Antonio da Silva Film-Reviews

 

I recently viewed a couple of art-house films (movies) by the Portuguese cinematographer Antonio da Silva. They contain full-frontal nudity, close-ups of genitalia and sexual acts. So, definitely NSFW! Do not read any further, and certainly do not click on the links if the reader is likely to take offence (offense).

[Image description: da Silva hiding behind a palm, © https://mubi.com/cast/antonio-da-silva]

“Julian” (2012) Review

I am queer demisexual. The vast majority of porn, indeed most people in fact do not spark in my psyche the slightest sexual frisson. I can nonetheless appreciate the homoërotic nature of the cast and the æsthetic quality of the imagery in this short. At times the dialogue (mostly monologue ?) did merge into a poëtic art-form - and I wished those moments could have been extended. However, at other points the script felt stilted and jarred within me. I did feel the oral & visual narrative form a complete entity and as such I felt satisfied at the end. I agree this short very much feels like a love-poëm to Julian. I should very much watch on another occasion.

https://antoniodasilvafilms.com/julian

“Dancers” (2014) Review

Wow - as far as I am concerned this is a masterpiece: flawless cinematography; nigh-on perfect image-sound editing; dazzling dance-movement; and (I am assuming) careful choreography.

No choreographer is credited as far as I could see: so did the director dictate the movements or was it serendipitous, improvised moments that were cleverly woven to form this pæan to free masculinity in its animistic atavism, unfettered physicality, uncensored sexuality, glorious creätivity and intense emotion?

I started at the belt whip-crack. I gasped at the young men’s beauty and talent. I laughed at the Amen. I “Ouf!”d at the ejaculations. And I wanted to hug some of them in the (seemingly) vulnerable moments when they collected up their clothing. This is probably one of the most intimate films I have ever had the pleasure and privilege to view.

Usually porn makes me feel like a voyeur, uncomfortable and thus unable to enter the fantasy proffered. This homoërotic short did not point the finger-of-blame at the viewer, but rather drew us - indeed me - into the performances. This is a veritable tête-à-tête where the watcher is thoroughly inveigled into the dance, pulled in as each performer’s very own personal dance- and ultimately sex-partner. If this is classed as porn, then I did not feel dirty for eyeing it. In fact, I came away feeling somehow refreshed and cleansed.

Masculinity is usually traduced in the media and within popular culture. In “Dancers” positive facets of our manhood are proudly displayed, for which a huge OBRIGADO to Antonio da Silva.

https://antoniodasilvafilms.com/dancers

Artistic Doubts

The following are some questions and some responses to the artistic doubts of a friend. I am publishing them as they may be useful to other artists, whatever their medium. For context purposes, it may be useful to know: he is primarily a visual artist; I am primarily a poet with some experience in visual arts.

The Questions

“I'm thinking about my appreciation and desire to be a positive artistic force. Is it enough for me to just include diverse bodies in my art? Do I need to do less of the stereotypical beautiful and desirable people? Should I feel guilty that I don't do more? And how do artists bridge the gap between the art they create, which may be due to sell-ability or accessibility of models, and their own values and desires? … And, does my art have to reflect me?” JB

The responses

My uncle and two of my cousins are printers: they can produce very arty looking stuff using other works. So, perhaps my background has tainted my perspective of what is Art. They produce beautiful stuff, but being æsthetic in itself does not (in my mind) make something Art. They do not see themselves as artists. They are craftsmen who know how to make things look lovely so that they sell. They in turn can make a living.

Artists should be able to make a living: but the primary function must be to pursue Art, their Art.

Bodies: you have shown a range of ethnicities/races and body shapes. I should suggest doing some extra large and ultra skinny (size-ism works both ways) bodies, which would add to your artistic reputation. Also, maybe use disfigured/amputated individuals and those with vitiligo. But that is your choice. You have the freedom to pursue a broader range, as you are not primarily needing to make a living out of your Art.

Guilt: guilt that makes you feel down is of no use; guilt that is perhaps a prompt to move or change direction can be a positive.

Desires: some artists never move out of their comfort zone, sticking to what they know and like. I think you have to have some passion for your subject or if, not for the subject, be really excited to use your style & techniques - otherwise an undesired subject-matter would stymie.

Out-put: how can you possibly feel guilty about your œuvre! You are prolific given you work full-time. Also, life-work-art-partner have to be kept in balance.

Pride: I only believe in pride in as much as it ensures a good amour-propre. Pride that gets in the way is of no use to one-self nor to others. It leads to arrogance and a lack of sympathy, let alone empathy. So, someone with a well-balanced level of pride can listen to and accept constructive criticism; someone with out-of-kilter pride cannot. Positive pride wants the criticism to help the artist move forward and develop.

Semantics: how are people viewing the artist’s work and what does the Art mean? I suspect only you can truly know the initial meaning. In your case, if you do not think that your work truly reflects what you think, feel, want, do, only you are in a position to do something about that. In the UK we quite often use the analogy of a football team: eleven players, standing in a line. Most of the players will have a middling view and a couple each of players will be more extreme and have opposing views. In other words: whatever one does, it will be interpreted and misinterpreted by others.

I write poetry. Once my poems are published I treat them as children who have grown up and left the nest. They are their own entities. Some readers will like; some dislike; some will be ambivalent. It does not matter to me. I have done what I had to do, due to passion; and, I have intellectually accepted that I took the poem as far as I could, to where I want/ed it to be.

Whatever work an artist produces will always be contingent. Art MUST be done for the artist one-self: whether to express meaning or to follow the flow of one’s Art. Art is intrinsically selfish, egocentric in its outpouring. Its use is a different issue. Even if one has good intentions for one’s work, it is still the ego that processes and then outflows into creativity. The making of Art cannot be self-less; the use to which Art is put can be. But your intellect is also part of yourself and connects to ego. If you decide on an intellectual level that you wish to broaden your subject-matter, and if that is a genuine desire, then your emotions should kick in and you will feel passionate towards the work. On the other hand, if your brain says do such and such, but your heart is not in it, then the work will not happen, or at least not in a personally meaningful way. Doesn’t mean it won’t sell though! My personal opinion is that one should highlight failures occasionally, just to remind oneself of where things can go awry.

If you desire to do something, do it. It is your choice what to draw & paint. It is your choice to continue with an artwork or discard it. It is your choice whether to reveal and display at a later point. It is all your choice.

[Image description: the writer looking doubtful.] 

I Keep Feeling

[TRIGGER WARNING: this post deals with child-abuse and references suicide and blood!]

I have hinted at my childhood issues in some past postings.

Of late I have been much affected and effected by the abuse I suffered at the hands of both parents, not only in childhood, but through my adolescence, my young adulthood and to a lesser extent into my mid-adulthood. Eventually, in my mid-thirties, my psychiatrist, my psychologist and my G.P. (family doctor) strongly advised me to completely separate myself from them. I followed their advice and did so. Since then they have divorced and moved to different places, but I do not know exactly their whereabouts - and I want to keep it that way.

Over the years various good friends have suggested I sue my parents or lodge complaints with the police. Unfortunately, such proceedings would mean I should have to relive the horrors over and over again to the police, to lawyers and before the Courts. That, for me, is too large a price to pay for Justice. I prefer to direct my energies and efforts into healing as best I can and living my life the way I want to live it.

I know from my paternal Grandmother that my paternal Grandfather was brutal in his treatment of my Father. I know from my Aunts that my maternal Grandfather was abusive towards my Mother & her siblings. This may explain the abuse my parents meted out: it does NOT justify nor vindicate their behaviours one iota.

Several times prior to the split from my abusers, I attempted suicide; but since then I have not even contemplated same - other than for end-of-life and living-will purposes. I have become, at least partially, the happy and confident chap I should have been all along.

I am publishing the poem below and this brief preamble, not to garner sympathy, but rather with the aspiration that someone may find it useful to know that life does get better, that there is always Hope.

*

after so many years

       of mental justification

       of emotional turmoil

       of spiritual malaise

       of medication

              I stopped taking them

       at fifty-three

expecting liberation

scary initially

honestly

       I am still scared

so much anxiety

too many feels

       maybe

but good

       has the upper-hand

              I am certain

I feel music again

my bodily pleasures

       returned

re-awakened creativity

slumbering sexuality

       re-asserted

though no princely kiss yet

I feel me again

I keep smiling

I keep crying

I keep feeling

       impotent

       despondent

frankly

       I am still scarred

I keep sensing

       that putrescent

              touch

       veining my soul

my heart turned

       to cold

              stone

I keep smelling

       your odious stench

       polluting all memory

I used to feel nothing

       for you

              who made no effort

                     to atone

but you keep popping up

an unsolicited smear

never sufficient

       bruises nor blood

never enough torment

       torture

       fear

abused childhood

abused adolescence

abused adulthood

equilibrium tired

hope expired

       turned to a putative hate

mostly

       I just want the thoughts

              of you

              of your actions

              your nefandous deeds

                     to go away

                     to stay at bay

I keep feeling

       exhausted

       drained

longing for Fate

       to resolve

              your evil

for it has cleaved

       my soul

       my psyche

no salve

no surgery

       can heal

              the scars of cruelty

but I soldier on

       like a good boy

and I keep feeling

       never joy

       but contentment

certainly

       in your absence

              I have grown

                     in confidence

                     in maturity

                     in sagacity

I feel…

       well…

              half-alive

                     maybe

paradoxically

       I keep feeling

              worthy

                     of Love

                     of Life

almost

       happy

but still

       as ever

              that small boy

                     eternally

                            lost

I cannot stop

       now

I just have to

       keep feeling

              the pain

desperate to attain

       calmness

       cleansing

       healing

       release

I keep feeling

little flower-stalk

little flower-stalk


in blue jeans
faded brushed-cotton shirt
once patterned, now grey
crouching in front of electronic gadgetry
on slightly soiled plimsolls
deep brown orbs, passionate
intensely concentrate
listening through state-of-the-art headphones
pressing down silver-streaked, melanic hair
he strokes his hand across heavy growth
beginnings of a Bohemian beard
he speaks in soothing dulcet tones

no formal theology
pursuing spontaneous
impetus
Paul's purist ideology
compels him to spend hours
weeks at a time
seeking new sounds
having developed an encyclopædic
knowledge of these and their respective cryptic
location
on one of several CD's
he can select a sound
from his available palette
no need to search for one to fit a concept
simply tweak for modulation

bringing up the sampler
on the computer
a red wave expands
like some seminal oscillator
finding the exact break-lines
separating individual sounds
up to ninety-nine times
the sample is fed
through a filter
then looped
a new sound created
not as sophisticated
as the board
modifying
tempo
pitch
tone
unacceptable
till perfectly honed

a click of the mouse
and on the computer screen
appears
a virtual Roland/808/909
recreating Acid House
the early rave scene
from back in time

a toilet-break beckons
Paul opens
his sound library
to me
where time is mensurable
in fractions
of seconds
perhaps
milliseconds
I pluck sounds
from the screen
particularly enjoying
thirteen and fourteen
there are spooky notes
ambient
sonorous
evanescent
cold
moody
resonant
noises
beats
harmonious
discordant
phrases

Paul had me listen to tracks
a few of his rare grooves
taken from stacks
of vinyl
rather than compact disk
revolving on the turn-table
at forty-five r.p.m.
on the valued record-player
sounds reminiscent
of 1970's Jean-Michel Jarre
ethereal synthesizers
ecclesiastical organs
journeying to some destination
I do not know
pulling me with them
voyaging with the flow
continuing my induction
an affective impressionism
snatches of Techno
Drum & Bass
House
World
and Jazz
space age
meets aboriginal
in elicited syncretism

in a computer concerto
checking for
cadence
phrasing
sonority
spiritual harmony
the expansion
of musicality
musical form
instrumentation
and technical ability
breath-taking creation
of new worlds
soundscapes
through originality
uniqueness
and perfection
the perpetual leitmotive
though
in the Paulo-post-future
a hemlock or Valerian potion
the suicidal motif
will end
with a fatal coda
Paul's ultimate
Neurotic Symphony
the sublime acme
of contemporary
musical techno-creativity

[Image description: Roland TR-808, courtesy Wikipedia]

A musician friend permitted me to watch him at the creative slog in order that I might write about it. It is my hope that this poem illuminates some of what goes into creating the recorded sounds we all often take so for granted.