El Orfanato... y por qué Películas Espantan

It isn't very often that a film experience is enhanced by a vocal and expressive cinema audience. I've only been privy to about three instances of that happening. The first two were due to the communal sense of fandom and wonder that came with seeing Harry Potter and The Simpsons on the big screen amongst others who felt the same way as I. The third was last night's cozy nine o clock gathering in Nova Cinema on Lygon st, where a few dozen Melbournians, myself included, came to see Juan Antonio Bayona's El Orfanato (The Orphanage).

I have yet to hear so many screams in a theatre in my life. And each, I would say without fail, was closely followed by a very genuine and warm laugh of delight. It was the sound of a people desensitized by shock value and real societal terror discovering with joy that they could still be scared by a movie. It was a beautiful, wonderful sound.

The Orphanage is not a terrifying film, not in the way that films have terrified audiences in the past (mostly in the sixties and seventies). It is, however, profoundly creepy, and this thick, pervasive foundation of creepiness, which takes on a cinematic delight all its own, strips away the audiences' defenses so that when it punches us (which it wisely seldom does) , we are knocked to the floor. But, as I say, we are happy to be there. That's what we paid for.

Perhaps the physical presence of other filmgoers, the dark cinema and the atmosphere of engrossment thereby produced made the movie seem better than it was. But I say no film can be better than one which flowers in the environment just described, which is exactly what The Orphanage does. It is a film with such a wicked understanding of how horror works. It takes both its protagonist and its audience on a steady and solid regression back to our days as children, when horror was not an abstract filmic concept, but a living breathing thing in our hearts that flared up at midnight when we heard a noise we couldn't account for. There is a scene in it toward the end when our heroine unearths a descending staircase into pitch darkness. This reveal provoked laughter from the people around me that was not at all inappropriate. It was the unnerved, self conscious laughter of people who can't believe they've been manipulated back to this horrible place that they thought they outgrew when high school started.

It was laughter, because we are more or less adults who are in on the illusion. As adults, it's the only reaction to give: "Ahahaha they totally did it. They totally did it right. That's scary." It's our helplessly intellectual nature shielding us from the reason we're laughing: we're scared. Really, truly. Our terrified inner child is standing right there with the heroine, staring down those steps to nowhere, coming to shaking grips with the realization that there could be anything down there in that darkness, anything, anything at all.

Northern Wisdom

The greatest thing about Northern Exposure was that it was a series that simply should not have worked. The fish-out-of-water premise is solid enough, but the Kaufmanesque, profoundly bizarre and ahead-of-its-time eccentricities in every other specific should have left it dead in the water, an unpleasant blotch of debris that never had any cohesion to rely on. And yet, as if by magic, the ship floats, the show engages and a miracle takes place: we learn to love it. Northern Exposure is a clanking, Wells era contraption that somehow still manages to fly, and on the strength of this simple boost of faith proceed to tear up the sky.

Few would argue with the series' own analyst and philosopher, worldly ex-con and radio personality Chris Stevens, when he inadvertently summarizes the series motto: "It's not the thing you fling, but the fling itself." This is the most beautiful way of contextualizing and and rationalizing Northern Exposure's dizzying depth of insanity, expressed in a quintessentially Northern Exposure decorum. But tonight my gratitude to the show's writers is caused simply by this gorgeous and poetic paraphrasing of the teachings of Friedrich Nietzsche, articulated by Chris toward the end of a dream-episode whereby Rob Morrow imagines he has a sleazy Jewish twin (played by Rob Morrow). The quote is as follows, and could stand in its beautiful blending of modernity and classic romantic philosophy to be one of my favourite quotes ever:

"It's like brother Nietzsche says: being human is a complicated gig. So give that old dark night of the soul a hug... and howl the eternal yes."

Dylan Newport Folk Festival; 1965

Have you ever actually seen Dylan's performance at this infamous event? It is, quite simply, the best live performance the man ever put in. The band was tight; there was a band, not just him rattling around on an out-of-tune guitar; he was singing more-or-less in tune; there was more going on musically than there ever had been before and it was engaging. And the audience threw it all away for a change of instrument, and actually booed him. Ladies and gentlmen, there's only one word for that: fucktardation.

A Striking Stranger

I saw a girl on the train tonight.

She had a pretty, buoyant, intelligent face and short blonde hair.

She had on an eskimo coat, a flowery skirt, yellow stockings and black leather boots.

She didn't say a word and she got off a few stations before me.

I wish that I knew her.

Something

First blog since the sadness.
I don't think I want to talk about it in my usual stupid way.

But here's something: I'm going to start playing solo gigs next month. It's a pretty big deal for me, a terrifying one, but I'm at a time where I really feel it would be destructive not to do it, for a number of reasons, and every person I've told about it has thought it is a good idea.

I was kind of running on apprehension last night about the whole concept of playing by myself in front of other people, and I ended up writing this song about what I realized is the state of my life. Strangely enough, it's pretty much the first time i've ever done that. I usually end up writing songs in really abstract ways, but this one was pretty direct and personal and just fell out. Anyway, I'm really happy with it. I think I'll open with it at my first solo gig (:S).

Song the third

Those Weird Kids (In Primary School Who Cared About Things)

I believe in kids
who never called in sick,
making plans to fix the world.
Cuz I don't know 'bout you,
but I could go a few, so honey
tonight let's let the kids do the work.

Dancing on the table is not a wrong thing to do
near as I can tell from the queue;
lining up to take
the Normal Person claim,
putting down on paper why it should be you


I believe in luck
fucking people up
and the worst cases aren't here to get drunk.
So see these times as ships.
parting ocean lips.
Baby, we're among the rips

But swimming in the water is not a wrong thing to do
near as I can tell from the view;
standing on the shore
of how things were before,
rubbing myself raw and through


I believe in sweets
being good to eat.
There's this place down the street: it's cold.
Oh, please don't give me that "no" smile,
you can stay a while,
The kids have everything under control
The kids have everything under control.