A blog post for The New Yorker on Everest and the terrible void of meaning that is Death.
Another blog post for The Monthly on outrage, anonymity, and social media.
Another blog post for The Monthly, on the Dallas Buyers Club LLC vs iiNet piracy case.
A blog post for The Monthly, in which I take a look at young Australian web entrepreneurs and what exactly it is that they’re peddling.
A post for Junkee.com. You can find it here.
This interview originally appeared on the Meanjin blog on March 14 2013
Sofi Basseghi is an Iranian/Australian multimedia artist. After growing up in Tehran, she moved with her family to Australia in 1998, and now resides in Melbourne. She has completed a Masters of Fine Arts at RMIT, and pursued graduate study in directing at the VCA.
Her short film Sealed Lips began as an installation for her RMIT Honours class, exhibited at the 69 Smith Street Gallery, in 2005. It has since been screened at the Australian Centre for the Moving Image, as part of the 2012 Iranian Film Festival Australia, and will shortly be travelling to Italy, to the Palazzo Delle Esposizioni.
Sealed Lips is a spin on the traditional One Thousand and One Nights tale. The wily storyteller Shahrezad, now old and bent, awakes in a desolate factory. Wheeling herself around in a chair, she travels from room to room, where she observes—and narrates to us— a number of delicately observed scenes, each representing struggles faced by women today. Basseghi presents each scene to us as a diptych or triptych—two or three discrete panels clustered together, articulating the story in miniature.
I recently corresponded with Basseghi about the inspirations behind her work, the differences in exhibiting in Melbourne and Tehran, and the international reception of Iranian film.
James Douglas: In your artist’s biography you write that your work evinces a desire to “cross inflicted boundaries and question cultural and traditional mores”. Sealed Lips certainly seems to engage with these themes in the context of Persian heritage and culture, but do you see this heritage as being important in the rest of your art?
Sofi Basseghi: Persian culture is embedded in me and will always be part of me. Consequently it always seems to appear in my art, and although at times I try to consciously keep this heritage away from my artistic practice, it somehow creeps its way back into my work.
However, now that I consider myself Australian as well, my work is somehow also taking on a different identity, born of my Iranian/German/English heritage and my adopted Australian culture.
JD: I’m wondering how the content of each episode in Sealed Lips was developed. Some of them I take to be drawn primarily from imagination and allegory, but other seem inspired by something more particular. I was especially struck by the scene where Shahrazad observes the woman obsessively peeling eggplants, and relates to us the prohibition on objects of that shape in Iranian prisons. This struck me as amazing enough to be true.
SB: Each scene was developed through my own imagination, dreams, and experiences, but drawn from stories told by friends, and from international news articles I had read. So they’re a combination of fact and fiction. The layout, however, is influenced by the structure of Persian miniature paintings where the whole story is being told in a single frame with a flat perspective.
With regards to the ‘eggplant scene’—this was true seven years ago, but I’m not sure about today. I could actually give other jaw dropping culinary examples, but watch this space.
JD: You have participated in several exhibitions in Tehran—at the Tehran Museum of Contemporary Art, in 2004, and the 2012 Crucifixion show at the Shirin Gallery. At the risk of sounding culturally ignorant, I’m wondering how that experience compares to exhibiting in Melbourne. If I were to speak about the ‘art scene’ in Melbourne most readers would have a pretty good image of what I’m talking about. Is the Tehran ‘art scene’ substantially different in any way?
SB: Having the opportunity to exhibit in The Tehran Museum of Contemporary art was a fantastic experience, especially as I was only 20 years old at the time and I was being offered the opportunity to work on the collaborative group project. Our work was exhibited alongside internationally recognized artists and filmmakers such as Abbas Kiarostami and Shirin Neshat. I think an opportunity like that would have been quite rare in Australia, as I was a third year student at the time.
In regards to the curated 2012 Crucifixion exhibition, although there was a strong group of artists selected to be part of the show, in comparison to curated exhibitions in Australia I found that there was a lack of professional support. I think that in the arts courses at Australian universities students are trained well in professionalism in comparison to Iranian universities, where there seems to be a vacuum in this area. I specifically mean a lack of attention to detail in the exhibition setup and in the exhibition catalogue—for example errors in artists’ details.
However, I need to be fair here. It is important to note that both artists and curators alike need to battle censorship in all its many different and complicated forms in Iran. This means that, in most cases, by the time the exhibition is opening, they are frazzled out from constantly having to be challenged with this. The type of problems they face over there in setting up a simple exhibition are unheard of in Australia, and I know for a fact that struggling with censorship is very draining, both physically and emotionally. I need to also point out that I haven’t lived in Iran for so long that it is not my place anymore to be overly critical, as people are going through very hard times.
I do find, however, that the Iranian art community and general public, especially prior to the recent economic crisis, are very supportive of buying works of young and emerging artists. Here it seems to be much more difficult to make a living solely out of ones artwork, without having jobs on the side.
JD: I’m personally interested, as film buff, in how the Iranian film industry has seemed to be flourishing over the past few years, at least in respect of those works which have been distributed to Australia, or to Western festivals. Do you think the recent spate of film exports has much significance to Iranians living outside Iran, like yourself?
SB: do have some interest in Iranian cinema but I am definitely not an expert. I am interested in World movies, not just Iranian films. I agree that the international audience has taken a great interest in Iranian cinema. This could be due to the fact that, in the time since the revolution of 1979, there have been such drastic political, cultural and, now, grave economical changes. For years Iran was, to an extent, largely isolated from the international arena. Subsequently, when directors such as Kiarostami unveiled their films, the international scene was instantly curious. The recent spate of films definitely does have an effect on Iranians abroad. An obvious example was last year when A Separation won so many international awards as well as an Oscar. This was of immense national pride to Iranians living abroad, much like the sense of pride that the Taiwanese feel over The Life of Pi.
JD: It seems to me that Iranian art, at least in my experience of Iranian cinema, appears to obliquely confront the social and political issues facing Iran today, without necessarily being forthrightly critical. I see Sealed Lips as belonging to this tradition, but I was wondering whether this is something you consciously engaged in during its development? Or perhaps you’d prefer to situate your piece in some other tradition?
SB: I think in the case of Sealed Lips it does belong to that particular tradition. I originally made it as a video installation that was exhibited at 69 Smith Street Gallery in 2005 as part of my Honours project. There were nine television monitors placed in 1950s travel trunks, with each monitor telling a story about the situation of women in Iran and the Middle East at the time. After I completed my course at the VCA, I re-edited the installation into a short film.
As I travel to the Middle East at least once a year, I find that even in 2012 women still face those very problems that I wanted to talk about in 2005, and I wanted to project these stories to a wider audience. I narrated over the video telling the story in a similar way to Shahrzad from a Thousand and One Nights Tales, all the stories being true to the current social situation.
I am pleased to have made this change as Sealed Lips is currently being exhibited internationally, and so my goal of reaching a much larger audience has been met to some extent. I feel that in order for a problem to be solved, confronting as it may be, it needs to be talked about no matter where you are.
This post originally appeared in its entirety on the Meanjin blog on April 5 2012
In her new essay Us and Them: On the Importance of Animals, Anna Krien takes a look at the contemporary state of affairs between man and beast. Starting from the surely by now uncontroversial position that we are guilty of treating animals unjustly, she asks us how much injustice we are prepared to live with. Her method is to take her readers on a whirlwind tour of the various intersections between humans and animals in contemporary Australian life: she bears witness to slaughtering practices and the aftermath of hunts, gives us interviews and conversations with sundry animal testers and researchers, and presents us with a handful of case studies.
Krien comes off as a genteel, trustworthy tourguide; ever curious, rarely judgemental, offering her readers generous insight into her private reactions to the various things she witnesses and is told. But although she asks us how much injustice we can live with, she refuses to provide an answer. In fact she seems to studiously avoid making an essay-wide contention.
A mid-essay rhetorical ploy where Krien attempts to muster great chunks of her data into a speech by an imagined high school debate student on the back foot of a closing argument, ends up petering out to nowhere (which Krien good-naturedly and amusingly cops to). I sometimes found this frustrating, having entered the essay in an adversarial frame of mind, and on my first read through I was constantly on the prowl for some kind of contention to hang my hat on or ruthlessly demolish.
But it turns out that Us and Them is at its best when its at its most ethically vague, when it shows us the whole tangle of moral and practical considerations at the intersection of humans and animals in all its complexity, which it does to great effect in a couple of set pieces. One of these has Krien visiting a small Indonesian slaughter-house, where she first finds a startling kind of aesthetic experience in the killing of a cow, and is then thrust into the unlikely role of blood-thirsty spectator when a stunning goes wrong and the slaughter-house workers, overly conscientious in the presence of an Australian journalist, end up prolonging the cow’s stress in their attempts to slaughter it ‘humanely’. Another of these comes in Krien’s discussion of the role of the ‘apex predator’, and the sad, strange parable of America’s Yellowstone National Park, where the deliberate removal of wolves from the park led to the disastrous collapse of the delicate balance between the park’s remaining flora and fauna. Here Krien gently teases out the frustrating, unexpected, almost blackly funny complications arising from the intrusion of the ethical considerations of humans into the animal world.
In its passage through these disparate though related topics, from slaughtering to hunting, from pet keeping to animal testing, Us and Them accumulates an impressive degree of scope. Any one of the chapters in this essay might have made a complete piece on its own. I know I, like many of you I’m sure, have read long essays just on the ethics of eating animals, or just on the ethics of keeping pets. By putting these things side by side, and by quietly drawing out the connections and mirrorings between them, Us and Them turns out to become, for me at least, something like a State of the Union on human-animal relations; delimited in its scope, but compelling in its allusive power.
During her talk at the Wheeler Centre last night, I tried to prompt Krien from the audience for some thoughts about this, but in retrospect I might have posed it in an outrageously vague way; anyway, Krien seemed nonplussed, and suggested I re-frame the question. Re-posed as a query about the ambition of the piece, whether she had started with just one area, like the controversy over Indonesian slaughtering practices, before telescoping out to include all those other elements, Krien suggested that the scope of the essay had been consistent from its inception.
I found this to be a complex little exchange, and oddly embarrassing for me, but it occasioned a pretty stimulating discussion with myself on the walk home. I think I wanted Krien to own up to and justify the power of the essay, the way in which, despite the modesty of each chapter, it seems to tantalisingly offer us a comprehensive image of how humans and animals coexist today. But I see now that this kind of assessment, the ‘meaning’ that an interested reader can ascribe to a piece, is not necessarily something of which an author can be expected to be cognizant. Roland Barthes’ Death of the Author may be a cliched trope of first year lit classes, but it continues to hold true in myriad useful ways. When an essayist is focussed on getting her data and points and chapters on the page, she can’t be expected to concern herself with the various promiscuous ways her ideas are procreating with each other behind her back and in the mind of the reader. An author plants the trees, but the reader sees the forest.
Anyway, this is all by way of saying that I found Us and Them, like all good journalism, be rich and meaningful in ways that belie the literal reach of the facts the author is presenting on the page.
Us and Them: On the Importance of Animals by Anna Krien is in Quarterly Essay 45, and is available in various bookstores, or on the website in several digital formats.
Krien also has a very fine website, which has several other works of journalism on offer. Of these I recommend:
Out of Bounds: Sex and the AFL A look at the Kim Duthie controversy of last year, and the various disturbing ways sexism and misogyny has infected AFL culture.
White Collar Dreaming Which examines drug use among white collar professionals.
Booze Territory: The Crisis of Alcoholism A look at the complexities of alcohol abuse in Indigenous communities in the Northern Territory. This includes the previously-unknown-by-me factoid that campaigns for increased civil and citizenship rights for Aboriginal people in the 50s and 60s also and inevitably included increased rights to buy and consume alcohol, and is thus a crucial part of the terrible damage wrought by alcohol abuse on Aboriginal communities. I found this Catch-22 collusion between equal rights and the right to get black-out drunk on goon so startling and complex and sad and ironic that I feel sure it could fuel six months worth of philosophy seminars. If I had to declare a common thread between the Krien pieces I’ve read so far it’s that she’s fearsomely good at teasing out the practical complications that follow ethical or moral interventions.
This blog post was originally published on the Meanin blog on March 16 2012
In January of this year, while speaking at the Hay Festival in Colombia, celebrated novelist Jonathan Franzen made some very silly comments about how we experience writing in the Digital Age.
He focused on the difference between a physical copy of a text, and one on a screen (I quote from The Guardian’s account).
“Someone worked really hard to make the language just right, just the way they wanted it. They were so sure of it that they printed it in ink, on paper. A screen always feels like we could delete that, change that, move it around. So for a literature-crazed person like me, it’s just not permanent enough.”
For serious readers, Franzen said, “a sense of permanence has always been part of the experience”.
“Everything else in your life is fluid, but here is this text that doesn’t change,” he continued. “Will there still be readers 50 years from now who feel that way? Who have that hunger for something permanent and unalterable? I don’t have a crystal ball. But I do fear that it’s going to be very hard to make the world work if there’s no permanence like that. That kind of radical contingency is not compatible with a system of justice or responsible self-government.”
Putting aside for a moment the reasons why Franzen’s remarks are just plain old wrong, it is important to point out why they should be, prima facie, treated with a healthy dose of skepticism. It is the plain truth that there will never be a shortage of old people, or young traditionalists, ready to proclaim that any advance in technology coupled with observably altered social and civic habits constitutes a loss or degradation, a slide into barbarity. Comments like Franzen’s, and like many think-pieces on the effects of new media, are, when it comes down to it, borne from baseless fear of change. They instantiate the misguided notion that fundamental social changes—such as those instigated by the advent of the Digital Age—can be predicted to be either bad or good, and also the notion that bad and good ought to be applicable terminology to describe these changes. I personally have doubts about whether responsible thinkers should pass judgement on and recklessly speculate about the effects of major social changes, like the ones that digital technology are producing. The ethical thing, it seems to me, is to merely diligently describe the changes, although this is admittedly less fun (and I’m about to break my own rule below).
So to contest the actual content of Franzen’s remarks, I offer to you some loosely organised thoughts on digital text and permanence. Franzen contrasts the authority and permanence of the printed word (“they were so sure of it that they printed it in ink, on paper”) with the apparent sense of constant revisabilty that digital text presents to us (“a screen always feels like we could delete that, change that, move it around”). And to a certain extent he’s right. If one knows the first thing about Wikipedia and its associated sites (commonly taken by alarmists as the paradigm for new media discourse), it’s that anyone can edit it.
But Franzen fails to comprehend what comes after, or indeed what happens simultaneously: the automatic recording of the nature of the revision and the identity of the reviser. Look ye ‘pon the top right hand corner of a Wikipedia page and just beside the tabs helpfully labeled ‘Read’ and “Edit’, you can click on ‘View history’ and find yourself embroiled in a tedious, pedantic archive faithfully documenting every step on that page’s journey from ‘stub’ to public resource. If it is indeed a fact of discourse in the Digital Age that everything is revisable, then it’s corollary may be that it shall always be a simple matter to know that something has been revised and what manner of revision.
Acknowledging that not every instance of digital discourse is modelled upon Wikipedia’s charming technology, I draw your attention to ‘The Streisand Effect’, which refers the process wherein an attempt to censor or suppress a piece of information has the result of publicising that information all the more widely. This phenomenon was first observed in 2002, when lawyers on behalf of Barbara Streisand attempted to remove by legal injunction a picture of that singer’s beach side mansion from an online archive of 12,000 California coastline photographs. With public knowledge of the lawsuit came naturally public interest in the picture, and the photo which was previously accessed only six times was subsequently viewed by 420,000 over the following month. At a certain point the issue of removing the photo of Streisand’s house from the website became moot; it had already been reproduced over and over again in news stories worldwide. This is just another example of the way in which the mechanisms of the internet runs circles around attempts to edit, censor, or revise it. Also relevant is the Wayback Machine, run by the Internet Archive organisation. This is a so-called ‘digital time capsule’, allowing users to view archived versions of websites across time, giving access to beta versions of since radically redesigned pages, or now-deleted content, or even sites which are no longer live.
Franzen’s mistake is to think that the digital texts are like a chalkboard where things can be definitively erased and replaced. In fact they are more like Freud’s Mystic Writing Pad, where deletions always leave traces of themselves. When one considers the potential richness, both for readers and critics, of a text that carries with itself its own archaeological record (think of how our appreciation of an author is often enhanced by access to their archives, complete with abandoned manuscripts, early drafts, and correspondence with editors), the comparative poverty of mere books becomes evident.
Franzen contends that ‘permanence’, as opposed to ‘radical contingency’, is critical to responsible systems of government and justice, and he suggests that this permanence can only be found in physical texts. But books can be burned, or discontinued by publishers, or fall victim to water damage and rot. Whereas digital texts offers us a discourse that contains its own history and the means for its own reproduction. I have no doubt that censorship and the revision of written texts is antithetical to a successful democracy, but what is the consequence of revision when it is the object of public knowledge and permanent chronicle, as can be the case with websites? A culture built on such grounds may even be more sensitive to its own history, its past mistakes and triumphs, and even more sure-footed in self-awareness than a culture which subsists on physical texts.
This review was originally published on the Meanjin blog on August 21 2012
When you’re trying to navigate through the vast array of choice that a film festival program like MIFF’s offers, it’s highly forgivable to disregard those films you can be reasonably sure will have a commercial cinema release later in the year. There’s nothing so of-the-moment about Moonrise Kingdom, say, or Amour, that won’t wait a few months. But in making such mercenary decisions it’s too easy to forget about the specific and pleasurable forms of film spectatorship that MIFF offers us. We don’t just go to the festival to see new or obscure films, we go join a dedicated and enthusiastic filmgoing clan.
This year, Wes Anderson’s Moonrise Kingdom was my chief concession to popular cinema. An Anderson film is unlikely to be hard to track down, but even mild fans of Anderson’s stuff are likely to be confused as to whether they’re currently living amidst the backlash-to-the-backlash to his oeuvre, or the backlash-to-the-backlash-to-the-backlash, and so it was sort of a relief to sit down in a theatre where I could presume that people would be likely to enjoy it, or at least be sufficiently respectful.
And it was, indeed, extremely enjoyable—beyond which I don’t have a whole lot to say. It’s his most immediately satisfying film since The Royal Tenenbaums (excepting his animated feature, Fantastic Mr. Fox ). Anderson, it turns out, has been on a pretty consistent career path. After he came out of the gate so strong with Bottle Rocket, Rushmore and Tenenbaums, and with such an identifiable formal and emotional sensibility, I think people tended to take The Life Aquatic and The Darjeeling Limited as a come-down—it suddenly became clear that Wes Anderson was never going to make a film that wasn’t Wes Anderson-y, and there weren’t going to be any surprises, or maybe any masterpieces (hence the backlashes). Moonrise, his seventh feature, feels like the point where he digs in and shows us that he can make a virtue out of his intransigence—that, in short, the Anderson aesthetic has legs, and will continue to afford us a stable set of formal and emotional pleasures for as long as he continues to make films.
Another of my concessions to popular cinema was Behn Zeitlin’s first feature Beasts of the Southern Wild. There are certains film that, even if they receive a big commercial release (as Wild seems likely to), feel like they belong in a festival environment—not least because that is the environment that will be most sensitive and gentle to them. We go to see films at MIFF for the pleasure of cinema per se, not just to get our money’s worth, or feel economically validated. Thus roughness in form, or ambition that outstrips means, is more likely to be forgiven, or even lauded.
Wild from the start quickly establishes itself as a film of unique and heady charm—and then proceeds to abuse that charm and whittle it to the ground over the course of its running time. The film is a magic-realist sort of fable, following a little girl, Hushpuppy, and her volatile, drunken father, who live a maverick, pastoral existence in a swampy, poverty-stricken community—’the Bathtub’— in the Louisiana bayous.
Filmed largely with a cast of locals, Wild has, for a while, the headlong enthusiasm and passion proper in a good first film—aided by a propulsive score, and a relentlessly sincere emotional affect. But the film gets bogged down in some inadvisable narrative choices. Zeitlin has the ingredients, and maybe the talent, for a meandering Terrence Malick-esque depiction of the lives of the Bathtub’s residents, but he insists on throwing in great handfuls of drama— Hushpuppy’s dad is dying; the Bathtub floods; then unfloods; a levee is blown up; the residents are forcefully evacuated; the residents escape; Hushpuppy goes on a quest to find her lost mother; etcetera. It’s exhausting just to list it, let alone see it performed.
The amateur cast is both a virtue and a flaw. Quvenzhané Wallis, who plays Hushpuppy, is an amazingly natural and charismatic performer, and Dwight Henry, who plays her father, is magnetic enough when his ire is up. But they’re saddled with such an ambitious narrative and unwieldy emotional turns that even professionals would have difficulty navigating it. One starts to feel that one can see the seams where Zeitlin has had to carve into his footage in order to produce any kind of coherent scene—and usually only semi-coherent at that. And so the film can only progress in fits and starts, which Zeitlin tries to disguise with that pounding soundtrack, to ever diminishing returns.
But Wild belongs at MIFF, or any film festival, as all promising first films do. A festival is where its commercial and critical life begins (it has already won the Caméra d’Or award at Cannes, and the Grand Jury Prize at Sundance), and where its optimal audience will find it.
This review was originally published on the Meanjin blog on August 15 2012
A new Michael Haneke film is generally the feel-bad event of the cinema year, affording us the opportunity to be emotionally and intellectually terrorised by a director with an exquisite control of his craft. Although they are always astonishingly well-made (which is reason enough to see them), they are highbrow cinematic junk food—exciting to consume, but mostly empty calories—the equivalent of a slasher movie for the art-house intelligentsia set. His latest film (and perhaps his finest to date) had its first screening at MIFF last Thursday.
In Amour (2012), Haneke shows us the the last days of an elderly married couple. After the wife suffers a series of debilitating strokes, the two retreat into their apartment, where the husband attempts to manage and direct his wife’s care on his own, barely tolerating the presence and interference of their daughter and well-wishers.
Haneke inflicts on us each distressing deterioration of the wife’s physical and mental health, while also exposing for us the simple intimacy of the couple’s love for each other. The film is thoroughly emotionally harrowing.
Haneke is a great filmmaker. But, perhaps like all great filmmakers, he is his own worst enemy. The compelling intellectual authority that drives his best work also drives his films, Amour included, off the cliff.
His cinema is didactic. Each film can be understood as a revisionist corrective to some common cultural assumption or habit. Funny Games (1997) punishes us for our moral laxitude in our fetishization of screen violence. Caché (2005) attempts to rouse us from some sort of post-colonial white bourgeois complacency. Amour dispenses with our sentimentalization of aging and confronts us with the realities of mortality. Haneke is the film-going public’s stern grandfather, and each film is a collective scolding.
His strength and his weakness is his astonishing formal control. His films are immaculately made, and laser precise in their effects (I defy you to leave Amour unmoved), but they are also, ultimately, closed systems: hermetically sealed and climate controlled—nothing can enter which is not permitted by the director. But the trade-off for this power is the absence of anything approaching the looseness and vigour of real life. Thus, in Amour, we have a film about love that has little feeling for the meaning of family, or friendship.
Haneke is unable to admit anything outside of himself, unable to slacken his grip on his material and let it walk around and breathe on its own. This, after all, is the filmmaker who issued forth the same lecture on screen violence twice—the twin versions of Funny Games from 1997 and 2008—and despite the eleven year lapse barely condescended to change a thing.
But more problematic than his intellectual rigidity is the subtle gerrymandering he employs to generate his effects. His films are meticulous in their construction of a ‘realist’ screen affect—with their impeccably life-sized performances, and cooly impersonal camera work. But so often, at critical junctures, Haneke cheats. Consider the way in which the narratives of The White Ribbon (2009) and Caché devolve into studied, dead-end ambiguities. Amour suffers from this as well. After spending most of the film convincing us he has the stones to see his narrative through to its inevitable end, Haneke surprises us with a with a dream-like, elliptic conclusion. I take such intellectually dishonest hand-waving as proof that his schematic narratives are incommensurable to the business of real life.
Like all Haneke films, Amour is a galvanising performance by a master rhetorician—it’s only as we leave the cinema that we pause to reflect on the speciousness of his arguments.