Turns out the cure for anything…*cough cough* (a breakup) is getting really into Buddhism for two weeks. Like a mindfulness one-hundred-meter dash. The faster you breathe, the more present you become. When everything goes black: that’s enlightenment. I wonder if Thich Nhat Hanh has ever masturbated after crying?

Breathe… and smile, for this moment is good. Assembling a puzzle is easy when it’s one piece at a time. Do you think Monks watch movies, or is that illegal? Do you know what the only thing more annoying than a white boy haphazardly engaging in Buddhism to subvert genuine personal change is? A white boy haphazardly engaging in Buddhism to subvert genuine personal change, who also makes ambient music.

I go by Fred Again and Again. It’s kind of like… no, you guys get it. Yup… *stretches hands over head and fake yawns* I haven’t had too much time to watch movies this month; I’ve just been honing my craft. Album next month; it’s titled Chud Sucker and Sidartha’s Many Hoes. It’s made entirely with GarageBand synths and my computer’s WASD midi controller.

Anyways, between all my bell meditation ceremonies and translating the world’s beauty into the language of synths—a dialect you can finally comprehend—I have become aware of how vapid and fictional cinema is. In an attempt to communicate the authenticity of my new lifestyle, please enjoy a ‘whoops all documentaries’ edition of Who Put That On?

 

Rivers and Tides: Andy Goldsworthy Working With Time (2001) Dir. Thomas Riedelsheimer

Rivers and Tides catalogues the work and practice of sculptor, Andy Goldsworthy. He may be my favourite artist of all time. My grandma, a snarky 4’11” British ceramicist, showed me his work when I was a teenager, and ever since, Goldsworthy has reminded me of my unremarkable British stoicism. 

I am so fascinated by the ‘artist’s’ identity. For those who create—be it music, visual art, or film—it seems essential to invent an associated character. Glamour and pretension are so synonymous with the artist stereotype. Don’t get me wrong, I love the Andy Warhol tortured royalty New York ideal—the aesthetic, the lifestyle, the poisoning myself in pursuit of enlightenment—and I find myself feeding into it despite my own awareness. Some can live with true unbridled authenticity, but for many, their sense of mystery is a synthetic attempt to bolster the persuasion of a product (whether conscious or not).

I think the essence of art sits distant from thirty-year-olds wearing Hedi Slimane-sized for Build-A-Bears, and making music for sixteen-year olds. No, the essence of art is an old swagless British man wearing gators who sticks pieces of ice together before the sun comes up. Realistically, there is no essence of art at all, but I respect Andy Goldsworthy, as I truly believe he would be engaging with his practice regardless of audience. 

There is a stylistic harmony shared between Goldsworthy’s process and Thomas Riedelsheimer’s filmmaking that makes Rivers and Tides an exceptional documentary. This is especially important as Goldsworthy’s site-specific ephemeral installations, made entirely from detritus and his hands, epitomise transience and elemental construction—two traits that feel antithetical to filmmaking. Riedelsheimer’s hand is patient, winding, and slow; he seems careful not to inject himself into his subjects’ spotlight, and spends large swaths of time breathing with Goldsworthy’s sculptures. The atmospheric chamber soundtrack, composed by Fred Firth, accentuates the stillness and meticulousness of Goldsworthy’s art and provides just enough drive during the pause.

This is just a sentence that I enjoyed on Andy Goldsworthy’s Wikipedia page: “Goldsworthy is generally considered the founder of modern rock balancing.” River’s and Tides feels more like a lesson than a documentary. To watch someone who has placed the grandeur of nature at the centre of their existence reminds you that all your worries don’t have to be so large. This is a film about peace.

I recommend watching Rivers and Tides: Andy Goldsworthy Working With Time with a crusty British woman, who is filled with as much spite as she is wine. When the film is finished, she’ll utter, in a tone coated by the essence of doubt, “Well, that was actually quite good.”

 

The Alpinist (2021) Dir. Peter Mortimer

What better way to wash down a swagless British man stacking rocks for an hour-and-a-half than enjoying a semi-swaggy French Canadian climbing rocks for another ninety minutes; oh, and there is a little bit of ice on all the rocks. Also, he doesn’t wear a harness. Also, this is the scariest shit you’ll ever see.

Yeah, man, Alex Honnold, man. He’s the coolest; I love his tarsier eyes, leg-sized arms, and fatherly charm. He climbed that Chinese building, man. Have you seen Free Solo yet? *Doosh!* Wrong! Fuck Honnold. I want my climbers to be slightly more autistic and constantly running away from the documentarian crew.

Just kidding, Honnold is a legend, and he narrates large portions of this film. He’ll be the first to admit that Marc André Leclerc, who is the subject of The Alpinist, is a fearless and truly special individual, who takes on feats that even he would cower at. 

The Alpinist is a spine-tingling roller coaster that will leave you with your fingernails gouged into the armrests of your couch. Neither you nor your sofa will ever be the same again. The film offers a glimpse into the life of free-solo ice-climber phenom, Marc-Andre Leclerc. Hailing from Fraser Valley, BC, Marc cut his teeth in Squamish, which makes this film feel close to home. The Alpinist sees Marc make the first-ever winter ascents of summits such as Torre Egger and Mount Robson’s Emperor Face. He climbs frozen waterfalls, unforgiving sheet rock, and sometimes a mixture of both; all well alone and ropeless. Correction, sometimes with his amazing partner Brette Harrington.

Even more captivating than his climbing is Leclerc’s spirit. Marc’s outlook on adventure, accolades, and life is idiosyncratic to say the least. His awkward hippy charm makes him an absolute pleasure to watch, and scenes of him shredding on guitar or spinning hoops with Heavy are what make this film a treasure. Although it’s a treat to watch Marc, the dynamic between observer and observed seems to be a bit of a one-way street. Alongside a general indifference to praise, Marc, in the middle of filming, runs away from the documentary crew, and they have to track him down and bargain to film his climbing. It’s not like he disappears in hopes of laying low. No, Leclerc begins knocking off a string of record-breaking climbs across North and South America.

This film has a gravity to it. HAHOE! Just know you’ll hate that joke after finishing this movie. This is one of those films that is difficult to describe with words. Just know that The Alpinist is a beautiful and breathtaking piece of cinema about one of the most distinct and treasured climbers ever.

I recommend watching this film on your dumb, stupid, lazy ass, shovelling instant-turkey stuffing into your instant-turkey stuffing hole.

 

Dig! (2004) Dir Ondi Timoner

Que “Caress” by the Brian Jonestown Massacre

I know the difference between right and wrong!

(Ohhh Yeah)

I pool them all together and I made this song!

(Ohhh Yeah)

Dig! is an indispensable exercise in the American sideburn. If you’re considering rocking some chops, I recommend squeezing onto a couch with a dozen other boys—barely enough room to scratch your balls—and basking in the late 90s early/2000s fuzz; truly the final years of swaggy alcoholism, and record companies bankrolling burnouts.  

Dig! documents the sibling-style rivalry between the two rock bands The Brian Jonestown Massacre and The Dandy Warhols. The Brian Jonestown Massacre represent an innovative, underrated, and authentic voice in rock culture. In this film, they also seem to embody the legitimate dysfunctional, starving carnage that the rockstar stereotype suggests. The Dandy Warhols foil The Brian Jonestown Massacre, sitting safely on shore and strategically releasing decent pop-rock records. That is the dynamic of the film: ultra-talented prolific shitstorm band with a broken compass, versus a more organized above-average image-centric group with sights set on fame.

“Our bands played together a lot over the next few years… and it was rock.” Fuck Boyhood (2014). Timoner deserves an Oscar for spending nearly a decade with these children. For those who are uninitiated, Anton Newcombe, frontman of The Brian Jonestown Massacre (and petulant genius), is unequivocally the king of the rock and roll tantrum. He lives and breathes the spazz, fighting his bandmates with a regularity that might technically classify him as professional fighter.

Can you picture the round, poorly-enunciated, highly-exclamative, slightly out-of-breath tone of a six-year-old who has been out in the sun too long? That’s how Newcombe speaks, and it’s so much fun to watch. Some of my favourite Newcombe lines include (and you must remember these lines aren’t delivered to the camera, they are spoken in authentic conversational circumstances; zero irony present.)

“You fucking broke my sitar, motherfucker!”

“I don’t do anything wrong, that’s why I never say I’m sorry.”

And I’m also fond of this exchange (for context Anton just fought his entire 8 piece band):

Interviewer: “Hey man, you okay man?”

Newcombe: “Yeah, I’m okay.”

Interviewer: “Did you get hurt? Is that blood on you?” 

Newcombe: “Yeah…”

Interviewer: “From where?”

Newcombe: *looks up with glassy eyes, damming hurt* “FROM PEOPLES’ FACES!”

Beyond Dig!’s high-octane spectacle, this film offers an intriguing investigation into the role of authenticity in the music industry. As I touched on earlier, The Brian Jonestown Massacre seem to be real dirtbags with real magic. The Dandies, on the other hand, have a knack for making the right decisions with cool imagery. As the film unfolds, The Dandies find commercial success, thus prompting bitter resentment from Anton and the bunch.

There is a scene that I find epitomizes this relationship. Courtney-Taylor, frontman of The Dandy Warhols, decides that he’d like to shoot some promotional material at the house where the Brian Jonestown Massacre are staying—the BJM had thrown a party the night before. When The Dandies rock up to the house, many of the band members are disturbed by the squalor. A man sleeping on the couch pulls a blanket over his head as the Dandies enter. The iconic BJM member, Matt Hollywood, has a line: “I think that’s the idea for having the photo shoot here; so that they can pretend they had a big party… They’ve come for our minds.” The film sort of begs the question, would you rather be stupid and talented, or smart and mediocre. 

Long live Joel Gion. The best tambourine player to ever do it.

I recommend watching Dig! high on cocaine at like, I don’t know, 4:00am. No bells. No whistles. Just drugs and rocdoc.

 

SeeKnowEvil (2018) Dir. Charlie Curran

This movie is free on YouTube, and the video’s top comment reads:

Everytime I feel a sadness I come back to this movie. To realize how unfair life can be, and to appreciate that I am able to breathe another breath.

Thank you, Mexicojoe9817.

SeeKnowEvil explores the life and work of photographer Davide Sorrenti. Davide was born with the rare genetic condition, thalassemia, which prevents the body from creating haemoglobin. People with thalassemia rarely live past fifteen, and his mother was told he might not make it past two or three years old. With a limited lease on life, Davide seemed to clasp hands with death, allowing a introspective freedom to inform his every step. His illness also meant he took a lot of green photos that make things look sick and scary. I guess this is what heroin chic is?

As much as this documentary highlights the heartbreak of an incredible artist battling their own senescence, this film is also an uplifting exhibition of growing up as a New York kid in the nineties. Sorrenti’s friends and members of his writing crew, SKE, paint a detailed impression of Sorrenti through stories of teenage mischief, violence, and play. From shared testimonies, it seems Sorrenti had no issue finding the poetry in life and love; many touched on how his sentimental statements had the  strength to send entire rooms into pause and reflection. 

I think one of SeeKnowEvil’s greatest strengths is how much of Sorrenti’s work they show. He truly is an impeccable photographer—and that’s coming from someone who considers photography the worst of all the art forms! I just wanted to say something controversial. Anyways, I don’t think it’s worth overanalysing this one. Especially because the more you do, the more it seems that this might be an overfunded memorial project of a nepo baby, so I’ll stop and enjoy it for what it is—a beautiful reminder that you can lost in the consideration of time.

I recommend watching SeeKnowEvil with your terminally/chronically ill homie, and making weird eyes of expectation at them the whole time.

•

Wow. After admiring such beautiful art, maybe the world doesn’t need my ambient album after all. Anyways, I would like to end on this note. Lobsters have cells that split for an eternity because they have an enzyme that repairs their telomeres (prevents DNA decay). The only reason they die is because they get too big. The world is a sweet, sweet, mysterious bitch.

I think I’m getting worse at writing these.