A charming little animated film by Vic Chhun, Leyla Kaddoura, and Nicolas Ughen, Poussière (Dust), as it’s name implies, tells the story of a piece of dust and its travels. This story intertwines with that of a farmer but just how is for you to discover. The animation itself is accomplished; the characters showing a wealth of emotion with using an economy of movement and the scenery in which they find themselves are beautifully rendered. I will say that, if there is any flaw here, it is in the presentation of the last bit of story. I’ve watched this three or four times now, and I can’t help but feel that an important piece of information is missing from the film’s final sequence. Of course, my being incredibly dense isn’t out of the question either.
With the upcoming release of the prequel/re-make film, The Thing, this Friday I thought it would be good to remind everyone of John Carpenter’s 1982 musical re-make of the 1951 Howard Hawks/Christian Nyby classic The Thing From Another World. While the newest incarnation of John W. Campbell, Jr’s “Who Goes There?” looks like it could be interesting, I seriously doubt that it will be able to beat the songs from Carpenter’s effort — especially the title piece, featured here. He really nailed it.
Watching this video I cannot exactly be sure if this isn’t in jest. Surely, one would think, there is no need to explain the proper way to open a door. Surely, one would think, if those Scandinavians figured out the mechanics of leaving a room, the Finns would have as well. This video seems to illustrate otherwise, indicating that, at least until 1979, the Finnish people were constantly running, full-tilt, into entryways, oblivious to how these infernal blockades functioned, perhaps flailing wildly at the door knobs (provided they had not knocked themselves unconscious) their spastic flapping eventually resulting in the door opening after, what must have seemed, an eternity; the sad, exhausted individual collapsing through the doorway, already dreading the next encounter. One could theorize that, with so much of their faculties taken up by trying to master their sadistically difficult language, they have little capacity for much else inside their brain-meats. (Editor’s Note: This is just the theory of one man. It does not represent the opinions of Coilhouse or the Editors and does, in fact, come from the diseased mind of a crazy person. The Finnish people have a wonderful language and are also in possession of exemplary brains.)
Whatever the reason, there still exists this clip of a dapper, mustachioed gentleman, wearing, one might say, an obscenely wide tie, demonstrating how to open a door in a manner that would most likely result in the practitioner immediately being ejected from the space they had just entered on suspicion of being some sort of trespasser; especially in conjunction with the aforementioned moustache. Perform at your own risk.
Céline Desrumaux‘s fantastic animated short “Countdown” details, as one might expect from the title, the launch of a rocket. The style here is a combination of flat colors and hard, almost architectural lines, as though it had leapt straight from the pages of Popular Mechanics circa 1958, along with some character animation by Florent Remize. Desrumaux (who is one half of Céline & Yann who produced the delightful series “The Giants”) cites Chris Ware as an influence and that is, indeed, the first person that comes to mind. “Countdown” has a heart-pounding, frenetic quality to it, combining almost abstract shots of dials, meters , and light; and shots of the rocket as it prepares to launch, cropped down into the square, vignetted look associated with, at least, the older exterior NASA footage. All of this is set to the harried pace of Apprat‘s “Granulard bastard”. It all makes for a gripping three and a half minutes.
I first became aware of Leontine Greenberg when I saw her fantastic Dark Crystal piece for Gallery1988’s recent “Crazy 4 Cult” show. Working in watercolors and gouache, her work is fairly sparse, normally a figure or two perched atop a strip of earth. The characters in these little vignettes are animals all, just a few steps outside of their real-world norms. There are tiny, unidentifiable songbirds and gangly, heron-like waterfowl. And there are, of course, the rabbits or, perhaps, The Rabbit; a spindly, hunched creature (or creatures) with a peculiar phonograph obsession — an other-dimensional Nipper.
What I like most about her work (besides the wonderfully rendered figures) is how they seem to hint at but never reveal their world. All these strange scenes appear to take place in some children’s storybook gone sideways — the Hundred Acre Wood and Kenneth Grahame’s pastoral England transposed onto Sam Kieth’s Outback — a world I would very much like to know more about but which is, perhaps, best left up to the imagination.
Today The FAM presents 2001’s The Devil’s Backbone (El espinazo del diablo), directed by Guillermo del Toro and produced by Pedro Almodóvar. Set in 1939, during the Spanish Civil War, it tells the story of Carlos, a young boy recently deposited at an orphanage until, he is told, his father, a Republican war hero, returns. Unbeknownst to young Carlos, Franco’s Nationalists have a distinct upper-hand and his father is dead, making his stay permanent. The orphanage is run by the kindly Dr. Casares and and a curt headmistress, Carmen.
Carlos doesn’t take to the orphanage particularly well and while he makes a few friends — not the least of which is Jaime, the orphanage’s bully — all is not well. There is still the matter of Jacinto, the groundskeeper, I violent, brooding man who was an orphan himself, who is intent on stealing the gold rumored to be stored somewhere in the complex. Of course, there is also the ghost of the boy Santi, who disappeared mysteriously on the night the orphanage was bombed, and now haunts the orphanage and who tells Carlos “Many of you will die”. What happened to him and how is it connected to the cistern in the cellar?
His third film, The Devil’s Backbone features the same juxtaposition of childish innocence and dread found in his other non-Hollywood efforts: 1993’s Cronos and 2006’s Pan’s Labyrinth; that latter film continuing the exploration of many of the themes found here. It’s a look at how the unblemished mind confronts the horrors of both reality and the supernatural — a Kids Save the Day movie in the Spielberg vein, forced through a horror movie meat grinder, though del Toro perhaps treats his young characters with a bit more respect.
The horror here is handled deftly as well, the ghost is more often heard than seen outright, softly, mournfully moaning its discontent, keeping it from veering into the territory of silliness that many films in the genre are wont to do. And war, always war. Its looming specter, too, haunts this film as well as Pan’s Labyrinth. War is the real evil in these films, man the main antagonist. Even the depths of del Toro’s imagination cannot eclipse their evil.
How about some hot, sale meteorological pornography for your Thursday? Mitch Dobrowner has been photographing storms for only two years, pilule producing stunning images of dark and ominous clouds towering over flat grasslands. The magnitude of these fronts is breathtaking, click hulking columns of gas and lightning with the world at their mercy. If you like these, I strongly suggest you head over to lens culture and check out their high resolution slideshow. The detail in these is spectacular.
From John Campbell, creator of the amazing/depressing/hilarious comic Pictures For Sad Children, comes “Cats”, a short film about Shannon Driscoll — screenprinter, teacher, cat enthusiast. The film explores Shannon’s love of felines and how they influence her art and, in doing so, hold up a mirror to her strained relationship with her father. A relationship in which the truly innocent suffer the most.
Flat, there layered shapes and muted colors abound in the work of Italian illustrator Riccardo Guasco. There is a strong Cubist/Primitivist streak running through these, along with the necessarily minimalist sensibility. Lots of beautiful, empty space that help draw the eye to the dynamic figures and strange scenes contained within them. Tonally, his pieces are often playful and kinetic, though some are wonderfully subdued. The winged girl below features in two more paintings, twisting in each one, as though she and the butterfly are taking part in a languid dance.
In 2005, Banana Park produced this Oscar nominated short, based on George Herriman’s seminal comic strip, Krazy Kat. It is the perfect primer for the strip, should you ever consider diving into the collected series, giving a brief and concise look at the bizarre love triangle at its center. Banana Park did a fantastic job of capturing the look of both the characters — Krazy Kat, Ignatz Mouse, and Offissa Pupp — the strange, otherworldly version of Coconino County, Arizona.
(It should be noted that, even though Krazy is referred to as “he” here — as, indeed, was the case in the comic — it is gender neutral, Herriman refusing to ever give a definitive answer as to Krazy’s gender.)