Monthly Archives: November 2006

Avebury Archive

21/22 June 1992

An om and we’re off. Yusuf and me, two purple in our pockets, standing by the A27 for 40 minutes until we get a lift all the way to Longstock, where the travellers partied last year. There’s no sign of any action: it’s two in the afternoon and we’re getting funny looks from the locals. We sit by a small stream and eat some of our packed lunch, then walk back to Stockbridge where assorted longhairs are look for festivals. The girl in the post office is too friendly to strangers for the locals’ liking. So we hitch to Salisbury, getting a ride with a dreadlocked block and his girlfriend who are towing a caravan and avoiding Amesbury.

At Salisbury we wander round the ring road, try to hitch to Amesbury with no luck and meet people coming back from there, where there’s nothing but police. We make an abortive attempt to get to Glastonbury and meet a man who’s had his car taken off him by the police on ‘suspicion of a stolen jacket’. I phone the police and tell them my 15-year old daughter has run off to a festival and ask if they can tell me where it is, so I can go and get her back. Credulous or not, they tell me what we suspected: that people are scattered all over the county.

A family of travellers in an ambulance with another caravan in tow give us a lift up the road to what we think is Stockbridge but isn’t. A mum and dad plus four kids, they leave us at a pub in Allington where we have a drink and phone Alastair. Then we set off walking the four miles to the big junction. We stop in a field and build a trilithon out of strawbales — it falls down. Night is falling, and the cars are going past faster. We debate whether to drop the acid. Eventually, the police find us, take our names, and serve an exclusion order on us.

By the time we make it to the junction with the A303, we’re ready to crash. Yusuf is laying down his fire blanket when our saviours arrive: a van looking for a site to go to. We’re of no use information-wise, but a little gentle persuasion and we’re in the van. Its occupants are Ed, with long dreadlocks and a ‘tache, whose conversation is liberally sprinkled with ‘spark’, ‘sparkle’ and their derivatives; Mike, an optical technician in a beret and a trenchcoat; and Jenny, an archaeology graduate. They’ve come from Walthamstow, having picked on the naïve-looking Helen, Simon and Liz, to drive them to Henge in Simon’s van. They have a look in Grately Woods, but again no luck.

Ours is only just beginning. We’re off to Avebury, an ancient Neolithic stone circle. Simon hammers the van and it breaks down. After a little row between Simon and Liz and the rest, we decide to follow Ed, Jenny, Mike and Helen, who are going to walk to Avebury, which we don’t know yet is twenty miles away. Yusuf and I — fuck it — drop our acid, and thirty seconds down the road we get picked up by a hippy and his mates in a little VW bus. One of his mates is a caned shorthair in a black leather jacket who rants in a deep Wiltshire drawl about the poll tax and how they get you for it in Wiltshire.

We go all the way to Avebury in the van, where we all pile out to look at the stones. The hippy’s mad mate climbs on one, keen to feel the electricity. We meet some campers from Leytonstone. Solstice night in a stone circle with sheep, glowing white paths in the moonlight… pure KLF territory. Back in the van there’s an om on the roof, a sticker above the window saying ‘convoy of one’ and we drive to the long barrow at West Kennett to wait for the sun to rise. Inside the burial chambers people are camping out with candles and a woman is placing strawberries as ‘offerings’. On top of the barrow we have a flirtation with acid paranoia, followed by wine and cigars. It’s too cloudy to see the sun’s shiny dome, and when we trek back to the road a man with a big stove on a trestle table stretched out from the back of an estate car is making hot pasta with sauce and he tells us to help ourselves.

We eat and then climb Silbury Hill where there’s a lute, a bodhran, whistles, and dancing to the dawn. After a while everyone rests, to applause. We go back to the hippy’s van and loiter. ‘Shall we shine him up?’ asks Mike, and we get a lift back to Marlborough where the hippy points out the road we came from. We meet a car convoy of ravers looking for Spiral Tribe, who’ve only found a scrapyard. The road to Simon’s broken-down van turns out to be seven weary miles long, through the Savernake forest. We sing bastardised James Brown as we come down: ‘I feel…. shit!’ Eventually we find the van just where it broke down, together with Simon and Liz who are less angry than last night. We pass the scrapyard, which has a painted sign outside saying ‘hardcore wanted’…

Simon fixes the van, but we only get as far as Hungerford before it breaks down again. We wait for the AA. ‘Is this where Michael Ryan killed your family?’ Mike asks a passer-by. Fatigue strikes, but we get relayed by AA van back to the M25, swap addresses and bid farewell with the promise of a James Brown tape, to hitch back to Brighton and hit Alex’s on Dyke Road to collapse, before heading home and to sleep at last.

Invocation of my Demon Granddad

Scorpio Rising
What do you call this stuff, anyhow? Avant-garde doesn’t really work: avant-gardes are historically defined, and this is mostly contemporary work. Artists’ Film and Video is good, though it privileges Art over filmmaking, and to hear some people tell it, artists only began to notice moving image in the 01970s. Will likes the term underground film which is good, but can refer to emerging conventional & commercial film-makers as well as artists. Overall, I prefer Experimental Cinema, emphasising both the medium (and excluding if anything, gallery pieces) and the practice of formal experimentation.

I’m treating myself to the LFF‘s Experimenta Avant-Garde Weekend (I guess that settles it), the festival’s regular & long-standing slot for new & archival experimental work. I’ve got the same seat booked in NFT3 for the whole weekend (in the only session for which I have a different seat, I have to make Anita Pallenberg get out of it first), and there’s the added pleasure of bumping into old friends and colleagues like Julia, and Lucy from the Lux, who are also here to stuff their eyes with goodies.

I say goodies… I saw The Ipcress File in NFT3 last year, and during the scene in which Caine’s Harry Palmer is being subjected to mental reprogramming in a white cube full of flashing lights and colours, I thought “I’ve paid good money to see films just like that in this very cinema,” and Ken Jacob‘s films are those films. Turning his Nervous System live projections into single prints, Jacobs conjures queasy movement out of alternation rather than progression, creating hypnotic strobe effects. With an intensely rhythmic soundtrack by Steve Reich, Let There Be Whistleblowers takes found footage of a train passing through a tunnel and vibrates it, inverts it, loops it, turns it upside down and violently flickers it: less a phantom ride than an epileptic rollercoaster. Krypton is Doomed is even more extreme: over thirty four minutes, the soundtrack of an early Superman radio play is broken up into segments buffered by silence, while a patch of light and colour constantly throbs, admitting at times the possibility, and only the possibility, of a recognisable image. The programme notes make it clear that it is we who are doomed.

There is more playful stuff: Shannon Plumb’s Olympics 2005 Track and Field is Riefenstahl re-performed as colour-saturated slapstick Sherman, and Ben Rivers’ This is My Land, shot on self-developed 16mm shows the continuing possibilities of non-sync sound. To create Blocking, Pablo Marin took a subtitled trailer for High Fidelity, submerged it in water, and then dried it in the sun (all the things you’re not supposed to do if you want to preserve film). The result is a glimpse of John Cusack’s face and a few words in Spanish amid a flurry of bubbles and pools, fields of bacteria, rods and cones: the patterns you see on the inside of your eyelids when you press your fingers against them. Faster, happier and less studied than Decasia.

It’s not all aestheticism: Bill Brown’s The Other Side combines stunningly gorgeous static landscape footage of the American southwest with faux-naif commentary on a voyage through the politics of US-Mexican border, taking in the border wall on which the Berlin Wall-style graffiti is on the ‘wrong’ (ie Mexican) side, and the efforts of people who maintain barrels of water in the desert to try to save the lives of the many ‘illegal’ migrants who die of thirst on their way across the border.

Sunday morning brings what Mark Webber calls the ‘very core of cinema’, some tough watching, beginning with an entirely silent Nathaniel Dorsky in which I can see only a few moments of beauty: jet beads suddenly reflect the light like holes in the film; a telegraph pole is somehow mesmerising. Mark LaPore‘s Kolkata, with the non-sync soundtrack of a babbling bazaar, consists of long tracking shots sideways through the marketplaces of Kolkata, and a few astonishing static moments: a child smiling as long as he can, a reflection in a store window that makes a smoker out of a mannequin.

But the highlight and delight of the weekend is two programmes of films by and about Kenneth Anger, and a personal appearance from the man himself. Before the first programme of 35mm preservations of Fireworks, Rabbit’s Moon, Scorpio Rising and Kustom Kar Kommandos, Anger appears onstage. At seventy-six, he’s wearing Cuban-heeled boots, PVC trousers and an outsize football shirt with the letters A-N-G-E-R emblazoned at an angle. He gives the audience a big thumbs-up and a broad grin. For a man who it’s rumoured will out a curse on you if you cross him, he’s unexpectedly charming and garrulous. I think I’d like him to be my granddad.

After the preservations (which are excellent, and though the sadomasochistic gents’ fantasy and rocket-cock of Fireworks don’t quite do it for me, I think that for about thirty seconds in the middle of Scorpio Rising I actually turn gay) we get a special treat in Mouse Heaven‘s delirious adoration of pre-Fantasia model Mickeys with their pacman eyes and genuine clockwork wanking action. I can’t get over the Proclaimers being on the soundtrack, and how well it works. Anger re-emerges to tell some stories (he was commissioned to make a cricket film with Jack Cardiff for Paul Getty just before he died), pass some judgements (Bruce Byron “was deluded, but he’s dead now”; Marianne Faithfull was “powdering her face with heroin”), and lay down the law on found footage (“we have a principle of fair use: it’s fair to me if I want to use it”). He even promises us that he has Hollywood Babylon 3 ready to go and is just waiting for the lawyers to finish with it.

The picture is completed with Elio Gelimini’s Anger Me, which after a short intro by Jonas Mekas consists of Anger’s talking head (on what’s visible of his torso he’s wearing a chunky-knit red sweater with ‘ANGER’ again subtly indented on the front) against a freeform background of clips and other scenes, reminiscing and telling stories. The motorbike death at the end of Scorpio Rising was real, captured by accident, and the religious film intercut with the party sequence was meant for a Sunday school nearby and delivered to Anger by mistake. Anger’s there for this screening too, still answering everybody’s questions. He tells us that 13 of his bipolar friends have died at their own hands, including Donald Cammell (the Pallenberg connection). He talks about preferring his representations of sexuality to be “in the shadows”.

Between the archive and the recent, it’s a very satisfying weekend. The four shorts programmes could have done with some more humour, and I miss Video Visions, but Anger in the flesh was a once in a lifetime.