FILM IS DEAD. Or so we’ve heard. The news must not have reached Canada, where Japanese-born filmmaker Daïchi Saïto has been working diligently in Super 8 and 16- and 35-mm since 2003. In 2012 he extended this focus with the dual 16-mm Never a Foot Too Far, Even; and his most recent film, Engram of Returning (2016) is in 35 mm and CinemaScope. Both films, along with earlier work, will be screened at Anthology Film Archives—for one evening only, alas. I can’t think of a better fit of artist and venue: Although Saïto’s body of work is small, it’s an exciting testament to the vibrancy of film in the digital age.
Compared to most rapidly edited collages of film and video over the past twenty years, Saïto’s films seem shockingly fresh, closer to how a poet crafts each line or a composer shapes a musical phrase. This is not surprising, since Saïto—in his short prose work “Moving the Sleeping Images of Things Towards the Light”—admits he is less a cinephile than a lover of literature and poetry. Nevertheless, his feeling for celluloid suffuses every frame, and his composition, cutting, and rhythm bear the distinct imprint of a filmmaker. There is also an uncanny isomorphic quality in these films, a feeling that Saïto’s internal clock and instinct for balancing legibility and textual density are in sync with his own—and by extension, our—optical behavior, the human eye’s rhythmic response to stimulation and rest. One thinks of what Stan Brakhage called the art of vision, in which both the external and internal eye bypass the intellect to incorporate and process stimuli. Saïto does not so much appeal to the eye as enlist its collaboration.
While the raw material of the films is concentrated, each work moves toward embracing a vicinity of images with increasing intensity. Saïto speaks of his Super 8 work as “sketches,” but Blind Alley Augury (2006) strikes me as a flawless endorsement of the grade and look of that gauge. Perhaps his modesty is reflected in the paradox of the title—the last word implying prognostication but its predecessors connoting an inability to see the future. A real alley does appear, mostly in zoom shots, which, however fleeting, arrest the pace of the image clusters, all shot in Saïto’s neighborhood: telephone poles and cables against the sky, flowers, sunlight, grass, small buildings, graffiti, fences, clotheslines, an address plate on a house, and at least one person seen twice. Even on an initial viewing, this assemblage seems far from random. Shot frame by frame and edited in camera, each image carries a distinct point of view that registers—with the help of that inner eye—the angle and distance of the lens to achieve an affecting, utterly convincing personal order.
Black leader facilitates the perceptual process in all Saïto’s films and is prominent in Green Fuse (2008), also in Super 8. A tree, center frame, is crosscut with sustained pulses of black, the speed of which increases as surrounding trees edge in. Even the occasional decentering of a tree allows its trunk to function like leader, masking the left or right side of the frame in a wonderful fusion of art and nature.
Both Chiasmus (2003) and Chasmic Dance (2004) are in 16 mm and black and white. The former, Saïto’s first film, begins auspiciously with a small white screen viewed at a distance, accompanied by what sounds like amplified hiccups of a broken record but in fact are sounds made by a human figure we do not yet see. A short passage of scratched filmstrip gives way to the screen proper, in which an ingeniously framed and edited dance ensues between the blacks and whites of each exposure. The shifting shapes of black are produced, we soon learn, by the sinuous contours of a female body as it writhes in silhouette against the glaring white of an undefined background. Glimpses of her flesh, figure, and flailing hair come into view to the sounds of breathy moans. But that she herself may be dancing seems less the point than the way her movements shape and reshape the screen into a peekaboo theater of erotic delight. While figure and ground are less defined in Chasmic Dance, the changing patterns of wavering lines, resembling the visual static of radio waves, are charged with a filmic velocity that eventually dissolves into unruly splotches of black and white. One recalls such pioneers of the flicker film as Tony Conrad and Peter Kubelka.
The dazzling Trees of Syntax, Leaves of Axis (2009), Saïto’s first effort in 35 mm and entirely hand-processed by the filmmaker, was, like Green Fuse, filmed in Montreal’s Mount-Royal Park. As its title denotes, it’s a more ambitious work, pursuing an increasingly dense and layered visual texture stressed by an insistent, jagged violin arrangement by Malcolm Goldstein (who also scored Saïto’s All That Rises ), the plucks and slides of which emulate the repetition and variation of the editing. Throughout this furiously condensed lesson in the passage from naturalism to modernism, the central tree is as much subject as ground, fixing our gaze at an axis to accommodate the hundreds (thousands?) of cuts, overlaps, and rest stops that reconfigure the forest of colors and foliage that seems to spring from and bear upon it as so many permutations of phrases in a poem. I cannot help but link the film’s celebration of trees with recent research confirming how they communicate via an “arboreal internet—nothing less than a vast underground network, called a mycorrhiza,” through which they pass chemical and electrical signals among their roots and warn neighboring trees of natural threats.
The wider canvas of Engram of Returning is well suited to the film’s landscape and mountain vistas, but Saïto even fabricates landscapes here, juxtaposing or superimposing one above or below another. Black leader again is critical and omnipresent, and the whole is accompanied by an original, jarring soundtrack by Jason Sharp. As the film nears its end, we hear the musician catching his breath—an apt expression not only of his labor-intensive work but also that of the hands-on filmmaker whose collection of gems is rare indeed.
“Show & Tell: Daïchi Saïto” plays Saturday, December 10 at Anthology Film Archives in New York.
Raúl Ruiz, Three Crowns of the Sailor, 1983, 35 mm, black-and-white, sound, 117 minutes.
PERHAPS THE MOST PROLIFIC FILMMAKER of the past half century, Chilean-born Raúl Ruiz made more than seventy features and twenty-five shorts between 1963 and his death in 2011. He discontinued his university studies in theology and law—although both subjects surface in his films—to write plays, study filmmaking, and work in television. Though less overtly political than his peers, Ruiz left Chile when Pinochet came to power, and moved to Paris with his wife, Valeria Sarmiento, with whom, along with cinematographer Sacha Vierny and producer Paolo Branco, he collaborated over many decades. When Ruiz became ill, Sarmiento completed his penultimate film, the Napoleonic epic Lines of Wellington (2012), which is included in “Life Is a Dream: The Films of Raúl Ruiz,” a retrospective organized by Dennis Lim and Dan Sullivan for the Film Society of Lincoln Center.
Ruiz, whose passion for and knowledge of international literature were almost certainly unmatched by his contemporaries, made films often willfully perverse in their impish manipulation of narrative logic. Earnest adaptations of ambitious novels—for example, Mysteries of Lisbon (2010), based on Camilo Castelo Branco’s 1854 Portuguese epic, and all seven volumes of Proust’s masterwork collapsed into Marcel Proust’s Time Regained (1999)—are offset by ingenious exercises in deconstruction such as Three Crowns of the Sailor (1983) and City of Pirates (1983). But to insist that he prioritized upending conventions in the modernist spirit is to overlook his gifts as a fabulist and his relish for storytelling.
The combo was already discernible in Three Sad Tigers (1968), which he called “a film [in which] all the elements of a story are there but . . . are used like a landscape.” Even his attraction to Castelo Branco and Proust is telling, teeming as they are with incident and dramatis personae not incompatible with Ruiz’s tempering of narrative drive and penchant for the episodic. In volume one of his Poetics of Cinema (1995), he cites Edgar G. Ulmer’s The Black Cat (1934) as a Hollywood predecessor, a film “made up of a series of situations, each with a life of its own . . . independent of the storyline . . . [,] none [of which] ends in the fictional space of the film.” Understandably, the Ulmer too is included in the retrospective.
In contrast to filmmakers bent on creating structures to parallel literary form, Ruiz opined (in Poetics of Cinema 2 ) that “a film is not made up or composed of a number of shots, rather it is decomposed by the shots; when we see a film of five hundred shots, we also see five hundred films.” Ruiz exploited the possibilities of the unruly phenomenon that a single image can conjure. And even in his lavish appropriations of literary works, he seems to hold back, as if surrendering too easily to the naturalistic priorities of conventional cinema were a cardinal sin against the medium’s uniqueness. This is beyond Brechtian estrangement, which barely accounts for the boundless wit and sheer invention that suffuse his work. For Ruiz, the best art, if not the art of living itself, is marked by a balance between fascinated involvement and detachment.
Ruiz’s omnivorous appetite for tales from every source resembles his propensity for weaving cultural references throughout his essays in a dizzying display of interconnections that continually broach the integral aim of a single focus. One wonders if his call for aesthetic balance was not an effort to keep his protean sensibility in check. Ironically, one of the frustrations of watching Time Regained is realizing that its intelligence, its tone, its mise-en-scene, and its performances all suggest that had Ruiz set out to painstakingly film every page of Proust’s masterwork and allow viewers to luxuriate in its narrative density and temporal resonances, he would have created something less teasingly fragmented and more open to the pleasures that not even Proust denies us. That said, Time Regained is the best attempt to tackle this literary mastodon, not only for its impeccable attention to period, but also for several star turns—notably John Malkovich’s Baron de Charlus, an affecting concoction of decadence and fragility. Like Mysteries of Lisbon, the film refutes the argument that Ruiz had little interest in or talent for working successfully with actors.
Raúl Ruiz, Time Regained, 1999, 35 mm, color, sound, 170 minutes.
Mysteries, even in its abridged theatrical form (its original television incarnation runs ninety minutes longer), may be the better film, perhaps the best among Ruiz’s fictional endeavors. As he does with his Proust adaptation, he reflects on the logistics of point of view, especially that of the first person, creating a nuanced stories-within-stories structure that consistently places filmic point of view in question. Beyond shifting voices and surprise appearances by characters thought to be elsewhere, sudden changes of camera angles and movements from outside a given situation suggest alternative or complementary perspectives that frustrate passive identification with a particular character and hint at the filmmaker’s own ambivalent embrace of the fabricated world he has constructed. Here, the balance between detachment and involvement permits an indulgence in an engrossing fiction that resists sentimental, ideological, and religious pieties.
Not everything Ruiz touched turned to gold. The Territory (1981), a clumsy Hobbesian allegory about human barbarity and perhaps the end of civilization, makes Treasure Island (1983), his homage to Robert Louis Stevenson, seem better than it is. Both films use a child’s perspective to assess the reason and morality of adult behavior—an oft-overlooked aspect of Ruiz’s work which features most profoundly in Mysteries of Lisbon. The real adventure in Treasure Island, implicit in Stevenson, is the young protagonist’s endless search for a trustworthy father—no easy task in a film that wittily presents us with a plethora of father figures who vie for the role, including Martin Landau, Jean-Pierre Léaud, and Lou Castel.
Among the lesser-known gems in the retrospective is The Suspended Vocation (1978), Ruiz’s sober adaptation of Pierre Klossowski’s 1950 novel of the same name. The story focuses on a Dominican order of priests and concerns the quarrels among different factions within Catholicism, which Ruiz believed also characterized the Left in Latin America, itself composed of disillusioned ex-Catholics. The theological split is suggested by having two different actors play the same character. Klossowski’s disturbing fusion of perversion and theology struck more than one filmmaker: Robert Bresson cast him as the greedy corn merchant in Au hasard Balthazar (1966), while Ruiz saw the writer’s unsettling notions as relevant to the inner workings of powerful institutions like the Church.
Equally rare and not to be missed is the charming and hilarious Love Torn in a Dream (2000), something of a compendium of Ruiz’s work, but more a larger-than-life analogue of his teeming brain. A preface informs us that nine tales will unfold—set in the Portugal of prior centuries and the present, and all richly and colorfully mounted. Each tale has a letter (A, B, C, etc.), as if they formed a roadmap to help us negotiate the labyrinth that follows: A theology student doubts the evidence of his senses after reading too much Descartes; a thief discovers a mirror that robs everything reflected in it; a painting believed to cure rheumatism, acne, and stomach pain also spreads concupiscence; the possessor of a set of twenty-two rings and a Maltese cross can live in various worlds at the same time; and two pirate ghosts are frustrated in their search for a treasure they themselves buried two centuries earlier. In true Ruiz fashion, the tales literally run into one another in a skewed version of The Arabian Nights.
Any film critic determined to impose a singular interpretation on Ruiz’s varied enigmatic forays should look closely at The Hypothesis of the Stolen Painting (1978), the artist’s good-natured jab at such efforts. The film is a subtly mischievous meditation—in the spirit of Klossowski—on a series of canvases by nineteenth-century painter Frédéric Tonnerre, whose owner (played by narrator Jean Rougeul) guides us through tableaux vivants in search of the missing link in the series, the so-called stolen painting, which will presumably clarify the meaning of the entire group. Apocryphal stories, social manners, cultish intrigue, and tantalizing erotic readings—both homosexual and heterosexual—abound, the seductive disclosures of which are far too delicious to spoil here.
CHARISMATIC, IMMENSELY TALENTED, AND DRIVEN TO REPRESENT, Howard Brookner made three feature-length films in his short life. He died of AIDS in April 1989, a few days shy of his thirty-fifth birthday. Today he is best known for his 1983 documentary portrait of William S. Burroughs, Burroughs: The Movie. But he might have fallen into complete obscurity if not for his nephew Aaron Brookner, who dug up and restored the Burroughs film (rereleased by Janus Films and Criterion in 2014). Aaron then took charge of Howard’s enormous archive, with materials for Burroughs and two other features, Robert Wilson and the Civil Wars (1987) and Bloodhounds of Broadway (1989), as well as the diary movies he kept of his family, including his nephew and his friends, lovers, and colleagues, some famous, some unknown, and many of them dying in the early years of the AIDS epidemic.
From this archive, Aaron fashioned Uncle Howard, an invaluable and extremely moving mosaic of personal, cultural, and social history. The movie weaves together two narratives—Howard’s and Aaron’s, both about the making of personal movies, which is to say movies that are labors of love. Uncle Howard begins with Aaron attempting to convince poet John Giorno to allow him to remove the hundreds of boxes and film cans comprising Howard’s archive from “the bunker,” as Giorno’s current and Burroughs’s former residence at 222 Bowery was dubbed. Although he manifested no interest in Howard’s archive per se, Giorno was reluctant to allow anything to be dislodged from the time capsule that the bunker had become. But Aaron was persistent, and with aid from Jim Jarmusch and Sara Driver, who had been Howard’s classmates in film school at NYU, where he began Burroughs (Jarmusch was his sound recordist), the archive was liberated.
What follows is Aaron’s journey through the life his uncle recorded on film from the mid-1970s to the late 1980s mixed with contemporary interviews he did with key figures in Howard’s circle—at least, with those who are still alive. “Howard’s was an unfinished life,” says Burroughs’s partner James Grauerholz as he and Aaron sit on the porch of the Kansas farmhouse where Howard had filmed Burroughs more than thirty years before. At that point Aaron cuts to a shot from his uncle’s film, where Burroughs talks about retiring with his cats and asparagus beds and then ambles slowly across the field, exiting Howard’s movie as he would exit the land of the living some fifteen years later.
Uncle Howard weaves together then and now, leaving us to mull over what did and didn’t happen in between. For Aaron, the films and writings in Howard’s archive are memories made indelible. “In what he left behind, he lives on in a place where there is no AIDS, where Saint Vincent’s is not a luxury condo, and the Chelsea Hotel is still a bohemian folly. In that space, Uncle Howard will live forever.” If that speech brings tears, it also doesn’t do justice to either Howard’s or Aaron’s work. We see Howard record himself on video as he discovers that he has “a bruise” on his foot, as his health declines, as he directs Bloodhounds of Broadway, a period musical that would have been absurdly ambitious for a fledgling director, even if he wasn’t racked with fever while shooting ten-hour days in a freezing winter. Howard died before Bloodhounds opened, but the film had already been recut by a nervous studio. I remember thinking at the time that it wasn’t very good, but the behind-the-scenes clips in Aaron’s movie allowed me to see the film that might have been had Howard completed it on his own.
All this makes the film sound unbearably sad, and at moments it is. But it is also a tribute to Howard’s energy and to a wildly improvisatory cultural moment when Beat, punk, and Minimalist aesthetics merged in New York No Wave. When people ask what New York was like in the ’60s, I always send them to Jonas Mekas’s Walden: Diaries, Notes & Sketches (1969). For a glimpse of what followed, even though New York was supposedly a wasteland, there is no better place to start than Uncle Howard.
Uncle Howard is currently playing at the IFC Center in New York.
THE MOST SINISTER ESPIONAGE THRILLER currently playing in a theater in New York (and soon to be released online) is a mere ten minutes long. Laura Poitras and Henrik Moltke’s Project X ends with a low-angle shot that makes the exceedingly strange, windowless building at 33 Thomas Street in TriBeCa look like the Monolith in Kubrick’s 2001.
There is almost nothing in this elegant connect-the-dots exercise that lower Manhattan denizens with any awareness of the workings of power didn’t take for granted decades ago. Designed by the architectural firm John Carl Warnecke & Associates, the 550-foot-tall nuclear-proof concrete-and-granite building named Project X was completed in 1974. Its stated purpose was to house and secure the long-distance telecommunications hub of the New York Telephone Company, then a subsidiary of AT&T.
A small AT&T logo is the only signage on the building today. I remember looking at 33 Thomas Street with a raised eyebrow after AT&T was served a subpoena in 1976 by the congressional subcommittee investigating the FBI’s illegal wiretapping of Civil Rights activists. Since then, AT&T has been regarded as one of the corporations most helpful to government security agencies, a reputation confirmed by documents released by National Security Agency whistleblower Edward Snowden. In 2015, the New York Times published a front-page story with the headline “AT&T Helped U.S. Spy on Internet on a Vast Scale.” (Poitras and Moltke were two of the six bylines on that story.)
Using the Snowden material, Poitras, director of CITIZENFOUR, the Academy Award–winning documentary on Snowden, and Moltke, an award-winning Danish investigative journalist, make a compelling case for 33 Thomas Street being TITANPOINTE, the codename for one of the NSA’s primary surveillance sites, monitoring land- and long-distance telephone lines and, via the four satellite dishes on its roof, mobile and internet communications. Nothing in the film or in the Snowden documents nails the exact relationship between AT&T and the NSA. Nor do they establish for certain that the NSA has been given or has rented space in the building, nor what telecommunications data might have been provided to the NSA, legally or illegally. Nevertheless, the narrative is compelling.
Even at a compressed ten minutes, the anxiety-producing visuals and rhythms of Project X bring to mind two great spy thrillers of the 1970s, Alan J. Pakula’s All the President’s Men (1976) and Sydney Pollack’s Three Days of the Condor (1975), both extraordinary for being specific to their time and prescient of the present moment. Project X employs an NSA training manual released in the Snowden documents and read in voice-over by Michelle Williams and Rami Malek (both expert in conveying multiple levels of meaning in seemingly straightforward instructions) to delineate how agents rent cars and travel undercover, how they gain entry to TITANPOINTE, and how they should communicate with their families in case of emergency.
The film is a teaser for a far more detailed article by Ryan Gallagher and Moltke, published on the invaluable investigative website the Intercept. (Field of Vision—the short-documentary film production unit created by Poitras, AJ Schnack, and Charlotte Cook—and the Intercept are both part of First Look Media.) The film and the article also might inspire inquiring minds to wonder if the intel that led NSA director Michael Rogers to state a few days ago that there shouldn’t be “any doubt in anyone’s mind” that there was a “conscious effort by a nation-state to sway the result of the 2016 presidential election” was harvested at 33 Thomas Street. And if there might have been related hard intel about potentially illegal communications between the President-elect and those around him with said nation-state, and what leverage that intel, if it exists, would give the NSA now and in the future. Think hard about the Iran treaty.
Project X plays at the IFC Center in New York Friday, November 18 through Thursday, November 24 before shows of Cameraperson at 5:45 PM, Fire at Sea at 3:20 PM, and Weiner at 4:50 PM.
WERNER HERZOG’S INTO THE INFERNO opens with what might be the most amazing drone shot in the short history of drone-use in motion pictures. We seem to be gliding up the side of a large mountain—up, up, past the tiny figures of a camera crew hovering near the crest—and then, without hesitation, floating over the top to look down into a crater with red-hot churning magma. A nearly invisible jump cut brings us closer to the molten mass, now filling the entire screen, and another cut puts us deeper into the pit, the drone camera swooping amid exploding fires. Be thankful that Herzog did not avail himself of 3-D.
While shooting his 2007 Encounters at the End of the World, Herzog met volcanologist Clive Oppenheimer, author of Eruptions that Shook the World, on the slopes of Antarctica’s Mount Erebus. Clips from Encounters, inserted as backstory for this new volcano doc, illustrate that meeting and how unsettling it is to see fire beneath a glacier. Testifying to Herzog’s long-standing fascination with people living on the edge of natural disasters is the unforgettable image, from his 1977 short La Soufrière, of an elderly man lying on the ground on the slope of a volcano, his black-and-white cat curled up comfortably at his side. Herzog had gone to Guadeloupe, in the Caribbean, after seventy thousand inhabitants fled the island, after being told that La Soufrière was about to erupt. He found three residents who had stayed behind, the most memorable being the man with the cat, who wasn’t happy that Herzog’s camera had intruded on his solitude.
The credits for Into the Inferno read “A film by Werner Herzog and Clive Oppenheimer, written, edited, and directed by Werner Herzog.” Basically, the two men traveled to some of the world’s most active and/or historically most devastating volcanos, beginning and ending in Vanuatu, an island archipelago in the South Pacific, a thousand miles off the coast of Australia. In between, they hit Indonesia, Ethiopia, Iceland, and, most surprisingly, North Korea. Besides extraordinary images of volcanic landscapes, the film is, thanks to Oppenheimer’s skill as an interviewer, a work of comparative anthropology. Herzog’s voice-over and his choice of music—heavy on the sacred and the Wagnerian—dominate, but Oppenheimer’s analytic approach grounds the director’s romanticism. Unlike Herzog, whose focus is the individual, Oppenheimer is interested in social structures, the belief systems and myths that provide stability—or the illusion thereof—to societies that live with the memory and the anticipation of nature at its most cataclysmic.
Thanks to an ongoing scientific collaboration between volcanologists at Cambridge University and in North Korea, Herzog was able to film at Mount Paektu on the border between China and the DPRK. Inactive for eleven hundred years, Mount Paeku is the mythic birthplace of the Korean people five-thousand years ago. This foundational myth was co-opted by Kim Il-sung, who claimed to have led the revolutionary battle against the Japanese occupiers seventy years ago from a log cabin on the slope of the sacred mountain. The lake that has formed in the huge crater is too peaceful to be of interest, but Herzog finds both pathos and horror in the hysterically fervent faces and mechanical movements of those for whom ideology is a religion. The sacred log cabin is depicted in absurdly bucolic mosaics and as the central image in one of the DPRK’s emblematic stadium spectacles of lock-step dancing and banner-waving, where metamorphosing backdrops are created by thousands of “extras” flipping life-size colored cards in sync. Herzog calls them “human pixels.” The Korean section is overlong, making the film ungainly, but it’s also too short to show us much we haven’t seen before. Herzog’s insightful commentary, however, is tantalizing enough to make one hope that he can con his way back to Mount Paektu and beyond.
Into the Inferno is currently playing in select theaters and on Netflix, which has also made available a group of earlier Herzog documentaries including Encounters at the End of the World and Cave of Forgotten Dreams (2010).
Adam Curtis, HyperNormalisation, 2016, video, color, sound, 166 minutes. Jane Fonda.
OFFICIAL LANGUAGE acts upon politics the way gangrene shrivels a foot: It freezes while it poisons. Take “constructive ambiguity.” Behind the bland opacity of Kissinger’s phrase—with its haughty procession of Latinate syllables—is the childish wish to stop the world. It was in the name of “constructive ambiguity” that in 1975 Kissinger lied to Syria’s Hafez al-Assad (father of Bashar) about a peace agreement between Israel and Egypt, shattering the alliances within the Arab world that threatened American power. A devious tactic, yes, but in the service of a facile belief: that it’s actually possible to dominate reality, if only you lock it in place, stuff it full of puppets, and rule it according to your own “immutable,” imaginary laws. Since the mid-1970s, it’s been the conceit of American and European elites that the planet is a fixed system that need only be tinkered with and stabilized, leaving the overall picture gleamingly intact. Marx said that the point wasn’t to interpret, but to change the world—so of course his political opposites in the capitalist West have spent the past forty years conscripting their security agencies, supercomputers, and mercenary contractors to the grand, ridiculous effort of simply pressing pause.
That, at least, is the argument of HyperNormalisation, the new film by Adam Curtis. It premiered October 16 on BBC iPlayer and bears his inimitable stamp: jarring digression, ambient music, and reams of archival footage. It’s a protracted lament for collective passion as it’s strangled by a glossy technocracy. And there is, as always, Curtis’s voice—in all its crisp, declarative Britishness. “We live in a strange time,” he begins, his posh accent ennobling the cliché. “Suicide bombs, waves of refugees, Donald Trump, Vladimir Putin, even Brexit.” These things are all, by a certain logic, inexplicable—baffling ruptures in the rhythm of everyday life and leering counterarguments to the truths our leaders peddle. It will be Curtis’s mission, over the course of this nearly three-hour essay, to prove that our current inclination to crisis began in 1975. That year, two patterns emerged that cast “politics”—that is, the fury and agency of vast groups of people—as beside the point. Instead, our politicians crafted a fake world, and decided to rule that instead. The ensuing condition is called HyperNormalisation, and that fake world is based on the impersonal buzzing of the market, a cling to the current military balance of power, and a dazzled faith in the capacity of computers to predict and inaugurate a shining, knowable future.
It starts with Kissinger. His “constructive ambiguity” in Damascus scrambles the diplomatic process and inspires the widespread deployment of suicide bombers (funded by Assad) who, since they can’t assuage their sense of political despair, resort to blowing it up. Meanwhile, in New York City, a penniless municipal government is held hostage by the banks. So we see the twin curses of our age: the cruelties of austerity and the reversion to a nonpolitical politics, in which diplomacy is discarded and the public dismissed. This is the fake world: one where the mass sentiments of the Middle East can be skirted by Kissinger’s tricky wording, a world where a fickle Invisible Hand is either patting you on the head or giving you the middle finger.
Martha Rosler, Semiotics of the Kitchen, 1975.
Nobody opposed this. Where, Curtis wants to know, were the leftists? The artists? The radicals? Apparently wallowing in their glum, muddy psyches. It’s Curtis’s belief—and here his argument starts to teeter, though not quite collapse—that the failure of ’60s counterculture to change the world through revolution led to a retreat into the labyrinthine irrelevances of the “self.” (His Century of the Self  elaborates further on what is here a rather pat point.) LSD provided a phenomenology of political surrender. But for all of the wild leaps of Curtis’s films, his weakness is his tidiness, his grinning satisfaction in his polished little theorems. His argument clicks along with maddening facility—while the real world roars outside. Yes, it’s apt to point out the hippie roots of cyber-utopianism and its eventual co-optation by repressive, reactionary forces. And he’s right to mourn the failure of the last truly global moment of anticapitalist sentiment—the mythic ’60s—as it melted into “lifestyle.” But sometimes he fingers the wrong suspects: Martha Rosler’s video Semiotics of the Kitchen is excerpted twice. The first time, it’s meant to illustrate the “new individualism” of the ’70s—it had the rotten luck of being made in 1975—and the second time, Rosler’s final shrug, a slapstick gesture that bespeaks a state of suspended agency in the face of patriarchal might, is condemned. It’s a sign, you see, of our deflated political imagination. But I feel silly objecting to that—what do a few moments matter, in this monstrous, epic film?
The moments accumulate. Women spring up whenever Curtis mentions the slackening of collective will or the torpid complacency of the postindustrial world. Cyberspace simply flings your own image back to you, says Curtis—while he gives us shots of dazed, dancing girls. Jane Fonda, erstwhile radical, is held up as an example of the disastrous vanity of the culture, as her workout videos embody the contraction of political aspiration to the size of a single shrinking waistline. And artificial intelligence, whose beginnings, Curtis demonstrates, were a kind of pseudo-therapy, is shown to cater to these new, fetid interiorities—the interiorities, that is, of women. “Men are all the same,” a woman types into a computer. We’re supposed to be dismayed.
In his sprint through the movements and exigencies of the past half-century, Curtis refuses to register—indeed, obliquely snubs—feminism. That political action and collective consciousness might also work to enrich the individual spirit—once a rather uncontroversial claim on the Left—is to him an insidious contamination of political sensibilities by our narcissistic present. It’s treachery, seduction. There’s something limp, perhaps . . . effeminate about it. Halfway through HyperNormalisation, my mind flew to Letter to Jane (1972), in which Jean-Luc Godard and Jean-Pierre Gorin dash off their own criticism of Jane Fonda, in a picture of her leaning in to speak to a Vietnamese guerrilla. But at least they have the decency to make an acknowledgement that Curtis would do well to revisit. “We are both men,” Godard says over an image of Fonda’s frozen, pretty face. “And as a woman, you are undoubtedly going to be hurt a little—or a lot.”