American reality television stars have no class, and the American public wouldn’t have them any other way. When eight “Italian-American” youths identifying themselves as “guidos” and “guidettes” moved into a beach house in the town of Seaside Heights on the Jersey Shore for a summer of partying and debauchery to be filmed by MTV in all its god-awful glory, it created a pop culture atom bomb and many conversations about identity among viewers, politicians, and civil rights groups. New Jersey’s politicians representing the real-life Jersey Shore have been ill-advisedly harping on a “reality” show that nobody but them takes seriously. The cast boorishly and drunkenly offers viewers copious amounts of hair gel, self-tanner, and egos as big as Rhode Island, but in truth, the only ones taking them at face value are politicians and civil rights groups who just don’t get it.
Glorifying self-proclaimed “guido” values like physical beauty, a Tropicana-colored tan, “wind-proof” hair, and strong Italian ethnic identity, the people of “Jersey Shore” don’t ring true to the average American. Most of us will never encounter Snooki, the pint-size “Italian-American” 21-year old “guidette” (female guido) that has a penchant for topless hot tubbing and frequently saying “FML.” To know the club-going, body-shot taking, sex- and alcohol-loving cast of “Jersey Shore” is to study their words, but maybe not too intently (for fear of liver damage). Snooki, whose much less interesting real name is Nicole Polizzi, borders on comic genius (albeit unintentionally) while musing on her love life in episode four. “He’s a really good guy. That’s the kind of guy I need in my life. I think his name is Ron,” (it was actually Russ). Narcissism mates with idiocy in episode five when Sammie “Sweetheart” Giancola, the vain 22-year old who is the only cast member actually from New Jersey, remarks, “I definitely want to look good for Ronnie's parents...Like, I want them to think like wow, that's her. She's really pretty, and whatever.” The women of the show are vapid, their hair extensions are long, and their breasts are augmented—all these things, though looked down on by society, are strong aspects of their identity, even if the moral majority doesn’t approve of who they choose to be.
The show’s “guido” males are just as outrageous. Ronnie Ortiz-Magro, a burly “juicehead” (guy who works out a lot) from the Bronx, says of housemate Jenny “JWOWW” Farley in episode five, “JWOWW’s pussy must be rainbows and pasta treasure.” Sometimes the show’s denizens can be downright politically explosive like when Angelina Pivarnick, whose stint on the show was short-lived due to her refusal to work regular hours at their assigned summer job selling T-shirts on the boardwalk, comments, “If a girl’s a slut, she should be abused.” Viewers are treated to brief glimmers of “Guido” humanity in episode four from 28-year-old Pauly D (Paul DelVecchio), who owns his own tanning bed back at home in Rhode Island. “I couldn't have sex with my girl, she had her period. I go to take her pants off - she wouldn't let me, no big deal.” This is surprisingly gallant in a man who is willing to kick two girls out of their shore house to make room for two other women that are more likely to have sex with him. One of the show’s biggest stars, Mike Sorrentino, or “The Situation” (his cryptic and vaguely suggestive nickname), even flirts with borderline rapist mentality in episode two. “As far as I know, everybody loves The Situation, and if you don't love The Situation, I'm gonna make you love The Situation.” And it seems that he has, to an
extent—except for politicians and Italian rights groups, of course.
MTV isn’t fooling anyone by feigning innocence of the depravity the people they are presenting and saying that they are just exposing some sort of irreverent youth subculture like on “The Real World” or “The Hills.” However, MTV doesn’t need to defend its transmission of smutty programming. The cast members on “Jersey Shore” just aren’t walking, breathing, Mystic-tanning stereotypes that are harming American society and its foundations. Actually, to credit them with awareness of their status as cultural emblems (before the show exploded onto the pop scene, of course) is to overestimate what caliber of brains might be found under Snooki’s enormous pouf hairdo. These outrageous and vulgar people exist in some realm not immediately adjacent to that of the typical television viewer, and although they do identify themselves as Italian Americans, this doesn’t make them powerful and real emblems of American culture. They’ve been appropriated by civil rights organizations, politicians, and shamelessly exploited by MTV. Verbally abusing and even pitying the orange-toned philanderers and pleasure-seekers of the “Shore” is one thing—taking them seriously as representatives of a culture is quite another.
It’s important to remember that three of the cast aren’t actually Italian, but claim Italian heritage as their identity—loudly, insolently, and with not a little swagger. The use of the word “guido” which in this case refers to an Italian-American male (“Guidette” for females) usually from New York or New Jersey who enjoys faux-tanning, plucking, working out, and looking pretty as well as clubbing and picking up women that are as physically artificial as themselves. It’s a constructed identity that is fairly new. Having been originally contrived as an insult for Italian-American immigrants, “guido” has taken on a new meaning when utilized by Italian-American youths—it might still not be a great word, but a small group of Italian American youngsters is attempting to reclaim it. The immortal words of “guido” Pauly D in the first episode describe how the “Jersey Shore” characters define themselves. “I was born and raised a guido,” he says. “It's just a lifestyle. It's being Italian. It's representing family, friends, tanning, gel.” There it is, and that’s how it should be taken—not that Pauly D should be regarded as a fount of wisdom. Ethnic groups have taken racially coded words and turned them into pop culture gold by appropriation and re-association before, and they can do it again. Pauly D’s explanation is simple, unlike the minefield that the show’s use of the term has stumbled upon, and it should be taken at face value—to do anything else would be giving these “guidos” and “guidettes” far too much credit.
The twenty-somethings of “Jersey Shore” are the heirs to two cultures often stereotyped for their arrogance, narcissism, and general obnoxiousness: American and Italian. Americans love Americans and the U.S., while Italians love Italians and Italy. Why wouldn’t—crucially—some of the children of these cultures be the way they are? As caricatures, not stereotypes, the characters on “Jersey Shore” are priceless and humorous. A nation looking at the dredges of humanity that it has produced at its very lowest levels should approach it with humor and self-criticism. These kids, no matter how much they flaunt their Italian heritage, couldn’t be a more American invention. They are products of the United States’ culture and reality television.
Clearly the only ones taking “Jersey Shore” seriously are those who haven’t seen it. Is New Jersey senator Joseph Vitale sitting at home watching the show each Thursday and counting the number of times Snooki uses the word “guidette” to poorly represent each and every Italian-American? Fighting the program’s stereotypical representation is a losing battle. UNICO, the U.S.’s largest Italian-American service organization, probably has to say something about it. However, let them, not the politicians or the general public, worry about it and argue about semantics, while the rest of us watch the show, laugh at the cast of “Jersey Shore,” and recognize exactly who they represent—a small group of stupid young people.
Mike “The Situation” proclaims in episode two, “Everybody loves me, babies, dogs, ya know, hot girls, cougars. I just have unbelievable mass appeal.” This has turned out to be quite prophetic. Americans love a controversy as well as trashy reality stars, and politicians should just stay out of it—or get their own reality television show and see how many people want to watch.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Holmes Revisited: No Pipe, No Problem
If one goes to “Sherlock Holmes” expecting cold detached intelligence, Calabash pipes, a magnifying glass, and use of the word “elementary,” he might be disappointed—or confused. However, if movie-goers seek action thrills, appealing characters, and the usual intrigue twentieth-century audiences have come to expect from mystery tales but presented in a new way, they will discover “Sherlock Holmes” to be a satisfying experience. It is appropriate material for director Guy Ritchie —heists, robberies and tricky situations are found in his strongest work. Over one hundred years after the release of the classic tales, “Sherlock Holmes” has been catapulted into the twenty-first century with action, humor, and wit that couldn’t be more appropriate for today’s audiences.
Robert Downey Jr.’s Sherlock Holmes and Jude Law’s long-suffering Doctor Watson dominate the film—it is clear that they are a natural pair, both through the script’s witty banter and also through their clear camaraderie while acting together. The classical nudes in the window of Watson’s office gracefully illustrate his value of order and perfect physical harmony, while the mise-en-scène of Holmes’ office with its resident chaos immediately clues the viewer in to their respective personalities and the apparent differences between the two friends. The fact that Holmes’ room utilizes the same set as Sirius Black’s house in “Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix” comes as no surprise—this Sherlock Holmes is a dark and complex character.
Holmes as portrayed by twenty-first century actor Robert Downey Jr. is not at all the classic cold intellectual of Doyle’s tales. He is adaptable and resourceful, and his flippant attitude frequently unmasks his healthy ego. His darker aspects are acknowledged; oblique references to his drug use are included, such as when Watson asks rhetorically, “You do know what you are drinking is meant for eye surgery?” Clearly the writers picked out Holmes’ most captivating attributes—his darkness, humor, and relationship with Watson—and transformed the pipe-wielding detective of yesteryear into a man much more recognizable to modern day audiences in his vulnerability, eccentricity, and genuineness.
In creating a love interest for a character seemingly without a strong inclination to women, writers did the best they could with Rachel McAdams’ Irene Adler. As Holmes’ kryptonite, the character of Miss Adler, though sufficiently devious, serves as a simple distraction for Holmes. Lord Blackwood, the movie’s chief antagonist, is a formidable foe for Holmes, and he also represents with his “magical” powers the seamlessness of reality and fantasy that pervades the film, not only in its plot but also in its design.
The film’s images have staying power—a writhing woman in a white dress, a dark figure hanging by the neck over the Thames from a shipyard chain, a man that ignites into a flaming inferno upon firing a gun...an inky late-1800s London is enlivened through the costumes, makeup and set design. Radiant costumes light up the dusty but electric London streets—Adler adds color with her crisp bright dresses and tailored menswear. Holmes’ world is not at all stuffy; it stubbornly asserts its reality with dirt, texture, and chiaroscuro light effects that are a testament to Sarah Greenwood’s mastery of the film’s production design.
“Sherlock Holmes” is replete with action to satisfy today’s audiences. It might not utilize the classic pipe or magnifying glass, but if one does not happen to be an inflexible and die-hard aficionado of the classic tales, “Sherlock Holmes” can provide an entertaining movie-going experience, making this film anything but elementary.
Robert Downey Jr.’s Sherlock Holmes and Jude Law’s long-suffering Doctor Watson dominate the film—it is clear that they are a natural pair, both through the script’s witty banter and also through their clear camaraderie while acting together. The classical nudes in the window of Watson’s office gracefully illustrate his value of order and perfect physical harmony, while the mise-en-scène of Holmes’ office with its resident chaos immediately clues the viewer in to their respective personalities and the apparent differences between the two friends. The fact that Holmes’ room utilizes the same set as Sirius Black’s house in “Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix” comes as no surprise—this Sherlock Holmes is a dark and complex character.
Holmes as portrayed by twenty-first century actor Robert Downey Jr. is not at all the classic cold intellectual of Doyle’s tales. He is adaptable and resourceful, and his flippant attitude frequently unmasks his healthy ego. His darker aspects are acknowledged; oblique references to his drug use are included, such as when Watson asks rhetorically, “You do know what you are drinking is meant for eye surgery?” Clearly the writers picked out Holmes’ most captivating attributes—his darkness, humor, and relationship with Watson—and transformed the pipe-wielding detective of yesteryear into a man much more recognizable to modern day audiences in his vulnerability, eccentricity, and genuineness.
In creating a love interest for a character seemingly without a strong inclination to women, writers did the best they could with Rachel McAdams’ Irene Adler. As Holmes’ kryptonite, the character of Miss Adler, though sufficiently devious, serves as a simple distraction for Holmes. Lord Blackwood, the movie’s chief antagonist, is a formidable foe for Holmes, and he also represents with his “magical” powers the seamlessness of reality and fantasy that pervades the film, not only in its plot but also in its design.
The film’s images have staying power—a writhing woman in a white dress, a dark figure hanging by the neck over the Thames from a shipyard chain, a man that ignites into a flaming inferno upon firing a gun...an inky late-1800s London is enlivened through the costumes, makeup and set design. Radiant costumes light up the dusty but electric London streets—Adler adds color with her crisp bright dresses and tailored menswear. Holmes’ world is not at all stuffy; it stubbornly asserts its reality with dirt, texture, and chiaroscuro light effects that are a testament to Sarah Greenwood’s mastery of the film’s production design.
“Sherlock Holmes” is replete with action to satisfy today’s audiences. It might not utilize the classic pipe or magnifying glass, but if one does not happen to be an inflexible and die-hard aficionado of the classic tales, “Sherlock Holmes” can provide an entertaining movie-going experience, making this film anything but elementary.
More "Sherlock"
Having revisited my "Sherlock Holmes" review, I found a few more cool, more recently written online pieces and a video about it.
Some interesting info on Guy Ritchie:
http://english.cctv.com/program/cultureexpress/20100315/103003.shtml
Some stuff about the sequel...I did like the movie, but I don't know if I'd go see a sequel:
http://www.comingsoon.net/news/movienews.php?id=64035
Some interesting info on Guy Ritchie:
http://english.cctv.com/program/cultureexpress/20100315/103003.shtml
Some stuff about the sequel...I did like the movie, but I don't know if I'd go see a sequel:
http://www.comingsoon.net/news/movienews.php?id=64035
Bridges' Bad Blake Buoys Up "Crazy Heart"
Jeff Bridges as Bad Blake says during “Crazy Heart”, “Ain’t rememberin’ wonderful?” Remembering might be wonderful, but one doesn’t need to remember anything at all to enjoy “Crazy Heart.” Though the film draws heavily on classic country influences, this tale of an alcohol-addicted country singer isn’t at all memorable for its plot. What makes the film unquestionably worth seeing is a raw, bedraggled, and poignant performance by Bridges as Bad Blake.
When a beaming, aged and weathered party store shopkeeper gives washed-up country singer Blake a bottle of scotch at the beginning of the film, viewers can see exactly what kind of celebrity he is. With his pants constantly undone, Jeff Bridges’ Bad Blake is a slightly gross, and at times vulgar, star of the show that has fallen from grace but is still beloved by his fans. When Blake sings at that night’s bowling alley show, “I used to be somebody, now I am somebody else,” his talent is overwhelming. From there on, the slow-paced film carries viewers along with Blake’s journey around the American Southwest.
Glowing western landscapes crowns the highways of Blake’s tour, while the strong musical score by Ryan Bingham and T Bone Burnett rises and falls poetically in the background. Blake’s wardrobe is simple, his pants often undone, and he seems to pay about as much attention to it as the audiences does (not much). The glistening sweat on Blake’s face during most of the film, as he huffs and puffs (he’s rather out of shape) is almost tangible. His physicality captured through the cinematography throughout the film is notable, as well as his depth as a character. Indeed, none of the characters are ever allowed to get far away from the camera lens, which provides intimate portraits of them for the audience.
A slightly refreshing alternative to the dusty world of country music and Blake’s addiction, Maggie Gyllenhaal’s Jean Craddock and her almost overly (but not quite too) adorable and precocious son Buddy are an important vein in Blake’s development. She oddly overlooks his drunk driving and obvious alcohol problem, not recognizing it as an issue until he loses her son buddy while drunk. There relationship is awkward and somewhat forced on screen—as a younger actress, Gyllenhaal might have a lot of films under her belt, but she can’t stand up to Jeff Bridges’ mastery of his character.
The only major failure of the film is Colin Farrell’s Tommy Sweet, who seems very artificial, portraying a country star with wiggling eyebrows and forced-casual lean. However, Farrell’s lilting voice does provide a nice complement for Blake’s low and classic country tone. When they team up onstage in “Fallin’ and Flyin,”” the track is instantly transformed into magic. Fortunately, Farrell is discussed a lot in the film, but never gets a lot of face time.
Many beautiful, “country” images inhabit the very realistic space of “Crazy Heart”. Blake leans with his guitar in his all-denim outfit against dusty rose stucco walls; he’s feeling down at the moment about his alcohol abuse but ultimately confident in his place in not only country music, but its personal story. The gorgeous sets serve as a dramatic backdrop to his somewhat more humble tale of addiction and cleansing.
Simplicity is key to “Crazy Heart.” It is where most of its appeal lies—in its sweeping, bare western landscapes, its moving and convincing lead character, and the basic storyline of a country singer on tour. I might have just imagined it, but when Bad Blake sang “Fallin’ and Flyin’” in a cramped southern bar on screen, I swear I could smell the cigarettes, sweat and an electrified bar calling out for “Bad Blake.”
When a beaming, aged and weathered party store shopkeeper gives washed-up country singer Blake a bottle of scotch at the beginning of the film, viewers can see exactly what kind of celebrity he is. With his pants constantly undone, Jeff Bridges’ Bad Blake is a slightly gross, and at times vulgar, star of the show that has fallen from grace but is still beloved by his fans. When Blake sings at that night’s bowling alley show, “I used to be somebody, now I am somebody else,” his talent is overwhelming. From there on, the slow-paced film carries viewers along with Blake’s journey around the American Southwest.
Glowing western landscapes crowns the highways of Blake’s tour, while the strong musical score by Ryan Bingham and T Bone Burnett rises and falls poetically in the background. Blake’s wardrobe is simple, his pants often undone, and he seems to pay about as much attention to it as the audiences does (not much). The glistening sweat on Blake’s face during most of the film, as he huffs and puffs (he’s rather out of shape) is almost tangible. His physicality captured through the cinematography throughout the film is notable, as well as his depth as a character. Indeed, none of the characters are ever allowed to get far away from the camera lens, which provides intimate portraits of them for the audience.
A slightly refreshing alternative to the dusty world of country music and Blake’s addiction, Maggie Gyllenhaal’s Jean Craddock and her almost overly (but not quite too) adorable and precocious son Buddy are an important vein in Blake’s development. She oddly overlooks his drunk driving and obvious alcohol problem, not recognizing it as an issue until he loses her son buddy while drunk. There relationship is awkward and somewhat forced on screen—as a younger actress, Gyllenhaal might have a lot of films under her belt, but she can’t stand up to Jeff Bridges’ mastery of his character.
The only major failure of the film is Colin Farrell’s Tommy Sweet, who seems very artificial, portraying a country star with wiggling eyebrows and forced-casual lean. However, Farrell’s lilting voice does provide a nice complement for Blake’s low and classic country tone. When they team up onstage in “Fallin’ and Flyin,”” the track is instantly transformed into magic. Fortunately, Farrell is discussed a lot in the film, but never gets a lot of face time.
Many beautiful, “country” images inhabit the very realistic space of “Crazy Heart”. Blake leans with his guitar in his all-denim outfit against dusty rose stucco walls; he’s feeling down at the moment about his alcohol abuse but ultimately confident in his place in not only country music, but its personal story. The gorgeous sets serve as a dramatic backdrop to his somewhat more humble tale of addiction and cleansing.
Simplicity is key to “Crazy Heart.” It is where most of its appeal lies—in its sweeping, bare western landscapes, its moving and convincing lead character, and the basic storyline of a country singer on tour. I might have just imagined it, but when Bad Blake sang “Fallin’ and Flyin’” in a cramped southern bar on screen, I swear I could smell the cigarettes, sweat and an electrified bar calling out for “Bad Blake.”
Friday, March 12, 2010
The Oscars: a Spectacle of Little Substance
Sunday night’s particularly vapid red carpet banter was the perfect introduction to 2010’s 82nd annual Academy Awards Ceremony. From the moment Shari Shepard said to Jeff Bridges’ wife, “Your husband looks so mmm...yummy,” there was no going back—the night was doomed to its usual spectacle of bored, often empty-headed, attractive people being honored (or embarrassed) at a live awards show and on television.
“The Hurt Locker” was far and away the star of the night, winning six categories, including Best Picture. One could also say women triumphed as well, as Kathryn Bigelow became the first woman to win Best Director. Though the movie-going public might have never heard of the Iraq War film critics and audiences lauded “The Hurt Locker” not for its budget but its content. “The Hurt Locker” was certainly an appropriate David to “Avatar’s” Goliath in a world where a big budget usually trumps all.
Though all the films honored might have their merits, the show itself had nothing to offer home audiences. For those watching it as a live show it might have been better (unlikely based on their expressions), but as television entertainment the 82nd Academy Awards failed miserably. Yes, everyone might have looked nice in their Marchesa gowns and Tom Ford suits, but the jokes and presentations were often cringe-worthy. It fulfilled its ostensible goal of handing out the awards, but the show itself alternated between stiff and rehearsed, and awkwardly unscripted.
The priceless look of distaste on Jeff Bridges’ face after a tacky opening number by Neil Patrick Harris and a bunch of sequined, feathered showgirls caught by a poorly-timed camera shot showed how the musical number might have looked to anybody that isn’t on board with the bastardization of “Old Hollywood.” Jon M. Chu’s “Legion of Extraordinary Dancers “ turned up the energy, at least, with a confusing and disjointed break-dance number to music nominated for Best Original Score. The theme of the entire set, which seemed to be “dirty household lampshades,” just didn’t have the class one might expect at the Oscars.
All the home audience needed to know could be read on the faces on their screens and the behavior of the live audience. Sarah Jessica Parker chewed gum during the ceremony while George Clooney visibly cringed at Alec Baldwin’s jokes. Not that the on-stage presenters and performers were much better/ A nervous Amanda Seyfried and a slouching Miley Cyrus, who were presenting Best Song to “The Weary Kind” from “Crazy Heart”, represented Young Hollywood’s chronic awkwardness. The stars’ onstage dialogues were what might be expected—Vera Farmiga praised George Clooney’s acting prowess by calling him a “fantastically fantastic Mr. Foxy Fox.” It’s a topical comment, but really, she might not realize that she’s onstage at the (usually aiming for classy) Academy Awards. Or, considering this year’s event, maybe she does.
At this year’s Academy Awards, Jeff Bridges had his first well-deserved Oscar win as did Sandra Bullock, which was a noteworthy moment. Other than that, everybody looked pretty in their outfits and self-congratulatory airs, and nobody did anything too embarrassing. Ho-hum.
Kate Winslet said in her red carpet interview that this year she could, “relax and enjoy it and watch everybody else panic.” And panic they did—you could see it in their faces. Boredom, passion, nerves, and intense discomfort...this year Hollywood’s biggest stars did little to hide their reactions to the show, whether positive or (mostly) negative.
“The Hurt Locker” was far and away the star of the night, winning six categories, including Best Picture. One could also say women triumphed as well, as Kathryn Bigelow became the first woman to win Best Director. Though the movie-going public might have never heard of the Iraq War film critics and audiences lauded “The Hurt Locker” not for its budget but its content. “The Hurt Locker” was certainly an appropriate David to “Avatar’s” Goliath in a world where a big budget usually trumps all.
Though all the films honored might have their merits, the show itself had nothing to offer home audiences. For those watching it as a live show it might have been better (unlikely based on their expressions), but as television entertainment the 82nd Academy Awards failed miserably. Yes, everyone might have looked nice in their Marchesa gowns and Tom Ford suits, but the jokes and presentations were often cringe-worthy. It fulfilled its ostensible goal of handing out the awards, but the show itself alternated between stiff and rehearsed, and awkwardly unscripted.
The priceless look of distaste on Jeff Bridges’ face after a tacky opening number by Neil Patrick Harris and a bunch of sequined, feathered showgirls caught by a poorly-timed camera shot showed how the musical number might have looked to anybody that isn’t on board with the bastardization of “Old Hollywood.” Jon M. Chu’s “Legion of Extraordinary Dancers “ turned up the energy, at least, with a confusing and disjointed break-dance number to music nominated for Best Original Score. The theme of the entire set, which seemed to be “dirty household lampshades,” just didn’t have the class one might expect at the Oscars.
All the home audience needed to know could be read on the faces on their screens and the behavior of the live audience. Sarah Jessica Parker chewed gum during the ceremony while George Clooney visibly cringed at Alec Baldwin’s jokes. Not that the on-stage presenters and performers were much better/ A nervous Amanda Seyfried and a slouching Miley Cyrus, who were presenting Best Song to “The Weary Kind” from “Crazy Heart”, represented Young Hollywood’s chronic awkwardness. The stars’ onstage dialogues were what might be expected—Vera Farmiga praised George Clooney’s acting prowess by calling him a “fantastically fantastic Mr. Foxy Fox.” It’s a topical comment, but really, she might not realize that she’s onstage at the (usually aiming for classy) Academy Awards. Or, considering this year’s event, maybe she does.
At this year’s Academy Awards, Jeff Bridges had his first well-deserved Oscar win as did Sandra Bullock, which was a noteworthy moment. Other than that, everybody looked pretty in their outfits and self-congratulatory airs, and nobody did anything too embarrassing. Ho-hum.
Kate Winslet said in her red carpet interview that this year she could, “relax and enjoy it and watch everybody else panic.” And panic they did—you could see it in their faces. Boredom, passion, nerves, and intense discomfort...this year Hollywood’s biggest stars did little to hide their reactions to the show, whether positive or (mostly) negative.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Folly? Not at all: Goya and Castellon at the K.I.A.
Humanity at its ugliest can inspire the most worthwhile and exquisite forms of expression. This is highly evident in “Fear and Folly: the Visionary Prints of Francisco Goya and Federico Castellon,” exhibited at the Kalamazoo Institute of Arts until May 23rd. The two artists’ horrifying and macabre conceptions of the human condition muse poignantly on the state of humanity. The compelling works are carefully selected from the K.I.A.’s own print collection. This is a wise move by the K.I.A., drawing on their own collection both saved money by not requiring the fees associated with an expensive traveling exhibition and promoted civic pride in the museum’s collection.
The austerely framed prints line the K.I.A.’s downstairs hallway, which provides a less-than-dramatic background for an exhibition meant to be striking and eerie; in addition, an inadvertent and rather jarring comparison is invited by the fact that the two artists’ works are separated by the museum’s small African and Mesoamerican collection. The constraints of a small museum are obvious in the show’s location in the building as well as signage—only some of the images have explanations for viewers.
The museum’s presentation of Goya’s lithographs was fairly strong. In “The Proverbs,” (most of the series is represented and is presented in the proper order) Goya offers up some notable images: a hellish horse carries away a woman in the aptly named “Unbridled Folly,” a shrouded giant looms over a battlefield in “Fearful Folly,” and distracted women toss about dolls that look horribly like men in “Feminine Folly.” His famous “Disasters of War” is rather more successful and impressive, but the “Follies” make their message known—the often futile ridiculousness of human life. The incorporation of Goya’s recognizable flying demons and people with faces like something he stretched out of putty makes this array of prints a mostly satisfying spread for a small Midwestern museum.
Though Goya is the better known of the two artists, his lithographs at the K.I.A. were outshone by Federico Castellon’s compelling and grim works, which were created around 150 years after Goya’s. Labeled a Surrealist by critics, Castellon produced piercing sequential illustrations of Poe’s “The Masque of the Red Death” in the 1960s. An etching early in the series, entitled “It was a voluptuous scene, that masquerade,” (1968) depicts a shadowy nude woman surrounded by pot-bellied demons and black color fields. Castellon depicts other masqueraders at the deadly party—ladies in Battenberg lace dresses with rosebushes for heads, horned men, and all manner of despotic characters doomed to death. Hieronymus Bosch would appreciate the creatures that Castellon has created—they are vibrant and abhorrent, masquerading as fish-people, trees, and rotting ballerinas with buckets for heads. His figures throb with terror and the sense of loneliness that Poe’s tale makes so inescapable. The world he constructs for these creatures is hazy and atmospheric, and when the “Red Death” himself appears as a gaunt skeleton near the end of the series, the viewer, safe in the low hallway of the K.I.A., is rightly terrified.
Inciting fear in the hearts of Kalamazoo viewers with its horrific and devastating images, “Fear and Folly: the Visionary Prints of Francisco Goya and Federico Castellon” is certainly not folly.
The austerely framed prints line the K.I.A.’s downstairs hallway, which provides a less-than-dramatic background for an exhibition meant to be striking and eerie; in addition, an inadvertent and rather jarring comparison is invited by the fact that the two artists’ works are separated by the museum’s small African and Mesoamerican collection. The constraints of a small museum are obvious in the show’s location in the building as well as signage—only some of the images have explanations for viewers.
The museum’s presentation of Goya’s lithographs was fairly strong. In “The Proverbs,” (most of the series is represented and is presented in the proper order) Goya offers up some notable images: a hellish horse carries away a woman in the aptly named “Unbridled Folly,” a shrouded giant looms over a battlefield in “Fearful Folly,” and distracted women toss about dolls that look horribly like men in “Feminine Folly.” His famous “Disasters of War” is rather more successful and impressive, but the “Follies” make their message known—the often futile ridiculousness of human life. The incorporation of Goya’s recognizable flying demons and people with faces like something he stretched out of putty makes this array of prints a mostly satisfying spread for a small Midwestern museum.
Though Goya is the better known of the two artists, his lithographs at the K.I.A. were outshone by Federico Castellon’s compelling and grim works, which were created around 150 years after Goya’s. Labeled a Surrealist by critics, Castellon produced piercing sequential illustrations of Poe’s “The Masque of the Red Death” in the 1960s. An etching early in the series, entitled “It was a voluptuous scene, that masquerade,” (1968) depicts a shadowy nude woman surrounded by pot-bellied demons and black color fields. Castellon depicts other masqueraders at the deadly party—ladies in Battenberg lace dresses with rosebushes for heads, horned men, and all manner of despotic characters doomed to death. Hieronymus Bosch would appreciate the creatures that Castellon has created—they are vibrant and abhorrent, masquerading as fish-people, trees, and rotting ballerinas with buckets for heads. His figures throb with terror and the sense of loneliness that Poe’s tale makes so inescapable. The world he constructs for these creatures is hazy and atmospheric, and when the “Red Death” himself appears as a gaunt skeleton near the end of the series, the viewer, safe in the low hallway of the K.I.A., is rightly terrified.
Inciting fear in the hearts of Kalamazoo viewers with its horrific and devastating images, “Fear and Folly: the Visionary Prints of Francisco Goya and Federico Castellon” is certainly not folly.
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