I was glad I had been too busy of late to spend much time anticipating the Deftones show, as I was glad that the band did not take the stage until a full three and a half hours after I had arrived at Tennis Indoor Senayan. Because when they did finally appear, the soaring energy as Chino Moreno ran on to the stage to launch into Birthmark, from their debut Adrenaline, could be felt around the room to a thunderously positive reaction from the audience. Three and a half hours of waiting eagerly was just about right to fully appreciate the quality of the two opening numbers. Without pause, the band went straight in Engine No. 9, also from Adrenaline, with the vast majority of the crowd shouting out the words as Moreno pointed the mic toward them. Admittedly the venue wasn't quite packed to the rafters, but the turnout was not shabby at all ,and plenty of noise got made. However, choosing not to enter the moshpit turned out to be a wise move on my part, as there were many reports of phones being stolen, including that which belonged to a friend of mine.
The band were by no means stingy, pounding out twenty-three songs, with few breaks and limited on-stage banter. Although they did make sure to say 'thank you' frequently during the show, and Moreno also took sips from a can of Bintang at several junctures, his professed enjoyment of it only making the concert-goers that much more in love with him. His energy as a performer was a lot of fun to witness as he raced around the stage for the fast tracks, and danced in slightly effeminate fashion for some of the more beat-laden numbers. Guitarist Stephen Carpenter, in contrast, barely moved from his corner of the stage throughout the show, his face hidden by a massive head of hear. However, his sonic assaults were much more palpable live than on record to my ears, especially when he strapped on a detuned, 7-string ESP; its heaviness tearing through the auditorium.
The band's musical tightness must be praised; the only noticeable slip-ups being when at one point Chino lost his way slightly on the Gibson SG he played for a significant number of songs, although he quickly apologized with a smile. When Passenger was played, I did get a sense that Chino struggled with the high notes as he sang both parts of the song originally released as a duet with Tool/A Perfect Circle singer Maynard James Keenan on White Pony. He definitely looked a little fatigued when done.
After a brief break, the band retook the stage with crowd-pleasers Root and 7 Words and it is not an understatement to stay that the crowd went absolutely wild, with fists all around pumping the air to the chant of 'suck, suck, suck, suck...'. To top it all off, during 7 Words, Moreno dived into the crowd, still singing Toward the very end of the song, and show, he was lifted up, every audience member in his immediate proximity hands outstretched, conjuring a messianic image. It was at this point in the concert that I felt the deepest regret at not being able to fulfill the request of a young lady whom I teach, to take pictures of the show for her perusal. I was having far too much fun to think about much else.
note: Original line-up bassist Chi Cheng has been in a near state of coma since 2008. I hope he pulls through. I was thinking about him especially, given his love for playing Iron Maiden covers with the band, a week before Maiden are also set to rock Jakarta.
Recently, when both of us had been reading the Ingrid Bergman biography Notorious by Donald Spoto, I thought my father and I would benefit from sitting down to a few of the legendary Swedish leading lady's films during this end of year holiday. I've seen most of her more well-known Hollywood ventures; all her collaborations with Hitchcock (including the great character study from which the Spoto book takes its title) and of course countless viewings of that immortal tale of sacrificed love, Casablanca. So for this Christmas's mini-Bergman season, I set myself the task of collecting some of the films which she made outside Hollywood. So far we've watched one of her very early Swedish films, which Spoto and my father heaped praised upon; Juninatten, but which left me feeling cold and perplexed in that while it was ostensibly a proto-feminist morality tale, it lacked any discernible moral centre. I can't see it having the potential to gain favour with even the least militant of modern feminists. Last night we turned to a thoughtful and interesting film which I found myself far more able to enjoy, by the man whom Bergman married in the midst of scandal - Roberto Rossellini.
Viaggio in Italia starred Bergman and that British actor with the most reliable of steady, baritone, voices; George Sanders. The two play a couple who are visiting Naples and Capri to sell a property which has been left to Sanders's character by an uncle. Early on in the film, they realize how little they know one another, despite eight years of marriage. This type of abrupt revelation is one of the weaknesses of the film, in that most of the dialogue is loaded with heavy-handed directness. Perhaps it is due to Rossellini working outside his native tongue? As, conversely, naturalism is a lauded quality of the neo-realism movement. I wanted to write something about how such naturalism may be found in other films of the movement by Rossellini and the likes of Vittorio DeSica, but stopped when it occurred to me that I had watched all of these other movies with their original Italian dubs.
Yet, dialogue aside, there is a stark modernity displayed in the camerawork, as guided by Rossellini. It relies on a minimal number of cuts, and some short, steady, tracking shots to ease the story along. There is almost no soundtrack either, with all the noticeable music occurring naturally in the background.
What is most modern about the film is the story itself - the isolation felt by an attractive, upper middle-class European couple. No matter hard they try, they simply cannot communicate with one another in a meaningful fashion. Looking at a story that was made in 1954 at the end of 2010 - with rather liberal eyes - I'm not entirely sure that it has become easier to make assumptions about the real affliction that had beset the on-screen marriage. Bergman's character seems to be pained by unfulfilled promise in her personal pursuit of knowledge; she has vivid memories of a male poet friend she once knew, and her evocations of him cause her husband to have small eruptions of petty jealousy, which is perhaps Bergman's intention, though she is clearly displeased with the result when it comes. Sanders's character, on the other hand, is handicapped by repressed male emotions, especially in the scenes where he wanders about Capri without Bergman. It's obvious that despite his pathetic attempts at philandering, he would be much happier if only he could sit down with his wife and tell her how he feels. Not even necessarily toward her, but maybe just about his apparent inability to feel happy when he is occupied by anything other than his important job back in London.
This is where Sanders's character rings a little truer than Bergman's. Right until the last few forced lines of dialogue (which I'm guessing were foisted on Rossellini by a financier), there is no point during the film where he is able to let go of his notions of propriety, and Bergman never manages to become privy to his feelings of inadequacy in the same way that we, the viewers, are. Not just by the lines he is unable to utter, but by the strangulated expressions of frustration he displays in almost every scene.
Over the weekend I more or less got settled into a new apartment, in a new part of town. Moving has the well-deserved reputation of being a burdensome process, but we got there in the end, despite some lingering loose ends. While at this stage she may choose to shirk the issue, I moved due to a then mutual need to be closer to the woman mentioned here and here, and let me now take this moment to apologize publically for any lingering biterness I express to her; heart and head almost never being in perfect syncopation with one another.
The old neighbourhood, Kemayoran, definitely has its drawbacks when compared to the new one. The bajaj races, in what would otherwise be the dead of night, being chiefly among them! There is also the absurd number of two-stroke engined motorbikes which gather in the vicinity on a Saturday night for no good reason, and the infernal attitude toward pedestrian facilities which both local developers and planning committees conspire to perpetuate.
All that having being said, Kemayoran was the first place I lived when I first came to Jakarta in 2000, and because it was convenient, when I came back to live here again after two years elsewhere, I lived in Kemayoran again. That's a total of about nine years which will not be forgotten easily.
During my first stay, I shared a flat with a neverending list of colourful characters. Many of whom remain close friends to this day. I had several ill-fated relationships with women while living in Kemayoran too, including the woman I married. The relationships may not have been destined for longevity, including my marriage, but it just isn't possible to erase such episodes from one's life. The bad and the good. You expect to grow wiser with the benefit of age and experience, but like so many others since the dawn of time, I'm in possession of that rogue gene which dictates we treat every such situation with a wild array of irrational emotions. The last situation is definitely taking a deeper toll than previous ones, and a flat in Kemayoran was the venue for a seemingly endless number of trysts with her. And for her, an element of secrecy was indeed an issue.
The last couple of years living in Kemayoran happily involved the presence of an Indian restaurant. It isn't the most glamorous place, but whatever is wanting in frills is compensated for by the charm that only a neighbourhood restaurant can have. And, while this is often a strangely low priority of flashy, trendy eateries, the food at The Avenue was some of the best tasting Indian food I've ever had. It was also home to many a memorable occasion in the company of friends, some living in the city, and others just passing through to say hello. The curry was fine, the beer was cold and they would stay open late in deference to those who weren't done reveling. What more could one ask for?
I also spent a great deal of time at the restaurant in the company of that last special person. While she liked the food, she also wanted to keep our meals local because she said it meant we could spend more quality time together that way. That could be interpreted as meaning impending doom was always in the air, or possibly that no matter how much time we had together, it would never seem like enough.
The new place we're at means a new, and different, chapter in the lives of myself and my son. We have a lot more space to play in, both inside and out. In fact, the amenities of the new complex and surrounding area are so vastly superior to that which we previously enjoyed that on the face of it, there really is no comparison. Mind you, the traffic is worse than I'm accustomed to, but my odd working hours help alleviate this concern to a certain degree.
I can't complain too much. I am as materialistic as the next person when it comes to obvious, and needed, improvements in quality of life. But despite there being a vast variety of restaurants available, none of them serves a curry with cold beer. And among the many beautiful people whom I now share space with, so numerous as to be unavoidable, and generally dressed to kill, not one has quite the face I continue to look for.
In the service of sating an unhealthy appetite for beer last night, a friend and I began exchanging war stories of the personal kind. In actual fact, I remembered full well that a romantic involvement which had been going very well for him, had been denied in much the same way as had happened to me recently. And so, for one evening, I had a one-person support group. It's true that people get involved, they break up, and eventually they get over any lingering heartache. No bombs get dropped, and no children starve to death. Although in both our cases, we'd settled into what were the most rewarding relationships of our adult lives, and in both our cases there were quite sinister ideals working against us.
According to the details as I know them, my friend was barred from seeing the object of his affections for one reason only; it was because he was a Westerner. I, on the other hand, was considered a hindrance to the health, wealth and happiness of a young Javanese woman because I have baggage. That is to say, her parents deemed it unthinkable that their daughter might become seriously entangled with a divorcee (in actual fact a very long-term separatee, but it amounted to the same thing). In my case at least, there is deep-seated hypocrisy at work. I hasten to provide all the dirt on the subject. Suffice to say, whatever my perceived failures may be as a husband, among the players involved, my shaky marital background is by no means unique.
But never mind all that, what is really depressing about stories such as these in this country is that women in their mid-twenties can have their lives completely dictated by their parents. This is by no means the case for all women, but as it was put to me by the person whom I feel is the chief victim of a bad situation all around, women are not considered adults in Java until they are married. How can this be? She looks like an adult, she has completed a post-graduate degree, she earns her own money. How does the entrance of a male into her life, full-time, somehow validate that she is no longer a child? And of course, why is it that a man who hasn't passed any of these milestones can still be seen as having reached adulthood?
She tried hard, very hard, to be a master of her own destiny. I encouraged her, thinking time was still on our side. But in the end, her parents told her that the only way the union would be allowed would involve her being cast out permanently from the family fold. A solution which seemed agreeable enough, given the face of the family that has always been presented to me, but she was not willing to make such a gamble. And who could blame her? As casting aside everything you've known since birth over an affair would have been a gamble of the highest stakes.
These are the dictates of culture. Our story is nothing like as bad as that of the apparently commonplace honour killing which emerged from Iraq in 2008, and given the utterly reprehensible nature of that crime, this is not a small mercy to be thankful for. But it continues to beggar belief that in an emergent democracy - which has had a female head of state - women are regarded as some kind of subservient species. Early on in our relationship, I got the inkling that I was up against an immovable object when it became known to me that the opposing team had called upon a dukun (Javanese witch-doctor), to ascertain what kind of threat I really was to their daughter, and no doubt to cast some kind of counter-spell on me. For in Indonesia, the course of true love never runs smoothly, and is often further impeded by the medieval notion that a young person in love really has been subject to spell-casting by a malignant party wishing to ensnare her. Rest assured, the closest I've ever come to the dark arts is when listening to my heavy metal albums too loudly.
Such antiquated views would seem quainter if they weren't such a disturbing reality. A popular defence for them is you just don't understand our culture. What is there to understand in inexplicable actions? What is the point of cultural niceties whose only apparent purpose is to perpetuate a cycle of unfulfilled promise? Change is unavoidable and when people defend their mindlessness by invoking the 'C' word, they rarely take into account how different Indonesia was just short of fifteen years ago when it was the whole country being governed by strong-arm dictatorship, and not just the immediate whims of young women in love.
I am an unabashed fan of Robert Rodriguez, despite what many may feel about the over the top imagery to be found in all his works aimed at adults. To me this is central to his endearingness as an artist. Many directors are chameleons with the ability to work in disparate genres and while these craftsmen are bestowed with praise and awards for fickleness, someone with a more singular vision like Rodriguez remains something of an outsider. Indeed, while his work may not immediately suggest art-film, to my sensibilities he displayed real artistic integrity by quitting the Directors Guild of America over a credits' dispute concerning Sin City, precluding himself from ever receiving an Oscar.
His latest film, Machete, is based on a massively popular pseudo-trailer from the tragically overlooked Grindhouse double feature. Thankfully, the new film has had far more success with both the public and the critics , in spite of its dabbling in graphic, intestinal humour.
The titular character is played by an actor whose face is the epitome of cragginess, Danny Trejo, and it's a small miracle that distinctive features such as his are still allowed in today's sanitized Hollywood. A slightly different version of this character known as 'Uncle' Machete appeared in the family film Spy Kids, to which my son recently gave his fervent approval. In keeping with his trademark, anti-establishment attitude, Rodriguez has lined up a cast which, aside from some very familiar faces, also contains members of that most unloved category; the 80s B-movie star! Steven Seagal and Jeff Fahey, and an honorable inclusion must also go to Don Johnson, who doesn't really conform to the type if you look at his body of work, but there is something about the man which suggests he could have had a memorable second-tier career focusing on straight-to-VHS titles.
There is little point in discussing the plot, but it does involve threads of revenge and pro-immigration politics (possibly not given the best vehicle here). However, if you're offended by extremely attractive unclothed women, and utterly ridiculous, jocular violence then this is most definitely one to steer clear of. On the other hand if the thought of a never-smiling Danny Trejo turning to the camera to say 'Machete don't text' piques your interest, then treats lie ahead.
Scott Pilgrim vs. the World
Another director wholly uninterested in staid drama and Hollywood convention is Edgar Wright. He and his chief collaborator Simon Pegg have been responsible for some interesting output since they first began attracting attention with their off-the-wall television programme Spaced. Since then, they've released two very well respected comedies; Shaun of the Dead and Hot Fuzz. Pegg has become a recognizable face in Hollywood, despite his not being able to outdo James Doohan's Scottish accent in the revamp of Star Trek (J.J. Abrams). Now Wright has made his first feature without Pegg since his debut (unseen by me) A Fistful of Fingers.
Scott Pilgrim has so far been the most surprising flopof the year - it's certified fresh at 81% on the Rotten Tomatoes tomatometer, and also contains a young, talented cast who are in perfect sync with the material. Some have said that the bold visuals referencing video games overshadow a more or lessperfunctory plot, but let's face it, in what pre-existing movie must the hero defeat his newfound love's seven evil exes in mortal combat in order to secure her affections? All the unorthodox stylisations are a pleasure to behold, and it couldn't be clearer that Wright, unlike so many of his peers, is not afraid to go outside any semblance of reality in order to find ways to excite and amuse his audience. This is generally cinema's greatest weakness; so much of it is an anaemic imitation of life, when so many of us go to the cinema to escape the drudgery of our lives. I haven't read the graphic novel which the movie is based on, but somehow I'm guessing that the style employed by Wright is mandated within its pages.
Having seen three of Wright's films and both seasons of Spaced, I'd say the jury is still out as to whether he'll become a milestone figure of the movies. I like his films - they can be excruciatingly funny - but I'm still waiting for him to turn his hands to a real epic of a story, best befitting the potential evidenced in his work so far. As a relatively young Briton, he's produced some head-turning work, and Pilgrim is his Hollywood feature debut, so hopefully it will be a smash-hit on Blu-Ray, and Wright will continue to expand the borders of our imaginations.
The American
I have yet to see Anton Corbijn's feature debut, Control, about the ill-fated singer of Joy Division, Ian Curtis. Though a quick glance at Corbijn'srésumé suggests that as a teenager I may well have seen some of the music videos which he'd made beforehand, when I paid more attention to such things.
In The American, he's managed to make a film that not only plays like an art-house special, but has also become a commercial success. It must be said, that without the involvement of George Clooney, and the film's outward resemblance to an action/spy thriller, it could hardly have been expected to have performed as well at the box office. This instance of betting on a long-shot suggests there is something wrong with Hollywood's usual greenlighting system. The conventional wisdom is that films targeted at teens, like Scott Pilgrim, will automatically translate to box office gold, while adults seeking more cerebral thrills don't spend much money at the movies. Omnivores such as myself seem to get the best deal out of wrongheaded decisions made by the suits watching the money, although with every successive year there does seem to be a greater proliferation of movies meant to have mass appeal that have no appeal whatsoever.
That's not to say some viewers haven't felt shortchanged by The American. Imdb has a very negative user review where the writer states that he and his wife would have both enjoyed the film had it not been falsely marketed as a Jason Bourne type thriller. It's difficult to convey in writing the dumbfounded expression which made its way to my face at the rotten logic of such a contention. Have the ad-men really gained that much control over our psyches?
I personally was a little surprised by how much fuss has been made over what many feel to be a dichotomy between the film itself and its marketing campaign. Anyone paying attention to Clooney's work would know by now that the man is just not interested in playing the roles expected of him. In 2005 he starred in Syriana (Stephen Gagan), an oil industry polemic so much more convoluted than the likes of The American that I am still waiting for a bit of extra time on my hands to watch it several times over, in the hope of getting closer to deducing just what on earth is going on.
And then there are the endless debates about slow pacing, as can be found in the movie. For me there is no debate. It's quite simple; non-stop explosions and machine-gun fire can only serve one good purpose, and that is to make you smile at the absurdity of it all in a film such as Machete. The most exciting, believable, on-screen action is served up in sparing doses, otherwise it is just flat-out dull. That's why I stopped going to see Michael Bay films long ago.
The American takes its time, and in doing so manages to tell you a great deal about the character played by Clooney without needing to give you any solid information about the actions which may have defined him prior to the film's opening scene. An opening scene, which I may add, quickly lets you know in a moment of violence on Clooney's part, that this is not going to be a typical action film. And so we are given a study of a character with a lifestyle as foreign as can be, shrouded in mystery. Yet, unlikely though it may seem, his actions rarely fail to evoke empathy.
Control is in black and white, and when the credits of The American began rolling I couldn't help but think that the film would have reached a truly dizzying level of artistry if these scenes of a tiny* rural Italian village - as alluring as they were in their colour presentation - had been filmed in gritty, atmospheric, black and white too.
Additional thought: The exquisite, spy-themed, television programme by AMC, Rubicon, was recently cancelled after one season. Chief complaint against it? Too slow! It really is time that silent films were made mandatory segments of high-school curriculums to tackle this peverse mindset, yet by now it is probably the teachers who would do the rejecting.
And just getting started, or so it sometimes seems.
It is my birthday today, and having been quite preoccupied of late, it would honestly have slipped my mind if it weren't for all the well wishers out there (yet again, thank you Facebook). Certain events have made me feel older than seems appropriate, such as Sony's announcement a few weeks ago that the date of birth of the original walkman actually came a couple of years after my own.
Walkman Mark I, in all its glory
This should have come as no surprise to me, as like many of my friends, I owned several of the devices growing up. I think when I got my first one I had yet to develop much interest in the popular musicians of the day, and it possibly startled my father when the first cassette I selected to go with my new acquisition was the soundtrack to The Sound of Music. I must have been eight years-old at the time, and my 'walkman' was actually made by Sanyo, who wouldn't have been allowed to use the appellation trademarked by Sony. Although it does lend itself to generic usage much more nicely than the proprietary sounding 'i-Pod'. My most poignant walkman memory however, came a few years later, and it was on an official device, sleeker and less fun-looking than the one pictured above, but decorated with much the same logos. And it isn't a musical memory either, as I was sitting on a public bus traveling from Edinburgh to Peebles, listening to the radio (to save on batteries) when the chilling news of the murder of toddler Jamie Bulger, at the hands of two adolescents, hit the airwaves. A crime so unspeakable that it perpetually lingers in the minds of the public .
Never watching broadcast television does not keep me out of touch with the news, but perhaps it does lead to my failing to stay abreast of 'what the kids are into these days'. Only this week, I tried to engage some of my teenage charges at work about a singer who had skyrocketed to fame when I first began teaching eleven years ago, and felt a little red-faced when they professed to never having heard of the man in question. Fame has always been of a mercurial nature, but when, also about eleven years ago, I met groups of teenagers who had never heard of The Beatles, it was amazement rather than embarrassment whichI felt. Though thankfully since then, the most influential musical force of the 20th century have gone through more of their periodic revivals, and the young appear to be enlightened to the roots of the modern pop song once again.
Age leads to a frailer physique, which might seem a bit premature coming from someone in their early 30s, but mysterious ailments abound in my family, to which I'm no stranger, Having been pronounced acutely ill on more than one occasion during my life - with no permanent medical solutions to my maladies coming to the fore - in connection to being father to a small boy, is reason to ponder one's own mortality. It's not just me either, with all of my near-aged friends being far more susceptible to hangovers and the flu these days, and like me, choosing to pay closer attention to things such as diet and exercise. While I find much to love about living in Indonesia's capital, its dust and dirt clearly have a negatively potent affect on my system, and I must question all proponents of enviro-skepticism on this one simple point; pollution is painful!
As we near the holidays and my workload is dwindling down to next to nothing, it does seem as though the adrenaline-charged fourteen-hour days which have become my norm might actually be good for me, because since inactivity has been settling in, on my birthday weekend, I am suffering from the worst case of flu I've had in a good long while. But I still feel cause for optimism, as despite 32 jam-packed years of the good, the bad and the ugly, I still can't help but wonder at all there is around me of interest which I have yet to absorb. Being disposed to sloth-like habits when it comes to self-improvement, never mind the infinite nature of knowledge, it will happily always be an insurmountable mountain of knowledge for me. In the meantime, hopefully a couple of hours of horizontal living will make me feel bored and energetic enough to celebrate my birthday by having lunch with my son, whose table manners and conversational offerings aren't the best, but to paraphrase Bill Murray's great linein Lost in Translation; he is the most interesting person I know.
In the age of instant communication it is becoming more and more obvious that many among us are painfully lonely. The internet has become a vessel to escape one's shell, although to me it seems inadequate as a substitute for real connections between people. Such shells may exist for different reasons; debilitating illness, insecurity, or an unsettling physical appearance which drives others away. It's difficult to put a real gauge on it as the person in question, but the latter item has seemed to be one obstacle preventing me from connecting with as many people as I'd like. While I've enjoyed relationships with normal, intelligent people both of a platonic nature and otherwise, there does seem to be something about the imposing figure I cut which puts people off. I remember incidents when I was a child where I was accused of alcohol consumption and petty theft both at school and home, where the only evidence was that I 'looked like a criminal'. Unfortunately, I would go on to compound the suspicions because I felt that if I was going to be subject to such allegations anyway, I may as well get something out of it.
I think back in those days the seeds were planted for me to feel awfully uncomfortable in my own skin, and find it hard to forge what constitutes a full set of healthy relationships with the people around me. And now, Monday to Friday, I go to work and feel lost amongst large groups of people, and it is normal for my weekends to consist of long bouts of involuntary solitude. I am lucky in that I have a son as a focal point in my life, to take my mind off the otherwise peculiar isolation of my existence.
I use services like Facebook and Twitter frequently, and find them a useful means of keeping abreast of developments in the lives of people I know. These are not relationships, but more like portals where everyone has their own - very selective I should think - news channel. There is some kind of vicarious, voyeuristic allure in reading about the lives of others, and sometimes I wonder if it is altogether healthy. However, there have been quite a few occasions where Facebook has facilitated meetings with people who been absent from my life in body, but not in soul, for many a year, and I gained real pleasure from getting back in touch again. Before Facebook, no-frills emailing put me in touch with a circle of friends whom I thought I would never hear from again, and eventually led to my meeting one of them - an individual for whom I have great affection.
Because, to reiterate, I have had some wonderful relationships with people over the years, but in the era of globalization and high speed everything, we tend to be ships passing one another in the night. I actually have a long list of very close friends, but the vast majority of them live in different cities or countries, and having something as old-fashioned as a chat over a few beers is a very difficult proposition.
The older I get, the more I find that while purpose-driven - but largely emotionally unrewarding - relationships are increasingly bountiful, real intimacy is woefully hard to come by. I can't help feel that it is simply me, and not just my appearance, but also my worldview, which evidently is not in tune with most whom I meet. Indeed, my insistence on raising my son as a single-father has in itself proved to be a definitive obstacle when trying to change said familial dynamic, the family of the woman closest to me making the foregone conclusion that there must be something inherently dysfunctional about the parent who got left behind.
