I'm no longer accepting the things I cannot change...I'm changing the things I cannot accept.~ Angela Davis
When Afrikana Film Fest put tickets for Angela Davis' Evening with an Icon appearance on sale, I was second in line to get mine. No surprise, it sold out in a hot minute, so they added tickets for a separate viewing room. That sold out even faster.
Doors were scheduled to open at 7 tonight for the main event and when I arrived at the VMFA at 6:20, the line was already through the atrium and almost back to the Best Cafe.
Luckily, I'd brought a book.
Once we finally made it into the auditorium, I snagged a seat in the fifth row to watch the slide show of photographs from past Afrikana events, spotting myself in four different pictures.
I am nothing if not a creature of habit.
As hordes of later arrivals streamed in, it wasn't long before the seat next to me was appropriated by a woman who promptly introduced herself as Sharon from New Jersey.
Turns out she'd come to Richmond for the same reason I had: a move for her husband's job. Like me, when the marriage ended, she stayed in Richmond and he'd moved away. We were instant friends united in our excitement over seeing Angela Davis tonight.
Things kicked off with the VMFA's photography curator showing us 3 recent photo acquisitions by Stephen Shames, two of Angela in the '70s and one of a young boy in an Angela Davis t-shirt around the same time. All are part of the museum's concerted effort to acquire a significant collection of Civil Rights era photography.
Next came the 2013 documentary, "Free Angela Davis and All Political Prisoners," a brilliant means of bringing everyone at the event up to speed on why this woman is such a key figure in American history.
Only tonight did I learn that she'd been hired as a philosophy professor at UCLA and that her first lecture on the philosophy of Frederick Douglass had attracted 2,000 attendees. That Governor Ronald Reagan wanted her barred from teaching at any California university.
The archival footage - of protests, her lectures, her trial and press conferences - gave a bird's eye view of so much of what was happening to her back then.
All of which, I might add, she did with both a magnificent Afro and mini-skirts and without a bra. Ah, the '70s.
But of course, the real magic happened when her name was announced and she walked out to a standing ovation. The funny part was, she sat down onstage before the woman introducing her could read her bio, so Davis walked back offstage so she could read it, occasionally hovering within view of the adoring crowd until resuming her seat.
And while she still has the Afro, tonight it was pants not a mini-skirt. That said, the woman doesn't look all that different at 73 than she did at 33.
From there, the moderator would toss out topics and Davis would address the question, take tangents, drop pearls of wisdom and ruminate on the past, present and future.
Asked about what young people should be doing today, she said it was awkward telling people what to do. "We didn't ask our elders what to do," she said. "We wanted to find our own way because we were more in touch with what was going on in those days than our elders were."
Now that would be an interesting topic to take up. Is that still the case today?
"Students are always at the forefront of revolutionary activity and we have to encourage that!"
A fair amount of time was given over to the current political clime, with Davis referencing "the day before the Women's March...or Inauguration day, if you care to refer to it that way."
Of Trump she lamented, "This is the future we really dreaded. It's turning the clock back. Make America great again means make America a white supremacy again, that's what it's code for."
She saw Islamic-phobia as being built on centuries of black oppression and said we should be worried about any group 45 is marginalizing.
"We have to resist and prevent Donald Trump's Project from reaching realization because on that depends the future of the country." Can I get an amen?
There was much to hear her opinions on: the crisis in the prison system, global capitalism and its effects on jobs in this country and the role of global feminism, a subject for which she stood to speak. There she mined Hillary's "glass ceiling" metaphor, reminding us that it means a woman is already at the top if she's near shattering it.
"No movement happens without women, " Davis reminded the mostly female crowd, "Women do all the work because they're the organizers." Truth.
She told all the men in the room to stand and applaud the women for the work that we do. Some looked sheepish about it, others enthusiastic.
Saying she was no expert on anything since she'd been fired from her first job at UCLA ("By Ronald Reagan!"), she said, "One of the great things about longevity is you get to ride the shifts in history."
That was a reference to going back to UCLA (who now use posters of her as a selling point for the school) only to hear the university board give their interpretation of the '70s firing which in no way lined up with hers.
At least she can laugh about it now.
For the final question, she was asked about where we go from here.
"Everyone has to embrace something they can passionately engage in and not just right now. How can we create sustainable activism?"
Personally, I was thinking a large swath of American idiots just elected the most motivating force impossible for activism and community engagement, but Angela sees the bigger picture.
"Imagining the future involves doing activist work for a very long time. It requires a commitment to social justice," she said toward the end. "Donald Trump will be just a drop in the bucket."
A woman's place is in the struggle. How lucky I was to hear it from the horse's mouth.
Showing posts with label afrikana film festival. Show all posts
Showing posts with label afrikana film festival. Show all posts
Saturday, February 25, 2017
Monday, January 16, 2017
The Beats Per Minute of a Life
Breakfast at home aside, it may be a personal best land eating record for one day.
Consider:
chicken and waffles from GWAR Bar
an everything bagel shmeared with chive cream cheese from Nate's Bagels
bread pudding from Spoonbread
quinoa, spinach and mandarin salad from Tarrant's
a sweet roll (or two) from WPA Bakery
tuna crudo from Culinard
fish dip, spaghetti squash pancakes with harissa yogurt and Rouet Brut Rose at Secco
Old Salte oysters, deviled crab cake with pimento cheese and Lawrence "Sex" sparkling Rose at Rapp Session
Moroccan mint tea at Maple & Pine
squid pancake and spicy sweet wings at J Kogi
Espolon on ice at Saison
While it sounds like I did nothing but eat and drink for an entire day and night, you should know that the truth is far more interesting.
Luckily it's only 4 blocks away because by 11 a.m. I had to be at the Black History Museum for Afrikana Film Fest's "Movies and Mimosas brunch" where the event's founder welcomed black folks and black-minded folks to the sold-out event.
Having been raised by atypically black-minded folks in a very white neighborhood back during the shank of the white-focused 20th century, I took to the descriptor.
Besides gorging ourselves on a veritable feast (and I didn't even have room for Comfort's Nutella and banana French toast), we were all there to see "Soundtrack for a Revolution," a stellar 2009 documentary about the key role music played in the civil rights movement creating solidarity and encouraging participants to carry on when things got tough.
Practically every important face of the era - Julian Bond, John Lewis, Andrew Young, Harry Belafonte - showed up as a talking head between graphic news footage of white policemen terrorizing peaceful black protesters/freedom riders and modern-day musicians - John Legend, the Roots, Wyclef Jean - playing some of the protest songs in a modern way.
Not to brag, but it was only my first Questlove sighting of the day.
Of course songs had been written about racist governor George Wallace (not that I knew that before) with lyrics such as, "He must be removed, like a can of garbage in the alley..."
I can only imagine how much coarser and pointed the protest language would be today if a song was written about an unpopular elected official.
As is often the case with Afrikana's events, the discussion afterward was positively illuminating. One millennial was agog to learn that King had been 26 when he led the Montgomery bus boycott, having assumed that a leader had to be a middle-aged man. Another admitted that after witnessing the recent Twitter fracas denigrating John Lewis' role in the movement, he'd been amazed to see so much footage of Lewis at the very front of marches, right there with King.
One of the oddest comments came from someone who insisted that we must not look down on those whose sole contribution to moving social justice forward is sharing a post, Instagramming a picture or re-tweeting, insisting that such "actions" are as good as live participation in meetings, marches and movements.
"Don't judge others if that's how they choose to participate," she instructed the room twice. Interestingly enough, I have repeated this story to several people now, every single one of whom has reacted with incredulity, insisting that they are nowhere close to the same level of involvement.
The big announcement at the end of the brunch, that Afrikana is bringing - wait for it, because I about exploded when I heard - activist Angela Davis to town was enough to send me scurrying to the lobby to score a ticket as quickly as possible. I was #2 in line to nab mine. Angela Davis!
From there, it was on to the also sold-out Break It Down panel with Questlove at VMFA on the subject of food, music and creativity led by writer Todd Kliman who was clever enough to reference Carol Merrill, Faulkner, Run DMC and Maria Callas, use a white board and test the audience's literacy with references to articles in the "Washington Post" and "New Yorker."
The panelists had ties to food, music or both, although it was a major disappointment to see a sole woman on a panel of six with a male moderator. It's 2017 for heavens' sake, how is it a token woman is still okay?
Q teased the crowd by coming out when chef Mike Derks' name was called and then disappearing again. He told the crowd that a Roots fan, a true Roots fan would own all 17 of their albums. How despite 20 years in the band, he's only learned the craft of songwriting in the past five. How working with Virginia's own D'Angelo made him a more human drummer.
When he mentioned that his record collection was up to 80,000, there was an audible gasp in the room, but he also acknowledged that he'll never get time to hear them all. So what's the point?
Particularly insightful on the subject of millennials, the 45-year old expressed a hope that they learn the art of patience and develop a knack for boredom, since nothing spurs creativity more than being bored.
There's a message that needs to get out.
Panelist and singer Natalie Prass, looking 60s fabulous in matching flowered tunic and bell bottoms over a white blouse, regaled the crowd with an improvised song based on the images on the white board and also gave us a few bars of her middle school band's hit song, "Mangoes," inspired by her bandmate's parents getting mad when the kids ate all the mangoes in the house.
The panel closed out by taking audience questions, including a guy up front who asked the panelists about the rhythm of their own lives and if it had shifted at some point.
"Good job, Guy in the Front Row!" Kliman said about the final question, which elicited thoughtful answers from all, including Q, who allowed that the BPMs of his life had varied as wildly as his drumming does.
As the slow-moving crowd shuffled out, my companion and I headed to Secco to beat the crowds and admire the owner's orange cast, then to Rapp Session where a kindly server gave us a happy hour menu (3-6 p.m.) and told us we could order off it until 7. Score.
By 9, I was sipping tea at Quirk, catching up with an out-of-town friend - in the seven years of our friendship, we're lucky to see each other twice a year - and planning how to paint the town red on a Sunday evening in my eminently walkable neighborhood.
The fact that we both had so much news to share meant that by the time we said hello to the panel organizer and escaped the hotel, it was almost 10, never an easy time to eat well on Sunday night...except when you're in the mood for Korean street food, which we were.
Knowing J Kogi was open till 2 a.m. encouraged us to linger in the back-most table next to six chattering young women and a large sack of volleyballs, but it also meant that by the time we got to The Rogue Gentleman, they were closing down.
Saison saved the night, welcoming us in with a couple of prime bar stools, a Boulevardier for him and Espolon for me. We were deep in conversation about life changes when I overheard a familiar voice behind me and turned to see a favorite deep-voiced liquor rep who briefly joined our tete-a-tete.
Going back down the conversational rabbit hole, I came back up briefly when a favorite chef arrived, hugging me bear-style and telling me he was just looking to see what kind of trouble he could get into, essentially the same reason we were there.
Strolling back through Jackson Ward just before 2 a.m., we paused under an awning to sum up our latest get-together since he was heading home in the morning.
Describing his last year as "storm-tossed," he tossed out a compliment, saying that our evening had provided a much-needed dose of equilibrium and distraction thanks to me.
My last year, while not quite a storm, has certainly been a game-changer as well. It felt good to spend hours talking to someone else in flux
It was a Sunday for the books in many ways, but I'm not here to tell you it was perfect. Did you see any dessert on that list of non-stop eating? You did not.
Chocolate, you were the only thing missed.
Consider:
chicken and waffles from GWAR Bar
an everything bagel shmeared with chive cream cheese from Nate's Bagels
bread pudding from Spoonbread
quinoa, spinach and mandarin salad from Tarrant's
a sweet roll (or two) from WPA Bakery
tuna crudo from Culinard
fish dip, spaghetti squash pancakes with harissa yogurt and Rouet Brut Rose at Secco
Old Salte oysters, deviled crab cake with pimento cheese and Lawrence "Sex" sparkling Rose at Rapp Session
Moroccan mint tea at Maple & Pine
squid pancake and spicy sweet wings at J Kogi
Espolon on ice at Saison
While it sounds like I did nothing but eat and drink for an entire day and night, you should know that the truth is far more interesting.
Luckily it's only 4 blocks away because by 11 a.m. I had to be at the Black History Museum for Afrikana Film Fest's "Movies and Mimosas brunch" where the event's founder welcomed black folks and black-minded folks to the sold-out event.
Having been raised by atypically black-minded folks in a very white neighborhood back during the shank of the white-focused 20th century, I took to the descriptor.
Besides gorging ourselves on a veritable feast (and I didn't even have room for Comfort's Nutella and banana French toast), we were all there to see "Soundtrack for a Revolution," a stellar 2009 documentary about the key role music played in the civil rights movement creating solidarity and encouraging participants to carry on when things got tough.
Practically every important face of the era - Julian Bond, John Lewis, Andrew Young, Harry Belafonte - showed up as a talking head between graphic news footage of white policemen terrorizing peaceful black protesters/freedom riders and modern-day musicians - John Legend, the Roots, Wyclef Jean - playing some of the protest songs in a modern way.
Not to brag, but it was only my first Questlove sighting of the day.
Of course songs had been written about racist governor George Wallace (not that I knew that before) with lyrics such as, "He must be removed, like a can of garbage in the alley..."
I can only imagine how much coarser and pointed the protest language would be today if a song was written about an unpopular elected official.
As is often the case with Afrikana's events, the discussion afterward was positively illuminating. One millennial was agog to learn that King had been 26 when he led the Montgomery bus boycott, having assumed that a leader had to be a middle-aged man. Another admitted that after witnessing the recent Twitter fracas denigrating John Lewis' role in the movement, he'd been amazed to see so much footage of Lewis at the very front of marches, right there with King.
One of the oddest comments came from someone who insisted that we must not look down on those whose sole contribution to moving social justice forward is sharing a post, Instagramming a picture or re-tweeting, insisting that such "actions" are as good as live participation in meetings, marches and movements.
"Don't judge others if that's how they choose to participate," she instructed the room twice. Interestingly enough, I have repeated this story to several people now, every single one of whom has reacted with incredulity, insisting that they are nowhere close to the same level of involvement.
The big announcement at the end of the brunch, that Afrikana is bringing - wait for it, because I about exploded when I heard - activist Angela Davis to town was enough to send me scurrying to the lobby to score a ticket as quickly as possible. I was #2 in line to nab mine. Angela Davis!
From there, it was on to the also sold-out Break It Down panel with Questlove at VMFA on the subject of food, music and creativity led by writer Todd Kliman who was clever enough to reference Carol Merrill, Faulkner, Run DMC and Maria Callas, use a white board and test the audience's literacy with references to articles in the "Washington Post" and "New Yorker."
The panelists had ties to food, music or both, although it was a major disappointment to see a sole woman on a panel of six with a male moderator. It's 2017 for heavens' sake, how is it a token woman is still okay?
Q teased the crowd by coming out when chef Mike Derks' name was called and then disappearing again. He told the crowd that a Roots fan, a true Roots fan would own all 17 of their albums. How despite 20 years in the band, he's only learned the craft of songwriting in the past five. How working with Virginia's own D'Angelo made him a more human drummer.
When he mentioned that his record collection was up to 80,000, there was an audible gasp in the room, but he also acknowledged that he'll never get time to hear them all. So what's the point?
Particularly insightful on the subject of millennials, the 45-year old expressed a hope that they learn the art of patience and develop a knack for boredom, since nothing spurs creativity more than being bored.
There's a message that needs to get out.
Panelist and singer Natalie Prass, looking 60s fabulous in matching flowered tunic and bell bottoms over a white blouse, regaled the crowd with an improvised song based on the images on the white board and also gave us a few bars of her middle school band's hit song, "Mangoes," inspired by her bandmate's parents getting mad when the kids ate all the mangoes in the house.
The panel closed out by taking audience questions, including a guy up front who asked the panelists about the rhythm of their own lives and if it had shifted at some point.
"Good job, Guy in the Front Row!" Kliman said about the final question, which elicited thoughtful answers from all, including Q, who allowed that the BPMs of his life had varied as wildly as his drumming does.
As the slow-moving crowd shuffled out, my companion and I headed to Secco to beat the crowds and admire the owner's orange cast, then to Rapp Session where a kindly server gave us a happy hour menu (3-6 p.m.) and told us we could order off it until 7. Score.
By 9, I was sipping tea at Quirk, catching up with an out-of-town friend - in the seven years of our friendship, we're lucky to see each other twice a year - and planning how to paint the town red on a Sunday evening in my eminently walkable neighborhood.
The fact that we both had so much news to share meant that by the time we said hello to the panel organizer and escaped the hotel, it was almost 10, never an easy time to eat well on Sunday night...except when you're in the mood for Korean street food, which we were.
Knowing J Kogi was open till 2 a.m. encouraged us to linger in the back-most table next to six chattering young women and a large sack of volleyballs, but it also meant that by the time we got to The Rogue Gentleman, they were closing down.
Saison saved the night, welcoming us in with a couple of prime bar stools, a Boulevardier for him and Espolon for me. We were deep in conversation about life changes when I overheard a familiar voice behind me and turned to see a favorite deep-voiced liquor rep who briefly joined our tete-a-tete.
Going back down the conversational rabbit hole, I came back up briefly when a favorite chef arrived, hugging me bear-style and telling me he was just looking to see what kind of trouble he could get into, essentially the same reason we were there.
Strolling back through Jackson Ward just before 2 a.m., we paused under an awning to sum up our latest get-together since he was heading home in the morning.
Describing his last year as "storm-tossed," he tossed out a compliment, saying that our evening had provided a much-needed dose of equilibrium and distraction thanks to me.
My last year, while not quite a storm, has certainly been a game-changer as well. It felt good to spend hours talking to someone else in flux
It was a Sunday for the books in many ways, but I'm not here to tell you it was perfect. Did you see any dessert on that list of non-stop eating? You did not.
Chocolate, you were the only thing missed.
Sunday, September 18, 2016
Heavy on the Old Bay
GOD, tell me what I am doing wrong! Love, d
~ note written in black Sharpie on back of Pick 4 lottery card found on 3rd Street
We'll call it a personal best: I saw four films today.
There was the morning walk to Movieland to see "Stir Crazy," party of their ongoing Gene Wilde tribute series. Walking down Leigh Street with Mac, we passed the crab guys I've passed a hundred times, only today I stopped to check crab prices.
When I explained that I'd walked by his crab stand all those times, Mr. Jimmy chuckled and said, "I know that's true. I've seen you in your hat walking by a whole lot of times. When are you coming back for crabs?"
Fair enough. But first we had a 1980 movie to see and while several lines of dialog were still lodged in my brain - "Carry me back to ole Virginny" for one and "We bad!" for another - I had no memory that Sidney Poitier directed or that the film began with Gene Wilder singing "Crazy" to a jazz combo accompaniment.
And don't even get me started on Gene Wilder's pink Izod shirt and sweater tied over his shoulders or the pink bandana jauntily tied around his neck while he's doing hard labor on a rock pile.
But mostly it was a fabulous Gene Wilder vehicle, his character a trusting, optimistic cornball capable of turning us into laughing fools with his delivery.
Warden: I have good news for you.
Wilder: My wine magazines came?
Needless to say, we left with a renewed appreciation of Wilder's genius and a trip down Memory Lane as I commented on Kiki Dee singing over the closing credits.
Mac: Who's Kiki Dee?
Me: She did a duet with Elton John called "Don't Go Breaking My Heart"
Mac: Ohhhh, Kiki Dee.
After a shared lunch in service of my hired mouth, Mac abandoned me for men and dogs while I made my way to the Bijou for my next dose of Afrikana Film Fest, this time the documentary "Hip Hop Fellow" about, that's right, DJ/producer/professor 9th Wonder, aka the Hip Hop Fellow at Harvard.
As far as I was concerned, this was the most compelling film being shown because it had never occurred to met that Harvard would have such a thing. Turns out they've got an actual hip hop archive and I don't even know which to be more impressed by.
Walking up 3rd Street, I saw Afrikana's photographer appear from around the corner and immediately train her camera in my direction, snapping and laughing as she went. We're both in on the joke.
It was a full house for "Hip Hop Fellow" and why not when the film did such a fine job of explaining how his research shows hip hop bridging gaps between generations while developing a greater appreciation for sampling?
9th referred to what he does as "hip hop archaeology," an apt descriptor considering the way he'd dig deep into a classic hip hop album to identify every single sample used, whether it was 10 or 30 because he sees samples as a way of introducing younger audiences to older music they either missed or dismissed.
Scholar and literary critic Kenneth Gates explains in the film, "Sampling is what Western literature is all about. Look at T.S. Elliott, Melville or James Joyce's "Ulysses" which is stolen from "The Odyssey. We call it the art of literary license."
Ahem, aka sampling.
9th Wonder talked and took questions afterward, deflecting one about how slow Richmond is to embrace its own musical talent. "That's every city," he said. "They didn't like Jesus in Jerusalem."
So how could I not return for the afterparty later, knowing he was going to DJ it? Film, talk, hit play...a practically perfect trifecta.
First, there were crabs scored from my Leigh Street boys and eaten on the wrought iron table in the backyard with Mac, then back to the Bijou for the equivalent of French New Wave 101, first with "The Red Balloon" and followed by Truffaut's "The 400 Blows."
I know it probably sounds like I was cheating on the Afrikana Film Fest, but I'd already seen "Miles Ahead," tonight's main feature, and, frankly, my film history could use some basic French classics like these two.
Bijou co-founder James explained that the Bijou planned to "show some dog films to show you how a director got to a certain point," asked for a show of hands of who hadn't seen tonight's (me and quite a few others) and let the films speak for themselves.
"Just remember," James said after the first film. "The Bijou is a place where you can come see balloons die." It's also where a friend complained about all the distraction of people rattling their popcorn bags during the film.
It's a lot of things, so remember that instead.
Filmmaking aside, both were intriguing looks back at the landscape of Paris and France in the late '50s and given my trip there a couple months ago, I was wide-eyed, looking for familiar buildings and street signs.
Aching glutes aside, it had been a pretty wonderful day.
But the night wouldn't have been complete without that afterparty and I managed to arrive shortly before 9th Wonder took over DJ duties and proceeded to absolutely kill it for the next three hours.
When he took the stage, he looked out and said, "Let's move these tables outta the way to get things going. We're gonna be dancing."
The man was not lying.
A favorite couple came in, danced a bit and headed home, waving as they threaded their way through the crowd. I stayed put near the back where it was slightly cooler plus I could dance in place and survey the room.
From the stage, the MC suggested we meet our neighbors and find out what their favorite film had been this weekend, but my neighbor hadn't made it to anything except the afterparty. But my next neighbor over had also seen the documentary, making for lively conversation about how it had impressed us and how thrilled we were for the rare DJ experience to follow.
Then there was the music, most of it unfamiliar to me while the rest of the room knew every word to the samples and full songs he played.
But the room went electric when the first few strains of Luther Vandross' "Never Too Much" came on, soon to be followed by MJ and Prince and eventually, even the Eurythmics, before returning to what I didn't know but could dance endlessly to.
Eventually, my fellow documentary dork came over and asked how I could go to the film, hear 9th speak and not be in the center of the dance floor where he was.
It was like he thought I was doing something wrong. Like d in his message to GOD.
The Afrikana Afterparty is where you come to dance wherever you want to.
~ note written in black Sharpie on back of Pick 4 lottery card found on 3rd Street
We'll call it a personal best: I saw four films today.
There was the morning walk to Movieland to see "Stir Crazy," party of their ongoing Gene Wilde tribute series. Walking down Leigh Street with Mac, we passed the crab guys I've passed a hundred times, only today I stopped to check crab prices.
When I explained that I'd walked by his crab stand all those times, Mr. Jimmy chuckled and said, "I know that's true. I've seen you in your hat walking by a whole lot of times. When are you coming back for crabs?"
Fair enough. But first we had a 1980 movie to see and while several lines of dialog were still lodged in my brain - "Carry me back to ole Virginny" for one and "We bad!" for another - I had no memory that Sidney Poitier directed or that the film began with Gene Wilder singing "Crazy" to a jazz combo accompaniment.
And don't even get me started on Gene Wilder's pink Izod shirt and sweater tied over his shoulders or the pink bandana jauntily tied around his neck while he's doing hard labor on a rock pile.
But mostly it was a fabulous Gene Wilder vehicle, his character a trusting, optimistic cornball capable of turning us into laughing fools with his delivery.
Warden: I have good news for you.
Wilder: My wine magazines came?
Needless to say, we left with a renewed appreciation of Wilder's genius and a trip down Memory Lane as I commented on Kiki Dee singing over the closing credits.
Mac: Who's Kiki Dee?
Me: She did a duet with Elton John called "Don't Go Breaking My Heart"
Mac: Ohhhh, Kiki Dee.
After a shared lunch in service of my hired mouth, Mac abandoned me for men and dogs while I made my way to the Bijou for my next dose of Afrikana Film Fest, this time the documentary "Hip Hop Fellow" about, that's right, DJ/producer/professor 9th Wonder, aka the Hip Hop Fellow at Harvard.
As far as I was concerned, this was the most compelling film being shown because it had never occurred to met that Harvard would have such a thing. Turns out they've got an actual hip hop archive and I don't even know which to be more impressed by.
Walking up 3rd Street, I saw Afrikana's photographer appear from around the corner and immediately train her camera in my direction, snapping and laughing as she went. We're both in on the joke.
It was a full house for "Hip Hop Fellow" and why not when the film did such a fine job of explaining how his research shows hip hop bridging gaps between generations while developing a greater appreciation for sampling?
9th referred to what he does as "hip hop archaeology," an apt descriptor considering the way he'd dig deep into a classic hip hop album to identify every single sample used, whether it was 10 or 30 because he sees samples as a way of introducing younger audiences to older music they either missed or dismissed.
Scholar and literary critic Kenneth Gates explains in the film, "Sampling is what Western literature is all about. Look at T.S. Elliott, Melville or James Joyce's "Ulysses" which is stolen from "The Odyssey. We call it the art of literary license."
Ahem, aka sampling.
9th Wonder talked and took questions afterward, deflecting one about how slow Richmond is to embrace its own musical talent. "That's every city," he said. "They didn't like Jesus in Jerusalem."
So how could I not return for the afterparty later, knowing he was going to DJ it? Film, talk, hit play...a practically perfect trifecta.
First, there were crabs scored from my Leigh Street boys and eaten on the wrought iron table in the backyard with Mac, then back to the Bijou for the equivalent of French New Wave 101, first with "The Red Balloon" and followed by Truffaut's "The 400 Blows."
I know it probably sounds like I was cheating on the Afrikana Film Fest, but I'd already seen "Miles Ahead," tonight's main feature, and, frankly, my film history could use some basic French classics like these two.
Bijou co-founder James explained that the Bijou planned to "show some dog films to show you how a director got to a certain point," asked for a show of hands of who hadn't seen tonight's (me and quite a few others) and let the films speak for themselves.
"Just remember," James said after the first film. "The Bijou is a place where you can come see balloons die." It's also where a friend complained about all the distraction of people rattling their popcorn bags during the film.
It's a lot of things, so remember that instead.
Filmmaking aside, both were intriguing looks back at the landscape of Paris and France in the late '50s and given my trip there a couple months ago, I was wide-eyed, looking for familiar buildings and street signs.
Aching glutes aside, it had been a pretty wonderful day.
But the night wouldn't have been complete without that afterparty and I managed to arrive shortly before 9th Wonder took over DJ duties and proceeded to absolutely kill it for the next three hours.
When he took the stage, he looked out and said, "Let's move these tables outta the way to get things going. We're gonna be dancing."
The man was not lying.
A favorite couple came in, danced a bit and headed home, waving as they threaded their way through the crowd. I stayed put near the back where it was slightly cooler plus I could dance in place and survey the room.
From the stage, the MC suggested we meet our neighbors and find out what their favorite film had been this weekend, but my neighbor hadn't made it to anything except the afterparty. But my next neighbor over had also seen the documentary, making for lively conversation about how it had impressed us and how thrilled we were for the rare DJ experience to follow.
Then there was the music, most of it unfamiliar to me while the rest of the room knew every word to the samples and full songs he played.
But the room went electric when the first few strains of Luther Vandross' "Never Too Much" came on, soon to be followed by MJ and Prince and eventually, even the Eurythmics, before returning to what I didn't know but could dance endlessly to.
Eventually, my fellow documentary dork came over and asked how I could go to the film, hear 9th speak and not be in the center of the dance floor where he was.
It was like he thought I was doing something wrong. Like d in his message to GOD.
The Afrikana Afterparty is where you come to dance wherever you want to.
Saturday, July 23, 2016
Don't Tell Dad
Everybody has their own beach rules.
You can spring from the same set of loins, but it doesn't mean you "do" the beach the same way as your kin, a fact of which I'm reminded every time I share someone's beach time with them. The past few days have been at a cottage called "Flip Flops" with a couple of my sisters and various members of their clans.
We couldn't be more different beach-wise, at least in most ways.
Oceanfront is a must for me, while she's okay with oceanside, which is still considerably better than the sister who rents in the woods on the Sound side. I want to hear and see the ocean every minute of every day I'm there.
I wouldn't think of using air conditioning ever (hell, my cottage didn't even have window units until two years ago), but especially when I'm surrounded by salt air and breezes, while my sister cools her beach house to meat locker temperatures. Walking in, hot from the beach or wet from a shower, is unpleasantly cold.
Every cottage needs a screened-in porch in my opinion, yet my sister only requires a covered porch, although I will say that this year's did at least have a view of the ocean. I said nothing when she began the day by slathering anti-itch cream on all the bites on her ankles from last night's porch session.
They like to be off the beach by 4:00 while my favorite beach time is just beginning then. Maybe it's the art historian in me, but I can think of no richer, more saturated colors in summertime than the last few hours before about 7:00, after which the evening can officially begin.
And what folly is this? My father instilled in the six of us the absolute need for binoculars at the beach, yet they don't bring them. So all the strange ships far out in the water, the dark schools of bluefish just under the surface and playful pods of dolphins have to be scrutinized from afar. What can a person learn from that distance?
Where we agree is that time spent at the beach means time spent in the ocean.
Knowing today was my last day there and breaking every mother's rule about eating and going in the water, I finished my lunch, wiped the crumbs on my legs and headed directly into the ocean just behind Sister #4's family.
Nephew #1 eventually joined once the left and it was just us when three dolphins surfed the waves directly in front of us. As many times as I've seen them, I'd never been closer. Yet he headed back once he realized his beer was getting warm onshore.
Left alone in the brilliant green water by myself became almost a meditation.
Up to my neck, with no one around to talk to, it occurred to me that this was why doctors used to send recovering patients to the seashore: the gentle exercise of staying above the waves, the warm yet still refreshing water, the briny air all combined to make me feel utterly relaxed but also strangely invincible.
After a while, Sister #2 joined me in the ocean, saying I'd looked pitiful out there by myself. Beer gone, Nephew #1 returned, only to crack us up with his Nature Channel impersonation as a pale, young woman who'd been floating on a paddleboard nearby attempted to awkwardly stand.
In the muted voice of a golf announcer, he intoned, "Yes, and now she's presenting her albino thighs and cheeks to capture the male's attention and find a use for her child-bearing hips...." before she took a nosedive.
So much for my meditative state.
By the time I finally climbed out of the water, fingers as wrinkled as raisins, it had been nearly two hours since I'd given over the rest of my day at the beach to the ocean and it was time for a quick outdoor shower to get the salt crust out of my ears before heading home.
Home, past signs saying "Blue Lives Matter," behind an 18-wheeler spewing dirt like smoke with projectiles (illegal, right?) which, given my open car windows, felt a lot like traveling in Pigpen's wake and uncomfortably close to a group of trucks with Confederate flags parked on the side of Route 460.
None of which, I'm happy to report, affected my ocean-induced state of relaxation.
I made it home in time to catch Afrikana Film Fest's outdoor screening of the 1988 cult classic "Coming to America" being shown up on the hill at Tredegar under the stars.
Guests were encouraged to recite lines, sing songs and act out and they did. Dogtown Dance even performed live when the palace dancers did their big number in the movie.
Honestly, I hadn't seen it since I saw it in the theater when it came out when we were all in Eddie Murphy's thrall and swooning to hear him say things like, "I want a woman that will arouse my intellect as well as my loins."
It also didn't hurt to have - flashback! - Arsenio Hall say stuff such as, "Girl, you look so good, someone ought to put you on a plate and sop you up with a biscuit."
It's a compliment I know I'd be happy to hear, although it might taste a little gritty. I've still got sand in my hair.
You can spring from the same set of loins, but it doesn't mean you "do" the beach the same way as your kin, a fact of which I'm reminded every time I share someone's beach time with them. The past few days have been at a cottage called "Flip Flops" with a couple of my sisters and various members of their clans.
We couldn't be more different beach-wise, at least in most ways.
Oceanfront is a must for me, while she's okay with oceanside, which is still considerably better than the sister who rents in the woods on the Sound side. I want to hear and see the ocean every minute of every day I'm there.
I wouldn't think of using air conditioning ever (hell, my cottage didn't even have window units until two years ago), but especially when I'm surrounded by salt air and breezes, while my sister cools her beach house to meat locker temperatures. Walking in, hot from the beach or wet from a shower, is unpleasantly cold.
Every cottage needs a screened-in porch in my opinion, yet my sister only requires a covered porch, although I will say that this year's did at least have a view of the ocean. I said nothing when she began the day by slathering anti-itch cream on all the bites on her ankles from last night's porch session.
They like to be off the beach by 4:00 while my favorite beach time is just beginning then. Maybe it's the art historian in me, but I can think of no richer, more saturated colors in summertime than the last few hours before about 7:00, after which the evening can officially begin.
And what folly is this? My father instilled in the six of us the absolute need for binoculars at the beach, yet they don't bring them. So all the strange ships far out in the water, the dark schools of bluefish just under the surface and playful pods of dolphins have to be scrutinized from afar. What can a person learn from that distance?
Where we agree is that time spent at the beach means time spent in the ocean.
Knowing today was my last day there and breaking every mother's rule about eating and going in the water, I finished my lunch, wiped the crumbs on my legs and headed directly into the ocean just behind Sister #4's family.
Nephew #1 eventually joined once the left and it was just us when three dolphins surfed the waves directly in front of us. As many times as I've seen them, I'd never been closer. Yet he headed back once he realized his beer was getting warm onshore.
Left alone in the brilliant green water by myself became almost a meditation.
Up to my neck, with no one around to talk to, it occurred to me that this was why doctors used to send recovering patients to the seashore: the gentle exercise of staying above the waves, the warm yet still refreshing water, the briny air all combined to make me feel utterly relaxed but also strangely invincible.
After a while, Sister #2 joined me in the ocean, saying I'd looked pitiful out there by myself. Beer gone, Nephew #1 returned, only to crack us up with his Nature Channel impersonation as a pale, young woman who'd been floating on a paddleboard nearby attempted to awkwardly stand.
In the muted voice of a golf announcer, he intoned, "Yes, and now she's presenting her albino thighs and cheeks to capture the male's attention and find a use for her child-bearing hips...." before she took a nosedive.
So much for my meditative state.
By the time I finally climbed out of the water, fingers as wrinkled as raisins, it had been nearly two hours since I'd given over the rest of my day at the beach to the ocean and it was time for a quick outdoor shower to get the salt crust out of my ears before heading home.
Home, past signs saying "Blue Lives Matter," behind an 18-wheeler spewing dirt like smoke with projectiles (illegal, right?) which, given my open car windows, felt a lot like traveling in Pigpen's wake and uncomfortably close to a group of trucks with Confederate flags parked on the side of Route 460.
None of which, I'm happy to report, affected my ocean-induced state of relaxation.
I made it home in time to catch Afrikana Film Fest's outdoor screening of the 1988 cult classic "Coming to America" being shown up on the hill at Tredegar under the stars.
Guests were encouraged to recite lines, sing songs and act out and they did. Dogtown Dance even performed live when the palace dancers did their big number in the movie.
Honestly, I hadn't seen it since I saw it in the theater when it came out when we were all in Eddie Murphy's thrall and swooning to hear him say things like, "I want a woman that will arouse my intellect as well as my loins."
It also didn't hurt to have - flashback! - Arsenio Hall say stuff such as, "Girl, you look so good, someone ought to put you on a plate and sop you up with a biscuit."
It's a compliment I know I'd be happy to hear, although it might taste a little gritty. I've still got sand in my hair.
Sunday, February 28, 2016
Give Peace a Chance
Some intersections are once-in-a-lifetime experiences.
I seriously doubt I will ever again listen to a poet laureate and living legend on the same night I witness a woman in a mini-trench coat lip sync-ing to "Man, I Feel Like a Woman."
The great January snowstorm Jonas had caused "An Evening with an Icon: Sonia Sanchez" to be rescheduled, allowing even more anticipation for it, so waiting in line for 40 minutes just to get in to the Grace Street Theater despite having bought my ticket two months ago shouldn't have surprised me.
Inside the theater, I sat down between two men, both wearing Bernie buttons (one of whom who had been a Sanders' HQ this afternoon when a 4' cutout of Bernie being arrested during a '60s demonstration had been delivered) and both dedicated jazz nerds.
My only value in the conversation was when it came to current jazz cats (their term) in the local scene, many of whom I've seen play at Balliceaux. The Bernie fan to my right, formerly very active in Detroit's jazz scene and a come-here eight years ago, even asked for a list of local acts to check out.
In return, he gave me a book recommendation, so we're even now.
When he found out I'd done the piece in Style about Sanchez, he leaned in and said, "I wanna thank you for writing that article because otherwise I'd never have known about this." Interestingly enough, he had seen her read her poetry back in the '80s.
First we saw the recent documentary about her, "BaddDDD Sonia Sanchez," a fascinating look at her life as an activist, member of the Black Arts movement, teacher and poet as well as the challenges she'd faced - FBI, being a single mother, recriminations from her father, lack of tenure - for being politically active.
When she was introduced, suddenly scores of phones were held up to capture her arrival and a lot of what she had to say, so I could barely see her onstage for the first ten or so minutes..
Asked about being poet laureate, she told a story of neighborhood children about to fight in front of her house and teaching them how to breathe to unwind. She then surprised everyone in the audience by telling us to stand and do deep ten deep breaths with her as a way of calming, a practice she teaches her students.
"That's what I've been doing as Poet Laureate," she said to much laughter.
She also said many meaningful things, such as, "Each generation has to continue the struggle of the generation before," and "It always comes back to peace," but the most significant admonishment was, "Don't tell me you came and enjoyed this film and you're not going to go back and do something."
I think that's why my seatmates were wearing Bernie pins.
When one man, during the Q & A, asked how his generation could come together in the same way the '60s and '70s generations had, she corrected him, explaining that that only happens once people begin working toward what's important to them and finding like-minded individuals.
Another man asked how to clear his head of negative energy so he could write better and she became my hero by asking, "Do you walk? Walking frames you for the day. It clears the brain," and went on about the benefits of daily walking. As an 81-year old, she would know.
All I can say is, major props to the Afrikana Film Festival for bringing such a culturally important woman to Richmond to share her life and stories with a sold-out audience. This city's cool points were off the charts tonight.
The only way to follow something so wonderfully high-brow was with, um, something quite the opposite?
Tonight was Late Night Lip Sync Battle at the Basement and it's impossible to convey how much fun it is to watch teams of local theater types compete for nothing but bragging rights.
Tonight's battle was even more special because both teams - the Velvet Rope and Cats Don't Care - were all women teams who, as Sonia had proven, are fearless and brilliant (one, a doula, had participated in the delivery of a 9 1/2 pound baby yesterday). They can even dance.
So much estrogen at battle also opened the door to multiple costume and wig changes, a lot of pumps and lipstick as prop.
You have to understand, there's a million points at stake for each round and three million for the final round. That's millions of meaningless points.
In between, there are erotic vegetable poses, scavenger hunts (Sarah won because I gave her my ballpoint pen, the requested item) and beer chugging to determine who goes first.
The Velvet Rope killed it with their opening song, "Alexander Hamilton," complete with whisky bottle and umbrellas to further the story and followed strong with Mary singing lead on Beyonce's "Formation," performed in camouflage jackets while tossing out packets of hot sauce.
Pretty impressive, right?
But then Cats Don't Care retaliated with a song from Disney's "Hercules," which Sarah had never heard before yesterday, having been a late addition to the team and having had parents who didn't let her watch Greek mythology.
Or maybe that was just her story and she was sticking to it.
The Improv round is always terrific because the teams don't know the upcoming songs and have to decide on the spot who will handle each. Their consternation is part of the fun of watching.
Watching these woman take on gems like "Man, I Feel Like a Woman," and "What's Love Got to Do With It?" and "Don't You Want to Dance?" and "My Heart Will Go On" was like a primer in the classic gay karaoke repertoire, pure emoting and overacting that worked the crowd into a drama kid frenzy.
The big finales took it even further with TVR doing "Hey, Now" in fur coats and hats and CDC doing "Bang, Bang" complete with black banged-bob.
For those keeping score at home, Cats Don't Care took home the non-existent prize, but, of course, they didn't care and a dance party ensued.
Mind and body got a workout tonight. Tomorrow, like the icon Sonia Sanchez, I will walk to clear the mind.
Only then can doing something follow.
I seriously doubt I will ever again listen to a poet laureate and living legend on the same night I witness a woman in a mini-trench coat lip sync-ing to "Man, I Feel Like a Woman."
The great January snowstorm Jonas had caused "An Evening with an Icon: Sonia Sanchez" to be rescheduled, allowing even more anticipation for it, so waiting in line for 40 minutes just to get in to the Grace Street Theater despite having bought my ticket two months ago shouldn't have surprised me.
Inside the theater, I sat down between two men, both wearing Bernie buttons (one of whom who had been a Sanders' HQ this afternoon when a 4' cutout of Bernie being arrested during a '60s demonstration had been delivered) and both dedicated jazz nerds.
My only value in the conversation was when it came to current jazz cats (their term) in the local scene, many of whom I've seen play at Balliceaux. The Bernie fan to my right, formerly very active in Detroit's jazz scene and a come-here eight years ago, even asked for a list of local acts to check out.
In return, he gave me a book recommendation, so we're even now.
When he found out I'd done the piece in Style about Sanchez, he leaned in and said, "I wanna thank you for writing that article because otherwise I'd never have known about this." Interestingly enough, he had seen her read her poetry back in the '80s.
First we saw the recent documentary about her, "BaddDDD Sonia Sanchez," a fascinating look at her life as an activist, member of the Black Arts movement, teacher and poet as well as the challenges she'd faced - FBI, being a single mother, recriminations from her father, lack of tenure - for being politically active.
When she was introduced, suddenly scores of phones were held up to capture her arrival and a lot of what she had to say, so I could barely see her onstage for the first ten or so minutes..
Asked about being poet laureate, she told a story of neighborhood children about to fight in front of her house and teaching them how to breathe to unwind. She then surprised everyone in the audience by telling us to stand and do deep ten deep breaths with her as a way of calming, a practice she teaches her students.
"That's what I've been doing as Poet Laureate," she said to much laughter.
She also said many meaningful things, such as, "Each generation has to continue the struggle of the generation before," and "It always comes back to peace," but the most significant admonishment was, "Don't tell me you came and enjoyed this film and you're not going to go back and do something."
I think that's why my seatmates were wearing Bernie pins.
When one man, during the Q & A, asked how his generation could come together in the same way the '60s and '70s generations had, she corrected him, explaining that that only happens once people begin working toward what's important to them and finding like-minded individuals.
Another man asked how to clear his head of negative energy so he could write better and she became my hero by asking, "Do you walk? Walking frames you for the day. It clears the brain," and went on about the benefits of daily walking. As an 81-year old, she would know.
All I can say is, major props to the Afrikana Film Festival for bringing such a culturally important woman to Richmond to share her life and stories with a sold-out audience. This city's cool points were off the charts tonight.
The only way to follow something so wonderfully high-brow was with, um, something quite the opposite?
Tonight was Late Night Lip Sync Battle at the Basement and it's impossible to convey how much fun it is to watch teams of local theater types compete for nothing but bragging rights.
Tonight's battle was even more special because both teams - the Velvet Rope and Cats Don't Care - were all women teams who, as Sonia had proven, are fearless and brilliant (one, a doula, had participated in the delivery of a 9 1/2 pound baby yesterday). They can even dance.
So much estrogen at battle also opened the door to multiple costume and wig changes, a lot of pumps and lipstick as prop.
You have to understand, there's a million points at stake for each round and three million for the final round. That's millions of meaningless points.
In between, there are erotic vegetable poses, scavenger hunts (Sarah won because I gave her my ballpoint pen, the requested item) and beer chugging to determine who goes first.
The Velvet Rope killed it with their opening song, "Alexander Hamilton," complete with whisky bottle and umbrellas to further the story and followed strong with Mary singing lead on Beyonce's "Formation," performed in camouflage jackets while tossing out packets of hot sauce.
Pretty impressive, right?
But then Cats Don't Care retaliated with a song from Disney's "Hercules," which Sarah had never heard before yesterday, having been a late addition to the team and having had parents who didn't let her watch Greek mythology.
Or maybe that was just her story and she was sticking to it.
The Improv round is always terrific because the teams don't know the upcoming songs and have to decide on the spot who will handle each. Their consternation is part of the fun of watching.
Watching these woman take on gems like "Man, I Feel Like a Woman," and "What's Love Got to Do With It?" and "Don't You Want to Dance?" and "My Heart Will Go On" was like a primer in the classic gay karaoke repertoire, pure emoting and overacting that worked the crowd into a drama kid frenzy.
The big finales took it even further with TVR doing "Hey, Now" in fur coats and hats and CDC doing "Bang, Bang" complete with black banged-bob.
For those keeping score at home, Cats Don't Care took home the non-existent prize, but, of course, they didn't care and a dance party ensued.
Mind and body got a workout tonight. Tomorrow, like the icon Sonia Sanchez, I will walk to clear the mind.
Only then can doing something follow.
Friday, February 19, 2016
I Do Want Change
How about Wednesday?
I can not go.
Okay, do you want to do something any other night?
Thursday or Friday?
How about Cinema Noir?
OK, cool!
So we're on for Thursday?
Yeppers.
Okay, so I want to stop by the opening of the new exhibit at the Branch Museum before the movie. If you want to join me for that, we can go somewhere first to eat.
You are such a party animal! I'm off at 2, so sounds all good to me!
You read right, I got called a party animal for wanting to go to an architecture museum and eat dinner before a movie. Whoa, things are getting crazy here.
Say, what happened to late nights, excessive drinking and wild behavior...or is that so party animal 2015?
Doesn't matter, I suppose, since we had a fine time at dinner, seat-dancing to the '80s and stuffing our faces for the sake of my livelihood (he's good about always taking home the leftovers so I don't have to) while talking about life.
It was important to him to bring me up to speed on the hilarious SNL "The Day Beyonce Turned Black" video - "Kerry Washington can't be black! She's on ABC!" - once we finished eating.
Apparently he worries about others mocking my lack of cultural literacy and he's here to save me from that.
Judging by the sedate-looking crowd at the Branch Museum, I certainly didn't need to be up to speed before the opening of "The Historic American Buildings Survey: Documenting Virginia's Architectural Heritage," not that I didn't find it fascinating.
Turns out that HABS was yet another brilliant New Deal initiative in 1933, implemented to begin the important preservation process as it pertains to the built environment, engineering technologies and landscape design.
An architecture nerd's wet dream, in other words.
Using large-format black and white photographs and detailed architectural renderings, the exhibit displayed the work of countless people who painstakingly recorded specifics about important buildings, such as the Rising Sun Tavern on Caroline Street in Fredericksburg (a street I know well), erected before 1781, and Bacon's Castle in Surry County, built before 1676.
Equally familiar to me were Menokin on the Northern Neck, the Jefferson Memorial in Washington and Monticello, although the specificity of details was far greater than any average Joe would know, or even any art history fanatic.
When we left there, it was for me to get a hot fudge sundae at Bev's - where we were alone since ice cream is not the most popular sweet in February - while my friend explained his lactose intolerance and sipped a cup of coffee, his drug of choice.
In no hurry, we took the alley on our way out, resulting in a couple of fun discoveries. The first was a mural on a garage door of the "Spy versus Spy" characters expertly rendered and the other was a discarded mattress on which someone had spray-painted, "Nothing else mattress."
Dyslexia humor is a wonderful thing.
Eventually, we made our way over to Manchester's Browne Gallery on Hull Street for Cinema Noir where I found myself back on the same stretch I'd walked a few weeks ago, discovering Croaker's Spot and Sweet Fix Bakery in the process.
The gallery was filling up quickly, so we nabbed seats in the second row and another friend showed up to sit just in front of us. One of the great things about this event is the pre-film music and tonight's was especially good, all Earth, Wind and Fire in tribute to Maurice White's recent earthly exit.
Several EWF album covers were placed around the gallery as visual reminders, a couple next to a classic classroom turntable, inspiring my friend to ask, "Where's the slide projector?" like the AV Club geek he probably was.
Tonight's short film was director Pete Chaimon's "Blackcard," a subtly scathing look at a world where a group called The Commission makes it their job to check on infractions by African Americans of the "black code."
The audience was cracking up within the first two minutes of the film.
It began with Commission staff raiding a woman's refrigerator, nodding in approval at malt liquor, sniffing a pitcher of ice tea to determine if it was sweetened and ultimately discovering unacceptable items such as kale and, later, a book by Malcolm Gladwell.
"Malcolm Galdwell?" the agent asks. You'd have thought he found "Mein Kampf."
It's these kinds of things that cause our heroine Lona to lose her black card, a fact that doesn't bother her boyfriend because he thinks self trumps race. She's not so sure.
Interrogating another man about his blackness, the guy admits to voting for Romney. Incredulous, the Commission investigator, asks, "You didn't want change?"
The films' leitmotif - whether to chose oneself over one's race - provided much of the post-film discussion with director Pete, looking very hip perched in a director's chair at the front of the room.
"Black is not a genre," he said, explaining why he thought of the term as pejorative. A film made by and/or with blacks can be any genre a white film can: romance, sci-fi, western, comedy or drama, a fact which should be obvious to anyone.
Although his film contained much to laugh at, he saw the comedy as being in service of the dramatic element, namely Lona trying to get her black card back and, ultimately, Leonard laying his on the ground and opting to follow his own path rather than the prescribed racial one.
Pete pulled out metaphors galore and a recent eating example -questioning his own meal of quinoa in Los Angeles as "un-black" - to explain the importance of making individual calls about what kind of black you choose to be.
Many of his tight, slightly awkward camera angles owed a debt to Terry Gilliams' "Brazil," he explained, saying, "You're going to turn me into a film nerd now."
Truth be told, that's the absolute beauty of these Cinema Nouir evenings. As intriguing as it is to get to see a contemporary black film short, it's always the discussion afterwards that makes them such compelling evenings.
I'm far more interested in the day Richmond becomes successfully multi-racial than I am the day Beyonce became black. What's cool is that Cinema Noir and the Afrikanna Film Fest are chipping away at that every single month.
And if I have to be a party animal to be a part of that, well, that's the way of the world.
I can not go.
Okay, do you want to do something any other night?
Thursday or Friday?
How about Cinema Noir?
OK, cool!
So we're on for Thursday?
Yeppers.
Okay, so I want to stop by the opening of the new exhibit at the Branch Museum before the movie. If you want to join me for that, we can go somewhere first to eat.
You are such a party animal! I'm off at 2, so sounds all good to me!
You read right, I got called a party animal for wanting to go to an architecture museum and eat dinner before a movie. Whoa, things are getting crazy here.
Say, what happened to late nights, excessive drinking and wild behavior...or is that so party animal 2015?
Doesn't matter, I suppose, since we had a fine time at dinner, seat-dancing to the '80s and stuffing our faces for the sake of my livelihood (he's good about always taking home the leftovers so I don't have to) while talking about life.
It was important to him to bring me up to speed on the hilarious SNL "The Day Beyonce Turned Black" video - "Kerry Washington can't be black! She's on ABC!" - once we finished eating.
Apparently he worries about others mocking my lack of cultural literacy and he's here to save me from that.
Judging by the sedate-looking crowd at the Branch Museum, I certainly didn't need to be up to speed before the opening of "The Historic American Buildings Survey: Documenting Virginia's Architectural Heritage," not that I didn't find it fascinating.
Turns out that HABS was yet another brilliant New Deal initiative in 1933, implemented to begin the important preservation process as it pertains to the built environment, engineering technologies and landscape design.
An architecture nerd's wet dream, in other words.
Using large-format black and white photographs and detailed architectural renderings, the exhibit displayed the work of countless people who painstakingly recorded specifics about important buildings, such as the Rising Sun Tavern on Caroline Street in Fredericksburg (a street I know well), erected before 1781, and Bacon's Castle in Surry County, built before 1676.
Equally familiar to me were Menokin on the Northern Neck, the Jefferson Memorial in Washington and Monticello, although the specificity of details was far greater than any average Joe would know, or even any art history fanatic.
When we left there, it was for me to get a hot fudge sundae at Bev's - where we were alone since ice cream is not the most popular sweet in February - while my friend explained his lactose intolerance and sipped a cup of coffee, his drug of choice.
In no hurry, we took the alley on our way out, resulting in a couple of fun discoveries. The first was a mural on a garage door of the "Spy versus Spy" characters expertly rendered and the other was a discarded mattress on which someone had spray-painted, "Nothing else mattress."
Dyslexia humor is a wonderful thing.
Eventually, we made our way over to Manchester's Browne Gallery on Hull Street for Cinema Noir where I found myself back on the same stretch I'd walked a few weeks ago, discovering Croaker's Spot and Sweet Fix Bakery in the process.
The gallery was filling up quickly, so we nabbed seats in the second row and another friend showed up to sit just in front of us. One of the great things about this event is the pre-film music and tonight's was especially good, all Earth, Wind and Fire in tribute to Maurice White's recent earthly exit.
Several EWF album covers were placed around the gallery as visual reminders, a couple next to a classic classroom turntable, inspiring my friend to ask, "Where's the slide projector?" like the AV Club geek he probably was.
Tonight's short film was director Pete Chaimon's "Blackcard," a subtly scathing look at a world where a group called The Commission makes it their job to check on infractions by African Americans of the "black code."
The audience was cracking up within the first two minutes of the film.
It began with Commission staff raiding a woman's refrigerator, nodding in approval at malt liquor, sniffing a pitcher of ice tea to determine if it was sweetened and ultimately discovering unacceptable items such as kale and, later, a book by Malcolm Gladwell.
"Malcolm Galdwell?" the agent asks. You'd have thought he found "Mein Kampf."
It's these kinds of things that cause our heroine Lona to lose her black card, a fact that doesn't bother her boyfriend because he thinks self trumps race. She's not so sure.
Interrogating another man about his blackness, the guy admits to voting for Romney. Incredulous, the Commission investigator, asks, "You didn't want change?"
The films' leitmotif - whether to chose oneself over one's race - provided much of the post-film discussion with director Pete, looking very hip perched in a director's chair at the front of the room.
"Black is not a genre," he said, explaining why he thought of the term as pejorative. A film made by and/or with blacks can be any genre a white film can: romance, sci-fi, western, comedy or drama, a fact which should be obvious to anyone.
Although his film contained much to laugh at, he saw the comedy as being in service of the dramatic element, namely Lona trying to get her black card back and, ultimately, Leonard laying his on the ground and opting to follow his own path rather than the prescribed racial one.
Pete pulled out metaphors galore and a recent eating example -questioning his own meal of quinoa in Los Angeles as "un-black" - to explain the importance of making individual calls about what kind of black you choose to be.
Many of his tight, slightly awkward camera angles owed a debt to Terry Gilliams' "Brazil," he explained, saying, "You're going to turn me into a film nerd now."
Truth be told, that's the absolute beauty of these Cinema Nouir evenings. As intriguing as it is to get to see a contemporary black film short, it's always the discussion afterwards that makes them such compelling evenings.
I'm far more interested in the day Richmond becomes successfully multi-racial than I am the day Beyonce became black. What's cool is that Cinema Noir and the Afrikanna Film Fest are chipping away at that every single month.
And if I have to be a party animal to be a part of that, well, that's the way of the world.
Sunday, October 25, 2015
Fast, Loose and Oh-So Smart
I have discovered the Sunday morning holy grail and it's hash and dope.
The Afrikana Independent Film Fest and Feast RVA were doing a Movies and Mimosas family brunch and screening at Candela Gallery. Ticket in hand, I was practically the first guest to arrive, although it didn't hurt that it was four blocks from home, either.
Somehow, I'd never been to a Feast RVA event, 'though I was well aware of how they worked and their higher purposes (supporting up and coming start-ups). Today there was a Mimosa bar courtesy of Saison and a sumptuous brunch buffet that covered all the important bases.
Finding a good seat was paramount because we'd be watching a movie after brunch, so I staked out a front seat and was soon joined at my table by a fascinating woman who works at Tricycle Gardens and with whom I had loads to talk about.
Of the many things we agreed on, one was that we were both starving, so we made sure to get in line early to get the brunch ball rolling. Returning to the table, her handsome brother - another Tricycle Gardens staffer - joined us and I got to enjoy watching sibling banter after he asked me for some romantic places I liked to hang out in the evening.
No sister could hear that question and not wonder what woman her bro wants to romance, but after that tangent, I brought it back to laughter, which I always find romantic.
Having piled my plate high, I'd chosen from fried chicken from Lee's (if only there had been waffles), an absolutely killer hash of crispy Brussels sprouts, sweet potatoes and onions from Ellwood Thompson's (there was a buzz going around the room about that hash), fried fish and grits from Croaker's Spot, two kinds of quiche (I chose kale) and an assortment of sweet breads, cinnamon rolls and freshly-baked cookies, the latter courtesy of my new friend.
The three of us ate ourselves silly and then it was time for "Dope," a movie I hadn't even heard of, although it was apparently a darling at Sundance and played here briefly this summer.
Ridiculously funny, appealingly smart and with a casual attitude about three black high school geeks in the L.A. suburbs who only want to ace their SATs and move on to college, the movie dished up satire to dispel every black movie cliche.
Riffing on our time, one kids suggests, "How about small batch craft-brewed malt liquor?" How about it?
With the improbable name of Malcolm, complete devotion to '90s-era hip hop music and a flat top, our hero plays in a punk band (hilariously called Oreo) with his geeky friends, studies hard and is a virgin. Cheerfully irreverent, the film doesn't try to teach any hard lessons or point out any inequities, instead portraying a black coming of age story for geeks.
When the drug Molly unexpectedly enter Malcolm's circumscribed world, in his backpack, no less, he deals with the situation just as a smart kid would: with foresight, false bravado and the assurance that he can problem-solve his way out of it.
Humor was pervasive, like when Malcolm's gay buddy Diggy shares that her parents took her to church to "pray away the gay" or he defends his college application's personal statement with, "If Neil Degrasse Tyson was writing about Ice Cube, this is what it would be."
A protracted conversation between white and black characters about the usage of the "n" word was riveting for delving into the various connotations the word has to different people.
I don't know what I found more satisfying about "Dope," the atypical characters (who were undoubtedly more common than the media acknowledge) or the lack of moralizing about the situations they found themselves in. Life happens and you deal with it and hopefully you still get into Harvard.
Post-movie, the crowd had a lively discussion about it, with many people justifying not having seen it at the theater because of a mistaken perception of what "Dope" was about. Some thought it got little attention because it's not a view of blacks that whites want to see (I disagree) and others thought that blacks like to keep great black films like this on the down low.
Personally, all I cared about was that I got to see such an interesting movie on the big screen after stuffing myself silly at brunch and making a couple of new friends. And I really dug the hash.
If it's okay for white people to use the "d" word, I'd call that a pretty dope morning.
The Afrikana Independent Film Fest and Feast RVA were doing a Movies and Mimosas family brunch and screening at Candela Gallery. Ticket in hand, I was practically the first guest to arrive, although it didn't hurt that it was four blocks from home, either.
Somehow, I'd never been to a Feast RVA event, 'though I was well aware of how they worked and their higher purposes (supporting up and coming start-ups). Today there was a Mimosa bar courtesy of Saison and a sumptuous brunch buffet that covered all the important bases.
Finding a good seat was paramount because we'd be watching a movie after brunch, so I staked out a front seat and was soon joined at my table by a fascinating woman who works at Tricycle Gardens and with whom I had loads to talk about.
Of the many things we agreed on, one was that we were both starving, so we made sure to get in line early to get the brunch ball rolling. Returning to the table, her handsome brother - another Tricycle Gardens staffer - joined us and I got to enjoy watching sibling banter after he asked me for some romantic places I liked to hang out in the evening.
No sister could hear that question and not wonder what woman her bro wants to romance, but after that tangent, I brought it back to laughter, which I always find romantic.
Having piled my plate high, I'd chosen from fried chicken from Lee's (if only there had been waffles), an absolutely killer hash of crispy Brussels sprouts, sweet potatoes and onions from Ellwood Thompson's (there was a buzz going around the room about that hash), fried fish and grits from Croaker's Spot, two kinds of quiche (I chose kale) and an assortment of sweet breads, cinnamon rolls and freshly-baked cookies, the latter courtesy of my new friend.
The three of us ate ourselves silly and then it was time for "Dope," a movie I hadn't even heard of, although it was apparently a darling at Sundance and played here briefly this summer.
Ridiculously funny, appealingly smart and with a casual attitude about three black high school geeks in the L.A. suburbs who only want to ace their SATs and move on to college, the movie dished up satire to dispel every black movie cliche.
Riffing on our time, one kids suggests, "How about small batch craft-brewed malt liquor?" How about it?
With the improbable name of Malcolm, complete devotion to '90s-era hip hop music and a flat top, our hero plays in a punk band (hilariously called Oreo) with his geeky friends, studies hard and is a virgin. Cheerfully irreverent, the film doesn't try to teach any hard lessons or point out any inequities, instead portraying a black coming of age story for geeks.
When the drug Molly unexpectedly enter Malcolm's circumscribed world, in his backpack, no less, he deals with the situation just as a smart kid would: with foresight, false bravado and the assurance that he can problem-solve his way out of it.
Humor was pervasive, like when Malcolm's gay buddy Diggy shares that her parents took her to church to "pray away the gay" or he defends his college application's personal statement with, "If Neil Degrasse Tyson was writing about Ice Cube, this is what it would be."
A protracted conversation between white and black characters about the usage of the "n" word was riveting for delving into the various connotations the word has to different people.
I don't know what I found more satisfying about "Dope," the atypical characters (who were undoubtedly more common than the media acknowledge) or the lack of moralizing about the situations they found themselves in. Life happens and you deal with it and hopefully you still get into Harvard.
Post-movie, the crowd had a lively discussion about it, with many people justifying not having seen it at the theater because of a mistaken perception of what "Dope" was about. Some thought it got little attention because it's not a view of blacks that whites want to see (I disagree) and others thought that blacks like to keep great black films like this on the down low.
Personally, all I cared about was that I got to see such an interesting movie on the big screen after stuffing myself silly at brunch and making a couple of new friends. And I really dug the hash.
If it's okay for white people to use the "d" word, I'd call that a pretty dope morning.
Friday, October 16, 2015
Excitement is Not Always Clean
When planning a culturally full evening, it's wise to save the depravity for last. Start with it and the rest of the night will seem mighty dull in comparison.
I like to think I'm too smart for a rookie mistake like that.
Moving outward by degrees over the course of the evening, my first stop was at nearby UR Downtown for Take 30, a quickie talk about the current exhibition, "All Our Sorrows Heal: Restoring Richmond's East End Cemetery."
Photographs of unearthed gravestones and the volunteer work being done at East End Cemetery made up the exhibition about the 16-acre property founded in 1897 where 13,000 blacks were buried. Because no arrangements had ever been put in place for perpetual care, the place had gone completely to ruin.
Enter professors Brian and Erin Holloway Palmer who were seeking a place where black history was being reclaimed by people using their hands. Setting set out to document all this, a massive project was born.
They were Take 30's featured speakers and Brian emphasized how every uncovered grave marker was a story connected to black history in Richmond at its height. Erin's job was then to research the names on the stones found and discover their story.
Part of their mission was to ignite interest in the ongoing effort (two of sixteen acres are cleared so far) and recruit volunteers to help with the weekly effort. Brian assured the room that once you uncover your first headstone, you become addicted to the process.
The goal, as he put it, is to achieve a balance of stories by reclaiming these Richmonders' stories to consider alongside those of more documented white Richmond residents. I have to admit, it makes me want to go out and see what's been accomplished so far.
Next came Afrikana Film Festival's Noir Cinema series at the new Ghostprint Gallery, tonight showing Zakee Kuduro's short film, "Rosemarie."
I'm that nerd who got there on time and as I was sitting there reading today's Washington Post, they were showing photos taken at past events. When my face came up on one of them, the photographer came over and pointed at it, saying, "Look, I got your good side!"
A matter of opinion, but I'll take your word for it.
Not long after, a guy came up and asked me if I was at Laney and Jameson's show last night, which I was. Chatting, I learned that he was a conservator who used to restore old houses (he was impressed with Ghostprint's new digs) but since the housing crash, now focuses on filmmaking and acting.
Sounds like more fun anyway.
The house was nearly full when "Rosemarie" began and we were immediately plunged into a very strange but visually fascinating world involving three characters who never spoke and a classical-sounding score written by the director, to the audience's great surprise ("I thought it was Bartok," one woman said).
Just before the film ended, the conservator got up to leave, handing me his card before he walked out. Should I assume I looked like I needed conserving? Nah.
When the lights came up, the first person to speak summed it up for all of us. "I got questions."
Everyone did. Who was the mysterious man who added articles of clothing gathered at each landing of a building's staircase? Why a bull mask and spurs on the boots? Why a mime's mask? Was that dancing or some sort of ritual?
Director Zakee Kuduro, a non-linear visual maker, explained a lot, but not the meaning behind his film. A Brazilian who said he registered to people as a black man, he'd gotten two scientific degrees before doing work for Gnarls Barley, Lilly Allen and M.I.A.
His was a refreshingly honest take on creating art. "I didn't come to art to be broke," he explained. "Why would I be sleeping on someone's couch because I love my art? Art doesn't love me that much."
He railed against the dearth of talented black directors, saying Spike Lee and John Singleton weren't doing anything anymore, so people like him needed to step up.
A big part of the appeal of Noir Cinema - besides seeing work that would never show in Richmond otherwise - is immediately getting to hear the director's thoughts and opinions without a filter.
But sometimes you want it even raunchier than filter-less and that's when you go to Bandito's. And speaking of filters, when it's your first time at a dive like Bandito's you don't go in knowing that it's one of those places people still smoke.
Cough, choke, sputter, my hair and clothes now reek of smoke. Thanks, Bandito's.
Such was the price I had to pay to see John Waters' "Female Trouble," a 1974 dark comedy starring Divine that I'm pretty sure I'd never seen before. Or maybe I just blocked it out.
It was showing on the bazillion screens around the room while a noisy, drunk crowd mostly ignored it except when genitalia flashed on screen or Divine was bouncing on a trampoline. I found a safe haven out of the fray to watch the seamy underbelly of Maryland circa 1974, a period in which I was also a resident of the state.
It's always hard to choose the least tasteless part of a John Waters' film, but it's so much fun to try.
Was it mother Dawn's abominable treatment of her daughter, Taffy ("She's getting tied to her bed for a week for this!") whom she eventually strangles to death?
Watching Taffy's drunk father try to convince his daughter to sexually service him?
Or was it multiple references to mass murderers ("Oh, Richard Speck, get me through this night!"), including one saying that she'd given him oral sex?
Oh, John Waters! You give us as many options as a Whitman's Sampler, except they're all disgusting ones.
But his dialog can be laugh out loud hysterical commentary ("The world of a heterosexual is a sick and boring life"), dated dialog ("You are not my Daddy, you disgusting hippie pig!") or just plain funny ("I'm going upstairs to soak in a hot beauty bath and try to forget the stink of a five-year marriage!").
Tonight's double feature was the kickoff to John Waters' visit to Richmond tomorrow night and while I'd have liked to have stayed to see "Pink Flamingos" after "Female Trouble," I'd had about all the Bandito's I could stand.
And now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to soak in a hot beauty bath and try to forget the stink of 90 minutes in a smoking chamber for the sake of classic trash.
Make that for the sake of art.
I like to think I'm too smart for a rookie mistake like that.
Moving outward by degrees over the course of the evening, my first stop was at nearby UR Downtown for Take 30, a quickie talk about the current exhibition, "All Our Sorrows Heal: Restoring Richmond's East End Cemetery."
Photographs of unearthed gravestones and the volunteer work being done at East End Cemetery made up the exhibition about the 16-acre property founded in 1897 where 13,000 blacks were buried. Because no arrangements had ever been put in place for perpetual care, the place had gone completely to ruin.
Enter professors Brian and Erin Holloway Palmer who were seeking a place where black history was being reclaimed by people using their hands. Setting set out to document all this, a massive project was born.
They were Take 30's featured speakers and Brian emphasized how every uncovered grave marker was a story connected to black history in Richmond at its height. Erin's job was then to research the names on the stones found and discover their story.
Part of their mission was to ignite interest in the ongoing effort (two of sixteen acres are cleared so far) and recruit volunteers to help with the weekly effort. Brian assured the room that once you uncover your first headstone, you become addicted to the process.
The goal, as he put it, is to achieve a balance of stories by reclaiming these Richmonders' stories to consider alongside those of more documented white Richmond residents. I have to admit, it makes me want to go out and see what's been accomplished so far.
Next came Afrikana Film Festival's Noir Cinema series at the new Ghostprint Gallery, tonight showing Zakee Kuduro's short film, "Rosemarie."
I'm that nerd who got there on time and as I was sitting there reading today's Washington Post, they were showing photos taken at past events. When my face came up on one of them, the photographer came over and pointed at it, saying, "Look, I got your good side!"
A matter of opinion, but I'll take your word for it.
Not long after, a guy came up and asked me if I was at Laney and Jameson's show last night, which I was. Chatting, I learned that he was a conservator who used to restore old houses (he was impressed with Ghostprint's new digs) but since the housing crash, now focuses on filmmaking and acting.
Sounds like more fun anyway.
The house was nearly full when "Rosemarie" began and we were immediately plunged into a very strange but visually fascinating world involving three characters who never spoke and a classical-sounding score written by the director, to the audience's great surprise ("I thought it was Bartok," one woman said).
Just before the film ended, the conservator got up to leave, handing me his card before he walked out. Should I assume I looked like I needed conserving? Nah.
When the lights came up, the first person to speak summed it up for all of us. "I got questions."
Everyone did. Who was the mysterious man who added articles of clothing gathered at each landing of a building's staircase? Why a bull mask and spurs on the boots? Why a mime's mask? Was that dancing or some sort of ritual?
Director Zakee Kuduro, a non-linear visual maker, explained a lot, but not the meaning behind his film. A Brazilian who said he registered to people as a black man, he'd gotten two scientific degrees before doing work for Gnarls Barley, Lilly Allen and M.I.A.
His was a refreshingly honest take on creating art. "I didn't come to art to be broke," he explained. "Why would I be sleeping on someone's couch because I love my art? Art doesn't love me that much."
He railed against the dearth of talented black directors, saying Spike Lee and John Singleton weren't doing anything anymore, so people like him needed to step up.
A big part of the appeal of Noir Cinema - besides seeing work that would never show in Richmond otherwise - is immediately getting to hear the director's thoughts and opinions without a filter.
But sometimes you want it even raunchier than filter-less and that's when you go to Bandito's. And speaking of filters, when it's your first time at a dive like Bandito's you don't go in knowing that it's one of those places people still smoke.
Cough, choke, sputter, my hair and clothes now reek of smoke. Thanks, Bandito's.
Such was the price I had to pay to see John Waters' "Female Trouble," a 1974 dark comedy starring Divine that I'm pretty sure I'd never seen before. Or maybe I just blocked it out.
It was showing on the bazillion screens around the room while a noisy, drunk crowd mostly ignored it except when genitalia flashed on screen or Divine was bouncing on a trampoline. I found a safe haven out of the fray to watch the seamy underbelly of Maryland circa 1974, a period in which I was also a resident of the state.
It's always hard to choose the least tasteless part of a John Waters' film, but it's so much fun to try.
Was it mother Dawn's abominable treatment of her daughter, Taffy ("She's getting tied to her bed for a week for this!") whom she eventually strangles to death?
Watching Taffy's drunk father try to convince his daughter to sexually service him?
Or was it multiple references to mass murderers ("Oh, Richard Speck, get me through this night!"), including one saying that she'd given him oral sex?
Oh, John Waters! You give us as many options as a Whitman's Sampler, except they're all disgusting ones.
But his dialog can be laugh out loud hysterical commentary ("The world of a heterosexual is a sick and boring life"), dated dialog ("You are not my Daddy, you disgusting hippie pig!") or just plain funny ("I'm going upstairs to soak in a hot beauty bath and try to forget the stink of a five-year marriage!").
Tonight's double feature was the kickoff to John Waters' visit to Richmond tomorrow night and while I'd have liked to have stayed to see "Pink Flamingos" after "Female Trouble," I'd had about all the Bandito's I could stand.
And now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to soak in a hot beauty bath and try to forget the stink of 90 minutes in a smoking chamber for the sake of classic trash.
Make that for the sake of art.
Friday, August 21, 2015
Theater of the Field
It feels like summer is slipping away.
I figure tonight's outdoor movie may the last of the season. After last night's 3 a.m. bedtime, I thought I'd take a quick nap before the film, only to wake up at 7:15 to fading daylight. Given the cooler temperature, I made sure to bring a sweater to the movie. Say it isn't so, summer.
I stopped by Tarrant's to-go on my way to Tredegar, in need of some fried chicken for a movie snack and wound up running into the new bride of a favorite bartender. We lamented August's rush to September and how we still want more time at the beach and river.
From last month's Starry Night Cinema Lawn Chair Series I'd learned that I didn't need to tote along my lawn chair and instead took one of the folding chairs set up in the grassy field above the iron works to enjoy my chicken dinner and the lights of downtown.
Last time, it was after 9 before it was dark enough to begin the film but not so tonight (sniff), I'm afraid. I'd barely wiped the grease off my fingers when the documentary "Evolution of a Criminal" was introduced.
I've been an avowed documentary dork for longer than I can remember, but I've never seen a documentary where the filmmaker (Darius Clark Monroe) is also the subject of the film. It can be a tad disconcerting to watch as subjects in the film answer Monroe's questions about his youthful bad behavior directly to him.
And what bad behavior! By age 16, his parents are in such dire financial straits that the teenager decides to get a couple friends to help him rob a bank to help his family's situation. Only a teenager could decide on such a foolish plan and not see the million red flags waving.
So of course they're eventually caught and Monroe is sentenced to five years in jail at age 17. It's tragic, but it's only right. The kid did rob a band, terrorizing customers with a gun and leaving with $140,000.
Interviewing his parents, grandmother, cousins, schoolmates and teachers, he asks the hard questions about who he was and if they ever expected such behavior out of him (no one had). One aunt admits that six people in their extended family have been to jail, so maybe it's in the kid's blood.
Still, it's unnerving to have a subject talk to the camera using the pronoun "you" as they share their memories with Monroe. When he talks about his time in prison, he says it's the mundane stuff he misses: washing dishes, taking out trash, smiling at his parents. It's intensely moving stuff.
But the best part of the story is that he gets his GED while in prison and when he gets out, he applies to NYU, having decided he wants to be a filmmaker and tell his story. For the record, he does not mention his prior convict status when he applies to the school.
Later he interviews some of his film professors, asking if they'd have treated him differently if they'd known. Sadly, they say the answer is probably, yes. The white, Texan district attorney who prosecuted him says she's happy he's turned his life around for now, but she won't believe it's true until he's 50 and still out of trouble. Ouch. Talk about racial profiling.
Call me gullible, but I saw a straight A kid who took honors classes and was psychologically affected by his family's poverty, making a stupid uninformed decision to "fix" the situation at a point in his young life when he wasn't capable of making truly thoughtful choices. After tonight, I also saw a gifted filmmaker, one I'm curious to see develop other stories beyond his own cautionary tale.
Afrikana Film Festival had chosen another outstanding offering by a black filmmaker, one I wouldn't have seen if they hadn't brought it to town.
Part of the charm of an outdoor movie is not being hemmed in by four walls while watching. Midway through tonight's film, fireworks began exploding over near Oregon Hill. A long freight train chugged along the river, its screeching competing with the movie's soundtrack. Someone sent four lit sky lanterns burning orange and sparkly soaring into the black sky.
Walking back to my car, I saw people walking along the riverfront under a clear sky and a yellow wedge of a moon. Realizing that nights this lovely are to be enjoyed while we still can, I joined them.
Gather ye summer nights while ye may. Color me wistful to see another warm season on its way out.
I figure tonight's outdoor movie may the last of the season. After last night's 3 a.m. bedtime, I thought I'd take a quick nap before the film, only to wake up at 7:15 to fading daylight. Given the cooler temperature, I made sure to bring a sweater to the movie. Say it isn't so, summer.
I stopped by Tarrant's to-go on my way to Tredegar, in need of some fried chicken for a movie snack and wound up running into the new bride of a favorite bartender. We lamented August's rush to September and how we still want more time at the beach and river.
From last month's Starry Night Cinema Lawn Chair Series I'd learned that I didn't need to tote along my lawn chair and instead took one of the folding chairs set up in the grassy field above the iron works to enjoy my chicken dinner and the lights of downtown.
Last time, it was after 9 before it was dark enough to begin the film but not so tonight (sniff), I'm afraid. I'd barely wiped the grease off my fingers when the documentary "Evolution of a Criminal" was introduced.
I've been an avowed documentary dork for longer than I can remember, but I've never seen a documentary where the filmmaker (Darius Clark Monroe) is also the subject of the film. It can be a tad disconcerting to watch as subjects in the film answer Monroe's questions about his youthful bad behavior directly to him.
And what bad behavior! By age 16, his parents are in such dire financial straits that the teenager decides to get a couple friends to help him rob a bank to help his family's situation. Only a teenager could decide on such a foolish plan and not see the million red flags waving.
So of course they're eventually caught and Monroe is sentenced to five years in jail at age 17. It's tragic, but it's only right. The kid did rob a band, terrorizing customers with a gun and leaving with $140,000.
Interviewing his parents, grandmother, cousins, schoolmates and teachers, he asks the hard questions about who he was and if they ever expected such behavior out of him (no one had). One aunt admits that six people in their extended family have been to jail, so maybe it's in the kid's blood.
Still, it's unnerving to have a subject talk to the camera using the pronoun "you" as they share their memories with Monroe. When he talks about his time in prison, he says it's the mundane stuff he misses: washing dishes, taking out trash, smiling at his parents. It's intensely moving stuff.
But the best part of the story is that he gets his GED while in prison and when he gets out, he applies to NYU, having decided he wants to be a filmmaker and tell his story. For the record, he does not mention his prior convict status when he applies to the school.
Later he interviews some of his film professors, asking if they'd have treated him differently if they'd known. Sadly, they say the answer is probably, yes. The white, Texan district attorney who prosecuted him says she's happy he's turned his life around for now, but she won't believe it's true until he's 50 and still out of trouble. Ouch. Talk about racial profiling.
Call me gullible, but I saw a straight A kid who took honors classes and was psychologically affected by his family's poverty, making a stupid uninformed decision to "fix" the situation at a point in his young life when he wasn't capable of making truly thoughtful choices. After tonight, I also saw a gifted filmmaker, one I'm curious to see develop other stories beyond his own cautionary tale.
Afrikana Film Festival had chosen another outstanding offering by a black filmmaker, one I wouldn't have seen if they hadn't brought it to town.
Part of the charm of an outdoor movie is not being hemmed in by four walls while watching. Midway through tonight's film, fireworks began exploding over near Oregon Hill. A long freight train chugged along the river, its screeching competing with the movie's soundtrack. Someone sent four lit sky lanterns burning orange and sparkly soaring into the black sky.
Walking back to my car, I saw people walking along the riverfront under a clear sky and a yellow wedge of a moon. Realizing that nights this lovely are to be enjoyed while we still can, I joined them.
Gather ye summer nights while ye may. Color me wistful to see another warm season on its way out.
Saturday, July 18, 2015
Keepin' It Fresh
Summer's in full swing with my second outdoor movie of the week.
Richmond may not have a drive-in, but that doesn't stop outdoor movie lovers from pining for cinema under the stars. Tonight's showing was courtesy of the Afrikana Film Fest and marked the premiere of their new Starry Nite Cinema lawn chair series. Count me in.
Even better, they were screening "Fresh Dressed," which I'd read a review of in the Washington Post almost a month ago but was certain would never play RVA. And, technically, it didn't, since no local theaters booked it.
I know, I know, you're scratching your head wondering why in the world a middle-aged white woman was interested in a film chronicling the complex relationship between fashion and hip-hop. Simple: I'm a documentary dork and I find fashion history fascinating (I just saw "Iris" just last month).
The screening was being hosted on the hill behind Tredegar Iron Works, a great location given that it boasted free parking in their lot and a fine view of the downtown skyline - first in the glow of the sunset and then lit up within - and a narrow peek at the Manchester Bridge high up between two of Tredegar's buildings.
Although I'd brought a chair, I arrived early enough to score a seat in the second row of plastic folding chairs set up in front of the screen.
Off to the left were heart balloons, which indicated the area where Speed Dating RVA was set up beforehand for those "who have a blanket but no boo." Tempted as I was (and I was very, very tempted...for journalistic reasons, of course), I had elected not to sign up.
The film laid out its premise from the opening scenes: being "fresh" meant more than having money to black culture. Even if you didn't have money (or a nice house or a car), you could dress stylishly.
It was an expression of aspiration.
Like all good documentaries, this one had plenty of archival footage, in this case dating back to the '70s and '80s, but the history lesson actually began in slave times when masters ensured that their slaves had Sunday clothes for church.
Explaining that black culture had a unique approach to fashion, they looked at the music's fashions from gospel to jazz to R & B to hip hop, using Little Richard's colorful wardrobe as a particularly strong example of wardrobe demonstrating freedom (to dress like a black Liberace, in this case).
The film traced street fashion's beginnings to the gangs in the Bronx in the '70s through the B boys of the '80s and the glut of hip hop artists with their own clothing lines by the '90s.
Urban boutique owner Dapper Dan, an institution apparently, explains how he started making Louis Vuitton hats and shoes to "blackenize" them, to make them look good on blacks. He says that for 8 years, his shop was open 24 hours a day with occasional 3-hour closings to nap.
I gotta say, this was one of the most educational documentaries I've seen. The bright colors that defined the fashions? Ripped from graffiti artists. The crux of hip hop fashion? You build your outfit off your shoes.
How did Tommy Hilfiger get so popular on the streets? Took his clothes to the hood and passed them out for free. Like a drug dealer, he hooked the kids on the style and then they had to keep buying more.
The film had a terrific sense of humor, putting up definitions for street terms the audience might not know. Urban customer: (noun): scary black or Latino person who wants to spend money.
For those of a certain age, it was also nostalgic, since every decade's urban style represented something I recalled seeing at the time, if only on "In Living Color."
Fully engaged in the movie, it was a shock when the screen suddenly went blank with less than 15 minutes to the end. After a short intermission, the film picked up where it left off, explaining how rappers now aspire to runway fashion over streetwear. Still aspirational, just to a different aesthetic.
Afterwards, I chatted about the documentary with one of the three people - two of whom were jazz guitarists - I'd seen tonight and knew. He recalled what a big deal his first pair of Ecko jeans had been to him in middle school in the '90s.
Can't say I could relate, except to our mutual agreement that it had been a perfect evening for a fashion lesson under the stars...even without a boo for my blanket.
Richmond may not have a drive-in, but that doesn't stop outdoor movie lovers from pining for cinema under the stars. Tonight's showing was courtesy of the Afrikana Film Fest and marked the premiere of their new Starry Nite Cinema lawn chair series. Count me in.
Even better, they were screening "Fresh Dressed," which I'd read a review of in the Washington Post almost a month ago but was certain would never play RVA. And, technically, it didn't, since no local theaters booked it.
I know, I know, you're scratching your head wondering why in the world a middle-aged white woman was interested in a film chronicling the complex relationship between fashion and hip-hop. Simple: I'm a documentary dork and I find fashion history fascinating (I just saw "Iris" just last month).
The screening was being hosted on the hill behind Tredegar Iron Works, a great location given that it boasted free parking in their lot and a fine view of the downtown skyline - first in the glow of the sunset and then lit up within - and a narrow peek at the Manchester Bridge high up between two of Tredegar's buildings.
Although I'd brought a chair, I arrived early enough to score a seat in the second row of plastic folding chairs set up in front of the screen.
Off to the left were heart balloons, which indicated the area where Speed Dating RVA was set up beforehand for those "who have a blanket but no boo." Tempted as I was (and I was very, very tempted...for journalistic reasons, of course), I had elected not to sign up.
The film laid out its premise from the opening scenes: being "fresh" meant more than having money to black culture. Even if you didn't have money (or a nice house or a car), you could dress stylishly.
It was an expression of aspiration.
Like all good documentaries, this one had plenty of archival footage, in this case dating back to the '70s and '80s, but the history lesson actually began in slave times when masters ensured that their slaves had Sunday clothes for church.
Explaining that black culture had a unique approach to fashion, they looked at the music's fashions from gospel to jazz to R & B to hip hop, using Little Richard's colorful wardrobe as a particularly strong example of wardrobe demonstrating freedom (to dress like a black Liberace, in this case).
The film traced street fashion's beginnings to the gangs in the Bronx in the '70s through the B boys of the '80s and the glut of hip hop artists with their own clothing lines by the '90s.
Urban boutique owner Dapper Dan, an institution apparently, explains how he started making Louis Vuitton hats and shoes to "blackenize" them, to make them look good on blacks. He says that for 8 years, his shop was open 24 hours a day with occasional 3-hour closings to nap.
I gotta say, this was one of the most educational documentaries I've seen. The bright colors that defined the fashions? Ripped from graffiti artists. The crux of hip hop fashion? You build your outfit off your shoes.
How did Tommy Hilfiger get so popular on the streets? Took his clothes to the hood and passed them out for free. Like a drug dealer, he hooked the kids on the style and then they had to keep buying more.
The film had a terrific sense of humor, putting up definitions for street terms the audience might not know. Urban customer: (noun): scary black or Latino person who wants to spend money.
For those of a certain age, it was also nostalgic, since every decade's urban style represented something I recalled seeing at the time, if only on "In Living Color."
Fully engaged in the movie, it was a shock when the screen suddenly went blank with less than 15 minutes to the end. After a short intermission, the film picked up where it left off, explaining how rappers now aspire to runway fashion over streetwear. Still aspirational, just to a different aesthetic.
Afterwards, I chatted about the documentary with one of the three people - two of whom were jazz guitarists - I'd seen tonight and knew. He recalled what a big deal his first pair of Ecko jeans had been to him in middle school in the '90s.
Can't say I could relate, except to our mutual agreement that it had been a perfect evening for a fashion lesson under the stars...even without a boo for my blanket.
Friday, March 20, 2015
Prove It All Night
Never believe a man who tells you his fish is this big. Unless, of course, he shows you a picture to prove it.
I saw not one but three funeral processions on my walk this morning. I spent all afternoon inside my head and on the computer first making story pitches to my editor and then writing a snappy piece about a tenth anniversary. Enough already.
By early evening, I was more than ready to go on a date with myself. First stop, the Magpie since it had been a while.
The bar was all mine and as far as the two tables of young couples were concerned, I was invisible drinking Tenuta di Tavignano Verdicchio, spooning up my potato, cauliflower and Manchego soup and reading my Washington Post. Fine by me.
The sweetest story I read concerned a documentary about Lady Bird Johnson's beautification efforts (which I'm sure we'll never see in Richmond).
When Congress was stalling on LBJ's highway beautification bill, he's shown telling his Cabinet, "You know that I love that woman. And she wants that highway beautification bill and by god, we're going to get it for her!"
I don't know about you, but I have only admiration for a man who not only has beagles but is up front about telling his coworkers on camera he loves his wife. Very nicely done, LBJ.
With the radio set to the Old 97s, the bartender and I discussed the ordering of music genres at a restaurant. He was telling me that this station would soon be replaced by something louder and more raucous, say T Rex or Bowie, as the evening progressed. He was impressed that I'd seen the Old 97s while he'd just recently been unable to get off work to catch them at the Jefferson.
I ordered a special of beef tri-tip carpaccio topped by white bean and onion salad, housemade Bloody Mary mix and olive oil, enjoying the savory salad almost as much as the tri-tip. What I wasn't enjoying was an article about Meerkat, the breakout app at SXSW.
Tell me we don't really need a live streaming app that lets iPhone users share real-time video directly to their Twitter feed. People talk about how tangible it feels, as if they were really there. The awful part, as the article points out, is that we're redefining "experience" from something you actually do to something you witness digitally.
I don't know that I want to be part of a world where seeing something on a tiny screen replaces experiencing it in real life, but I fear that ship has already sailed.
Setting the paper aside, I decided to focus on my reality and indulge in another of the evening's specials. The chef had been showing off a photograph of the four-foot rockfish he'd gotten in today, a truly impressive specimen, its head as long as his chef's knife.
What spoke to me was rockfish collar, also on special tonight. First rule of fish eating: never pass up a chance for collar.
Basted in lime, honey and tequila before being pan fried and served with pistachios and peppers, it looked as fabulous as it tasted. Flipping it over to get at the hunks of white meat, I was soon eating with my fingers as if it were a whole fish.
All I can say is, no live stream could possibly convey the succulence of this rockfish collar.
When I looked up from my fish feast, I realized the two young couples had been replaced by four middle-aged couples. The times they were a -changin' and if the grown-ups had arrived, it was time for me to leave.
I'd taken so long digging out every morsel of collar that I was almost late to the Noir Cinema series, this month at Ghostprint Gallery. After finding a seat, a handsome man with braids sat down in my row only to check his phone and look at me sadly. "VCU just lost in overtime," he informed me in his deep voice.
What a shame. Let's talk.
Tonight's film was "Jump" by filmmaker Anthony Harper who'd made it as his senior thesis at Howard University. The short film was set in rural Virginia and focused on a disabled mother and her college-bound son.
I saw it as a power struggle between generations as a parent refuses to let go of a child, a universal theme told in a succinct and beautifully-filmed way. During the Q & A, I was fascinated as people brought up points I hadn't even noticed.
One person was impressed that the main character, a high school student, had been shown as part of an intact black family. Another was struck by how matter of factly it was presented that all the black high school kids shown had college plans.
All I could think was how the media must constantly rely on black cultural stereotypes in mass media for things like these to stand out to people. They hadn't even occurred to me, perhaps because I'm not black.
That's one of the reasons I enjoy the Noir Cinema series so much. Getting to hear how others interpret black-made films about black characters is reliably a reality check on the state of our supposedly post-race society.
When the evening ended, I wandered up to Bistro 27 for dessert. Walking in, a smiling woman asked me if I was a nurse. Do I look capable enough to be a nurse?
She asked because there was an event for nurses happening, but I sidled by them and made my way to the bar for dessert. Chocolate pate with fresh whipped cream and blackberries may not have been what I needed, but it definitely qualified for what I wanted.
As luck would have it, a friend showed up and we wiled away a little time chatting about upcoming trips, the best place for a quick breakfast and sliced versus chunks of pastrami on a sandwich (I'll take either).
Before we knew it, a light rain was starting and since I'd walked over, it seemed like a good time to begin heading home.
Which means I got a little wet because I wasn't watching a live stream of a woman walking in the rain after eating rockfish collar and discussing race, I was actually walking in the rain.
And by god, that's the way I want it.
I saw not one but three funeral processions on my walk this morning. I spent all afternoon inside my head and on the computer first making story pitches to my editor and then writing a snappy piece about a tenth anniversary. Enough already.
By early evening, I was more than ready to go on a date with myself. First stop, the Magpie since it had been a while.
The bar was all mine and as far as the two tables of young couples were concerned, I was invisible drinking Tenuta di Tavignano Verdicchio, spooning up my potato, cauliflower and Manchego soup and reading my Washington Post. Fine by me.
The sweetest story I read concerned a documentary about Lady Bird Johnson's beautification efforts (which I'm sure we'll never see in Richmond).
When Congress was stalling on LBJ's highway beautification bill, he's shown telling his Cabinet, "You know that I love that woman. And she wants that highway beautification bill and by god, we're going to get it for her!"
I don't know about you, but I have only admiration for a man who not only has beagles but is up front about telling his coworkers on camera he loves his wife. Very nicely done, LBJ.
With the radio set to the Old 97s, the bartender and I discussed the ordering of music genres at a restaurant. He was telling me that this station would soon be replaced by something louder and more raucous, say T Rex or Bowie, as the evening progressed. He was impressed that I'd seen the Old 97s while he'd just recently been unable to get off work to catch them at the Jefferson.
I ordered a special of beef tri-tip carpaccio topped by white bean and onion salad, housemade Bloody Mary mix and olive oil, enjoying the savory salad almost as much as the tri-tip. What I wasn't enjoying was an article about Meerkat, the breakout app at SXSW.
Tell me we don't really need a live streaming app that lets iPhone users share real-time video directly to their Twitter feed. People talk about how tangible it feels, as if they were really there. The awful part, as the article points out, is that we're redefining "experience" from something you actually do to something you witness digitally.
I don't know that I want to be part of a world where seeing something on a tiny screen replaces experiencing it in real life, but I fear that ship has already sailed.
Setting the paper aside, I decided to focus on my reality and indulge in another of the evening's specials. The chef had been showing off a photograph of the four-foot rockfish he'd gotten in today, a truly impressive specimen, its head as long as his chef's knife.
What spoke to me was rockfish collar, also on special tonight. First rule of fish eating: never pass up a chance for collar.
Basted in lime, honey and tequila before being pan fried and served with pistachios and peppers, it looked as fabulous as it tasted. Flipping it over to get at the hunks of white meat, I was soon eating with my fingers as if it were a whole fish.
All I can say is, no live stream could possibly convey the succulence of this rockfish collar.
When I looked up from my fish feast, I realized the two young couples had been replaced by four middle-aged couples. The times they were a -changin' and if the grown-ups had arrived, it was time for me to leave.
I'd taken so long digging out every morsel of collar that I was almost late to the Noir Cinema series, this month at Ghostprint Gallery. After finding a seat, a handsome man with braids sat down in my row only to check his phone and look at me sadly. "VCU just lost in overtime," he informed me in his deep voice.
What a shame. Let's talk.
Tonight's film was "Jump" by filmmaker Anthony Harper who'd made it as his senior thesis at Howard University. The short film was set in rural Virginia and focused on a disabled mother and her college-bound son.
I saw it as a power struggle between generations as a parent refuses to let go of a child, a universal theme told in a succinct and beautifully-filmed way. During the Q & A, I was fascinated as people brought up points I hadn't even noticed.
One person was impressed that the main character, a high school student, had been shown as part of an intact black family. Another was struck by how matter of factly it was presented that all the black high school kids shown had college plans.
All I could think was how the media must constantly rely on black cultural stereotypes in mass media for things like these to stand out to people. They hadn't even occurred to me, perhaps because I'm not black.
That's one of the reasons I enjoy the Noir Cinema series so much. Getting to hear how others interpret black-made films about black characters is reliably a reality check on the state of our supposedly post-race society.
When the evening ended, I wandered up to Bistro 27 for dessert. Walking in, a smiling woman asked me if I was a nurse. Do I look capable enough to be a nurse?
She asked because there was an event for nurses happening, but I sidled by them and made my way to the bar for dessert. Chocolate pate with fresh whipped cream and blackberries may not have been what I needed, but it definitely qualified for what I wanted.
As luck would have it, a friend showed up and we wiled away a little time chatting about upcoming trips, the best place for a quick breakfast and sliced versus chunks of pastrami on a sandwich (I'll take either).
Before we knew it, a light rain was starting and since I'd walked over, it seemed like a good time to begin heading home.
Which means I got a little wet because I wasn't watching a live stream of a woman walking in the rain after eating rockfish collar and discussing race, I was actually walking in the rain.
And by god, that's the way I want it.
Monday, November 24, 2014
Power Show
My day began with a walk over the Lee Bridge to stretch my legs before an all-day adventure.
There was a plan: go to southside and turn away from the sign for Huguenot Springs Cemetery and toward the artisan open house at historic Huguenot Springs.
The idea was that there'd be all kinds of artisans displaying wares - pottery, jewelry, homemade foodstuffs, paintings - along with munchables and fresh, country (ish) air on a bucolic property.
How better to begin a crisp Sunday afternoon?
Reason to go: Luke Flesichman's whimsical painted metal sculpture. Favorite bite at SausageCraft's counter: salted hog jowl. Coolest vendor space: an Airstream trailer. Loveliest soap dishes: Triple A Potters. Crunchiest contribution: Manakintowne Growers. Most talked about offering: Tutu Fab (because everyone needs a tutu?).
Scenes from an afternoon: The heart pine floors in all the old buildings that houses vendors. Crisp leaves underfoot, in some places ankle-deep. Wine for sharing with friends provided by James River Cellars by default (only winery). Of course I didn't buy anything, but I looked at a lot.
The only horsewoman I know was dressed to the nines in a leopard print hat and gloves, black dress, silver jewelry, black fishnets and boots. I've never seen her so gussied up. The country squire who moonlights as a WRIR DJ shared the details of his upcoming sojourn to Jamaica.
Leaving all that behind, we set out in search of lunch, finding it at Mediterraneo, a generic-looking Italian place in a strip mall. Pane e Vino southside, so to speak, at a table with a view of the parking lot.
What it had going for it was a six top of Italian speakers at a nearby table, gesturing, talking loudly and eating non-stop. I did notice that when the patriarch went to the bathroom, though, the group reverted to English.
On the other side of the room, a multi-generational family spanning 83 years celebrated Grammy's 84th birthday. I'll give Gram credit, though, she had wine with lunch and triple chocolate cake afterwards, so she clearly still knows how to live right.
Long a fan of salad with protein, I reached back to memories of my 821 Cafe days for a baby arugula salad with craisins, Gorgonzola, apples and steak in a tarragon vinaigrette alongside Massone "Vigneto Masera" Gavi (just a tad past its prime) for a satisfying late afternoon meal.
Rain had begun when we headed back into the city for something completely different.
This documentary dork wanted to go to the Byrd Theater to see "Finding Fela," put on by the Afrikana Film Festival. African drummers played in the lobby. With overly buttered popcorn and Milk Duds in hand, we joined the throngs of film and music lovers wedging themselves into the ancient seats.
The women behind us had brought a box of fried chicken. Wish I'd thought of that.
I'd expected to see more music-loving friends than I did (one film friend was about it) given that Fela Kuti is the man responsible for giving the world Afrobeat - a melange of American funk and African rhythms - while writing songs that criticized the corrupt Nigerian government of the '70s and '80s.
The movie used the framing device of rehearsals of the 2009 Broadway production of "Fela!" but it was the old clips of the real Fela that were mesmerizing. Just to be clear, I mean that in a good and bad way.
The man had a true presence, a natural charisma and an ear for creating intricate, funky music with killer horns. His dancers were equally impressive moving to the poly-rhythms.
But he also married 27 women (he called them queens) at one time and believed it was okay to do whatever he wanted to them. A chauvinist pig of the highest order.
It was fascinating to learn how his music progressed; his early songs were about things like soup but after a trip to the U.S. and exposure to the Black Power movement and James Brown's music, he began writing lyrics that called out the Nigerian government, for which he was repeatedly beaten and jailed. In one scene, he shows his scarred body to the camera.
Given the strength of his music (and the size of the spliffs he smoked), it's hard to comprehend how he didn't catch on globally like Bob Marley did, but the film explains that because his songs went on for 20, 30 minutes, they weren't radio friendly. And we know it's all about the radio friendly.
Here was a movie that showed at Sundance in January and opened nationally a few months ago but never made it to Richmond. Kudos to the Afrikana Film Fest for giving music and film devotees a chance to know more about a remarkable musician and activist.
Not to mention it had a great beat and made me want to dance to it. I give my day a 9.
There was a plan: go to southside and turn away from the sign for Huguenot Springs Cemetery and toward the artisan open house at historic Huguenot Springs.
The idea was that there'd be all kinds of artisans displaying wares - pottery, jewelry, homemade foodstuffs, paintings - along with munchables and fresh, country (ish) air on a bucolic property.
How better to begin a crisp Sunday afternoon?
Reason to go: Luke Flesichman's whimsical painted metal sculpture. Favorite bite at SausageCraft's counter: salted hog jowl. Coolest vendor space: an Airstream trailer. Loveliest soap dishes: Triple A Potters. Crunchiest contribution: Manakintowne Growers. Most talked about offering: Tutu Fab (because everyone needs a tutu?).
Scenes from an afternoon: The heart pine floors in all the old buildings that houses vendors. Crisp leaves underfoot, in some places ankle-deep. Wine for sharing with friends provided by James River Cellars by default (only winery). Of course I didn't buy anything, but I looked at a lot.
The only horsewoman I know was dressed to the nines in a leopard print hat and gloves, black dress, silver jewelry, black fishnets and boots. I've never seen her so gussied up. The country squire who moonlights as a WRIR DJ shared the details of his upcoming sojourn to Jamaica.
Leaving all that behind, we set out in search of lunch, finding it at Mediterraneo, a generic-looking Italian place in a strip mall. Pane e Vino southside, so to speak, at a table with a view of the parking lot.
What it had going for it was a six top of Italian speakers at a nearby table, gesturing, talking loudly and eating non-stop. I did notice that when the patriarch went to the bathroom, though, the group reverted to English.
On the other side of the room, a multi-generational family spanning 83 years celebrated Grammy's 84th birthday. I'll give Gram credit, though, she had wine with lunch and triple chocolate cake afterwards, so she clearly still knows how to live right.
Long a fan of salad with protein, I reached back to memories of my 821 Cafe days for a baby arugula salad with craisins, Gorgonzola, apples and steak in a tarragon vinaigrette alongside Massone "Vigneto Masera" Gavi (just a tad past its prime) for a satisfying late afternoon meal.
Rain had begun when we headed back into the city for something completely different.
This documentary dork wanted to go to the Byrd Theater to see "Finding Fela," put on by the Afrikana Film Festival. African drummers played in the lobby. With overly buttered popcorn and Milk Duds in hand, we joined the throngs of film and music lovers wedging themselves into the ancient seats.
The women behind us had brought a box of fried chicken. Wish I'd thought of that.
I'd expected to see more music-loving friends than I did (one film friend was about it) given that Fela Kuti is the man responsible for giving the world Afrobeat - a melange of American funk and African rhythms - while writing songs that criticized the corrupt Nigerian government of the '70s and '80s.
The movie used the framing device of rehearsals of the 2009 Broadway production of "Fela!" but it was the old clips of the real Fela that were mesmerizing. Just to be clear, I mean that in a good and bad way.
The man had a true presence, a natural charisma and an ear for creating intricate, funky music with killer horns. His dancers were equally impressive moving to the poly-rhythms.
But he also married 27 women (he called them queens) at one time and believed it was okay to do whatever he wanted to them. A chauvinist pig of the highest order.
It was fascinating to learn how his music progressed; his early songs were about things like soup but after a trip to the U.S. and exposure to the Black Power movement and James Brown's music, he began writing lyrics that called out the Nigerian government, for which he was repeatedly beaten and jailed. In one scene, he shows his scarred body to the camera.
Given the strength of his music (and the size of the spliffs he smoked), it's hard to comprehend how he didn't catch on globally like Bob Marley did, but the film explains that because his songs went on for 20, 30 minutes, they weren't radio friendly. And we know it's all about the radio friendly.
Here was a movie that showed at Sundance in January and opened nationally a few months ago but never made it to Richmond. Kudos to the Afrikana Film Fest for giving music and film devotees a chance to know more about a remarkable musician and activist.
Not to mention it had a great beat and made me want to dance to it. I give my day a 9.
Friday, November 21, 2014
The Deep and the Shallow
Brag about your neighborhood all you want, it can't top mine.
That's because I can walk out of my door at night (after spending the afternoon with a 78-year old artist in his enormous Carver studio laughing and talking about art and life) and find the most interesting things to do within a five block radius.
The first was the Noir Cinema series, a monthly opportunity to see a black-made short film and hear about it from the filmmaker, tonight being held at Candela Books & Art. Walking in, a gallerist mentioned my art piece in this week's Style Weekly, noting that his wife had decided after reading the piece that she wanted to buy one of the pieces at Ghostprint Gallery.
It's always thrilling to know that something I write spurs people into action, especially when an artist stands to make money off of it.
There were maybe 25 people there when I arrived, so I laid my bag on a chair with a good view and went next door to buy a hot chocolate at Lift. The guy frothing the milk made sure I knew they closed in five minutes, but I informed him it was for the movie next door. Suddenly he looks at me differently.
"Oh, you're going to the Noir Film at Candela?" he asks. "That's so cool."
Back in my seat for the movie, a guy I know from music shows approaches and we start talking about Candela. "I love this place," he says. "This is like a gallery you'd see in San Francisco or New York City." He should know; he moved here a couple of years ago after 20 years in San Fran.
People kept arriving and finally the film "Contamination" was introduced, with the information that it was its sixth film festival screening and the Virginia premiere.
The film was a brief but compelling look at obsessive compulsive disorder through the lens of a character who hasn't left her apartment in over a year for fear of germs and getting sick. She scrubbed her hands fastidiously, wore latex gloves and an air mask and generally did nothing beyond cleaning things.
When the movie stopped abruptly midway through due to technological difficulties, I was disturbed to see some people immediately pull out their phones. Soapbox: people have lost the ability to wait for anything without looking at a screen. It's tragic.
Once rolling again, we watched as the woman tried to deal with her mental illness while losing all contact with the outside world. Eventually she reached out and the film ended.
Director R. Shanea took the director's chair in front of the room and told us a bit about how she'd come to make the film, hoping to provide a voice for mental illness in the black community, apparently something often swept under the rug and ignored.
A question and answer period followed with as many questions about the making of the movie ($7,000 and two 13-hour days filming) as about the topic (she suffers from anxiety issues). When asked how she'd gotten the lead actress, she gave the expected 21st-century answer: Facebook.
One man's comment was, "The only problem I had with your short film was that it was too short." Many people expressed interest in seeing it developed into a feature film.
Honestly, I feel the same way about movie shorts as I do short stories. In the right hands, a masterful story can be told briefly and there's a distinct pleasure in the brevity. More is not necessarily always better.
The Q & A kept up for a good, long while, an indicator that the film had gotten to the audience. I liked that.
Afterwards, I only had to walk around the block to Gallery 5 for "An Evening Among Exiles," a night of speakers of all kinds. I arrived as the first guy was finishing his story (all I heard was the last line about his Dad losing his wallet), said hi to a friend and found a seat in the back row.
A comedian named Joshua was first for me and he began by telling us, "We've had a lot of deep shit. It's time for some shallow shit." A recent graduate with a (useless) degree in English, he said saying that was a fancy way of saying he's unemployed and in debt.
Seems he wanted to be a poet and instead he works at Target while honing his comedic skills at night. He may be a poet yet.
Mary was up next and said while she'd known for a month and a half that she had this gig, she'd done no preparation until today other than deciding what she'd wear (all black, brown belt).
Sometime today she'd decided to riff on lists, which led her to talking about all the online quizzes she takes ("Which Kardashian are you?"). The one that bothered her most was about which "Sex and the City" character she was because the internets kept saying she was Miranda and she was convinced she's Samantha.
Since I've never seen the show, I have no idea who she is beyond Mary. And, for all I know, that could have been an alias.
A big part of her spiel was about the "How Kinky are You?" quiz where, despite lying to the internets about cucumber usage, she came out a super freak. Her conclusion? "I'm okay with being a slutty cat woman." At least until her cat dies, she said.
In between speakers, we heard snippets of the unlikeliest music - Billy Joel, Simon & Garfunkle and perhaps most improbably, Tony Orlando and Dawn - as people made their way to the stage.
Host Shannon announced a break then so people could belly up to the bar, but I used the time to chat up a couple of friends, one of whom was a tad nervous because he was going on later. Another, looking professorial in a cardigan, told of a long day dealing with state and city employee types. I offered my condolences.
Shannon got the evening rolling again with a monologue about going to friends' weddings and returning to red wine bendering, something he'd moved away from with good reason (blackouts).
Kylin Ann took the stage next looking cute in a full skirt with tattoo-looking tights and read the speech she'd written for her grandfather's funeral as an introduction to a winding tale of her family's dysfunction.
Arriving at the family homestead after Grandpa's death, she found her relatives drinking and trying to figure out what quote to use on the old man's funeral card ("It looks like a baseball card laminated"). Once they found the perfect one and discovered it was by Helen Keller, the evening descended into Helen Keller jokes.
A year later, the family regrouped to scatter Grandpa's ashes except only half were being scattered and the rest were being divided up into Zip-Lock bags for family members. Her aunt planned to divvy with an ice cream scoop until someone expressed shock, at which time she realized Gramps' favorite food was soup (it was Uncle Jeff who loved ice cream) and switched to a soup ladle to dole out the ashes.
What I love about evenings like this is that you hear the craziest stuff. You couldn't make up this stuff because no one would believe it.
Quietly taking the stage, PJ began by saying, "If I bomb tonight, it's because I didn't listen to my wife." Unfortunately, she wasn't there to hear him say that, but he also said it would be on her if he didn't bomb. And he not only didn't, he was terrific.
You see, PJ takes photographs of bands as a hobby and tonight he shared some of his adventures in shooting bands.
Explaining that sometimes you need to write something to go with photos of bands in order to get press credentials, he'd managed to get them to talk to Henry Rollins (only one guy in the crowd admitted to not knowing who Rollins was).
Nervously setting up for his first interview, he was caught off guard when Rollins answered the phone himself after half a ring. "I asked him low-hanging fruit type questions," PJ said and while he'd been allotted 15 minutes to talk to the punk legend, he only used seven of them. Fear, pure fear.
His story of going to the Black Cat to interview and shoot Daniel Johnston was just as good because a local show, "Pancake Mountain," was also there filming - but with puppets - and Johnston kept screwing up each take on purpose by telling the puppets to go f*ck themselves.
Afterwards, they shot video of Johnston playing with the band and people, including PJ, dancing behind them. So now I know that PJ is sort of a celebrity because he's on YouTube.
At Merge's 20th anniversary festival, he shot Lambchop ("A f*cked-up country band, not punk, not my thing") and said it ended up being one of the best performances of his life. Even better, Lambchop liked one of his pictures so much they wanted to use it as an album cover
He got to shoot at a Foo Fighters concert (when he didn't want to fight the crowd to go down to the stage to shoot, his cute wife reminded him that he'd regret it if he didn't and she was, of course, right, so he went), something he'd gone on record as saying he wanted to do 7 or 8 years ago. The band ended up using one of his shots on their Twitter feed, a major thrill for him.
He closed with his advice for happiness. "Keep doing stuff that makes you feel awkward." I second that.
Last to take the stage was Kevin, a come-here who captains a canal boat and he'd brought three pages' (front and back) worth of Richmond's rich history to share with us, namely Elizabeth van Lew and Mary Bowser. He intended to weave a tale, he said.
And he did, talking about how van Lew freed her father's slaves, including little Mary, whom she educated in Philadelphia. The two then became the best spies in the south for General Grant, gleaning information from soldiers in Libbie Prison and sending it off to Grant in bouquets of flowers from her garden and eggs (yea, I still don't understand how she did that).
He seemed most impressed with Mary when she posed as a slow-witted, able-bodied slave in the house of Jefferson Davis, spying from within using her photographic memory. Brilliant.
Of course, after the war, both women were run out of town, but Kevin wanted us to know that Mary Bowser was badass.
Now, you tell me. Can you walk out of your house and see a provocative black-made film, hear a story of smoking pot with your Uncle Dave and learn a little espionage history, all within a matter of blocks of home?
FYI, that's a low-hanging fruit type of question. My guess? Probably not.
That's because I can walk out of my door at night (after spending the afternoon with a 78-year old artist in his enormous Carver studio laughing and talking about art and life) and find the most interesting things to do within a five block radius.
The first was the Noir Cinema series, a monthly opportunity to see a black-made short film and hear about it from the filmmaker, tonight being held at Candela Books & Art. Walking in, a gallerist mentioned my art piece in this week's Style Weekly, noting that his wife had decided after reading the piece that she wanted to buy one of the pieces at Ghostprint Gallery.
It's always thrilling to know that something I write spurs people into action, especially when an artist stands to make money off of it.
There were maybe 25 people there when I arrived, so I laid my bag on a chair with a good view and went next door to buy a hot chocolate at Lift. The guy frothing the milk made sure I knew they closed in five minutes, but I informed him it was for the movie next door. Suddenly he looks at me differently.
"Oh, you're going to the Noir Film at Candela?" he asks. "That's so cool."
Back in my seat for the movie, a guy I know from music shows approaches and we start talking about Candela. "I love this place," he says. "This is like a gallery you'd see in San Francisco or New York City." He should know; he moved here a couple of years ago after 20 years in San Fran.
People kept arriving and finally the film "Contamination" was introduced, with the information that it was its sixth film festival screening and the Virginia premiere.
The film was a brief but compelling look at obsessive compulsive disorder through the lens of a character who hasn't left her apartment in over a year for fear of germs and getting sick. She scrubbed her hands fastidiously, wore latex gloves and an air mask and generally did nothing beyond cleaning things.
When the movie stopped abruptly midway through due to technological difficulties, I was disturbed to see some people immediately pull out their phones. Soapbox: people have lost the ability to wait for anything without looking at a screen. It's tragic.
Once rolling again, we watched as the woman tried to deal with her mental illness while losing all contact with the outside world. Eventually she reached out and the film ended.
Director R. Shanea took the director's chair in front of the room and told us a bit about how she'd come to make the film, hoping to provide a voice for mental illness in the black community, apparently something often swept under the rug and ignored.
A question and answer period followed with as many questions about the making of the movie ($7,000 and two 13-hour days filming) as about the topic (she suffers from anxiety issues). When asked how she'd gotten the lead actress, she gave the expected 21st-century answer: Facebook.
One man's comment was, "The only problem I had with your short film was that it was too short." Many people expressed interest in seeing it developed into a feature film.
Honestly, I feel the same way about movie shorts as I do short stories. In the right hands, a masterful story can be told briefly and there's a distinct pleasure in the brevity. More is not necessarily always better.
The Q & A kept up for a good, long while, an indicator that the film had gotten to the audience. I liked that.
Afterwards, I only had to walk around the block to Gallery 5 for "An Evening Among Exiles," a night of speakers of all kinds. I arrived as the first guy was finishing his story (all I heard was the last line about his Dad losing his wallet), said hi to a friend and found a seat in the back row.
A comedian named Joshua was first for me and he began by telling us, "We've had a lot of deep shit. It's time for some shallow shit." A recent graduate with a (useless) degree in English, he said saying that was a fancy way of saying he's unemployed and in debt.
Seems he wanted to be a poet and instead he works at Target while honing his comedic skills at night. He may be a poet yet.
Mary was up next and said while she'd known for a month and a half that she had this gig, she'd done no preparation until today other than deciding what she'd wear (all black, brown belt).
Sometime today she'd decided to riff on lists, which led her to talking about all the online quizzes she takes ("Which Kardashian are you?"). The one that bothered her most was about which "Sex and the City" character she was because the internets kept saying she was Miranda and she was convinced she's Samantha.
Since I've never seen the show, I have no idea who she is beyond Mary. And, for all I know, that could have been an alias.
A big part of her spiel was about the "How Kinky are You?" quiz where, despite lying to the internets about cucumber usage, she came out a super freak. Her conclusion? "I'm okay with being a slutty cat woman." At least until her cat dies, she said.
In between speakers, we heard snippets of the unlikeliest music - Billy Joel, Simon & Garfunkle and perhaps most improbably, Tony Orlando and Dawn - as people made their way to the stage.
Host Shannon announced a break then so people could belly up to the bar, but I used the time to chat up a couple of friends, one of whom was a tad nervous because he was going on later. Another, looking professorial in a cardigan, told of a long day dealing with state and city employee types. I offered my condolences.
Shannon got the evening rolling again with a monologue about going to friends' weddings and returning to red wine bendering, something he'd moved away from with good reason (blackouts).
Kylin Ann took the stage next looking cute in a full skirt with tattoo-looking tights and read the speech she'd written for her grandfather's funeral as an introduction to a winding tale of her family's dysfunction.
Arriving at the family homestead after Grandpa's death, she found her relatives drinking and trying to figure out what quote to use on the old man's funeral card ("It looks like a baseball card laminated"). Once they found the perfect one and discovered it was by Helen Keller, the evening descended into Helen Keller jokes.
A year later, the family regrouped to scatter Grandpa's ashes except only half were being scattered and the rest were being divided up into Zip-Lock bags for family members. Her aunt planned to divvy with an ice cream scoop until someone expressed shock, at which time she realized Gramps' favorite food was soup (it was Uncle Jeff who loved ice cream) and switched to a soup ladle to dole out the ashes.
What I love about evenings like this is that you hear the craziest stuff. You couldn't make up this stuff because no one would believe it.
Quietly taking the stage, PJ began by saying, "If I bomb tonight, it's because I didn't listen to my wife." Unfortunately, she wasn't there to hear him say that, but he also said it would be on her if he didn't bomb. And he not only didn't, he was terrific.
You see, PJ takes photographs of bands as a hobby and tonight he shared some of his adventures in shooting bands.
Explaining that sometimes you need to write something to go with photos of bands in order to get press credentials, he'd managed to get them to talk to Henry Rollins (only one guy in the crowd admitted to not knowing who Rollins was).
Nervously setting up for his first interview, he was caught off guard when Rollins answered the phone himself after half a ring. "I asked him low-hanging fruit type questions," PJ said and while he'd been allotted 15 minutes to talk to the punk legend, he only used seven of them. Fear, pure fear.
His story of going to the Black Cat to interview and shoot Daniel Johnston was just as good because a local show, "Pancake Mountain," was also there filming - but with puppets - and Johnston kept screwing up each take on purpose by telling the puppets to go f*ck themselves.
Afterwards, they shot video of Johnston playing with the band and people, including PJ, dancing behind them. So now I know that PJ is sort of a celebrity because he's on YouTube.
At Merge's 20th anniversary festival, he shot Lambchop ("A f*cked-up country band, not punk, not my thing") and said it ended up being one of the best performances of his life. Even better, Lambchop liked one of his pictures so much they wanted to use it as an album cover
He got to shoot at a Foo Fighters concert (when he didn't want to fight the crowd to go down to the stage to shoot, his cute wife reminded him that he'd regret it if he didn't and she was, of course, right, so he went), something he'd gone on record as saying he wanted to do 7 or 8 years ago. The band ended up using one of his shots on their Twitter feed, a major thrill for him.
He closed with his advice for happiness. "Keep doing stuff that makes you feel awkward." I second that.
Last to take the stage was Kevin, a come-here who captains a canal boat and he'd brought three pages' (front and back) worth of Richmond's rich history to share with us, namely Elizabeth van Lew and Mary Bowser. He intended to weave a tale, he said.
And he did, talking about how van Lew freed her father's slaves, including little Mary, whom she educated in Philadelphia. The two then became the best spies in the south for General Grant, gleaning information from soldiers in Libbie Prison and sending it off to Grant in bouquets of flowers from her garden and eggs (yea, I still don't understand how she did that).
He seemed most impressed with Mary when she posed as a slow-witted, able-bodied slave in the house of Jefferson Davis, spying from within using her photographic memory. Brilliant.
Of course, after the war, both women were run out of town, but Kevin wanted us to know that Mary Bowser was badass.
Now, you tell me. Can you walk out of your house and see a provocative black-made film, hear a story of smoking pot with your Uncle Dave and learn a little espionage history, all within a matter of blocks of home?
FYI, that's a low-hanging fruit type of question. My guess? Probably not.
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