelligent philosopher who speaks poetically about the state of the world; Ernie (Garry Goodrow), a sad-sack complainer who has pawned his horn but still clutches tight to the mouthpiece as if it were a pacifier; Sam (Jim Anderson), a happy dude who tells rambling stories while spinning a hula hoop; and a jazz quartet consisting of real-life musicians Freddie Redd on piano, Jackie McLean on sax, Larry Richie on drums, and Michael Mattos on bass. Dunn and his cameraman, J. J. Burden (Roscoe Lee Browne), are in the apartment filming the men as Dunn tries to up the drama to make it more cinematic as well as more genuine. “Don’t be afraid, man,” Leach tells him. “It’s just your movie. It’s not real.” When Cowboy (Carl Lee) ultimately shows with the stuff, Bible-thumping Sister Salvation (Barbara Winchester) at his side, things take a decidedly more drastic turn.
“You’re Norma Desmond. You used to be in silent pictures. You used to be big,” handsome young screenwriter Joe Gillis (William Holden) remarks to an older woman in Billy Wilder’s Sunset Boulevard. “I am big. It’s the pictures that got small,” the former star (Gloria Swanson) famously replies. It doesn’t get much bigger than Sunset Boulevard, one of the grandest Hollywood movies ever made about Hollywood. The wickedly entertaining film noir begins in a swimming pool, where Gillis is a floating corpse, seen from below. He then posthumously narrates through flashback precisely what landed him there. On the run from a couple of guys trying to repossess his car, the broke Gillis ends up at a seemingly abandoned mansion, only to find out that it is home to Desmond and her dedicated servant, Max Von Mayerling (Erich von Stroheim). They initially mistake Gillis for the undertaker who is coming to perform a funeral service and burial for Desmond’s pet monkey. (You’ve got to see it to believe it.) When Desmond discovers that Gillis is in fact a screenwriter, she lures him into working with her on her script for a new version of Salome, in which she is determined to play the lead role. “I didn’t know you were planning a comeback,” Gillis says. “I hate that word,” Desmond responds. “It’s a return, a return to the millions of people who have never forgiven me for deserting the screen.” But just as Desmond was unable to make the transition from silent black-and-white films to color and sound pictures, getting Salome off the ground is not going to be as easy as she thinks. Hollywood can be a rather vicious place, after all.
