Comics, Myself

A Winter’s Chat with Alan Moore

Kickstarter is a site that  been one of the most interesting things on the web. What is Kickstarter? A way to solicit funding for projects. Any kind of project at all, just as long as it’s original. All you need is a goal amount and people can pledge a sum to help you meet it. The project gets funded if enough people pledge and the goal is reached – or surpassed. Most projects usually have different funding options, with corresponding rewards based on the amount you contribute.

And the kind of projects that you see on the site range from the humdrum to eye-poppingly awesome. From producing independent cinema and music albums to developing quirky products like Twine, from producing custom-made espresso machines to starting mobile libraries, Kickstarter is becoming a hub for amateur musicians, artists, technologists and – well, anyone at all – to connect directly with their intended audience.

I’ve been keeping an eye on the comics projects. There has been a lot of them. There was a project on an all-female comics anthology, catchily named Womanthology that gained quite a bit of buzz, and a 109,000$ backing. Writer Neil Gaiman and his wife Amanda Palmer kickstarted their American tour last year, raising 133,000$ (out of a $20,000 goal). Digital Manga Press broke new ground in manga publishing by first proposing reprints of an out-of-print volume of Osamu Tezuka’s Swallowing the Earth – a 3950$ goal yielded 8800$ in crowdfunding. Emboldened thus, they recently launched another Kickstarter, one to publish another adult graphic novel by Tezuka, called Barbara. This one still has 5 days to go, and is at 14,600$ for a proposed 6500$ goal.

One particular project that caught my eye was Joyce Brabner’s Kickstarter to install a desk and statue in honor of noted comic-book writer Harvey Pekar, in Cleveland, his hometown. For those not in the know, Pekar is one of the pioneers of American autobiographical comics. His long-running series American Splendor, based on his own day-to-day adventures, began in 1976 and went on till his demise in 2010. Since he could not draw comics himself, the illustrations were provided by a variety of artists, ranging from alternative gurus Robert Crumb and Joe Sacco to modern-day cartoonists like Gilbert Hernandez and Richard Corben.

Among the rewards that the Pekar Kickstarter had, the most surprising was something that cost 99$. A Video conference with Alan Moore. THE Alan Moore. You know, the guy I keep obsessing about and keep mentioning at every single opportunity. Would I pay 99$ for a video conference with Alan Moore? Seriously? I would have happily paid twice that amount, and that’s as honest a statement as I can express without melting into maudlin sentimentalism and fan-wankery. I paid the money last year, felt flushed with happiness and altruism and nervousness at the thought of actually being able to watch the Mage of Northhampton speak.

And then I forgot all about it.

News of the actual conference came in early February – it was to be held on Saturday. I was a little disheartened to learn of the date because I had other plans that day, but as it turned out, I was able to attend part of the conference, knowing that Brabner would undoubtedly put up the video sooner or later online. There was some level of an honor system involved, where we were not supposed to share our passwords to the conference with any non-backers. Some payment issues involved with the hosting company.

Regardless of how he comes off in interviews (more than a little disgruntled with the state of affairs around him, that is), Moore is a genuinely funny person. He’s also capable of carrying on a conversation without losing his train of thought or the erudite charm that marks his writing. The conference obviously did not have us all talking to him at once, it was more of a broadcast where he would answer questions that the backers had sent to him prior to the event. But the air of quiet theatricality he brought to the proceedings – hunching his shoulders and rolling his eyes at times, sipping on his cup of tea, and even showing off his shoes – this was something that paid for itself within the first few minutes. And continued for much longer.

In the course of two hours and thirty minutes, Moore talked about fans and celebrities, his thoughts on the comics industry, and the possibilities of the comics medium. He went into detail about his thoughts on digital comics, where he distinguished between gimmickry in online comics and actual utilization of this new medium. (“comic companies are taking the same regrettable formulae from the last few decades and plopping them online”). About process, and how he finds all the little details that make his works so much richer. (“You research the place until connections start to emerge.”) He spoke briefly of his beef with Grant Morrison (“I was someone famous that he could slag on”) and about Jerusalem, his upcoming novel, which he calls the biggest work of his life and has about five more chapters to go. There are moments where he astounds – like his aversion to video games because he does not want his audience to control the narrative (“I am a fascist with narrative”). Or when he compares Pro wrestling to Greek theater.

And in the answer to my question, he name-drops Craig Thompson. Hoo ah!

Well, you can see the video for yourself, it’s online now. There are glitches in the recording from time to time, but ignore them. 2 and a half hours of Alan Moore goodness will make you happy, I guarantee it. Umm, feel free to donate some money to Joyce once you are done at hpekar@aol.com. Not only does she deserve a bit of your money, but she’s also planning to organize a second instalment of An Evening With Alan Moore very soon.

Kickstarter is not the only sponsor-game in town, though. There’s Sponsume, which incidentally has an Alan Moore-involved project going on right now, where you can pay for a V For Vendetta paperback or mask signed by Moore. I am a little cash-unrich at the moment, and I’ll pass.

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Myself

Vegas Memories

We walked down Las Vegas Boulevard on our last afternoon there, taking in the daytime sights of that crazy, insomnia-riddled city. A man stood in the shade with a live python on a table in front of him. For a minute, I was tempted to test the remains of my ophiophobia. But I looked more closely at the snake, and it looked forlorn, more than a little harmless and very disturbed by the hubbub around it. I felt sorry for it, and the moment passed. We walked on, and it was totally not because I was chicken.

There was a flock of Latino Elvis lookalikes, who made me think of 3000 Miles To Graceland and True Romance and Bubba Ho-tep, and the troops of dwarf Elvises that went around humming “Hunka hunka burnin’ love” in Grand Theft Auto 2. Elvis impersonators are inherently funny, and driving over miniature versions who screamed and scattered and then died with satisfying crunches used to be one of those fulfilling activities of youth.

We found ourselves in front of the Bellagio, where the fountains soar and crackle with cannonball thunder every thirty minutes. We watched, took pictures, laughed and clapped, as did everyone around us. A street-side artist waved at people passing by. He had a somewhat odd-looking caricature of a woman open in front of him, with her hair drawn across her lips, that made her look like she had a moustache. The three of us looked at each other and realized that we wanted to get ourselves drawn. At which Steve (for that was his name), Steve-with-a-smile took his sketchbook and spent the next ten minutes doing what he did best, and boy was it purty. He did not use pencils at all, just markers, and the deftness with which he put our likenesses to paper – standing all the while, smile intact – was amazing. “Markers fade”, the art collector in me whispered. “Shut up and have fun”, I whispered right back. “Everything fades.”

I found Vegas more than a little claustrophobic. Navigating through slot machine farms soaked in cigarette smoke and neon lights gets tiresome after a while. The only time I sat at one of them was when a friend wanted to smoke and there was nowhere else to sit, so we grabbed two beers and occupied two bar-stools next to a machine. This one time we wanted to have coffee, it was difficult to navigate to a Starbucks – Google maps said that the closest counter was somewhere inside a building, but plodding through miles of slot-machine farms was daunting. We found it finally, squeezed behind a lounge and a bar.

But Vegas at night is truly something. It was fun being there with friends who had traveled across continents – two of them refused to fall asleep until morning every day. We hung out, did silly things that you can do in the city without a second thought, picked up every card and flyer for escorts and adult shows that were being distributed on the streets by random strangers. I could talk about my Onizuka moment, sitting in the bar at the Cosmopolitan that night, when the girl sitting next to me pointed out that the glass elevator that went up periodically allowed us to peek up the very short skirts that the ladies seemed to be wearing. I remember falling asleep on my feet at about 4 AM, in a Walgreen’s. Two of us walked outside while the others still shopped, where the cold air and the ice-cream we shared sort of woke us up, and we saw a bunch of couples dancing to a guitar-player who strummed his instrument like someone skinning a chicken.

I nearly made it to an ATB concert on Saturday night, but a series of unfortunate events (that will remain unmentioned on the blog) transpired, and we found ourselves watching Russell Peters videos in our hotel room at 2 in the morning. Which totally rocked, just so you know.

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Music

Seriously, Off to the Races

Since I have a little time.

I heard Lana Del Rey’s singing in a small factory in Sabadell, Spain. “You must listen, Satya! You will love!”, pal Horacio remarked, as he fired up his Spotify playlist. Horacio always speaks in exclamation marks, and it suits the guy. His English is marginally better than my Spanish, and our conversations, especially over email, sometimes have moments of horror where we both realize we cannot understand each other. Friends with slightly more Anglo-Spanish skills have to intervene. But it always works out. When Horacio gets excited about something, it means something deserves to be checked out.

‘Video Games’ hit me in the gut, almost everything about the song hitting the right pleasure-centers in my body. The voice, the words, the echoey chorus and the harps. But I am 32, and much attuned to the devious ways of first-time musicians, so there was also a note of skepticism in my appreciation. Mostly because it’s easy to evoke that old-timey feel with a voice like her’s, that raspy sensuousness overpowering all critical faculties with its primal appeal. It is also easy to come up with an album that exploits this seductiveness for an album, two at most, and then you realize that you can only take so much of that. (Yes, I am looking at you, Norah Jones)

But then I listened to the song again, that and ‘Blue Jeans’. And realized that her voice had three distinct textures to it. The smoky nightclub voice is the one that’s most obvious. The sex-kitten voice that makes her sound like she’s a teenage pop princess. And something in between, which you hear in ‘Blue Jeans’, when she sings ‘I will love you till the end of time’. She switches between the voices without drawing attention to that action, and that’s where she got to me, with the peculiarity of her vocal abilities.

Of course, this was before I saw what Lana Del Rey née Elizabeth Grant looked like.

I know, I know, I get shallower by the day.

I confess to being completely enamored by ‘Off to the Races’, the first song on her album Born to Die. This track gut-punched me on a drive back from Vegas last weekend, when these lines crystallized into being on the car speakers.

And he grabs me, he has me by my heart
He doesn’t mind I have a Las Vegas past
He doesn’t mind I have a L.A crass way about me
He loves me with every beat of his cocaine heart

This resonated with me on a personal level (don’t ask) and a grin that could, without question, be classified as “stupid” slowly enveloped my face. That widened when the verse slipped in a Lolita reference.  But what checked the song into Earworm Central was the sex-kitten-voice chorus singing “I’m your little scarlet, starlet/Singing in the garden/Kiss me on my open mouth/Ready for you“. The chorus brings to mind imagery that has me worried about listening to it when in office.

[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cj6LHO3IUqg[/youtube]

If liking this is akin to indulging in musical porn, I don’t care, baby.

[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eGR1iDuKabU[/youtube]

Del Rey has gotten a lot of flak in the recent past, especially after a Saturday Night Live performance that did not come out as well it should have. The voice changes that sound so good on the recording came out pretty jarring in the live set. Not only did it sound like she did not have an iota of control on her vocal chords, but the performance was listless, as if she was being made to sing against her will, without any practice. This in turn led to a lot of internet commentary – you know, voices of reason that flock around any momentous event such as this. Lana Del Rey is a fake. Lana Del Rey does not know how to sing. Her music is “manufactured pop”. She is painful to watch. “Worst SNL performer ever”.

[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9zrvD-o8cII[/youtube]

Shit hit the fan so bad – especially when people began to remark on her name-change and alleged cosmetic enhancements and her alleged millionaire dad financing her music career – that Kristen Wiig did a parody rebuttal a few days later on SNL.

[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5hKq07zwwAw[/youtube]

Recently, Lana Del Rey sang the same song on Jimmy Kimmel Live, and sounded so much better this time. Only goes out of tune in 2 or 3 places, but the adventurous voice and chord variations (especially towards the end) just makes me feel like this woman’s the real deal. Someone who still has some work to put into her live shows, but good all the same.

[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PPqhgm7R8c8[/youtube]
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Myself

Off to the Races

Looks like the blog will be on hiatus until end of the week, due to somewhat-foreseen life reasons. No, that’s not an excuse. Las Vegas, the Grand Canyon, San Diego, the Sequoia and Yosemite National Parks are involved, as are mid-first-quarter work goals.

In the meantime, go check out pal Dhritiman’s shiny new blog. Known in certain circles as Vrikodhara (and shame on you if you’re Indian and did not get the myth-reference) his Livejournal was one of the best-kept secrets in my world. I don’t think you can pronounce the name of his blog correctly unless you’re Axomiya, heh.

Or go write your own. Generate content. Fuck the signal up, make some noise.

Or umm, whatever.

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Movies, Myself

The Ghibli Theater Watch: Spirited Away

True story.
Around 2001 or so, I heard rumblings about a Japanese film called Sen To Chihiro No Kamikakushi. It was not quite the pre-Internet era, just the time when you would pay through your nose to browse. But the illustrations I saw in those few stray magazines were good enough for me to go look for more information online (text-only, of course, for faster browsing). So I read all I could about Sen To Chihiro. This was years before Japan really got into my skin, but I was enthused. Happy that something non-Disney was getting recognition around the world.

Then someone mentioned a new animated movie that was coming out. Something so good that it had even been nominated for the Oscars. I was a little miffed at this. How can something as good as Sen To Chihiro be overlooked in favor of something with a name as bland as Spirited Away? Never mind that I had not seen either film, I was just taken aback at the injustice of it all. This may sound ridiculous now. (Sure does to me) It was some time before I realized that the two movies were the same. Oh well, so it goes.

I passed on the dubbed screening of Spirited Away a few days ago, opting instead to go for the Japanese version two nights ago, at the Egyptian. And I have arrived at the conclusion that Spirited Away is a flawless film.

I had a conversation with a friend a few hours before watching it. She found the film too dark – I disagreed. No denying that there are moments of darkness in the film, but nothing more than most children’s literature, where the oft-used plot pivot (as I had talked about in my review of Kazu Kibuishi’s Amulet) is the loss of family, probably the only primal fear that a child has. The scene where Chihiro’s parents undergo their transformation, therefore,  is visceral.  Their squeals are like fingernails clawing on a blackboard, and her shriek of horror is terrifying. Another scene that creeps me out is when we hear Yubaba’s raspy voice for the first time along with a closeup of her lips, calling Chihiro into her inner chambers. Brrr.

But every serious moment in the film has its counterpoint, every note of menace balanced by an undercurrent of humor that unknots your stomach. The malevolent sorceress becoming a whimpering bundle of maternal concern in the middle of a conversation about skinning this impudent little human girl defuses the tension in an instant. Once you realize that the villains are not as omnipotent as they seem, that rules govern this magical world, you relax a bit. Chihiro’s parents aren’t going to turn into bacon, and the little girl will find a way.

Is Chihiro the perfect Miyazaki heroine? I find the character refreshing, sans pretension or the mores and genre responsibilities thrust upon other Ghibli heroines. Chihiro is grumpy, scared, out of her depth. And yet, despite moments of weakness, she copes. She demonstrates remarkable levels of ingenuity and spunk, be it when facing down the sorceress Yubaba or dealing with stinky river gods. She finds untapped veins of courage in herself when wanting to make amends for Haku’s transgression. Now that’s a heroine for you. The way she is animated is unreal – observe the way she petulantly hops from one foot to the other, whining at her parents to hurry up. Or the careful manner her feet make their way down the tall stairs down to the steam room.

It goes without saying that all the Ghibli films boast of exquisite visual palettes. Spirited Away takes this design opulence and cranks it all the way up to one hundred and eleven. The bath-house of eight million gods is inhabited by the most curious characters, the human-looking ones characterized by extra-large heads and a distinctive look, the non humans… The first time we see the non-human guests of this otherworldly resting place, they are blurry blobs. Then they materialize out of nothingness, charcoal-grey misty forms coalescing into a procession of monsters, spirits and kami of various shapes, sizes and emotional dispositions. Every single one of them feels made of a million stories.

And that, to me, enhances the experience of a Miyazaki story. There are no helpful sign-posts telling us what to expect out of these characters or what archetypes they represent. We do not know who No-Face is, or what attracts him to Chihiro when he (she? It?) feels her human presence on the bridge. There is absolutely nothing we know about the three bouncy heads in Yubaba’s boudoir – other than that they bounce, and that they like to eat, when they get a chance. It is a wonderful universe, this Other Realm, and it’s gratifying to know that we will perhaps never know all these stories. We won’t, but that does not mean they never happened. Wouldn’t a lesser film-maker have succumbed to the temptation of leaving a stray wink at the audience, maybe a fleeting glimpse of a beloved forest-god with a leafy umbrella, or a deer that walks on water? Hell, I would pay money to see a whole movie starring the soot creatures and Kamaji in the boiler room. Or the adventures of miniature Bo and bird-Baba, squeaking their way through this wonderland.

The main piano theme that opens the film is probably my favorite Hisaishi composition for Studio Ghibli. Though I find the first few minutes of the film undeserving of the background score that plays, the music a little too overbearing for the proceedings. Probably because I dislike Chihiro’s parents as much as humanly possible. The orchestral violins in the soundtrack rise slow, sweeping into a crescendo as Chihiro gets more and more agitated and as the world changes, . There are the playful chirps and twangs that Hisaishi employs, motifs for different characters. A dream-team, the director and his composer!

A few last memories – the scenes in the evening, where we see lights and lanterns being lit slowly. The unending stretches of water, and the sound of the train moving through it. And the sound of crickets.

If there’s an afterlife, I want it to be like a Miyazaki film.

Once upon a time, when I felt like it, I would paint. And I painted this for a dear friend. I was especially happy with the Totoro cameo.

Chihiro and Haku

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