The daily digest of Twin Cities culture | Secrets of the City

Paul Rotha, the great filmmaker and critic, once said that a documentary film must, above all, reflect the problems and realities of its times. “It cannot regret the past,” he continued. “In no sense is documentary a historical reconstruction and attempts to make it so are destined to failure. Rather it is contemporary fact and event expressed in relation to human associations.”

Last year, according to the department of labor, U.S. employers teamed up to slash 2.6 million jobs, the largest one-year workforce gutting since the great grind-down of military-industrial might at the end of World War II in 1945. Almost no industry has remained unaffected; every stock index is plunging, every state and sector has been touched. Times are so tough, in fact, that even the VICEX fund — which invests in the supposedly recession-proof sin industries of booze, porn, gambling, and other vices — has nosedived.

These numbers are not surprising, at least not to me. In the local the arts economy, dozens of acquaintances and friends — good, talented, productive, and crucial people — fell into jobless abyss last year, and there seems little hope that they’ll bounce back any time soon. Considering Rotha, then, it should come as no surprise then that a recent spate of small, artistic documentary films have grappled with the troubled relationship that creative Americans have with work, with their desire for fame and fortune, and with the futility of the ever-present dream to stand out above the ordinary masses. Three melancholic documentaries from 2007 (out on DVD last year) — Minnesota-born Esther Robinson’s “A Walk Into the Sea,” Matt Ogen’s  “Confessions of a Superhero,” and Seth Gordon’s “King of Kong: A Fistful of Quarters” — reveal something tragic about the lengths that real people will go to just to get their name in the record books, their work up on screen or gallery wall, or their pictures splashed on a wall during the 24-hour news cycle. Another film from 2008, James Marsh’s “Man on Wire,” looks at the struggle to make a mark from a near-opposite view.

Esther Robinson’s “A Walk into the Sea” is, if you haven’t had a chance to see it, a wonderful, multi-faceted, and revealing documentary. The film takes as its subject the filmmaker’s uncle, Danny Williams, who disappeared in Massachusetts in 1966 after he had spent some time at Andy Warhol’s Factory in New York. While the film offers no revelation about what could have happened to Williams, Robinson does explore the idea that some people — sensitive artists and vulnerable young people — are sometimes ill-equipped to handle the high pressure, backbiting and intrigue, and dangerous competition in an artist community (and, perhaps, by extension in a modern economy). The trouble seems to have emerged when Williams, a young Harvard grad who wanted to be a filmmaker and who was for a time a favored lover of Warhol’s (and thus able, Robinson discovered while filming, to use Warhol’s equipment to make his own films), fell out of favor with the artist and, facing abuse at the hands of other Factory denizens, spiraled into drug abuse and depression.

Andy Warhol’s Factory was known for many things — sexual leniency, fake drag weddings, rambling plays, free love, rampant drug abuse. As A.O. Scott points out in his NYT review of the film, the idea of Warhol as a “corrupter and destroyer of innocence” is not new in film. It was a theme in the film “Factory Girl,” which starred Sienna Miller as Edie Sedgwick, a young, well-born New Englander who appeared in some of Warhol’s films and died under similarly mysterious circumstances. “Robinson’s film,” writes Scott, “does a pretty good job of reconstructing the creative and psychological whirlwind around Warhol.” “A Walk Into the Sea” is well worth seeing, as not only do Robinson’s research and interviews of various luminaries from the Factory reveal the ways in which the artist community's cutthroat machinations and intrigues play upon the fragile egos and sensitive spirits of young artists like Williams, but the film enlightens anyone curious about the Darwinian struggle involved in making art. And in the current economy, this amounts to crucial information.

“Confessions of a Superhero,” meanwhile, is a beautifully filmed, and less hard-biting, look at people undergoing a similar struggle to Danny Williams’. The film starts with the following voice-over: “When we were kids, we all dreamt about what it would be like to be a superhero, to have superpowers like x-ray vision or superhuman strength… But we all grow up. And sometimes we turn out to be not that super. And maybe we’re just plain ordinary. [This film] is a look at what people will do to be famous. And what they’ll settle for when they’re not.” From there, "Confessions" proceeds to trace the life trajectories of four ordinary, essentially jobless, people who spend their days dressed up in superhero costumes to take pictures, for “tips,” with tourists on Hollywood Boulevard.

These performers dream of making it in the movie industry, and, to their credit, each have minor (very minor) screen credits. One in particular, Christopher Lloyd Dennis, who looks somewhat like Christopher Reeves and, of course, plays Superman, is described by the others as fairly nuts. “Yes, obsessed,” says a man who dresses at Batman, “he is very obsessed. That would be the one word for Superman.” “He’s suffocating in the world of Superman,” says a friend from the Boulevard who dresses as Wonder Woman. Dennis, tellingly, claims at one point that his apartment holds at least a “million dollars” worth of Superman memorabilia, and (dubiously) that he was driven to the “business” by the dying wish of his “mother,” actress Sandy Dennis (there’s no record of Dennis ever having a child). All four characters, though, are revealed over the film’s course as somewhat driven to distraction in one way or another. “I feel so much like a loser,” says a man who dresses up as the Hulk by day and sleeps on a mattress in a flop-house at night. “Because I didn’t come out here to get in a costume and stand on Hollywood Boulevard for chump change. I’m out here seriously to make a name for myself.” That “Confessions of a Superhero” peters out as a film, because the characters develop no “arc” during the story and end the film as hopeless they started, is only a minor flaw. Their dreams are never realized, but life happens in the meantime — as some of the characters get married, some divorced; one gets counseling, one lands a role in a kung fu spoof; one is arrested, another ends up on Jimmy Kimmel. Their dreams are never realized but are carried poignantly forward, although one wonders now, with the current economy, if they’re even still in their superhero costumes.

“The King of Kong: A Fistful of Quarters” tells the story of Steve Wiebe, an engineer who’s been laid off from his job at Boeing. Wiebe is revealed to be one of those almost-was sorts of people: A star pitcher in high school who loses the state championship game and then hurts his arm, a talented drummer who doesn’t care to perform for people, a good father and husband who seems not to recognize the blessings of his life. While out of work, Wiebe passes time by playing an old Donkey Kong arcade game in his garage, and, with his mathematical and athletic skills, he quickly masters the game and shatters the existing “sanctioned” record on the game, which is “officially” held by a cocky, mullet-wearing restaurateur named Billy Mitchell.

You can guess what happens next: After being celebrated in his local town for breaking the record, various intrigues among people associated with the classic arcade game sanctioning organization cause Wiebe to be stripped of the record. The rest of the film is spent following Wiebe’s ill-fated efforts to redeem his record and his reputation. There’s no need to recount all of the twists and turns that he encounters, it’s enough to know that in the end the wannabe Donkey Kong Champ is revealed as just another version of the rest of us: A person whose dreams are disappointed, mostly because the odds in this world are plainly stacked against the ordinary folk. 

It would be easy to find oneself depressed after seeing all of this thwarted ambition and all of these shattered dreams. But I actually love these three films, mainly because they are real. They reveal personal stories that gibe with what we all see experience every day in this unfair world. After all, this is a country in which rich bankers reward themselves billions after extorting money from taxpayers, while good and honest and talented people can’t find decent enough jobs to support their families. These films show the truth: That the vast majority of us will come to the end of our lives having failed, over and over, to achieve our dreams. But then, that’s okay. This story about our inability to achieve our dreams is a beautiful, if sad, part of the human condition.

The final film, “Man on Wire,” has been widely praised and has won awards, including a Grand Jury Prize at Sundance and a BAFTA award for Outstanding British film (it’s nominated for this year's Oscar for Best Documentary). It is the story of a young French street performer and “wirewalker,” Philippe Petit, who becomes obsessed in the early 1970s with the idea of walking a wire between the then-incomplete two towers of the World Trade Center. Using vintage footage, interviews, and reenactments, the film traces the growth of Petit’s obsession and how he manages to inspire and co-opt multiple co-conspirators to help him achieve his dream.

This should have been a wonderful film, and inspiring. After all, Petit says what most of us might say when asked to rationalize our crazy dreams: “To me, it's really so simple, that life should be lived on the edge. You have to exercise rebellion. To refuse to tape yourself to the rules, to refuse your own success, to refuse to repeat yourself, to see every day, every year, every idea as a true challenge. Then you will live your life on the tightrope.” Unfortunately, though, despite the fact that Petit’s words have just the right inspirational tone, I ended up disliking this film of triumph almost as much as I liked the other three about failure.

Two things in particular about this telling of Petit’s story rub me the wrong way. For one, there’s no suspense whatsoever throughout about whether or not the wirewalker will succeed. Even if you’re too young to recall the actual event, you know that Petit at least survives the attempt (since he’s interviewed in the film), and you can guess he probably did it (or else why even bother with a film?). All attempts, then, by the filmmaker to create a sense of suspense and tension simply fail, and we quickly grow impatient for the film to cut to the quick. This is unfortunate, because the technical details involved in pulling something like this off and the hazards of doing such a thing so high up (over 1,300 feet) in the air are fascinating. The filmmakers also err by not explaining more about Petit’s personal preparations for the feat. They instead seem content to dwell on the personal relationships of the conspirators.

The second thing bad note struck in “Man on Wire” is the fact that, unlike in the previous three films that explore real human pathos and failure, here the subject achieves his dream. This is, ironically enough, profoundly disappointing — mostly because Petit, instead of being as gracious and magnanimous in success as you and I imagine we would be, turns out to be a narcissistic prick. I won’t go into the multiple way this plays out, lest I ruin any surprise for you; just know that the way “Man on Wire” turns the “I have a dream” genre of documentary on its head left a real bad taste in my mouth.

In the end, while I would never begrudge someone their dreams, “Man on Wire” left me to wonder if maybe we really are not all better off just being ordinary — always doing our best, always dreaming of better things, but almost always failing.

It is not unusual for me to feel like an outsider. I am never sure if this is just a function of being a shy person, the remnants of the experience of being a young immigrant, or if I simply revel in an oppositional stance. Perhaps it is a mixture of all these things, or maybe one thing just leads to another.

Like a lot of outsiders I have always been drawn to the arts and underground music. One of the great ironies of oppositional culture is how strongly it creates a sense of community, a small group of insiders believing they are on the outside. Everyone likes to chuckle about how you can always tell who the weirdoes are because they all dress the same, as if spurning one community ought to mean you have no desire for another one. But, there is something nice about walking into a room full of people who might share your ideas, tastes and interests. I think this is one of the appeals of gallery openings. I think it goes without saying that a gallery opening isn't necessarily the best environment in which to actually view art. However, it is a great way to feel part of some kind of community, even if the group of people doesn't change much from one event to the next.

So, it was a strange experience to walk into the opening of Megan Rye's "Long Night's Journey into Day" at the Chambers Burnet Gallery a few months ago. To get to the gallery itself you have to walk through the relentlessly chic bar and lounge, past works of art by Damien Hirst, Yasumasa Morimura, Evan Penny and others. The mild sensation of being out of place here was mainly amusing, like walking onto the set of someone else's movie. What was truly strange, though, was walking into the gallery opening itself. I go to a lot of gallery openings, and have become used to a group of familiar faces that crop up at all of them. I guess I am one of those faces, too. In this group I didn't recognize a single person. The room was packed, making it close to impossible to really see the work. It was also pretty clear that the room was filled with folks at the opposite end of the economic spectrum from me. These were clearly potential art buyers, and with individual works selling for more than my annual salary, I guess it's not too surprising that there seemed to be so few of my usual peer group in the room. I didn't last long in there.

I was reminded of this experience as I walked into the opening of Andréa Stanislav's new exhibition, "Holiday in the Sun," also at the Chambers Burnet Gallery. Here was a room full of familiar faces, quite the opposite of my previous experience. In some ways the work matched the chic tone of the venue, all shiny glittery surfaces and effortless cool. The majority of the pieces could nominally be described as paintings - relatively two-dimensional, brightly colored, wall mounted works. Each of these is apparently built up of layer after layer of resin, with multiple layers of glitter adding a sense of depth to their depthlessness. Also encased in the resin are iconic words and images, lyrics from punk songs, names of celebrities and artists, and references to cult film and TV. Johnny Thunders' face makes an appearance, as does Omar from the Wire, both given the aura of secular saints, surrounded by glitter and halos of radiating lines. The title "What Would Omar Do?" only serves to underscore this pop-religious feeling. Each of the celebrities celebrated here seem to icons of opposition, and the lyrics quoted are all classics of oppositional culture. The installation could be read as a celebration or canonization of these cultural touchstones. Doubtless many people viewing the exhibition will experience the joy of recognition, perhaps some teenage nostalgia, and that warm feeling of inclusion and community.

However, despite the gloss and glitz, I found the work to be relentlessly bleak. Maybe this was all happening in my head; I am not sure how much is really the work's intention. The slick and shiny images, as well as the posh surroundings, seemed in sharp contrast to the subject matter - the underground beautified and commodified, beatified and memorialized. I found my mind drifting to a vague memory of the bleakness of Adorno and Horkheimer's essay "The Culture Industry: Enlightenment as Mass Deception." You'll have to forgive me for not re-reading it on my day off, but one of its main points is that all cultural production serves the status quo, and that any oppositional cultural production is futile, as it takes energy away from real revolutionary acts and can always be co-opted by capital and industry. It's a release valve, maybe, but not much more. Seeing all these one-time shocking, underground icons reduced/elevated to glam devotional objects, available for purchase, somehow served to underline the futility of revolutionary cultural production. "Your future dream is a shopping scheme," indeed. What a dreary thought.

These ideas bouncing vaguely about my head, I walked out past the Angus Fairhurst gorilla, more snow-back than silverback, to the ice bar to purchase an $8 beer. (I should point out here that even Microsoft Word seems to think that "$8 beer" is a typo.) "Cheap dialogue, cheap essential scenery," perhaps, though somehow I doubt an outdoor bar carved of ice is cheap, or essential. It is pretty remarkable, though, like so much of the surroundings at Chambers, as well as seductive and fun. Just like seeing one's reflection in one of Stanislav's wall pieces, it all leads to feeling complicit in this production of desire and consumption. It's an uncomfortable sensation, and like Johnny Rotten in "Holidays in the Sun," it's enough to make you want to climb over the wall. Or, to see if there's enough cash left for a scotch, inside with the outsiders. They pour them pretty generously.