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August 2006 Archives


August 30, 2006

Carmen Comes Home, 1951

carmencomeshome.gifPerhaps it is postwar filmmaker's Keisuke Kinoshita's reputation as a director of old-fashioned, "women's pictures" coupled with his penchant for depicting simple, uncorrupted innocence that have rendered his work (particularly with the advent of the Japanese New Wave) vulnerable to criticisms of outmoded sentimentality. However, while these generalizations are rooted in the intrinsic elements of unabashed compassion and idealism that pervade his films, such cursory observations fail to adequately capture the irreverence, incisive social commentary, and profound humanity that also shape his work. This seemingly disparate fusion of effervescent comedy and subversive satire is particularly evident in Carmen Comes Home, the first all-color Japanese feature film (although an alternate, black and white version was simultaneously filmed). Made under nebulous instructions to shoot as many outdoor sequences as possible because of the then-unknown properties of the new medium, the film follows the misadventures of a dim-witted, self-described artist - and in reality, a burlesque dancer - from Tokyo named Okin (Hideko Takamine) who goes by the stage name Lily Carmen, and her equally oblivious colleague Maja Akemi (Toshiko Kobayashi) as they descend upon Okin's unsuspecting rural hometown on the foothills of Mount Asama for a self-instigated, attention-seeking homecoming celebration after achieving some measure of success in the big city with their popular striptease act.

Taking a cue from his mentor Yasujiro Shimazu, a master of the shomin-geki (for whom he served as cinematographer), Kinoshita introduces a finely rendered ensemble cast of characters to create a rich portrait of everyday life in the insular community: a blinded veteran and former music teacher Taguchi (Shuji Sano) who bides time in the school yard waiting for an opportunity to practice his elegiac compositions on the school's harmonium; Taguchi's self-sacrificing wife Mitsuko (Kuniko Ikawa) who ekes out a living as a hired cart driver to support her family; Okin's tormented father Shoichi (Takeshi Sakamoto) who struggles with contradicting feelings of love, responsibility, pity, and humiliation at his daughter's outrageous conduct and demeaning livelihood; Okin's sister Yuki (Yûko Mochizuki) who strives to bring about a reconciliation between estranged father and prodigal daughter (perhaps, in part, because of the financial support Okin's dubious career provides); the aging, well-intentioned schoolmaster (Chishu Ryu) who tries to bring progressive ideas to the isolated village even as he betrays a penchant for the nostalgia of fading, old world culture (and perhaps feels overwhelmed by the rapid transformation of his country); a moneylender and businessman named Maruju (Bontarô Miyake) who is quick to exploit the town's gullibility and the curious spectacle surrounding Okin's sensationalized homecoming. But beyond the seeming recipe for trite melodrama or facile "fish out of water" comedy as the flamboyant and interminably cheerful pair of transplanted city women attempt to assimilate into the bucolic, traditional life of the country, Carmen Comes Home is also a wry allegorical for the cost of Japan's postwar recovery.

Filmed in 1952 at the end of American occupation, Kinoshita presents a thoughtful, humorous, and (still) relevant commentary on the legacy of cultural imperialism enabled by the Occupation. Within this framework, the tongue-in-cheek characterization of a naïve, scatterbrained heroine (whose near death childhood injuries from a cow kick may have led to her simplemindedness) serves as an acerbic metaphor for the nation's collective amnesia in the aftermath of the Pacific War, where opportunism, exploitation, and suppression of indigenous identity represent the inevitable compromise and cultural toll of the country's movement toward national recovery, modernization, and international re-emergence. Moreover, it is through this cultural context that Okin's assumed foreign stage name of Lily Carmen may be seen, not as a naïve young woman's flighty notions of artistic exoticism to complement a "modern dance" act, but rather, as a subconscious erasure of identity - and implicitly, nationality - the denial of one's native roots from the rural province (from the country) in order to prosper in the modern (and increasingly vulgarized) world. (Note the especially subversive, tongue-in-cheek image of the children competing to break a plain white colored, piñata-like vessel that is filmed such that the foregrounded object visually recedes relative to the brightly colored international flags that line the playground, giving the appearance that the children are throwing play rocks at the flags themselves.) It is this conflicting, unreconciled sentiment of resentment and gratitude, affection and alienation that inevitably suffuses the seemingly lighthearted, whimsical tone of the film with a palpable, bittersweet melancholy: the critical portrait of a wounded nation at a crossroads, struggling to preserve its indigenous cultural identity even as it re-evaluates its isolated, self-destructive history in the wake of humiliation, gaudy imitation, and marginalization.

Posted by acquarello on Aug 30, 2006 | | Filed under 2006


August 29, 2006

The Euphoria of Filmlinc Membership: NYFF06

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The program for the 44th New York Film Festival looks quite strong and nicely well rounded this year. Along with festival staples like Pedro Almodóvar, Alain Resnais, and Hong Sang-soo, there are also several off-the-beaten-path films that seem to have the potential to upstage the veterans, such as Our Daily Bread and Poison Friends from Emmanuel Bourdieu (co-screenwriter on How I Got Into an Argument... (My Sex Life), and re-discovery of classic gems, such as Reds, Mafioso, and Insiang.

Suffice it to say, my favorite Film Society of Lincoln Center membership perq is the advanced ticket sales for the NYFF, and this year, Christmas has come a week earlier than usual ...and these are the films in my fuzzy red and white stocking.

  • Climates (Nuri Bilge Ceylan)
  • Falling (Barbara Albert)
  • The Go Master (Tian Zhuangzhuang)
  • The Host (Bong Joon-ho)
  • Inland Empire (David Lynch)
  • Insiang (Lino Brocka, 1976)
  • Mafioso (Alberto Lattuada, 1962)
  • Marie Antoinette (Sophia Coppola)
  • Our Daily Bread (Nikolaus Geyrhalter)
  • Pan's Labyrinth (Guillermo Del Toro)
  • Paprika (Satoshi Kon)
  • Poison Friends (Emmanuel Bourdieu)
  • Private Fears in Public Places (Coeurs) (Alain Resnais)
  • Syndromes and a Century (Apichatpong Weerasethakul)
  • These Girls (Tahani Rached)
  • Volver (Pedro Almodóvar)
  • Woman on the Beach (Hong Sang-soo)

Posted by acquarello on Aug 29, 2006 | | Comments (2) | Filed under 2006, Quick Notes


August 24, 2006

Pain Is..., 1997

pain_is.gif Before Les Films du renard released its first installment of an anticipated three boxset Stephen Dwoskin anthology earlier this year, there seemed little room to reconcile Dwoskin's cinema between the transgressive, borderline pornographic gaze of Dyn Amo and the intimately melancholic Dad (an elegy to his late father Henry Dwoskin) - the only two films I had managed to see of Dwoskin's work until then. But somewhere between the interminable claustrophobia of the de-eroticized, writhing exotic dancers of Dyn Amo and the dramatic transformation of Dwoskin's father from virile, larger-than-life everyday hero to slender, bespectacled elderly man, is this intersection of awareness of the human body in all its evocations, sensations imperfections, limitations, and evolutions - its physicality and mortality - and it this underlying convergence that is revealed throughout Dwoskin's cinema. Indeed, inasmuch as Dwoskin's debilitating childhood infirmity and subsequent disability from polio provides, to some extent, a window into this acute awareness of the physical - and more specifically, a sensibility that has led to an aesthetic of awkwardness, imperfection, and stasis that Swiss film theorist and author François Albera would refer to as a cinema of "hinderedness" - there is also a deliberate nature to the transfixing slowness of his intimate gaze: not only towards an awareness of time and the toll of its inevitable passage, but also its reflection of the intrinsic discomfort of the extended gaze - the oppressiveness of "being looked at" that comes with the conscious regard of the other. In this respect, Dwoskin's cinema may be seen, not solely in terms of the convergence between the physical and the ephemeral, but rather, in a more thematically overarching aesthetic of temporal intersections and, in particular, those that occur within the human act of seeing - when the gaze transforms from curiosity to voyeurism, from information to imagination, from peripherality to fixation.

In Pain Is..., Dwoskin's thoughtful rumination on the nature of pain, this intersection occurs in the conceptual mechanism of pain itself, in the way it surfaces amorphously, imprecisely, throughout the process and conduct of life, as well as in its insidious ability to create a subconscious shift in (sensorial) awareness - in essence, to reconfigure (if not transform) one's immediate reality because of its existence. It is this untenable quality of pervasiveness and indefinability that Dwoskin articulates in an introductory analogy that sets the tone for the film's organic (and inherently circular) exposition:

"In the search, it became apparent that pain plays a part in all levels of life: in religion, in sports, in work, in sex, in politics. Not just pain itself, but all the things that pain produces: like pleasure, amnesia, complaint ...When you rub your finger on the wood, you feel the wood. If you get a splinter, you feel your finger. That's how pain works. It moves from outside to inside."

Punctuated by the decontextualized, low-grade video footage of a nude, face obscured, convulsing woman - an image that is repeated towards the end of the film - Dwoskin illustrates the intrinsic ambiguities of these amorphous intersections, as the same footage alternately evokes images of psychiatrically-induced spasm, involuntary seizure, hysteria, and rapture - a complexity of interpretation that has been enabled by the uncomfortable extendedness of the already transgressive image. (Note that the surveillance video also becomes implicitly voyeuristic in its prolonged clinical observation and reinforces the conceptual theme of the function of the extended gaze that runs throughout Dwoskin's oeuvre).

This cognitive extraction of the multiple meaning intrinsic within images through the conscious manipulation of time is also reflected in the parallel imagery that structures the film (a dualism that is encapsulated by the bookending shots from the corridor of a hospital): the image of a trapeze artist suspended by a series of ropes that is repeated in the image of a woman indulging in a bondage fetish, a man with impaired speech communicating through an interpreter that is mirrored in a patient who expresses his pain by playing the drums (note the image of surrogate instrument that is also represented by the interstitial sequence of a guitar ballad performance), a tattoo parlor patron wincing at the process of obtaining her body art that is contrasted against a tattooed performer unable to feel the pain of her self-inflicted piercings, an anatomic model used to illustrate abdominal organs that is evoked during a conversation with a middle-aged woman describing her desperation to alleviate the pain of her menopause-related symptoms, an implicitly contradictory exposition on the nature of pain: first, from a physician who acknowledges the inexactness of diagnostic descriptions used to help isolate the cause of the physical ailment, and subsequently, from a psychiatrist who explains the theoretical source of all pain through the commonality of stimulus-response. In this respect, Dwoskin's films can be seen, not only as an idiosyncratic realization of adaptive encumbrances, but also as a cinema of implication in which the uncomfortable, extended gaze facilitates, not only the complexity of inferences and re-assembly of interconnected associations behind the awkward images, but more importantly, the process of interactivity that is intrinsic in the act of seeing - the implication of the spectator as voyeur, complicitor, archaeologist, and self-author.

Posted by acquarello on Aug 24, 2006 | | Filed under 2006, Stephen Dwoskin


August 17, 2006

Days of Eclipse, 1988

dayseclipse.gifIn its metaphoric allusion to celestial descent, subconscious mysticism (or perhaps, lunacy), and alien terrestriality, Aleksandr Sokurov's Days of Eclipse recalls the opening sequences of Julio Medem's Tierra and Andrei Tarkovsky's Andrei Rublev as the camera follows the accelerated trajectory of an unseen projectile (the sound of an indecipherable voice perhaps suggests a conscious entity) hurtling towards the surface of the earth, aimed at the arid plains of a Turkmenistan rural village in central Asia, on the underdeveloped frontiers of a vast Soviet empire. In hindsight, the evocation to Tarkovsky seems particularly suited. Adapted from a science fiction novel by Arkady and Boris Strugatsky, the authors of Roadside Picnic on which Tarkovsky's film, Stalker was based, Days of Eclipse, as the title suggests, is also an exploration of creation and search for enlightenment in an age of pervasive darkness - at the figurative twilight of humanity. The prefiguring Icarian image of undefined journey and uprooted desolation (a theme that also pervades the establishing images of transplantation in Sharunas Bartas' Few of Us) would sublimate into unexpected, ephemeral forms throughout the film - surreal encounters, curious, somnambulistic rituals, otherworldly visions, crippling paranoia, and foreboding cosmic alignments - to create a perspective of the Soviet outpost, not as a landscape of untapped potential, but as an unassimilated culture foundering in the vacuum of an imposed, meaningless, ritualized order.

The reluctant witness to this soul-sapping, Dante-esque existential limbo is the young, idealistic physician Malyanov (Aleksei Ananishnov) who, at the instigation of the government in its push to modernize the rural Asiatic territories, relocated from Gorky in order to set up a clinic in the village. Ethnically and linguistically unassimilated into the local culture (and whose advice and medical practice are largely ignored by the impoverished villagers), his limited interaction with the outside world is relegated to the company of other kindred exiles: his suicidal neighbor, an underemployed engineer demoralized by the futility of his unrealized plans and who has been occupying his time by writing journals that no one else reads (a ritual that is paralleled in Malyanov's own perpetual typing of unsubmitted reports to pass the time); his estranged sister (Irina Sokolova) who questions his determination in continuing his practice in the village despite the profound isolation and disappointment of his empty, mind-numbing station; a cherubic, lost boy (who may have been abandoned or ran away from home out of hunger or abuse) who insinuates himself into Malyanov's care; his aimless and increasingly paranoid friend who continues to bear the residual psychological scars of generational trauma after his parents were driven from Russia during the Stalinist purges (note Sokurov's pointed reference to ethnic cleansing as part of the ideology behind the Great Purge, a silenced history that Kazakh filmmaker Ermek Shinarbaev also alludes to in his integration of the Korean-Kazakh experience in Revenge).

Little by little, as the village succumbs to the lethargy of the oppressive heat and the distractive mysticism of strange natural phenomena and arbitrary brushes with isolated resistance and nebulous authority, what emerges in Malyanov's encounters is the pervasive inertia and resignation of a society living under a crumbling totalitarian regime where the specter of fear and uncertainty has metastasized into empty rituals that have become disarticulated from their meaning (a decontextualization that is also illustrated through the uprooted exiles' alienation from their adoptive community). Within this context, Days of Eclipse aesthetically converges, not only with the elliptical mystery of Victor Erice's allegorical, Franco-era film, The Spirit of the Beehive, but also with the dark humor and environmental desolation of Béla Tarr's cinema (that coincided with the beginning of his fateful association with novelist László Krashnahorkai in Damnation), where human comedy is borne of a tedium and acute awareness of squandered time, and the strange, surreal, post-apocalyptic landscapes reflect the wasted potential of a myopic, destructive, self-eroding society. It is this metaphoric darkness of empty existence and directionless compass that is intrinsically captured in the extended closing shot of Malyanov's enigmatic gaze framed against the barren, eternal landscape - suspended in a netherworld between earth and sky like Dickensian tragic specters hovering over the earth, unable to break free from their moorings - a transitory passage into the void of a delusive (and inescapable) liberation.

Posted by acquarello on Aug 17, 2006 | | Comments (4) | Filed under 2006, Aleksandr Sokurov


August 15, 2006

Writing Break/American Hardcore

newyorkthrash.gifIn anticipation of both Paul Rachman's documentary American Hardcore and a weeklong break/sanity check from writing (as well as making good on an emailed jest to Girish regarding its TIFF screening), here are a few sentimental favorites to whet the appetite...or prod into running to the nearest exit. The quick disclaimers are that I've only managed to finish archiving about a tenth of the collection so far, so these selected tracks are in no way intended to encompass the history of hardcore, and that there are a few explicit lyrics on some of the tracks.

Adrenaline O.D. - My Father's Dreams
Bad Brains - Regulator
Beastie Boys - Ode to....
Fiends - Asian White
Minor Threat - Stumped
The Undead - Life of Our Own

[Note:Preview mp3s will only be available for a week.]

Posted by acquarello on Aug 15, 2006 | | Comments (2) | Filed under 2006, Quick Notes


August 8, 2006

Adynata, 1983

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Adynata is a figure of speech, a form of hyperbole that has been exaggerated to the point of impossibility. Similarly, Leslie Thornton's seminal film, Adynata is also a densely assembled rhetoric: an exposition into the social representations of a perpetuated, exoticized otherness - an alien culture, an irretrievable past, an impenetrable psyche - a conjured idealization collapsing under the weight of its own absurdity and irreconcilable contradiction. A wispy, idyllic shot of a futuristic, opalescent, gently contoured botanical garden greenhouse in New York City sets the otherworldly tone for Thornton's exposition into the culturally amorphous forms of representation as the images of exotic flora (in its sumptuous foliage and forbidding thorns) are juxtaposed against a nineteenth century photograph of an upper class Asian couple formally posed in traditional costume, and set to the nostalgic sounds of scratchy, early twentieth century phonograph records. From this implicit evocation of an intangibly fragile, elusive, intranscendable alterity (an alienness that is reinforced by the idiosyncratic, animated sequence depicting an extraterrestrial view of a spinning Earth), Thornton begins to systematically dismantle the very mechanisms of this subconscious process of rarefaction and exoticism through the practical - and consequently, de-romanticized - recontextualization of the images themselves.

A western woman (Thornton), whose voice appropriately remains unheard, is seen in the process of donning the elaborate period clothing in the style of the woman in the photograph, and in the process, reveals the reductive, vulgar, and grotesque nature of ethnic sameness, caricature, and desexualization that underlies this act of superficial imitation. The shallowness of the masquerade is further underscored by the reconstructed opacity of Thornton's figuration mimicking the photographed woman's enigmatic expression, as any traces of her thoughts and motivations are obscured - and consequently, suppressed - beneath the heavy make-up and baroque ornamentation of the costume. Rather than presenting the seductive image of exotic fascination, what emerges in these self-contradicting images is a figurative masquerade: an erasure of identity enabled by the idealization of the subject behind the images, in the submissiveness and artifice of its projected illusion. This deconstruction of idealized images is also illustrated through the recurring shot of a pair of women's shoes, shaped in the impossibly narrow style of the period, as the footwear is whimsically integrated into images that reveal implicit domesticity (in the act of embroidered sewing) and objectification (in the collage of oriental paraphernalia). Initially juxtaposed against sumptuous, tropical images of bird of paradise flowers at the botanical garden, the footwear is then placed in the context of photographs and illustrative sketches from a scientific journal depicting the process of oriental foot binding to illustrate the implicit violence and inhumanity intrinsic in this cultivated ideal of exotic artificiality.

Moreover, innate in Thornton's investigation is the insidious nature of images, deployed equally as tools of information as they are of misinformation, illustration and deception, illumination and ignorance. In presenting the contradictions intrinsic in the perception of images, Adynata diverges from the immediate theme of orientalism and alterity towards a broader examination on the nature of human imagination, where the very process itself becomes an engaged, interpretive act of complicity towards the perpetuation of the perception of otherness. It is this multiplicity of meaning that is inevitably captured in the superimposed image of a two-headed earthenware jug that is set against the formal portrait of the Asian couple that concludes the film - an illustration, not only of the ephemeral irreconcilability of images, but also of the unresolved layers of significance that exist beneath the implicated act of seeing.

Posted by acquarello on Aug 08, 2006 | | Filed under 2006, Leslie Thornton


August 2, 2006

Ganeden, 2003

"I thought I would at first offer you a simple lesson - sorry, you don't like being preached to - so let's say a little advice, which of course you are not obliged to follow, well, let's say a tip ...which calls upon us to first explore the steps that were cleared by our predecessors, since it was out of the question for me to remake the new geographical landscapes of the Romantics: Rousseau, Goethe, Chateaubriand or the Naturalist descriptions of places that were miserable or picturesque, of Eugène Sue or Victor Hugo, or Dada trips to regions without any particular interest, or also the random objective encounters of the Surrealists, and of course, the travels of the explorer Amerigo Vespucci ...I found accounts of travel that were extraordinary, imaginary, marvelous, utopian, exotic, fantastic explorations, etc."
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Trying to encapsulate the texturally complex, amorphous, and indefinable essence of Maurice Lemaître's film Ganeden is a daunting task. On the surface, the film - evocatively named after the Hebrew word for the Garden of Eden - is a highly experimental, yet approachable anti-travelogue exposition on the imaginative adventure of mundane travel (or, in de-romanticized terms, the daily commute), an instinctively cohesive journey that strikes a sympathetic chord with Robert Breer's wordless, stream-of-consciousness animated work Fuji, and that appropriately opens with a similar illustrative image of a figurative point of departure - the train station - in this case, appearing in the form of a still (or more accurately, paused) image of a man frozen in mid step of boarding a train from a subway station platform. However, the film also represents the culmination of the iconic Lettrist novelist, poet, artist, and filmmaker's body of work: a creative philosophy that his groundbreaking film, Le film est déjà commencé? would prefigure in its tongue-in-cheek usurpation and cataclysmic (or at the very least, cacophonic) dismantling of the hallowed and rarefied experience of mid century cinema by upending such conventional notions of screen, projection, ambient sound, and artist performance. Intrinsic in this subversive aesthetic - and in particular, Lemaître's evocation of urban escapism - is its empirical evolution from the Lettrist concept of psychogeography, a consciousness of an environment's effects on an individual's psyche. It is within this philosophical imperative that the artistic struggle becomes a broader cultural revolution to transfigure the malleable landscape of the modern city into a more vital organism of inspiration and creation - to humanize it: the city re-imagined as an integrated artistic canvas of tangible, accessible art and uncharted wonderland of quixotic adventure (as Jacques Rivette would whimsically capture the Situationist concept of dérive - a Lettrist splinter faction - in such films as Le Pont du Nord or Celine and Julie Go Boating), moving away from the automated machinery of dehumanized production and towards a state of perpetual metamorphosis and source of creative reinvigoration.

In this respect, the Lettrist ideal of re-asserting the human element into the industrial landscape - and consequently, propelling the creative stimulus of the individual - by reinventing the familiar into novel forms - a detournement - converges with the artistic philosophy of seminal Austrian experimental filmmaker Peter Kubelka, not only in his practical reconstitution of found film, but also in the discretization of sound from images in order to reconstruct new layers of meaning and signification. However, while Kubelka's aesthetic is integrally rooted in the unique properties and physical materiality of celluloid - and in particular, its projected speed - Lemaître's aesthetic is rooted in a more atemporal mixed media of traditional and contemporary visual art forms: film and video, photography and sketch drawing, digital post-production effects and hand painting, live footage and animation. In essence, while the principle of reductive, self-imprint governs both filmmakers' body of work, Lemaître's aesthetic is revealed through the multilayered juxtaposition of compositions - a creative methodology that is not propelled by the compact delivery of information dynamically presented at 24 frames per second (as is the case with Kubelka's cinema, where images are often presented liminally at the threshold of registered visibility), but rather, by the conflation of discrete layers of information revealed through the density of images, in their resulting hypergraphy.

In Ganeden, this hypergraphy is manifested though the juxtaposition of iconic, if quotidian images - building and infrastructural architecture, train car views, cityscapes, harbors, identification markings, and informational signage - that define the urban landscape. But beyond the transfiguration of mundane images into works of art, Lemaître's inspired act of self-imprint - his humanization of the "dehumanized city" - is ingeniously manifested through his incorporation of an inconstant, mutable artistic style throughout the film that, when superimposed against the sequence of manipulated urban images, becomes a contextual survey of several key art movements: from Primitivism (the linear figures riding the train), to Pointillism (the speckled opening sequence), to Impressionism (the lateral shot of a modern bridge painted wispily in a color palette that evokes Claude Monet's Japanese Bridge at Giverny), to Post-Impressionism (the garishly fluorescent, Van Gogh styled re-coloration of the Eiffel Tower), to Dada (the overlaid chiseling on the iconic image of Mount Fuji), to Abstract (the compositions of saturated color blocks and instinctual geometries), and Pop Art (the alternating negative and positive photographic image of an Asian woman). Ironically, in contrast to the alienating, subversive chaos of Le film est déjà commencé?, what emerges in Lemaître's personal and cultural journey through the evolution of art history is an assimilative aesthetic that remains reverent towards its foundational roots even as it seeks, not to push the bounds of the disparate art forms, but rather, to collapse the imaginary frontiers that separate them - to return to a unitary ideal - a Garden of Eden.
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This entry is part of the Avant-Garde blog-a-thon. Other participants include (updated throughout the day as entries are posted):

          » Mubarak Ali at Supposed Aura.
          » Brendon Bouzard at My Five Year Plan.
          » Chris Cagle at Category D.
          » Zach Campbell at Elusive Lucidity.
          » Matt Clayfield at Esoteric Rabbit Blog.
          » Culture Snob.
          » Brian Darr at Hell on Frisco Bay.
          » Jim Flannery at A Placid Island of Ignorance.
          » Filmbrain.
          » Flickhead.
          » Richard Gibson.
          » Ed Gonzalez at Slant.
          » Michael Guillen at The Evening Class.
          » David Hudson at Greencine Daily.
          » Tom Hall at The Back Row Manifesto.
          » Ian W. Hill at Collisionwork.
          » Andy Horbal at No More Marriages!.
          » Darren Hughes at Long Pauses.
          » Jennifer MacMillan at Invisible Cinema.
          » Peter Nellhaus at Coffee Coffee and More Coffee.
          » David Pratt-Robson at Videoarcadia.
          » Seadot at An Astronomer in Hollywood.
          » Girish Shambu.
          » Michael Sicinski at The Academic Hack.
          » Michael S. Smith at Culturespace.
          » Tom Sutpen at If Charlie Parker Was a Gunslinger.
          » Squish at The Film Vituperatum.
          » That Little Round-Headed Boy.
          » Thom at Film of the Year.
          » Chuck Tryon at The Chutry Experiment.
          » Harry Tuttle at Screenville.
          » Walter at The Quiet Bubble.

Posted by acquarello on Aug 02, 2006 | | Comments (20) | Filed under 2006, Maurice Lemaître