{"id":118267,"date":"2017-11-17T11:00:57","date_gmt":"2017-11-17T16:00:57","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=118267"},"modified":"2017-11-17T12:22:08","modified_gmt":"2017-11-17T17:22:08","slug":"contributor-picks-doomed-bohemians-death-masks","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2017\/11\/17\/contributor-picks-doomed-bohemians-death-masks\/","title":{"rendered":"Contributor Picks: Doomed Bohemians and Death Masks"},"content":{"rendered":"

In place of our staff picks this week, we\u2019ve asked six\u00a0contributors from\u00a0<\/em>our Fall issue<\/a>\u00a0<\/em>to write about what they\u2019re reading, watching, listening to, and enjoying.\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Still from Personal Shopper<\/em>.<\/p><\/div>\n

In his films, Olivier Assayas often makes use of reflective surfaces: glass walls, windows, mirrors, screens, Hollywood stars. His distinctive recipe seems to be mixing them with dark, strange themes that enter his scripts obliquely. So if you start watching Personal Shopper<\/em> expecting a satire on personal shoppers, you will be confused and disappointed. Better to expect a peculiar ghost story. Even better, prepare yourself by watching some of his back catalogue:\u00a0Irma Vep<\/em>, Late August Early September<\/em>,\u00a0The Clouds of Sils Maria<\/em>. I couldn\u2019t decide if the final scene was a botched job or a masterpiece, but the choice of Anna Hausswolff\u2019s haunting \u201cLosing Track of Time\u201d on the soundtrack was certainly inspired. Also: one of the best portrayals of ghosts in cinema I have seen in a while. \u2014Isabella Hammad\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

I have been telling everyone I know not to miss the wonderful new French documentary Faces Places<\/i><\/a>, a collaboration by filmmaker Agn\u00e8s Varda and the photographer and street artist known as JR. (He drew international attention recently when he installed a gigantic portrait of a Mexican toddler who appears to be looking over the border fence between California and the Mexican city of Tecate.)\u00a0Having agreed a couple of years ago to work on a project together, Varda and JR hit the road in JR\u2019s truck, which is equipped with a photo booth and a printer. They stop in several small French towns where they talk with various inhabitants, usually about the work that the locals do, and invite some to have their photos taken. The photos are then turned into huge posters that are plastered on walls and the sides of buildings\u2014to spectacular effect. I was deeply moved by the relationship between these two brilliant and empathic artists, one nearing the end of her career (Varda, who is eighty-nine, has spoken of Faces Places <\/i>as likely to be her last film), the other just coming into his prime. A great work of art about the making of art, Faces Places<\/i> is about many other things as well: memory, aging and mortality; the importance of community and the value of labor; the force of time and the fragility of human endeavors and human relations. It is also about Varda\u2019s unusual hair, a striking two-toned mop, the perfect crown, I thought, for such a witty head, as well as a clever solution to gray roots, which has had me asking myself: Do I dare? \u2014Sigrid Nunez<\/strong><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Still from The Salt of the<\/em> Earth<\/em>.<\/p><\/div>\n

A crowd of determined women march; a car revs into a group of protesters; anger flares between the sexes; racist white policemen brutalize Latino families; the press fawns over big-game hunting ruling-class overlords; worker exploitation is the order of the day; the gulf between rich and poor gapes unimaginably wide; and suspicion of Russian influence is everywhere.<\/p>\n

Yes: this is definitely the movie for our time.<\/p>\n

Boycotted, banned, said by the Hollywood Reporter<\/i>\u00a0to have been \u201cmade under direct orders of the Kremlin,\u201d dismissed by Pauline Kael as a simplistic left-wing morality play, \u201cas clear a piece of Communist propaganda as we have had in many years,\u201d Herbert Biberman\u2019s 1954\u00a0The Salt of the Earth<\/a>, <\/i>based on the true story of a strike at a zinc mine in New Mexico,\u00a0offers a vision of the fault lines in U.S. democracy so acute that the urgency of its message is, in 2017, more shocking than ever. One of the Hollywood Ten who refused to name names to the House Committee on Un-American Activities, Biberman made the movie with a group of fellow blacklisted artists and union mine workers after spending six months in federal prison for contempt of Congress. Mexican leading lady Rosaura Revueltas was deported by the U.S. immigration services during filming in an attempt by the government to halt the production. Howard Hughes \u00a0tried to squelch the film by telling processing labs not to touch it. When, despite everything, the movie was finally released, only a handful of theaters in the U.S. would screen it. Today, the only thing about The Salt of the Earth\u00a0<\/i>that history hasn\u2019t confirmed is the happy ending. \u2014Esther Allen<\/strong><\/p>\n

<\/a>

Modigliani\u2019s death mask.<\/p><\/div>\n

I\u2019ve been obsessed\u00a0with Modigliani for almost fifty years, so any new show of his work is always welcome. I spent my early days as a painter trying to absorb some of his heat and playfulness. To me, he is timeless, radical, sensual, romantic, and childlike. I think he\u2019s still underrated, in spite of being a household name and breaking auction records last year. Perhaps the body of work he left behind has been overshadowed by his dissolute life. His princely legend is the archetype of the doomed bohemian.\u00a0I have mourned over his grave, looked up his assorted Paris addresses, walked with his ghost in rainy Montparnasse (long story), and kissed a blackened-bronze copy of his death mask in an Upper East Side apartment. \u201cModigliani Unmasked<\/a>\u201d\u00a0at the Jewish Museum (until February 4)<\/span><\/span>\u00a0has the original plaster cast made at his deathbed by Lipschitz. Something about a death mask brings you closer to the life. There he is, resting in a vitrine, gaunt, noble, hopefully at peace. Hats off to Modigliani! \u2014Duncan Hannah<\/strong><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Inside the home of Carlo Mollino. Photo: Alberto Zanetti\/Christie\u2019s Magazine<\/p><\/div>\n

Just landed in Turin, Italy. So many things to consume here, from\u00a0Hito Steyerl\u2019s Factory of the Sun<\/em>\u00a0at the\u00a0Fondazione Sandretto Re Rebaudengo<\/a>\u00a0to\u00a0the apartment-museum of Carlo Mollino<\/a> to all the Egyptian masterpieces on display at the Museu Egizio<\/a>\u00a0… Plus as much Carol Rama as possible … Not to mention all the precious artifacts of Piedmontese edible cultural heritage: cardoons with bagna c\u00e0uda, tajarin with white truffles, many bottles of Giuseppe Rinaldi … Basta! \u2014<\/i>Adam Gollner<\/strong><\/p>\n

This past summer a friend recommended I read Mathias \u00c9nard\u2019s Compass<\/em><\/a>, and I happily pass on the recommendation. The sound-bite would be \u201cLes temps perdu<\/em> meets A Thousand and One Nights<\/em>\u201d: over the course of a single night, a sleepless Austrian musicologist named Franz relives his memories of traveling in the Middle East with another scholar, a woman he is still in love with. The novel is at once a eulogy to Syria and her ancient monuments and a complex literary investigation of Edward Sa\u00efd\u2019s thesis about knowledge and power in the study of the Orient. Doesn\u2019t all romantic love involve \u201cothering\u201d on some level? And must this always be a subjugation, or can it be a game of mutual desire, exchange, exploration? If you aren\u2019t afraid of some headlong sentences and meaty academic digressions, this is the best book about longing I have read in a long time. \u2014I.H.<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201cIf you really want the art to have power, you need the poet not the poems to go into the fire, that way you get rid of the transactional nature of…\u201d
\n\u201cThis is a really interesting point. Kafka\u2019s a great example of this, right, that poor schmuck was\u2014\u201d
\n\u201cDon\u2019t lose yourself in anecdote, man, don\u2019t do it!\u201d
\n\u201cBut it\u2019s so much nicer than talking to you.\u201d
\n\u201cI know.\u201d<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

That\u2019s a random snippet from The Relentless Picnic<\/em><\/a>, a podcast that was born a few weeks after last year\u2019s election. The picnic is three friends\u2014Adam, Erikk, and Nick\u2014talking about culture, politics, and morality. Their conversations cut at weird diagonals across the preening, pedagogical grain of standard podcast style. The joy of them rests in their sincerely close (and wildly well-read) readings of a huge range of subjects\u2014Jeff Sessions, threaded tweets, the effects of self-promotion on one\u2019s art, the nature of obligation\u2014combined with their tendency to careen from searching banter to escalating riffs of totally unbeholden satire. Every episode is very great, and I think the only way to do them justice would be to post a full transcript here. Original thinking slaloms around mutual mockery and what you sense under the jabs and insights is the love these friends feel for one another (a kindness that feels crucial since last November). In this second year of globalizing Trumpism, The Relentless Picnic<\/em> arrives every few weeks as if to personally reassure me that somewhere out there embers of\u00a0serious\u00a0debate are still burning with\u00a0goodwill and amazing loopy inventiveness. As they say in one episode:<\/p>\n

\u201cWe may have more of a duty to put ourselves out there during the bleak times than during other times, or I don\u2019t know?\u201d
\n\u201cYeah, I agree with that formulation.\u201d
\n\u201cIt\u2019s a light.\u201d
\n\u2014Jana Prikryl<\/strong><\/p><\/blockquote>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

In place of our staff picks this week, we\u2019ve asked six\u00a0contributors from\u00a0our Fall issue\u00a0to write about what they\u2019re reading, watching, listening to, and enjoying.\u00a0 In his films, Olivier Assayas often makes use of reflective surfaces: glass walls, windows, mirrors, screens, Hollywood stars. His distinctive recipe seems to be mixing them with dark, strange themes that 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