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filmstruck · 6 years ago

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A Cinephile’s Guide to Telluride by Pablo Kjolseth

This Labor Day Weekend the Telluride Film Festival turns 45. With over 3,000 film festivals to choose from worldwide, why choose a trip to Telluride? Here’s why:

It's a beautiful place. Telluride is a former silver mining camp located almost 9,000 feet up in elevation alongside the San Miguel River in the Western San Juan Mountains. You’ll be in a box canyon with breathtaking views. If you stand downtown on Colorado Avenue at dusk, you'll see amazing sunsets to the west and steep canyon walls with the postcard-perfect Bridal Veil Falls to the east. Of course, most of the time you’ll be inside a movie theater being transported who-knows-where. But in-between shows and while waiting in line, you can drink in the views.

It's a challenge. In a good way. Attending Sundance is easy as there are plenty of cheap flights into Salt Lake City and then Park City is only a half-hour drive away. Maybe that's why it gets mobbed by 40,000 people. Telluride? It has a tiny airport with tiny planes and what has to be one of the tiniest runways in the U.S. The bulk of people attending, therefore, drive seven or so hours to get there and this helps to separate the wheat from the chaff, with attendance being about a tenth of what Sundance supports.

It's selective. A Sundance or Toronto catalog looks and weighs as much as a phone book and you know what you’re getting into in advance. Which can be a good thing, in terms of giving you many options and choices. But a Telluride catalog is a slim booklet that fits in your back pocket, and people attending won't know what will be in that booklet until they are there, usually the night before the big communal feast on Friday where pass holders and filmmakers commingle and jockey for paper plates in the same buffet line. It's a blind date, one in which you are being asked to trust the movie curators. It’s like a restaurant with no online menu and a great chef who wants to surprise you with all manner of unusual food items that you’ve never tasted.

It celebrates the legacy of film. They show archive prints, silent films with live musical accompaniment and they screen 35mm prints too (although sometimes they don't print this information in their programs, a strange oversight). And, of course, they have the ever-popular world and U.S. premieres by well-known directors or new talented filmmakers about to make a big splash.

It has free events. In the daytime, panel discussions in the park. At night, open air screenings under the stars.

It has a great campground with showers and bathrooms that are only a ten-minute walk from downtown. Warning: show up early if you want a shot at a spot. Otherwise you’ll find yourself driving out of town along Last Dollar Road looking for a place to squat.

It usually has Werner Herzog in attendance. Unless Herzog is on location elsewhere shooting a movie, he'll probably be there to celebrate his birthday alongside screenings that take place in the huge theater named after him or in one of the half-dozen or so other theaters that are within walking distance of each other (the exception to this being the Chuck Jones Cinema in Mountain Village, accessible via a free but half-hour long gondola ride from downtown). Speaking of which:

It has incredible staff, tech crew and theaters. Each theater has a theme, be it the Chuck Jones Cinema or The Galaxy. These theaters are built by volunteers, staff and top-notch technical crewmembers, who all put their heart-and-soul into transforming what is normally a climbing gym or some other public use space into temporary, state-of-the-art dedicated film auditoriums with its own vibe and magic.

IIt has no paparazzi. No press screenings. No rubber-neckers or throngs of people crowding out the celebrities for selfies (okay, some of those). As a result, in Telluride you might find yourself buying a bagel behind Willem Dafoe or bumping shoulders with Danny Elfman. It has a casual vibe. It's not a zoo. It's not a circus. It's not a market. It's a film festival devoted to cinephiles and serious filmmakers, one that just happens to be taking place in a gorgeous mountain setting where you half expect Julie Andrews to break out into song.

It always has a Guest Director. Sometimes a well-known director (John Boorman), or musician (Laurie Anderson), or philosopher (Slavoj Zizek) or, as is the case this year, a novelist: Jonathan Lethem. This is one of my favorite sections because Telluride staff will bend over backwards to find six titles that have had a profound influence on the Guest Director’s life. The choices usually go back in time, swerve among genres and always include new discoveries. They also serve to showcase the power of cinema. This year that program is sponsored by FilmStruck, because we cinephiles have to stick together.

#FilmStruck #Telluride Film Festival #JR #Rosalie Varda #Gael García Bernal #StreamLine Blog #Pablo Kjolseth

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rossbusby · 2 years ago

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She is Born from the Universe, She is the Universe She is born from the Universe She is the Universe She contains the Universe Her body will break down Continuing the venture in Reality She is every aspect Yhe mass of experience, excitement, and passion that has evolved the universe to this day. She is yhe beautiful transcendence of the Eternal Artist. Aghast at the unexpected celebration of beauty in its own creation She is the expression of Spirit in Self We are Born for the Universe, We are the Universe. We contain the Universe. Model: @lizzy_vickers Check out her art. Lizzy is a very sweet and kind woman with a very fun and unique art style. We used to work on Sculpey Art together when I lived in Norwood near Telluride. This was my first poster print at 22"x33" which came out well but a cat and a fallen crystal destroyed it shortly after printing it. Was great to have up for a few days as I really enjoyed the drawing and the background. #spirit #space #Universe #reality #spirit #soul #artist #art #weareallone #reflection #beautiful #goddess #feminine #kindness #Tao #digitalillustration #digitalart #poster #orb #energy #poetry #poem #portrait (at Denver, Colorado) https://www.instagram.com/p/CiQH8MQOfbz/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

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columbinelabel · 3 years ago

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FROM OUR PRESIDENT: 5 LESSONS FISHING TAUGHT ME ABOUT LABELS

If medical researchers ever invent a test that can identify a person’s passions in their DNA, my results would read unequivocally: “fishing fanatic” and “destined for the sticky paper”.

Some things are just meant to be; which explains how my life has come full circle here in Colorado by doing two things that destiny had written firmly in my DNA.

Born and raised in Kansas, I was baptized into the sport of fishing at the age of four by my father and grandfather during our first of several big family vacations in Telluride. From the moment we stepped into the San Miguel River that first day, I was hooked.

I’m not sure if it was merely the experience of spending quality time with two men in my life whom I looked up to, or the sheer joy of being in the glorious outdoors and playing with the rods, reels, and worms.

Regardless, it fueled a lifelong love of the sport (and a gravitational pull to put down roots in Colorado) and taught me five important lessons that have proven valuable in the world of label printing.

Technique and timing are everything.

I got into the art of fly fishing much later in life, but I like to think you’re never too old to learn new hobbies or valuable lessons. Fly fishing is all about casting your line rather than the lure. The technique is key. So is timing. You have to know not only how and when but where to trick the fish into biting your hook.

Technique and timing also play a large role in the label printing world.

Different materials have different properties that require a skilled press operator who understands the nuances of each substrate and can navigate a successful print run. Achieving a consistent, high-print quality look demands expertise in various printing techniques that meet/exceeds customer expectations each and every time.

In our business, where short lead times are the promise, we face the ultimate test of timing on a daily basis. Customer satisfaction rides on both the quality of our output and our ability to reliably do what we say we’re going to do. That’s why we measure our success by our On Time and Early Shipment metrics — currently at 97.32 percent.

Stock up on patience and perseverance.

Fishing is the quintessential sport of leisure. Many avid fishermen/women, however, consider fly fishing to be on a completely different level. Izaak Walton, the author of The Compleat Angler(1653), called fly fishing “The Contemplative Man’s Recreation.”

It requires an aptitude for perseverance, which goes hand in hand with patience.

The same can be said for producing exceptional printing results. At Columbine Label, we approach every job with a clear sense of purpose: to deliver on our customers’ needs. That means taking the extra steps to establish honest and open relationships and create positive experiences with our customers. Building trust guides our actions and shapes our decisions each and every day.

Find your champion.

Like any sport, fishing is one you master by doing. Ideally, you find someone to teach you proper techniques. For me, it was my father and grandfather. I am forever indebted to them for encouraging me to keep trying and teaching me the skill of fishing and the joy of the catch.

Because we have spent decades mastering the art of quality label production, many of our customers have come to rely on us as an extension of their business because their product — and successful marketing — relies so heavily on putting out quality-labeled products that attract consumers and generate sales. We champion our customers’ success from behind the scenes to on the shelves.

Don’t be afraid to wade in knee-deep.

Wading into a swift and cold river much bigger than me when I was young for the mere chance of maybe catching a fish taught me a lot about taking chances for the reward at the end of the line.

In our print shop, we are always wading into what’s new in the world of product label printing. Whether it’s investing time and resources into new markets, new materials, or new printing services such as shrink sleeves, we aren’t afraid to test the waters to provide the best and latest label printing solutions for our customers.

Do what you love.

Take it from a little boy from the heartland who followed his Colorado dream. It IS possible to use what’s in your passion DNA and turn it into a fulfilling professional life.

We make an effort to foster that culture in-house. We aim to make each day matter, have fun, and even spread a bit of laughter. And, of course, print lots of high-quality, eye-catching labels that help our customers sell more of what they do best.

As they say, “if you love what you do, it’s not work.”

Now if you’ll excuse me, I think I hear the river calling.

#label printer #digital label printer #label #printing

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crown-eater · 6 years ago

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Only the Vital Ones, Pt. 1

“In those days, desires weren’t allowed to become reality. So, fantasy was substituted for them–films, books, pictures. They called it ‘art.’ But, when your desires become reality, you don’t need fantasy any longer, or art.”–Amyl Nitrate, “Jubilee”

[ With Symbiotic Self-Indulgence, 3, Pts. I, II. ] [ The Uptake (table of contents)]

The small brushed steel kitchen table of Cecil and ‘Choly’s studio apartment abutted a full-height open-frame modular shelving unit, which doubled as a space divider between the kitchen and the daybed in the back corner that ‘Choly frequented whenever scaling the loft bed proved too taxing. Slumped at it in a dark tank top and his orange leggings, before the ex-stalker lay a quaint butcher-paper and twine parcel, a paring knife, and his reader on a kickstand. With the apartment to himself, ‘Choly surveyed some of the pieces in his drafts and rubbed at his marred face in a dull restlessness. Grazing his recent cheek suture, he flinched and stood, and he paced in the narrow track the length of the apartment which functioned not unlike a hallway.

Two years ago, such incisions would have been made in the spirit of verbot chasing. He sniveled in anger at the impotence of having had to make such a superficial adjustment for sake of his own clumsiness, rather than in the aftermath of risky enterprises. He'd tried several times to contact the Tellurides after the riots and subsequent quarantine, and he knew in his gut that all three of them had gotten walled up with the rest of the Quarter. And the Geek, and Chalcedony, too, for all he knew. His only solace came in knowing that at least his parents had moved back in together downstate before things had gotten especially hairy.

He returned to the kitchen and rinsed out a mug to pour himself a fresh cup of black coffee from the carafe Cecil had brewed for breakfast, and he sat again. Then, he snipped the string on the box and unfurled its wrappings. His horn-rimmed glasses came off and lay across the table from him as he continued massaging at his cheeks and chin and neck marbled with errant scars. He flicked up the messaging app frame and clicked on Augen’s active username, and sighed. Rather than initiate conversation, he produced from the small wax-coated cardstock box a decently-sized chalky pastel ball. He smoothed out the parchment with a detached free hand, and set down the ball of Confec atop it with the other.

The ball bore a mealy consistency somewhere between soap and fudge. A quarter-inch butt fell to the paper, and he stuck it in his mouth to let the hyssop-like bouquet melt on his tongue as he sank into his chair and hesitated on the chat he’d opened.

ketherphorbia: you’re up early 9augen: funny, i was just about to message you. not at the library today? ketherphorbia: no, and i’m not getting anywhere with what i was trying to do so you have my full attention 9augen: how does meeting up for lunch sound? ketherphorbia: i ketherphorbia: i just started in on a fresh confec bonbon, but yeah 9augen: the finnegans across the street from your old place? its on me ketherphorbia: something tells me you’re just looking for an excuse to milk their one-cred goldfinch lunch special 9augen: if you want a few, just say so. can you be there in... say, an hour? ketherphorbia: it honestly sounds fantastic. we can both talk. if you want

Still rattled from the abrupt invitation, ‘Choly put the knife in the sink and rounded the modular divider to rummage in the side-table drawers for something to throw on. First came his back brace, splints, and wrist braces, and he yanked together his salmon button-up, black sweater with the elbows cut out, and slashed jeans over the orange leggings. Taking his jewelry box into the bathroom, he then brushed his bangtails and tucked the right side back with his ABC-gum barrette. He hooked his new black acrylic skull-cutout gauge hangers into his ears, and plucked his balloon animal and saturn-symbol pendants to string around his neck. The spoon pin went in his left collar-point, and he sat on the daybed for his socks. On the way out the door, he tucked the wax paper wrapped Confec into his diamond-shaped cross-body bag and nabbed his cane, retrieved his glasses, and slipped into his mint creepers.

Along the short trip down to Level 5, he shot Cecil a short message:

|| Might not be home when you get off work. Augen invited me to lunch. He hasn’t said hardly a word since it happened, and I get the feeling he needs a friend right now. ||

Cecil replied to him as ‘Choly waved his pass and boarded the toll lift:

|| I can only imagine how hard it’s been for him. Hope he’s doing ok. You two have a good time. Love you. Give him a kiss for me ||

With a chuckle and a fish emoticon, ‘Choly exited the lift and hobbled down the street. He texted Augen that he'd arrived, asking where to meet him, because at first he didn't see him outside. Leaning on the front facade of the Finnegan’s, a tall gothic figure smoked religiously. The young man with dark hair pulled into a low messy bun wore a black button-down and drop-crotch pants, a dark grey knee-length gauzy vest, a large black shawl-scarf wrapped around his shoulders and neck, and mesh boots. Upon closer inspection, the combination of facial body mods--spider bites, gauged one-inch ears and 2ga medusa with glass plugs, symmetrical double brow piercings, and batwing clicker--confirmed for ‘Choly that this was his friend. Somehow, even with his suspicion as to why Augen had initiated the meeting, he’d still expected to find him his old self, and not this anxious chain-smoking human mess. Augen rolled his eyes at him, having just checked his messages.

“Word of warning, I’m a bit thrushed right now,” 'Choly blurted out. Rather than respond, Augen leaned down and steadied ‘Choly’s chin to give him a kiss. ‘Choly smiled strangely and reciprocated with a second peck, then navigated the awkward posture into a hug as he tucked his head against Augen’s chest. It unnerved 'Choly that his friend was no longer cold-blooded, no longer clammy and tepid, but he kept it to himself. “...Hello to you, too.”

“I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.” Augen rubbed at ‘Choly’s scruff and held the door for him. He eyed ‘Choly’s sweater dully in passing. “Don’t Quit Your Daydream, huh?”

‘Choly looked down at the saying printed on his front once they’d cleared the atrium, and his brows upturned.

“Hah, maladaptive daydreaming. Had it for years. I just kinda threw something on so I wouldn’t run late.”

“Daydream... into a living nightmare...”

With the detached comment, Augen waved down a server to seat them. Marinating in his dissociative veneer, ‘Choly swallowed hard at the prospect of purposefully navigating his mental filter. They settled at a table amid the lunch traffic, and with a series of finger gestures along the tabletop which doubled as a touchscreen menu, both ordered pinzones dorados and got to glancing over their options in silence. The server, a young brunet named Bert, promptly came and left with their drinks, as well as a basket of multicolored meal-rinds and two dishes of salsa. 'Choly sipped at his golden glowing pinzón, a smooth over-ice mix of tonic, hydroponic mezcal, triple sec, and lime liqueur, and mentally praised the facility with which one could get drunk at any hour in this city.

“So... this is a thing now.” ‘Choly got a rind real heavy with salsa and shoved it in his mouth.

Augen knocked back half his liquor in one motion, and slouched over it.

“I’d lived myself so fully, that I’d nearly forgotten what it was like to be human. I’ve missed smoking, if we’re looking for an upside to all this.”

“There’s gotta be a way t’get back what you had. At least some of it?”

“That’s... just about the last thing I want to talk about right now. Past tense doesn’t feel so great.”

They used their mouths to crunch rinds and nothing else. Augen took a hit off the cig around his neck, and with a deep exhale he shut his sunken eyes, the vapors entangling with the odd abstract light fixture over the table. Once they'd placed their orders, 'Choly did his best to people watch behind a zoned out Augen, mostly observing the rotation of three servers popping in and out of the kitchen door with dishes. When a couple that sat on the same side of their far-corner booth thought 'Choly gawked at their unapologetic PDAs and gave him a stink-eye, he coughed, and started trying to read the pattern of scrapbooked web articles which plastered every wall and the ceiling of the restaurant. The theme of all the articles painted up Tri-City's sheer melting pot culture as a fusion city, boasting a collage of articles about people from just about every level in the hyper-metroplex.

Bert interrupted their silence with their meals, and 'Choly squirmed back to give the server the space to lay it out on the table. The teen couldn't hide a sigh of relief as he picked up one plate, and glanced between the both of them.

"Who ordered the wraps?"

Augen gave him a lazy hand gesture, and the plate slid over to him. On Augen’s plate of spring wraps lay six large seared shrimp. Sliced in half both for presentation and facility, the three girthy wraps were stuffed with a combination of mushroom slices, seaweed, and fried mealworms.

"And then, the benedict's yours. Extra sauce?"

"Yes, thank you," 'Choly lauded with a heavily modulated affect, as the other mess of a plate came his way. A viscous pale yellow-green mess blanketed two nondescript mounds of protein and bread, and along its side the cook had scattered soft, colorful citrus gummies. "So glad I can still get breakfast here this late."

"Is there anyth--" Bert broke off, unable not to stare at Augen, as he fished out a pair of napkin-rolled utensils to give them. Augen returned the stare, deadpan.

"...Spring wraps, and a side order of shrimp. It is you."

‘Choly gave the poor boy a glossy smile, about to praise how good it all looked, but he quickly drooped in recognition of the tension.

“So I took a bath today,” Augen dismissed, total fatigue in his voice. “Big deal.”

‘Choly coughed, cataract-bloom eyes wide as he took a stiff sip. Setting the pinzón back down, he tried to smile up at the waiter again, his voice cracking.

"Could we get more rinds?"

The waiter shook his head and shut his eyes, then nodded.

“--Sure thing.”

“And we already need another round of birds.” Augen traced the edge of the faded glass with one black-polished finger and a heavy-lidded, eyelined smirk.

The server flashed him a fake grin, poorly hiding his revelry that the city had defanged the loathsome goth.

“I’ll be right back.”

‘Choly fought with the self-conscious selfishness of directing the conversation to himself, but still he persisted, hoping to distract his friend from getting recognized by his typical order. ‘Choly unrolled his flatware to tuck the napkin beside his plate, and took up the table knife and fork with zeal. He didn’t want to admit it, but as had become typical in the past few weeks, the only thing he’d put in his stomach so far by that time of day was a slice of wax and half a cup of coffee. Augen took precise bites, holding his food gingerly with thoroughly ring-encrusted hands. His face stitched with a faint sweat which could have been from stress, the heat of the food, or even from the start of enebriation. 'Choly observed in distant and fascinated contemplation, unsure whether his friend derived his mannerisms from humanity or the vestiges of having so recently once been a hybrid. Augen shot him a vague glance, and he cringed from getting caught watching. ‘Choly pushed the sauce-drenched larva-hash back up on the one round bready thing he’d been cutting bites from, sheepish.

“If you don’t wanna talk about it, there’s gotta be something you can do to take your mind off it instead? Have you tried... writing, since...?”

Augen finished off the first drink right when Bert swung by two replacements and more rinds and salsa. ‘Choly hadn’t even drunk half of his first pinzón yet, and he nudged his new one his friend’s way, knowing the rate this meal was going. “Most of the time,” the goth mumbled, welcoming the offer, “my writing takes a particular head space. And I sure as fuck haven’t been in it.”

“I mean, like. Not in a carnal sense. Sort of in a carnal sense. An emotional sense? A purgative sense?”

Augen kept his eyes on his food, but his ears patently on his friend. ‘Choly’s hallmark withdrawn posture and tone signaled vague, incumbent rambling. With welcome resignation the goth listened, as he’d aspired from the start. After all, ‘Choly always had been the long-winded one of them.

“You... You remember how I was writing stories about me gettin’ with the Geek, but then I stopped abruptly? The last wip I posted before I stopped was right after I found out that the Geek and the Larva were the same person. Early on, the reasons I couldn’t reconcile with finishing the piece were ‘cause of how badly my first encounter with him went, but then fantasy turned into reality and he... caught me stalkin’ him and. You remember that right?” ‘Choly fished his reader from his bag, and tried to locate a picture in his camera roll. “I know I sent you a selfie of the black eye he gave me...”

“...You couldn’t shut up about it for a month. Heh.”

‘Choly looked up from his reader with a dull gloss to his features, and sniffed. “He even tracked me down, what, five weeks later? An’ things got super weird--" He chewed at his labret. "...I’m still trying to process everything that happened two years ago.”

“This is about the walls, isn’t it.”

“Not quite. And yet. Exactly. I just. I owe it to him to get the details right, don’t I? It feels real lousy to even consider writing a nonfictional account of him, and yet.” He popped an orange gummy in his mouth, and licked the thick, tangy sauce off his swan-splinted fingertip. “I feel like I need to get the very concept of him in print, to get it out from inside of me. I know it’s already been two years since the walls went up, but I don’t think it’s possible for me to forget all that... death, even for a day.” A grapefruit one, this time. “How do you stay motivated to write something that hurts and arouses you, both in ways nothing else has ever really managed to?”

Augen dipped a spring roll in his salsa, and started working on the third drink. Not glancing up from his food, his brows piqued with heavy lids.

“A difficult question. Perhaps a better reply would be another question: Who’re you writing this for?”

‘Choly set down his utensils and stared down his food.

“I’d say it was for me, but I feel like I need to put his ghost to rest. I’d say it was for him, but it’s also in hopes of jamming my brain because something more accurate could exist of him than anything I’ve written of him prior. And I’d... say it was for you, or any of my followers, but I... don’t even know if I can bring myself to post the results.” The dreg sneaked the Confec from his bag and set it beside his plate. “I... I gotta have another slice.”

That got Augen’s attention.

“Mmh. Mind sharing?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

‘Choly sliced through the partial ball a few times with his thumbs against the spine of the knife, and Augen reached over to help himself to one. Wincing at the bitterness, he chewed it up and washed it down with more liquor. 'Choly simply slouched back and let the stringent melt go for a few minutes, thinking it nearly paired with the citrus cubes.

“Cecil knows about us,” Augen began, eyes stitched shut, “but you never did tell Cecil about the Geek, did you? Have you ever wanted to?”

“I told him about Chalcedony. And he may not have said anything, but I know he knows about me an’ the Geek. Can’t not. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to how open he is to it all. It’s like he believes leaving me untethered keeps me more faithful. He’s... not wrong, I guess.” ‘Choly looked up when he heard Augen stifle a choke, and suddenly he regretted sharing. His friend’s face was glistening, grey eyes wide. “Are you-- all right?”

“How’s everything tasting so far?” Bert interjected in passing, trying to hide concern when he he paused noticing Augen’s demeanor.

“Don't mind him." 'Choly quickly stashed the Confec back in his bag, unsure whether having it would cause them trouble. "I think something just went down the wrong way.”

The boy frowned at the Augen, who blanched and rubbed at his Adam’s apple a bit. On cue, Augen forced a cough.

“I... It's nothing."

Augen tapped a finger on his glass, not looking to Bert, and the waiter plucked up their empty glasses with a nod and excused himself, shaking his head in delirious incredulity at what had become of their once most troublesome patron.

“Seriously... Are you okay? You know you’re supposed to let that stuff melt slow.”

Rather than reply, the goth took one of ‘Choly’s wristbraced hands in both of his own, and guided it to hold his strained throat. He sustained breathless, tormented eye contact.

“It's wearing off faster than I was planning. Thought for sure I'd at least get to slagging finish eating. I'll... I'll take it.”

On to part 2 »»»

#biopunk #cyberpunk #dystopian #drugs tw #alcohol tw #dysphoria mention #body horror #the uptake #with symbiotic self indulgence #wssi #only the vital ones #melanochro kara #august ritter #hopefully starting to understand what's got choly so bugged out that he needs... medicating

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beutlerdesign · 2 years ago

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Hope Lake : Telluride

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geekynerfherder · 1 year ago

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'Telluride Bluegrass Festival 2023' by AJ Masthay.

18" x 24" fine art giclee print giclee on Entrada 290gsm paper, in a signed, numbered and embossed Artist edition of 200 for $75.

On sale Wednesday June 21 at 12pm ET through Bottleneck Gallery.

#Art #AJ Masthay #Telluride #Telluride Bluegrass Festival #Bottleneck Gallery #poster #print #giclee #Concert Poster #Gig Poster #Rock Poster #Bluegrass

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wallpaperpainting · 4 years ago

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blessed-but-distressed · 8 years ago

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When You Gonna Give Me Some Time?: A Reality Bites CS AU (1/?)

For @lenfaz, on the belated occasion of her birthday. There will be more. But this is the first bit. A taster. Because you deserve. (I was writing you something else, but this came much more naturally. Sorry?) Inspired by this photoset you gave me for my birthday last year.

Emma Swan was going to Make It. Cannes. Sundance. Hell, even Telluride. She was going to be the toast of them all. One day she was going to make a documentary that changed the world. She was going to make someone feel the way she had when she’d crept downstairs when she was twelve years old to watch a crappy ex-rental VHS of The Thin Blue Line with her Dad, and felt her world spin off its axis.

Truth, Justice and the American Way were just lines from a comic book. The system was not infallible. And yet, if someone cared enough, a condemned man could walk free. A film really could change the world. And one day, Emma Swan would too.

But first she had to survive her graduation dinner with her parents.

The place they’d picked out was pricey, soft and candlelit, where the menus were printed in French without translation, and an honest-to-god string quartet played soft, unassuming melodies in the corner. They’d gone overboard. As usual.

Killian sat opposite her, slouched in his chair sporting his usual smirk and the shabby sports coat he’d worn to her graduation. To the untrained eye, the jacket might have seemed like a nice way to mark the occasion, but Emma knew him better than that. It wasn’t an attempt to fit in. It was a costume. An art piece. A deliberate provocation, a way to make fun of the people who got all dressed up for the dog and pony show that was a college graduation ceremony. Like Emma’s mom, wearing her grandmother’s pearls. Or her dad and his new haircut, just a little too short on top.

Killian hadn’t even been invited to dinner. He’d just hung around after the ceremony, making suspiciously polite inquiries after her parents’ careers until her mother had taken pity on him and said there was room for one more. One thing you could say about Killian Jones, he never turned down the chance for a free meal.

They waited until dessert to spring the keys on her.

“Dad, no,” she said, turning to him in alarm.

Her parents were not what you would call wealthy. Her dad worked part-time at an animal shelter and did odd-jobs, and her mother taught elementary school. Sure, some people in her class might have been expecting a BMW in the driveway come graduation day, but Emma hadn’t been one of them. Even the thought of the bill for this extravagant dinner was almost enough to have her breaking out in hives.

“I told you, David!” her mom said with a self-satisfied slap of her palm on the tabletop. “I told you she wouldn’t want it!”

Her parents liked to pretend they didn’t fight. They were the fairy tale couple, after all, high school sweethearts who’d been happily married 25 years, thank you very much. And to a degree, that was true. They weren’t the kind of people who shouted, or threw things. But passive aggressive? Yeah, they had that down to a fine art.

“Dad, you can’t afford that…”

“It’s not like it’s a shiny new Mazda,” he laughed, as if new Japanese cars were about as fanciful a mode of transportation as your everyday rocket ship. “It’s my old truck. And you’ll be needing something reliable, now you’re out in the real world.”

As if for the last four years Emma had been stuck in some kind of suspended animation, and not working her ass off to be valedictorian of her university. Getting her thesis film shown in a festival down in San Diego, all while waiting tables at Granny’s Diner.

“And I don’t like the idea of you riding those trains at night. We saw something in the paper the other day, didn’t we?” he asked, waiting for his wife’s nod of confirmation. “About a little old lady getting beaten up, her purse stolen. And the security guard only fifty feet away, too, distracted on that SnapChat!”

Sometimes Emma thought her parents went out of their way to find horror stories they could spring on her later, to better serve their cases for overprotective behavior. They were like sneaky, technophobic lawyers that way.

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate it,” Emma pleaded, trying to make him understand. “I do. But it’s too much.”

Her mom gave a murmur of approval beside her, shooting her dad a knowing look.

He clearly felt like he was on the ropes by this point, and turned instead to the only impartial spectator left. “Shouldn’t a father be able to give his own daughter a car?” he implored, looking to Killian for a bit of moral support, man to man.

“Well, Dave,” Killian drawled, in an overly familiar way that made Emma want to kick him under the table. “I’m afraid I’m not much of an authority. My father went out for a pack of cigarettes in 1998 and never came back, so I don’t trouble him much for gifts.”

This statement, delivered with just the right amount of droll self-deprecation, went down just as well as you’d expect. Killian Jones sure loved to cause a scene. Her dad made a small uncomfortable huff, and started fiddling unnecessarily with his tie. Her mom gave a loud gasp, reaching instinctively across the table to grasp Killian’s hand. Her mom had always liked her wounded birds.

“Fine!” Emma said at once, startling everyone back into reality. “I’ll take the truck. But just until I’ve got enough money to get my own.”

Her dad’s smile was smug as he handed over the keys, the small mirror ball attached to the keychain reflecting back twenty self-satisfied, dentist white grins.

Killian followed her outside after, lighting up a cigarette as soon as her mother’s Ford Fiesta rounded the corner.

“So, Swan,” he said after his first puff, his mouth working its way into a sideways grin. “Are you ready for your after-party?”

#cs ff #cs au #reality bites au #cs au ff

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filmstruck · 7 years ago

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Jungle Madness by Pablo Kjolseth

I had the honor of hosting Werner Herzog for a dinner back in 1999. Prior to his visit, I had hunted down an out-of-print first edition autobiography by Klaus Kinski entitled Kinski Uncut The book goes into eye-raising details that are by turn boastful, salacious and extremely lewd. Kinski traipses from one sexual conquest to another while undercutting many of the famous directors he's worked with along the way - including Herzog. At the sight of my hardcover edition, Herzog's eyes lit up as he exclaimed: "Oh, what marvelous lies!" Herzog then also recalled how Kinski had called him up prior to its publication and said something along the lines of how he had made up a bunch of horrible things about Herzog because he thought that would help sales.

Kinski Uncut is many things, but it's never boring. Here's a taste of how Kinski describes Herzog: "In any case, he's still sporting those unwashed, sweat-stained, fart-soaked rags - and he's just as unwashed as ever. And his teeth are as rotten as ever. And he's just as recalcitrant and he still stuffs his face like the garbage can he is - without ever picking up the check."

Herzog got his revenge on Kinski with the release of his documentary MY BEST FIEND ('99), which was released eight years after Kinski's death and gives Herzog the last word on their mutual love-hate relationship. Actually, Herzog doubles-down on getting the last word because ten years after MY BEST FIEND he went on to publish Conquest of the Useless: Reflections from the making of Fitzcarraldo. In this book he revisits the journals he kept while shooting FITZCARRALDO (’82). He describes this book as "inner landscapes born of the delirium of the jungle." A clear taste of that delirium can be had from an excerpt from his journal marked down as "Iquitos - Camisea, 23 May 1984":

Kinski looked at the site and announced that my plan was completely impossible, prompted by madness. He is becoming the epicenter of discouragement. On closer inspection it became clear to me that no one is on my side anymore, not a single person, none, no one, not a single one. In the midst of hundreds of Indian extras, dozens of forest workers, boatmen, kitchen personnel, the technical team, and the actors, solitude flailed at me like a huge enraged animal. But I saw something the others did not see.

That "something" was a monumental movie about the title character’s quest to build an opera house in the middle of the jungle, a film that would go on to win the Palme d'Or award at the Cannes Film Festival along with many other accolades.

FilmStruck is streaming seven titles as part of its “Herzog & Kinski” theme, including Les Blank's BURDEN OF DREAMS ('82) about the making of FITZCARRALDO. Les Blank and Werner Herzog shared unique bonds. I met Les Blank when I screened what would end up being his last documentary: ALL IN THIS TEA ('07). This happened on the same night I met Charlie Kaufman for the first time (that being a longer story for another time). Blank was a much gentler soul than Klaus Kinski (or Kaufman, for that matter), but he was also a hell of a storyteller and he deserves to have his own words heard on his time with Herzog before and after FITZCARRALDO.

With this in mind, I now reach for my bookshelf Burden of Dreams: Screenplay, Journals, Reviews, Photographs edited by Les Blank and James Bogan. The following two paragraphs are written by Les Blank as part of his intro ("The Genesis of Burden of Dreams"):

In 1979, Werner convinced the program committee of the Hamburg Film Festival to invite me over to present a retrospective of my films. Here, I firmed up details with Walter Saxer, the producer of all but one of Herzog's films. I was to come down in October of that year and film preparations for the Fitzcarraldo production. The general plan would be for me to make the film as I saw it, but if it proved detrimental to the success of Fitzcarraldo's release, I would agree to postpone my release until a year later. Jose Koechlin von Stein, a Peruvian who had loaned Herzog the money to complete the filming of Aguirre, The Wrath of God, was to arrange financing with the help of West German television.

When I arrived in Munich, I spent a night at the apartment of Werner's half-sister, who took me on a fascinating tour of Munich's famous beerhalls. And I thought I was a beer drinker! These people are something else... the more dedicated swilling it down from liter-sized mugs in between puking on their feet and pissing in their pants. The following morning, I met Werner at the train station where an entire section of the Hamburg-bound train was reserved for the Munich-based film community. During the trip Werner introduced me to his countrymen and women, always insisting that I show the tattoo on my arm of two death-head masks, one laughing, one crying. They are attached by ribbons in the New Orleans Mardi Gras colors of green, purple and gold. I received it from San Francisco's Ed Hardy while making a film with Bruce 'Pacho' Lane on the great American carnival tattoo artist, Stoney St. Clair. When Werner had first seen mine, he immediately went to Ed Hardy to get tattooed with a skeleton dressed in a tuxedo and singing into an old-fashioned microphone. He proudly exhibited his tattoo, after he showed his friends mine and said, “See, this one is better.” His is a good tattoo, and may be better by some standards of tattoo judgement, but having marked myself for life, and having it called inferior, I found myself quietly cursing the Aryan arrogance of my boisterous benefactor. In Hamburg the train was met by a brass band and fire swallowers. The mayor threw a gigantic party and I decided I liked the Germans. Strange as they are, I seemed to get along with them and they seemed highly appreciative of the eight or nine films that I showed. At Werner's press conference I began to get a taste of the anti-Herzog element. He was viciously attacked for exploiting the indigenous people of Peru; and while he had explanations of rumors such as forcing Indians to work at gunpoint, I began to wonder uneasily how innocent he really was.

Blank and Herzog had met many times while attending the Telluride Film Festival. Herzog himself tends to premiere many (but not all) of his films at that prestigious film festival which also, coincidentally, overlaps with Herzog's birthday (T.F.F. always occurs over Labor Day Weekend, Herzog's birthday is September 5th).

In 2007 Blank would receive the Edward MacDowell Medal for "outstanding contributions to the arts." Previous winners had included only two other film directors: Stan Brakhage and Chuck Jones. Chairmen of the jury included Taylor Hackford, Ken Burns, Steven Soderbergh, Mira Nair, Spike Jonze, and T.F.F. founder, Thomas Luddy.

Luddy, quoted in a New York Times obituary for Blank, said: "...Les Blank's films will be revered as time-capsule classics. I said 'Amen,' as did all the other members of the committee. We never even discussed another name, and our meeting was over in less than an hour."

Herzog's FITZCARRALDO is a monumental achievement. So is Blank's BURDEN OF DREAMS. It really doesn't matter what order you see them in, as long as you see them both.

#FilmStruck #Werner Herzog #Burden of Dreams #Klaus Kinski #Fitzcarraldo #StreamLine Blog #Pablo Kjolseth #Les Blank #Kinski Uncut

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