Days of Future Past

2011 is the 10^th Anniversary of an event that never happened, when the discovery of an alien monolith on the moon propelled astronaut Dave Bowman to Jupiter and beyond.

I have loved 2001: A Space Odyssey (Kubrick, 1968) for as long as I can remember.  There are movies I remember seeing earlier, as a kid, but not many.  It’s always been a part of my cultural memory (I was born two years after it was made), even though I’m not quite sure why—it’s exactly the kind of movie my parents would’ve frowned upon: opaque, irreligious, confusing, slow.

But for me, long before I ever remember stepping into a museum or being exposed to literature (and not just kid books), 2001 was my window into the world of Art.  Most of the movies I talked about were simply rundowns of things we loved, sensory highpoints and greatest hits.  But 2001 sparked debate between me and my nerdier classmates.  Was HAL evil?  What did the room where Dave ends up mean?  What was the Starchild?  Was the movie any good or not?

All films, all stories before 2001 had closure, clarity, unambiguous arcs.  Characters might’ve had complexity, but the final result was fairly clear cut.  But 2001 offered nothing conclusive, no easy answers.  This was a brave new world of observation, interpretation, nuance, and judgment.

My love for classical music started with 2001, and not just in the romantic sweep of the space ballet with Johann Strauss or the thunderous echo of anticipation from the other Strauss, Richard.  For there was nothing sadder than the heartbreaking loneliness of space through Khachaturian or more hypnotic than the atonal fusion of voices and discord as Ligeti took us into another dimension of time and distorted landscape, beyond the monolith.

The best Art changes, evolves with us, but remains both personal and universal.  That so many things about the world of 2001 didn’t come true (yet) is incidental.  For it is fixed neither in time nor location.  I get why not everyone will like it.  The best Art also refuses to placate when it would rather confront.  Some people are never satisfied unless there is an explanation, an answer.  But Art is like Life, and we make of it what we can and what we want.  

There came a tipping point with me quite early when I was OK with having 2001 (and by extension, many more subsequent books and movies and paintings) stay unresolved, even if I couldn’t fully articulate why.   All I knew was that, whatever the Starchild meant, or wanted, or was, it was a beautiful thing.  Transformative, and full of Hope.  Rebirth.  Renewal.  Promise.  An alien observer, it still spoke to the human condition and that’s what made it marvelous and momentous to me.

Years later, when I was in college, I saw 2001 for the first time on the big screen.  It became even more towering then.  The silence of space felt like the TV was on mute in my living room, but in the vastness of Berkeley’s UC Theater, it was unnerving, terrifying.  The most despondent of birthdays, the most clinical of murders, the saddest dirge of a dying computer all became bigger, epic, more visionary.  And that jump cut!  It still makes me gasp in amazement.

I am a theatrical fetishist.  I rarely rent videos and own far fewer DVDs than most people would expect.  I usually operate on the assumption that if I don’t catch a film in the theater, I’m unlikely to ever see it at all (or at least for many years until it migrates to cable).  But there are still my favorites that I return to as comfort food or as a reminder of things I love and care about, even if my cathode ray at home doesn’t do them full justice.

But not 2001.  That’s the one film I never watch at home.  It is not necessarily my favorite film, but it is bigger than life to me, so every time it pops up in a revival theater here, I do my best to go see it.  Because it is the future and the past, man and machine, history and possibility mingling together to sift and to embrace.  There are few things in this world that make me happier.

The X-wing fighter from the Star Wars issue (Scott #4143m) is paired with a spaceship from another scifi issue years earlier (Scott # 2744) and the Australia and Cuba stamps.  Pioneer and Jupiter had three stamps (Scott #s 1556, 2573, and 3189i, the last of which was part of the Celebrate the Century series).  2001 won an Oscar for Special Effects (Scott # 3772i) and the Sound stamp (# 3772j) is also part of the American Filmmaking series.  The Egg Nebula (Scott # 3887) was part of a larger astronomy issue.

My Top 10 Science Fiction films
1. 2001: A Space Odyssey (Kubrick, 1968)
2. Close Encounters of the Third Kind (Spielberg, 1977)
3. Bride of Frankenstein (Whale, 1935)
4. The City of Lost Children (Jeunet/Caro, 1995)
5. The Incredible Shrinking Man (Arnold, 1957)
6. Metropolis (Lang, 1926)
7. Forbidden Planet (Wilcox, 1956)
8. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (Gondry, 2004)
9. The Terminator (Cameron, 1984)
10. The Thing (Carpenter, 1982)

My Oscar Ballot

Picture: Winter’s Bone

Actor: Colin Firth, The King’s Speech

Actress: Michelle Williams, Blue Valentine

Supporting Actor: John Hawkes, Winter’s Bone

Supporting Actress: Hailee Steinfeld, True Grit

Director: David Fincher, The Social Network

Original Screenplay: Another Year

Adapted Screenplay: Winter’s Bone

Cinematography: True Grit

Art Direction: Inception

Editing: The Social Network

Costume Design: I Am Love

Score: The Social Network

Song: “I See the Light”, Tangled

Sound Mixing: Inception

Sound Editing: Inception

Visual Effects: Inception

Make-Up: The Way Back

Foreign Language Film: Dogtooth

Documentary Feature: Exit Through the Gift Shop

Animated Feature: Toy Story 3

Animated Short: The Lost Thing

Live Action Short: God of Love

Inspiration

I am not a particularly creative person. My writing has always leaned toward analysis and academia-based essays, but never fiction. I have a musical sensibility, vocally and instrumentally, without the skill to match. My attempts at photography, juggling and magic are notable for their failure to go anywhere. Unless you count intentionally bad poetry (especially limericks), you might say the most creative thing I do is this blog and these postcards--which may not be saying much (whatever gifts I have lie elsewhere). But my tastes over the years have allowed me the opportunity to hang around dancers, musicians, photographers, filmmakers, all of whom have amazed me with their talent, but in an art form that I still found somewhat accessible, either from first-hand experience or long-term exposure.

But artists--painters, sculptors, mixed media--have always impressed me in a different way. Because I honestly don't know how they do it. Examining brush strokes up close in a museum never fails to leave me in awe, for every little dib and dab seems so arbitrary, random on its own. But the whole is greater than the sum of its parts, and seeing a canvas breathe life and force and intensity in its static frame is a thing of singular beauty that I don't feel in a position to scrutinize. With the other arts, I think I can provide some sort of critical perspective, because I understand the mechanisms behind creating harmony or dissonance, light or shadow, fluidity or gravity.

Of course, all these qualities apply to painting, too, and I've seen enough art (across four continents) to know that I like some things much more than others. But while I am personally discerning, I guess I feel less qualified to be judgmental. Because every achievement that works or connects with me, I see as a small miracle. And the ones that don't are miraculous in their own way, too. That's why I've never had an issue with "modern" art--for while it can be superficially assessed as simplistic or naive or lazy, it still was inspired by something powerful and elusive, yet rendered in front of me whole and concrete and fearless. I respect that a lot, and while I've known my share of artists over the years, I've never seen them at work, so the process is still couched in mystery to me.

Which is why a movie like Pollock (Harris, 2000), or any artist biopic, can be challenging. Because inspiration is rarely a simple throughline of cause-and-effect. The epic expanse of white that is a blank canvas would be terrifying to me, that first stroke too great a level of commitment. And while Pollock's process may involve more sheer physicality than a Da Vinci or Monet, conveying that window into his artistic mind can still be a difficult thing to dramatize. Very few movies have done it successfully, leaving the artist we love (no matter how well-acted) still an enigma, chronicling the events and external demons of a life but never harnassing the soulfulness that makes that art great.

I wouldn't know what makes a painting "great" anyway. Back in college, my friend in UC Santa Cruz had a Pollock-y painting on her dorm room wall that I thought was marvelous. Learning her 6-year old niece made it didn't change that opinion one bit. I have a painting hanging now at home, from a friend. It reminds me of Van Gogh, but with a pallette that's more verdant than I'm used to him. Is it any good? All I know is that I love it.

My favorite films about art are The Mystery of Picasso (Clouzot, 1956) and The Quince Tree Sun (Erice, 1992). Neither are biographies, but simple films about trying to capture that process, and depicting how the making of a piece (be it masterful or not) is itself a journey that's singular, with the rest of the world only seeing the final destination. They are both magical films, and ones that I never hesitate to recommend to my artist friends--though I never know if they've sought them out. For process itself can be sacred and private, and while other artists perform in front of audiences, a painter or sculptor rarely does. And it feels almost intrusive to ask about how those seeds are planted.

The Phladlephia Museum of Art. The Tate Modern. The Uffizi. So many I've seen and adored visiting, and so many more I'd like to some day. In a private gallery or a public square, I never tire of being left in awe. The stamps for Pollock and De Kooning (played by Ed Harris and Val Kilmer, respectively) were part of an Abstract Expressionist issue by the USPS (Scott #4444d & b), while the other Pollock stamp (nicly mirroring the poster itself) was part of the Celebrate the Century series (Scott #3186h)

2010 Yearly Wrap

 Katharine Hepburn, Scott #  4461

Cowboys of the Silver Screen issue, including Roy Rogers, Scott # 4446

Abstract Expressionsists issue, including Mark Rothko, Scott # 4444c

Sunday Funnies issue, including Archie, Scott # 4469

Merry Christmas

Like last year, a Christmas one sheet of a Disney short, this time with Mickey and Pluto in Mickey’s Good Deed (Gillett, 1932). The holiday wreaths (Scott #3245-7) are part of the same set and match up with the wreath in the window. Depression era B&W Disney are far better in both humor and nuance, with lots of nice detailing in the animation and a greater gift for character design without being afraid of surrealistic elements. And there are still emotional touches that are charming.

May your Yuletide be full of food, fun, and fellowship.

Grim Burton

There are two types of Tim Burton movies—ones which are largely original, inventive, joyful, and inspired: Pee Wee’s Big Adventure, Beetlejuice, Ed Wood, The Corpse Bride. And then there are the adaptations. (shudder)

Despite the assumption that he loves these properties he chooses to embrace, he seems to have an underlying contempt for them too. How else to explain the turgid Sleepy Hollow, the embarrassing Planet of the Apes, the woeful Charlie and the Chocolate Factory? And now the abysmal Alice in Wonderland, which appropriates all the trappings of Carroll but none of the cleverness or sophistication. It's an ugly movie, and an unfortunate one.

Although they have a decidedly dubious record with adaptations, too (even recent “classics” like The Little Mermaid or Beauty and the Beast can’t hold a candle to Andersen or Cocteau), the people at Disney managed to maintain a sly, misanthropic perversity in their 1951 version, perhaps the last time the studio embraced a truly surreal sensibility in its animated features. But for a real innovative adaptation of Carroll—true to the spirit but still singularly original—you need to pursue Jan Svankmajer’s remarkable stop-motion Alice (1988), or the fantasy sequences in the small treasure Dreamchild (1985). Both are quirky, visceral, and visionary.

As for Johnny Depp? His creative marriage to Burton used to highlight a quirky worldview in the interesting, underrated actor of the ‘90s. But now, in the days of the ever-more-tedious Jack Sparrow, it just feels like artistic laziness. Even the Oscar nod for Sweeney Todd is explainable only if you’d never heard a single cast album of the brilliant musical—in short, a worthy effort that longs for someone with real singing chops and not just brooding and viscera. Depp used to actually appear in fantastic movies: Dead Man, Donnie Brasco, Ed Wood. But that seems like a lifetime ago.

The Disney stamp releases of Alice (Scott #3913) and Peter Pan (Scott #4193) were an excuse for me to pull a few other postcards from my collection. This Alice illustration doesn’t have an ounce of cutesiness in it and more closely resembles the 1979 British Alice stamp, which I piggybacked on the FDC of the Queen of Hearts USPS Love stamp release (Scott #4405). The Cayman Islands stamp I ran across as a happy accident, and had enough of a pirate feel to marry to the Peter Pan postmark and the one-sheet of the first Pirates flick.

Gotta Dance!

The Frank Sinatra stamps (Scott #4265) I used on these two musicals, On the Town (Donen/Kelly, 1949) and Anchors Aweigh (Sidney, 1945), only serve to remind us that Gene Kelly has yet to receive a stamp from the USPS. The fact that Fred Astaire also hasn’t been recognized made me think...are they preparing a Great Dancers issue? Still, the omission is quite conspicuous, especially since Judy Garland has gotten two already, completing the triumvirate of the most important actors in the history of the American musical.

I’ve always been a much bigger fan of Kelly, not because he was a better singer than Astaire (he wasn’t) or dancer (it’s a tie), but because he always seemed far more accessible. In his films, Astaire usually played a dancer. But Kelly played a soldier, sailor, ball player, actor, artist, ordinary working Joe. He wore khakis, not tuxedos. He was graceful, but also athletic. And while Astaire was usually kept apart from his love interest by circumstance, contrivance, or crossed wires, Kelly’s worst enemy was typically himself. He didn’t mind playing the heel, being unctuous and pushy. And sometimes, that shit-eating grin can annoy as much as charm. An American in Paris (as beautiful as it is overrated) makes him a little too insufferable for my taste, stalking, rather than seducing, poor Leslie Caron.

But more often than not, that smile was a façade to darker recesses, for he was a far better actor than Astaire, tapping into his characters’ emotional depths and neuroses that played out in choreography that often was as tortured as it was jubilant. Astaire had a delightful, feather touch that played counter to what felt natural if forced to portray a bad guy (Exhibit A: Yolanda and the Thief). But Kelly understood that such brazenness was a double-edged sword, that he could steamroll you with his energy, and that self-awareness makes his best performances (The Pirate, Singin’ in the Rain, It’s Always Fair Weather) both charming and provocative.

A great comparison is between Town and Aweigh, for while he’s mostly a goof and a jerk in the latter, he’s wonderful in the former, finding a perfect pairing with Vera-Ellen while still being exceedingly generous with his hugely talented co-stars: Sinatra, Betty Garrett, Ann Miller, and Jules Munshin. Town was the first film he co-directed with Stanley Donen (himself, vastly underappreciated for his contributions to so many 50’s musicals), but except for the ballet sequence, Kelly plays to the strengths of the ensemble instead of hogging the show. Town is also the far better musical, despite abandoning huge chunks of the original stage show, with one boisterous number after number. Aweigh is now mostly remembered for the inventive dance Kelly has with the animated Jerry the Mouse.

I was lucky to find two related stamps that fit perfectly with both the theme and the color scheme of the respective one sheets. The New York Skyline is an Air Mail stamp from 1947 (Scott #C35) and the Navy stamp (Scott #435) is from a year earlier. Note how Jose Iturbi gets prominent billing in the latter, because the one-sheet itself is Spanish.