In Salvator Samperi‘s Cuore Di Mamma the children are psychotic. Their mute and divorced mother is a zombie watching TV all day, stacking books and failing to react to her children terrorizing their caregivers. At random, she stalks a young man, following him to a group of other young people. They are extreme Left wing terrorists with vague ideas, clearly parodies of the Situationist types. It’s a less sentimental version of what Godard did to Maoists in La chinoise (1967) and the speechifying gives way to clown-theatre and bad, awkward folk singing. After a few challenges they accept her and she goes with them, blowing things up. They clearly mirror her psychotic children, who also mouth endless political rants (the children are more coherent and lucid than the adult revolutionaries). (more…)
“The Surrogate …is a reminder that the bad, old, tax-shelter days of Canadian movie-making may not be over just yet.” [i]
“The Surrogate is a porsche with no engine – a slick, empty chassis of a movie.”[ii]
Don Carmody had established his reputation in the Quebec film industry as a producer, a role he would continue to concentrate upon after his single experiment with directing. The film in question, The Surrogate (1984), was made for Cinépix and resulted in Carmody nearly having a nervous breakdown, at least according to the film’s producer, John Dunning. (more…)
Half of the Holly King show at Art Mûr is a retrospective. She’s been doing this for 30 years. I’ll confine myself to addressing the new work, though it’s worth noting that while her work has become warmer in hue, it’s also become less romantic in tenor. Made up principally of photos and a few viewing contraptions, A la frontière du mystère features studio created landscapes blown up as large photo prints. Sometimes the backdrops to these images are painted with loose brush work in swirling Sunday painter style as mildly whimsical skies. Sometimes they are enlarged, glossy tourist getaway brochure type images filled with glinting pebbles. In both cases, she places what amounts to still lifes of largely dead plants and the occasional gewgaw in the foreground and in focus. Sometimes these are a bit glittery to play against the background. The few smaller, strictly still lifes against black play this angle more, covering the dark grounding with what looks like a shower of dandruff, or maybe it’s glitter.
It smells. That’s one of the most notable things. For years, Battat Contemporary has, at least in my stilted mind, become synonymous with the anti-septic. They posses a weird penchant for pushing the cliche of the white cube to the extreme point that they rarely seemed to show work that wasn’t black, white or grey. This has always been a jokey complement to the complete indifference of its staff to those who look at the work or ask questions about it. But the Beth Stuart show smells. Like popcorn at that. And this may in part be why her ‘The Golem. Her Lover’ registers as so theatrical. (more…)