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  • Bitter Lake

    bitterlakePoliticians used to have the confidence to tell us stories that made sense of the chaos of world events. But now there are no big stories and politicians react randomly to every new crisis – leaving us bewildered and disorientated. Bitter Lake is a new, adventurous and epic film by Adam Curtis that explains why the big stories that politicians tell us have become so simplified that we can’t really see the world any longer. The narrative goes all over the world, America, Britain, Russia and Saudi Arabia – but the country at the heart of it is Afghanistan. Because Afghanistan is the place that has confronted our politicians with the terrible truth – that they cannot understand what is going on any longer. The film reveals the forces that over the past thirty years rose up and undermined the confidence of politics to understand the world. And it shows the strange, dark role that Saudi Arabia has played in this.

    Curtis has dedicated much of his career to testing the limits of experiential forms of art and media, best exemplified by his 2010 documentary It Felt Like a Kiss, which examines 20th-century politics through an intellectual montage of pop-cultural moments and texts, often wildly mixing high and low to impressionistic effect. However, Curtis isn’t merely a collage filmmaker and his new documentary, Bitter Lake, is a profound testament to harnessing newly formulated ambitions beyond merely proffering archival footage employed in new contexts.

    Effectively, Curtis attempts to locate an operative binary for late-20th-century grand narratives as they pertain to the Western mythologies undergirding international diplomacy. Curtis arrives at the conclusion that leaders like Ronald Reagan, Margaret Thatcher, and Tony Blair constructed a simplistic narrative of good and evil to reconcile complex and unknowable forces beyond domestic lines (feels like there’s a word, or words, missing here), such that nations like Afghanistan became locations to be pummeled and eradicated, given that the rhetoric being offered rendered their peoples as sub-human. Curtis makes these points very clearly in a voiceover that guides the film’s larger themes, and though he prefers to put these points very succinctly, the 138 minutes of footage and material surrounding them achieve much finer articulations, approaching a revisionist history of Western decadence that positions imperial rule as synonymous with cultural dominance. (c. Dillard)

  • From Inside of Here: Films of Bill Basquin

    Deer B image002Basquin shows new and recent work as well as an older favorite around the theme of place.

    Bill Basquin has been making films since the late 1990s. His art crosses genre and mode in ways that are quiet and sometimes surprising. He likes to work outside, with his hands, in dim daylight. He also likes the lessons that come from working with people, living with a tiny grey cat, and continuing to attune to worlds both wild and cultivated.

    Program:

    Deer Census (2009) 9 minutes…composed of digital color stills from a motion-sensor infrared camera

    Late December, East of the Sierras (2015) 21 minutes, color, silent

    The Last Day of November (2001) 4 minutes

    Lake Cuyamaca, August 8th (2014) 13 minutes, color, silent

    Around (2013) 5 minutes, color, silent

    Benton City, July 2011 (2011) 3 minutes, color

    Just Before the Light Left for the Night (2013) 3 minutes, color, silent

  • The Window Gallery: a “space for…conversations…about death” — Still time to see this strong work.

    The following essay is a powerful statement on how our society’s refusal to embrace death causes more suffering. Come by and see how Angela Simione faced the problem. Through March 2015.09 (750x1000) (2)

    She got sick when I was 29. When I was thirty, she died. It was January. Cold. I curled up with my

    crochet hook and I kept my hands busy.

    Looking back, I see it as an attempt at repair; each stitch, an act of healing. A simultaneous meditation

    and distraction.
    In the weeks following her death, I would wake up crying; a mess of sadness. I hid myself. I didn’t want

    anyone to see me cry but my confused despair was impossible to hide. I was ashamed of my red eyes.

    For as sympathetic as people were, they were equally uncomfortable. I was deep within the landscape

    of my mother’s death (and the early confrontation with my own mortality) and I was in it alone.

    There are no spaces for these conversations in our culture. No one wants to talk about death over

    morning coffee. Or afternoon coffee. Or after-dinner drinks. And after a few weeks, there is a

    collective pressure for one to bounce back, for the grieving to subside, for a smile to flicker and pull at

    the corners of one’s cheeks again. The pressure to resume one’s previous dance, to return to business

    as usual is torturous. I couldn’t stand it. Still, I wore dark sunglasses and waterproof mascara. I tried

    hard to contain the mess of my sadness. I tried to control my tears. Sometimes, I would suddenly start

    crying on the street. Never wailing or sobbing, no bunched up red face, just tears silently running from

    my eyes. The dark glasses and waterproof mascara were my preventative maintenance. They helped

    me prevent myself from making other people uncomfortable. They helped me prevent my mother’s

    death from spilling on to their lives, such an unwelcome topic, such an inconvenient contagion. They

    prevented me from embarrassing myself. Nevertheless, the tears came. An overflow. A mode of

    expression that wouldn’t be denied. A supplemental voice.
    Eventually, I got angry about the silence but I didn’t know where to go to say the things I needed to say.

    I didn’t know where to go to find people who were interested in talking about death and its aftermath.

    Behind my dark glasses, I was stoic. Straight-faced. I marched across this city silently, clad in black and

    smile-less. I noticed that no matter what I wore or how I looked, someone was bound to notice me. It

    was then that I discovered the power of my body to speak for me, to create an area for discussion and

    exchange of ideas. My personal billboard. My own private gallery wall. My mobile wailing wall.

    Taking phrases from my personal diary, lines from deeply loved songs, and scattered bits of my own

    poetry, I began to speak of my mother’s death. I embedded my longing for her in the clothing I wore. I

    broadcasted my anguish, my confusion, my loss, my unbelievable anger, and my longing for a reckoning.

    I emblazoned my feelings across handmade sweaters, each stitch bearing witness to my silent suffering.

    They spoke the words that I couldn’t say without completely falling apart.
    Now, 4 years later, the repair that I was attempting feels as if it has largely taken place. Presented at

    ATA in their entirely are my “sweaters of death”, a fragmented poem of sorts, my “work of mourning”.

    Angela Simione