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Woody Allen‘s film Manhattan (1979) is one of the mainstays of our Writing New York course, and I think it’s a great film.

Unfortunately, Woody himself doesn’t seem to agree.

In an interview with the Times of London this weekend to mark the UK opening of his 2009 film Whatever Works, Allen registered disappointment with his cinematic oeuvre. Asked whether he was happy with his films, Allen responded:

“I’ve squandered an opportunity that people would kill for. I have had complete artistic freedom. Other directors don’t get that in their lifetime. But I have a very poor record given the opportunities I’ve had. Out of 40 films I should have 30 masterpieces, eight noble failures and two embarrassments, but it hasn’t worked out that way. Many of the films are enjoyable by the mean standards of movies, but look at what has been accomplished by people who have done beautiful things — Kurosawa, Bergman, Fellini, Buñuel, Truffaut — and then look at my films. I have squandered my opportunities and I have nobody to blame but myself.”

According to the article, the six films that Allen “prizes” are Purple Rose of Cairo (1983), Match Point (2005), Bullets Over Broadway (1994), Zelig (1983), Husbands and Wives (1992), and Vicky Cristina Barcelona (2008). No Manhattan.

In fact, he told the Telegraph earlier in the week that “after completing the now-seminal Manhattan he was so horrified by what he saw that he told the studio he would make another film for free to make up for it.”

Sorry, Woody, but I’m going to assume that you’re just in a cranky mood or being a little bit arch — or both. Because there is no way that Vicky Cristina Barcelona outranks Manhattan on anyone’s list of your films.

In the Times interview, Allen comes across as preoccupied with the fact of his own aging, noting that when he dies he wants to be cremated with “no fuss” and to have his ashes scattered over Madison Avenue.

Allen did reaffirm his love from New York, saying, ” “I love it because I was brought up here. I’m attached to it.”

[Photo: Colorstorm Media/Eyevine via times.co.uk]

Ric Burns was our guest at the Faculty Resource Network seminar on Wednesday. We screened the seventh episode of New York: A Documentary Film (“The City and the World [1945 - Present]) in the morning and then engaged in a conversation with Ric about the making of the film and about the craft of documentary in the afternoon.

Early in the afternoon session, Ric told us a story about one of his first nights as a resident of the city: lying in bed with the window open, he suddenly became aware of the “roar” of the city — that omnipresent background noise — and he burst into tears. Not out of sadness, he said, but because he felt overwhelmed by the city. New York: A Documentary Film was his attempt to understand the history, meaning, and emotional power of that roar.

Ric cited the work of Joseph Schumpeter and Rem Koolhaas’s Delirious New York: A Retroactive Manifesto for Manhattan as two of the influences that led him to explore what he called the dynamics of “persistence and change, desire and aspiration” that shaped  New York over time. When asked whether any of his beliefs about the city had changed as a result of his making the film, Ric answered that he no longer believed that the city was “unintelligible.” He suggested that much of its history arose from a few big ideas, especially the “experiment” of having all the peoples of the world living together in a single place, united not by ideology or religion but by the desire to pursue commerce. Ric spoke at length about the need for “provisional master narratives” that can help us to make sense of history.

Perhaps Ric’s belief in the importance of provisional master narratives arises from the discipline in which he works. Part of the conversation treated the difference between the documentary film and other forms of documentary representation, and Ric argued that film requires you to think in “a severe and aesthetic way”: every film is a story, even the most postmodern of films. And that story has to resonate with the film’s viewers, sometimes necessitating hard choices.

Ric presented an example of one of those choices by showing us a scene that was cut from the seventh episode (but preserved in rough cut among the extras on the DVD for episode seven). The scene recounts the crashing of a B-52 bomber into the Empire Building in 1945. It’s riveting footage and, seen by itself, makes a powerful statement. But when it was part of the seventh episode, Ric told us, it stopped the narrative flow and felt repetitive — because it was ultimately — in narrative terms — the same scene as the one that opens the episode: Fiorello LaGuardia typing alone on his last night in office and ruing the power that he had allowed Robert Moses to accumulate. Ultimately, according to Ric, the two scenes are both about large-scale forces that have been unleashed by modernity and have come to seem uncontrollable and dangerous.

And putting the footage into the eighth episode didn’t work either. That episode, “New York: The Center of the World,” was made after 9/11 and depicted the story of rise and fall of the World Trade Center as an encapsulation of the forces at work in New York’s history of commerce and globalization. There was no way, Ric said, to use the scene about the Empire State Building crash, without seeming “hideously self-congratulatory.”

Before 9/11, the World Trade Center played only a bit part in the provisional master narrative that the New York series constructed. The building of the towers is referred to only briefly as part of the seventh episode’s treatment of Robert Moses’s attempts to reshape Manhattan. The World Trade Center, Ric said, “came late in a process of anti-urbanism and urban renewal” that was already well-documented in the film. Treating it at length would seem repetitive.

But, “within hours after 9/11,” Ric told us, he realized that he had to make another film. He and his colleagues had fallen prey, he said, to a certain kind of parochial cosmopolitanism that New Yorkers often have: they give cosmopolitanism a lot of lip service, but don’t really pay enough attention to the rest of the world — and what it thinks of them. Noting that people often remember the “clear blue sky” of that day and suggest that the attacks literally happened “out of the blue,” Ric said that the eighth episode was designed to show that 9/11 didn’t come out of the blue at all. “When were those planes really launched,” he mused. “Probably 1945.” But that wasn’t an insight that many viewers weren’t ready to hear, even in 2003 when the film was finally broadcast, and it did receive criticism for its suggestion that New York and the U.S. should bear some responsibility for the attacks. For that reason, using the Empire State Building footage to frame the film would have made the filmmakers seem “insufferable.” (Click here to read an article about the episode in the New York Times.)

We ended the session with a scene from Ric’s latest documentary, Into the Deep: America, Whaling & the World, which explores some of the themes that have interested him before: commerce, industry, and globalization (as in the New York series) and cannibalism (which Ric explored in his film about the Donner Party). The DVD and Blu-Ray of Into the Deep are available now at shop.pbs.org.

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Brenna Healey, one of our Writing New York students last term, calls our attention to this mashup of New Yorky films created by Moviefone in honor of the imminent release of Sex and the City 2. How many of the films can you name?

Click here for the original Moviefone page and a larger version of the embedded clip.

Thanks Brenna!

Downtown Scene

Today’s topics: Warhol, the Factory, Warhol’s relation to the poetry world, Warhol’s Exploding Plastic Inevitable, The Velvet Underground and Nico. I’ll be showing a sizable chunk of the second episode of Ric Burns’s Andy Warhol: A Documentary Film, and we’ll be discussing the first Velvet Underground album — both in relation to Warhol’s scene and to the downtown minimalist music scene we began to dip into yesterday. (To get at the latter I’ve had the class read Alex Ross’s chapter on bebop and minimalism [audio supplements here], which culminates in his reading of the Velvets as “Rock and Roll minimalists.”)

Watching portions of the Burns doc last night reminded me of the downtown party scene from Midnight Cowboy, which I hadn’t seen in quite a while. I YouTubed up the clip:

Warhol was apparently supposed to appear in this scene. (Several of his “superstars” do.) But Valerie Solanas, of course, had other plans.

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Pull My Daisy

Today I begin teaching a two-week intensive undergrad seminar on New York’s Downtown Scenes, 1960-80. The course meets four hours a day, five days a week. It promises to be a little intense.

To set the stage, today we’ll discuss Ginsberg’s Howl, talk about the physical space and population of the Village and the LES in the 1950s and 1960s, and head out on a Beats-themed walking tour led by Cary Abrams of the Lower East Side History Project. (You can take the tour Thursdays at 2:00 if you’re interested.)

We’ll also, assuming the new super-smart business-school classroom we’re meeting in has something as old-fashioned as a VCR, watch Alfred Leslie and Robert Frank’s 1959 film Pull My Daisy, considered a watershed in avant-garde American film. Narrated by Jack Kerouac and adapted from his play, the film stars Ginsberg and Gregory Corso as themselves and also features the musician David Amram, both as music director and actor. Amram discusses the film in this three-part interview, which includes enough clips to give you an idea of what the film’s like:

And here’s the film in its 26-minute entirety:

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Last night I attended a preview of the latest documentary by filmmaker Ric Burns, whose eight-part series New York: A Documentary Film has been an important part of Bryan’s and my Writing New York course from the beginning. Ric’s latest effort treats another subject that is dear to my heart — Moby-Dick — as it offers an account of the American whaling industry from its origins to its heyday in the mid-nineteenth century.

The film is called Into the Deep: America, Whaling & the World, and it’ll be broadcast this Monday, May 10 at 9:00 p.m. on PBS stations as part of the “American Experience” series. You can learn more about the film by visiting its page on the PBS website and by reading this press release. The website is itself an excellent education resource, with a photo gallery, historical timeline, and bibliography.

I had the opportunity to serve as a consultant for the film, and it was great fun to take a peek behind the scenes and observe some of the craft that goes into the making of a documentary like this one. (Alas, my interview material ended up on the cutting room floor!)

The film tells three stories: the rise and fall of American whaling; the tragic story of the Essex, which was one of the inspirations for Moby-Dick; and the story of how Melville came to write his novel. At last night’s preview, which was held at the American Museum of Natural History, Ric showed three brief excerpts: an introductory section, a longer section on the heyday of whaling, and a bit of the story of the Essex. The film is done in the trademark style that will be familiar to viewers of New York, and the portions I saw featured dramatic, swirling shots of a recreation of the Essex under full sail. We didn’t see any of the film’s dramatizations of scenes from Moby-Dick, so I’m keeping my fingers crossed about those.

What the film tells is the story of American whaling, which means that it doesn’t do much with the state of contemporary whaling today. As Ric pointed out last night, when America was part of the industry, the country dominated it: of 900 whaleships afloat in the mid-nineteenth century, more than 700 were from the United States. Melville’s novel, ultimately, captures American whaling at its peak. Very soon after its publication, changing economic conditions and technologies would strip much of the romanticism from whaling and ultimately bring about the end of the industry in this country.

Ultimately, though, at least in the last draft I saw of the script, the film does have implications for environmentalists today: it tells a cautionary tale of what it means to rely economically on a perishable resource. I’ll post again about the film after I’ve seen it in its entirety.

Yesterday, I began my lecture for Writing New York by revisiting a scene from Woody Allen’s Manhattan that I’d discussed briefly during the previous lecture. It’s near the end of the film, when the film’s protagonist, Isaac, is engaging in some self-therapy on his couch, free-associating about the things that make life worth living.

What he comes up with is a list of random cultural associations that reassure him of his place in New York’s hierarchy of culture and society (and invoke some of Woody Allen’s influences) — at least until the last one, which is meant to seem like a revelation. The scene takes place in silence, until Isaac thinks of his seventeen-year-old ex-girlfriend Tracy, at which point — cue the Gershwin music.

Here’s Ike’s list:

Well, all right, why is life worth living?
That’s a very good question.
Well, there are certain things, I guess, that make it worthwhile.
Like what?
OK… for me…
Ooh, I would say Groucho Marx, to name one thing.
And Willie Mays.
And… the second movement of the Jupiter Symphony.
And… Louis Armstrong’s recording of Potato Head Blues.
Swedish movies, naturally.
Sentimental Education by Flaubert.
Marlon Brando, Frank Sinatra.
Those incredible apples and pears by Cezanne.
The crabs at Sam Wo’s.
Tracy’s face.

As I went over the list with the class, I asked them what they thought “Swedish movies, naturally” was supposed to signify. Someone volunteered: Ingmar Bergman. Quite possibly, I replied, though something about the way he says it makes me think that it’s less Bergman and more I Am Curious (Yellow) (1967). Nobody knew what I was talking about.

I guess none of them had read the school newspaper the previous day. The Washington Square News ran a piece with the headline, “Sexy Swedish Filim at FSLC,” in which it noted that “those interested in exploring sexy Swedish cinema should make a pilgrimage to the legendary 1967 ‘I Am Curous (Yellow),’ a little movie that enraged critics worldwide and eventually made it to an obscenity trial at the Supreme Court.”

The article was describing the film series “Northern Exposures,” currently playing at Lincoln Center through May 4. I Am Curious (Yellow) will be shown again at 7:20 p.m. on Friday, April 30.

And, yes, there are several Bergman films showing as well.

Actually, that’s from Bananas (1971). How about this, then?

We do have some links to old PWHNY posts on Woody Allen’s Manhattan (1979), which our students are watching for class this week. I’ve written here and elsewhere about the list, at the film’s end, of things that make life worth living. Last spring Cyrus posted a preview of his discussion of Allen’s film in his chapter on “Emergent ethnic literatures” for the Cambridge Companion. And Cyrus likes to compare the opening sequence of Allen’s film with the opener of a very different film — though one we sometimes read as a rejoinder to Allen’s — Spike Lee’s Do the Right Thing, which was released a decade later.

As to the old question of things that make life worth living, I’ll post Louis Armstrong’s recording of “Potatohead Blues” and let you decide whether Allen is being sincere or smug.

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Daniel Kane, who contributed the chapter “From Poetry to Punk in the East Village” to the Cambridge Companion, received his doctorate in English from New York University. He is currently Senior Lecturer in American Literature at the University of Sussex. He is the author of All Poets Welcome: The Lower East Side Poetry Scene in the 1960s (2003);  a volume of interviews, What Is Poetry: Conversations With the American Avant-Garde (2003);  and, as editor and contributor, Don’t Ever Get Famous: Essays on New York School Writing after the “New York School” (2006).

Last year, Daniel published a volume of poetry entitled Ostentation of Peacocks (2009) and We Saw the Light: Conversations Between the New American Cinema and Poetry (2009), a study of the relationship between avant-garde poets and filmmakers in the 1960s. Film theorist Tom Gunning calls We Saw the Light “explosive and revelatory, as Kane bobs and weaves through films and poems, politics and sexuality, enmities and passions from Anger to Brakhage, Ginsberg to Ashbery, providing not only a sense of history but breathtaking readings of the ways films and poems interbred and crashed against the repressions of American society, turning the fifties into the sixties and beyond. Few books combine such scholarly detail and insight with such passion and humor.” Daniel will be in New York later this spring to promote We Saw the Light, which means that he’ll be able to participate in our official May 2 release party for the Companion (details to follow).

This excerpt from Daniel’s chapter deals with The Fugs, a seminal East Village punk band:

The group (whose name is a euphemism for “The Fucks,” borrowed by Sanders from the pages of Norman Mailer’s The Naked and the Dead) was composed variously and often interchangeably of poets, playwrights, folk artists, and Dionysian political activists. Included in its shifting line-up were such figures as Steve Weber and Pete Stampfel (founders of the terrific anti-hippie hippie band The Holy ModalRounders), Ken Weaver, Tuli Kupferberg, Szabo, and Al Fowler – who, in his timeless poem “Caroline: An exercise for our Cocksman Leader,” wrote, “I saw the hot eyes of my young daughter / rolling in passion / her body writhing naked / groping thru my pants and shorts / feeling for her daddy’s prick.” This hilarious if ultimately throw-away poetry anticipated in some small part punk’s fast and furious aesthetic.

The Fugs’ first album (titled initially in 1965 The Village Fugs – Ballads and Songs of Contemporary Protest, Points of View and General Dissatisfaction, and, in its second incarnation with ESP Records in 1966, The Fugs First Album) blurred boundaries between high and low culture. The Fugs First Album included sung versions of William Blake’s poem “Ah Sunflower” next to super-stupid proto-punk anthems like “Boobs a Lot” (with its immortal refrain “Do you like boobs a lot? Yes I like boobs a lot”) and nihilistic songs such as “Nothing,” which is especially rich, as it were. The song begins despondently: “Monday nothing, Tuesday nothing, Wednesday and Thursday nothing, Friday for a change a little more nothing,” then moves on to “poetry nothing, music nothing, painting and dancing nothing … fucking nothing, sucking nothing flesh and sex nothing” and ends with Sanders shouting: “Nothing! nothing! nothing! NOTHING! NOTHING!” These insistently negative chants resonate with any number of American and English punk refrains from Richard Hell’s “Blank Generation” (with its chorus “I belong to the blank generation / And I can take it or leave it each time”) to The Sex Pistols’ “No future, no future, no future for you” (from their song “God Save the Queen”) to X-Ray Spex’s song “I Can’t Do Anything” (“I can’t write / And I can’t sing / I can’t do anything”) to Lydia Lunch and 8 Eyed Spy’s “Lazy in Love” (“No time for you, yeah, rip roar fandango / lazy in love, i’m just lazy in love / … lazy in love ugh”).

These anecdotes suggest in part why musicians like Lunch, Smith, and Hell were drawn to the poetry scene in the neighborhood. They also suggest why poetry could be an art-form that existed most vibrantly not on the page but on the democratic, anarchic stage, and why it could, at least in some small measure, feed into the growing music culture percolating in the East Village. …

Next: Robert Lawson-Peebles

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This morning in lecture I promised I’d post these:

Info here. And, from Spike Lee’s Bamboozled (1997), the montage he has suggested should be shown at the Academy Awards (alongside the montage of dead industry folks):

As I mentioned at the end of lecture, I think Lee intends this montage as a rejoinder to recent work on blackface (much of which I value) that wants to resuscitate something revolutionary or redemptive in blackface forms.

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