Art Archives — Page 156 of 206 — San Francisco Bay Guardian Archive 1966

Swedish fetish

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March 18, 2009

Americans have always been lured by the siren call of those blindingly blonde babes and bewitching blue-eyed boys, but what exactly is "it" about Sweden that keeps us wanting more? The country is known for being progressive, well educated, sexually liberal, and neutral in wartime. A Swede even holds the Guinness World Record for spinning the most yo-yos simultaneously (nine).

Sweden has infiltrated American style; I don’t know anyone who doesn’t own at least one thing from Ikea, H&M, or Cheap Monday. These companies convey a sleek, stackable, skinny image. This impression is debunked slightly by the current Yerba Buena Center for the Arts exhibition "Irreverent: Contemporary Nordic Craft Art," a showcase for clothes you can’t wear and furniture you can’t use, such as Frida Fjellman’s chandeliers populated by glass owls and frosted squirrels.

There are also the images Bergmania has left us: stunning and haunting images of long coastlines, 18 hours of daylight in June, and splendid mountain ranges shrouded in December darkness. The snow-white vampires of Tomas Alfredson’s Let the Right One In (2008) proliferate our nightmares. The comic glum chums of Roy Andersson’s You the Living (2007) will soon come calling.

For a country with a landscape that’s roughly equivalent to California and a population of about 9 million, Sweden is an impressive exporter of music — the third largest in the world, bested only by the U.S. and U.K. The boom began in the 1970s with those pop perfectionists, ABBA, who crossed the Atlantic to bliss us out with the melancholy euphoria of 1976’s "Dancing Queen" (their sole U.S. chart-topper, although they were the most commercially successful band of the decade).

Following ABBA’s footsteps and to some degree formula, lesser and at times laughable groups emerged from Sweden in the 1980s to reinforce the bright blonde stereotype. Europe advised us to "Open Your Heart" and Roxette counseled to "Listen to Your Heart." Although these acts managed to break into the mainstream, none attained the same timeless staying power of Agnetha, Benny, Björn, and Anna-Frid, with their teen anthems about sneaking out under mama’s nose and "having the time of your life," and their darker, more adult post-Arrival (Polar, 1976) material.

The 1990s only solidified Sweden’s reputation as a pop paradise. It brought some ludicrous acts, such as Rednex with 1994’s "Cotton Eye Joe." But Ace of Base gave us "The Sign" in 1993, and the Cardigans crafted powerful, lasting songs and even albums. Perhaps most notably, Max Martin made Britney Spears famous by writing and producing her 1998 debut single "… Baby One More Time" and creating many more hits for her and the Backstreet Boys. He also collaborated with Robyn, who has achieved cult and critical success at home and more recently in the U.S. with her own songs.

In the 21st century, Sweden’s international music presence has grown more multifaceted. The Hives brought rock to the American charts in 2000 with "Hate To Say I Told You So," and American indie kids and Kanye West went bananas in 2006 for the whistling jam "Young Folks" by Peter, Björn, and John, whose fifth and newest album Living Thing is set for release this month. The female vocalist on "Young Folks," ex-Concretes member Victoria Bergsman, is now focusing on a solo project, Taken By Trees. Psych-folk-jazz rockers Dungen put out their fourth proper album, helpfully titled 4, last fall. The group’s U.S. label is Kemado, while its sound is increasingly Komeda — as in Roman Polanski’s early film composer Krzysztof Komeda.

The Swedish acts, if not hits, keep coming: last month brought femme foursome Sahara Hotnights’ album of cover versions Sparks (Universal); January delivered delicate folkster Loney Dear’s Dear John (Polyvinyl); and charming, Björk-influenced Maia Hirasawa puts out her second album next week. The beautiful Lykke Li recently played the Fillmore, where her opening act, the Västra Götalands Iän duo Wildbirds and Peacedrums, was to die for. Indie-pop trio the Bell recently played the Independent, and the Dylan-inspired Tallest Man On Earth (a.k.a. Kristian Matsson) breaks free from touring with Bon Iver to headline shows in support of the acclaimed Shallow Grave (Gravitation).

Sweden’s second largest city, Gothenberg, plays host to lovelorn troubador Jens Lekman, Madchester-influenced boy duo the Tough Alliance, and doo-wop dolly El Perro del Mar. Another Gothenberg resident, acoustic singer/songwriter José González, gained popularity in 2003 when his cover of Swedish electro duo the Knife’s "Heartbeats" was set to a Sony commercial in which 250,000 colored balls bounced down the steepest streets of San Francisco.

González’s version of "Heartbeat" resparked interest in the Knife’s original, and brother and sister duo Olaf Dreijer and Karin Dreijer Andersson built on that audience with 2006’s critical fave Silent Shout (Mute). This week, sister Karin introduces her solo recording project, Fever Ray. Like her work with the Knife, the 10 songs on Fever Ray (Mute) couple icy electronic atmospheres with quite literal lyrics — one song even refers to dishwasher tablets.

Whatever the "it" is that has captured the hearts of so many Americans and sent all these acts across the ocean to us, it continues to grow and assume new forms. If you ever make the trek to pop paradise, remember: they refer to Swedish Fish as "winegum candy" in Sweden. It’s kinda like how the French don’t use the term "french fries."

THE TALLEST MAN ON EARTH

with Herman Dune

March 25, 7:30 p.m., $12–$14

Rickshaw Stop

155 Fell, SF

(415) 861-2011

www.rickshawstop.com

Naked kiss: Curt McDowell paints the town

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March 17, 2009

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By Johnny Ray Huston

Curt McDowell, from Buzzy’s Adventures (Zip-A-Tone), ca. 1968-70. Courtesy estate of Curt McDowell

One of the things that I appreciate most about Curt McDowell’s art is its shamelessness. It is shameless in a lively, funny, righteous, even virtuous manner that should embarrass prudish American moralists. “An uneven dozen broken hearts,” a show of the late filmmaker’s paintings and drawings, is a revelatory pleasure because of how directly it conveys McDowell’s lust for and love of simple revelry. A scrapbook of photos and drawings attests to McDowell’s appetite for asses and fascination with faces, but ultimately, it’s a testimonial to a sexuality that shirked labels as it stripped off clothing. A collaged wall of comics and portraits brings one in close contact with McDowell’s rich sense of community — one that blurred love and friendship, and mixed family members with figures of imagination.

McDowell’s untamed and uncensored spirit couldn’t be more refreshing today, when pornography (whether commodified or autobiographical) is endlessly subcategorized. But while McDowell’s big heart and healthy libido make for predictable discoveries, his serious talent as a painter comes as a surprise. As a filmmaker, McDowell blazed his own path with short works such as 1971’s self-explanatory yet unexpectedly rich Confessions and 1980’s equally direct Loads. (In 1972’s Ronnie, he merges porn and biographical portraiture with unmatched potency.) His most famous work is the two-and-a-half hour pornographic epic Thundercrack! (1975). It turns out he was just as fierce and skillful with a paintbrush or a set of Magic Markers as he was with a camera.

One of the show’s centerpieces is Untitled (the Beatles in autopsy), a nearly life-size oil-on-canvas naked and dead portrait of the Fab Four from 1968 that deserves a spot in the rich museum of cryptic Beatles iconography and perhaps even within the hall of pop art classics.

“Fridays at the Ballet”

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March 17, 2009

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PREVIEW By now the fact that San Francisco Ballet is one of the hottest ballet companies in the country is no longer news. It’s also common knowledge that ballet is an extremely expensive art form. Ticket prices reflect that unfortunate reality. That’s why SFB’s "Fridays at the Ballet" are such a good deal. For $59 (or even less if you shop around) you get a performance plus drinks afterward in the War Memorial Opera House lobby. The first of this season’s "Fridays" features Helgi Tomasson’s lovely, romantic On a Theme of Paganini (2008) and two glories of the repertoire — Jardin aux Lilas (Lilac Garden) and The Concert. The SFB premiere of Antony Tudor’s 1936 Jardin aux Lilas celebrates Tudor’s 100th birthday with an early work that is perhaps his all-time masterpiece. Its drama, its heat, its agony are underground; nothing is spelled out, everything is implied. Yet this story about love acknowledged and love denied will haunt you. Jerome Robbins’ 1956 hilarious The Concert strikes an altogether different note. Ballet doesn’t take to comedy easily, so Robbins was in for a challenge — but he watched silent movies and studied comedic timing. His mayhem in the concert hall has become a classic, and SFB has the dancers to pull it off. It’s the first of Robbins’ choreographies set to Chopin, a composer he would use very differently in later works, and all you can do is pity the poor pianist who has to contend with the kind of audience Robbins gave him. "Fridays at the Ballet," with a different program, returns April 3.

"FRIDAYS AT THE BALLET," Fri/20, 8 p.m., $59, War Memorial Opera House, 301 Van Ness, SF. www.sfballet.org/fridays

Burning Man season in San Francisco

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March 17, 2009

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By Steven T. Jones, aka Scribe

Burning Man is more than an annual event popular with San Franciscans: it is a year-round culture, one that really comes into season right around now as the art projects take shape and the myriad theme camps starting fundraising. And recently, there have been some fun and inspiring manifestations of this festive season.

Opulent Temple, Burning Man’s biggest and most enduring large-scale sound camp (and my former camp), threw a massive March 6 fundraiser in a Treasure Island warehouse, featuring legendary DJ Carl Cox (and a long list of other spinners) and mind-blowing art pieces by the Flaming Lotus Girls and Peter Hudson. The NBC news clip above insightfully focuses on how the Bay Area’s art communities help each other during hard economic times.

Then last week, there was the benefit party for Hollis Hawthorne, a friend of the Guardian and Burning Man families who is in coma. The event at Slim’s turned out a wide range of talented acts and community-minded burners that raised a staggering amount of money for a one-night event to bring Hollis home to the Bay Area.

The Burning Man story itself came to the stage in San Francisco in January as “A Burning Opera: How to Survive the Apocalypse,” and after receiving critical acclaim for this talented production’s limited engagement, the crew will hold two fundraisers this week to stage another run: Wednesday at the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence “Burning Bingo” event and this Saturday evening at Café Flore.
There’s also the release of a film about the event, “Dust & Illusions” (an early version of which I reviewed here) by Oliver Bonin (who was embedded with the Flaming Lotus Girls at the same time I was). Among other showings is one at Chicken John’s place on March 28.
Meanwhile, the company that stages Burning Man, Black Rock LLC, is about to be homeless. That well-entrenched crew is getting bounced out of its Third Street headquarters to make way for a massive new UC hospital on the Mission Bay site. Word is they’re still looking for the right digs and only have until next month to find them.

A new tax on smut?

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March 16, 2009

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By Tim Redmond

Heads up: There’s a move in Sacramento to put a new tax on “adult entertainment.” (Scroll down and read the second part of the press release). A couple of thoughts:

1. I’m a tax-and-spend liberal, and I have no problems in general with taxes on services.

2. Still, this is kind of funky. It’s not clear yet how the bill will define “adult entertainment.” As demimonde and labor activist Princess Pandora puts it:

Do they charge Britney Spears concerts? She dances all sexy, including “pelvic undulations,” which are considered a simulated sex act by ABC and can get a club fined/shut down. What about the ballet? Those tights don’t leave much to the imagination. Do you think women love Barishnikov for his dancing? Girlfriend, please! If I do porn, but wear flowers in my hair, and maybe recite some crappy poetry, can I call it “performance art” and avoid the tax?

3. We don’t charge sales tax on newspapers and magazines. When does a magazine become porn, and thus taxable? One nude on the cover (that would include much of the alternative press in America)? What about the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue? (I know, it’s pretty lame, but Playboy’s pretty lame, too).

4. I don’t love the connection this bill makes, if even implictly, between “adult entertainment” and domestic violence. Don’t want to open a can of worms here, but I think there’s a lot more DV that can be traced to the Super Bowl than to most innocent smut.

I’ve put in a call to Assembly member Torrico’s office, and they promised to get back to me. I’ll keep you posted.

UPDATE: Jeff Barbosa, a spokesperson for Torrico, just called me. He said the bill is a “work in progress” and that they still haven’t defined what “adult entertainment” will be. But he said right now they’re using Penal Code Section 313 as a working definition.

Here’s the language:

“Harmful matter” means matter, taken as a whole, which to the
average person, applying contemporary statewide standards, appeals to
the prurient interest, and is matter which, taken as a whole,
depicts or describes in a patently offensive way sexual conduct and
which, taken as a whole, lacks serious literary, artistic, political,
or scientific value for minors.

Ooh, I can see this creating a lot of problems.

I wonder: Perhaps the Assembly could take a page from Tom Ammiano’s pot bill, and legalize prositution, then tax it. Make sense to me.

Objects of Obsession: Branch out

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March 16, 2009

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SFBG’s Laura Peach rounds up local items and experiences to die for. See her last installment here.

As a girl, I would spend summers wandering through island woods at my grandparent’s house. I always loved the birch tree bark, and would peel pieces off the trees to make little dresses of white and pale pink for my dolls, always wishing that there was a big enough section of bark to create a skirt my size.

Although I was never able to wear the wood of my childhood, recently I’ve been on the lookout for ways to bring the forest alive in my everyday urban home life. Here are a few of my favorite finds, wooden through and through. They just may bring out a different type of tree hugger in you.

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1. Wooden Wallet

A real slab of wood is not the best thing to have in your pocket. No one wants slivers in their behind. But the thoughtful, science geek designers at San Francisco’s Hlaska were enamored by the beauty and grace of wood grain. They reproduced the patterns found in a real pine tree onto Italian leather for their Evergreen wallet ($125).

Hlaska, 2033 Fillmore, SF. (415) 440-1999, www.hlaska.com

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2. Log Life

This watering can ($16) is the sweetest stump I’ve ever seen. Hydrate thirsty plants using the log pitcher and they may be inspired to grow grander and greener. Made from recycled plastic, so no trees were harmed and you can hold the branch handle guilt free. Oh, it also makes for a nifty vase.

Doe SF, 629 A Haight, SF. (415) 558-8588, www.doe-sf.com

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3. Pink Poison

The bright, bold berries bursting off the black branch on this t-shirt ($28) are supposedly poisonous. But such a pretty pink color makes them hard to resist. I might be tempted to pop one in my mouth.
Designed by San Francisco contemporary art golden boyTucker Nichols exclusively for Richmond’s hippest object/art/book shop Park Life, this berried branch shirt is a catchy closet addition for sure.

Park Life, 220 Clement, SF. (415) 386-7275, www.parklifestore.com

Irony for sale!

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March 12, 2009

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By Juliette Tang

For the next three days, everything at the McSweeney’s store will be marked at $1, $5, $10, or $15. If you weren’t the type of person inclined to buy All Known Metal Bands, a book that “contains the names of over fifty thousand metal bands” for the lofty sum of $22, it’s yours for the less lofty sum of $5, this week only. Baby Do My Banking, a “12-page vibrantly colored instructional board book is suitably scaled and captivating for parents and babies alike” is $3.50, and worth it at that price for all the hours you will save once you teach your toddler how to balance your checkbook and withdraw money for you from the ATM. Unfortunately, the sale does not extend to the combo subscription to The Believer, McSweeney’s, and Wholephin. But it does include Michael Chabon, Nick Hornby, Art Spiegelman, Dave Eggers, and more, all at discount prices.

Second Annual Poetry Luchador Battle of ALL of the Sexes winners

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March 12, 2009

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Editor’s note: The Second Annual Poetry Luchador Battle of ALL of the Sexes on Valentines Day was a multi-generational, multi-lingual, multicultural ash-up of art, gender, poetry, wrestling, language, and theatre brought to you by the favorite revolutionary poets, media-makers, poverty scholars and cultural workers at POOR Magazine. As cosponsors of the event, we’re proud to run the winning poem. We published the first-place winner in the paper this week — here are the second- and third-place winners of the contest.

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Second place: “Queer Boi and his HIStory with Biological Males”

By Queer Boi aka William Romero

The first one

Bought me Suszy Q’s, cherry cokes, and let me pick the Fantasy Five on Fridays.

He would wake up at 4 a.m. five days a week to go shine-up new cars so I wouldn’t have to

He carried me asleep in his arms, up the stairs to our two-bedroom apartment

His actions spoke his affection

Especially on nights when he would blast Vicente Fernandez while

drinking his Budweiser

Doors slamming, vases flying, his screaming, my mother’s crying

I’m not enough, was the feeling my seven-year-old lips sobbed onto my pillow

The second one

Made me lunches and fruit punch Kool-Aid during our summers at home alone

Beat the S-H-I-T out of any boys who made fun of me

And let me be Laserbeak to his Soundwave on our Cybertron

Unlike the one before him, whom we both called father, he let his

words speak to his affections

I would rather you be a criminal than turn out to be gay

I’m not enough was the thought that crept into my head as I fled home

Hollis Update: Gold for our (open-eyed!) girl

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March 11, 2009

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The Guardian continues to follow the condition of local dancer and activist Hollis Hawthorne, who was in a serious motorcycle accident in India and is in a coma.

Miracles do happen! Hollis is doing better than expected. Though still not responding to commands, she is opening both eyes and squeezing the hands of her mom and boyfriend. She’s also been moved to a private room while her family works with several airlines to try to get her home. More info here.

Meanwhile, friends and family have raised $75,500 as of Monday. Almost halfway there! And we’ve been blown away by the support we’ve gotten for tomorrow’s Gold Rush fundraiser at Slim’s. It’s truly going to be a spectacular night – one we only wish Hollis could be present for.

Highlights? Extra Action Marching Band, who Hollis danced to just hours before she left for India last month; A raffle for two Burning Man tickets or two tickets to Teatro Zinzanni; An art auction curated by Will Chase, also known as the man at the helm of Jack Rabbit Speaks; Bohemian Carnival favorites Gooferman; performances by both of the dance troupes Hollis helped found; Live auction by Chicken John; and so much more… Pre-purchase your tickets at www.slims-sf.com and get there early, because this is going to be one fantastic, and PACKED, show.

Recreational transmissions

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March 11, 2009

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› a&eletters@sfbg.com

Ariel Pink’s music has never existed above or apart from the scrambling music critics do to make sense of it. Not that the busted transmissions making up his Haunted Graffiti series could ever be accused of careerism or provocation. The multiyear lapse between the initial release of his tapes and their reissue under Animal Collective’s Paw Tracks imprint is a requirement for so-called outsider cred, though using the term for an art-schooled kid from Los Angeles is dubious. But even viewed cynically, it’s a serious lacuna, one that doesn’t cotton to Internet imperatives of irony, fidelity, or decipherability.

The received wisdom holds that Pink’s hiss-scored no-fi home recordings are a ghostly take on 1970s MOR/AM radio pap. He does spend serious time anchored in Yacht Rock Cove, particularly on HG entry Scared Famous (self-released, 2002; Human Ear Music, 2007). The cramped verses of Scared‘s exemplary "Gopacapulco" open onto a jingle-chorus, a glimpse of cruise ship Thanatos. The album’s other memorable tracks find him slipping through more schizo territory, with Pink mainlining Deniece Williams over the irrepressible pharyngeal keyboards of "Are You Gonna Look After My Boys?" and huffing Scotchgard on the Kinks’ village green via "Beefbud."

This is music that does more than point to other music, though. If there’s a lasting appeal to Pink’s music, it doesn’t have to do with name-dropping or referentiality — it has everything to do with making these connections problematic, suggesting an outside to the music only to bounce the listener back on the artist’s hermetic world. That’s another way of saying that Pink’s deliberately shoddy craftsmanship is the point of his music: his verses, choruses, and bridges can be so nonlinear they make track divisions seem like an arbitrary nicety.

There’s a tossed-off bit of cruise-ship pondering in Vita Sackville-West’s 1961 novel No Signposts in the Sea that can partly clarify the way in which Ariel Pink is not ironic. Narrator Edmund caps a brief description of harbor cranes by imagining one picking up and flinging an automobile, thinking that the car would appear "as foolish as any object deprived of its rightful means of progression." There’s no way Ariel Pink’s music could be unironical, but the kind of built-in irony isn’t automatic or mocking — the traces of pop moments past that make up the uneven surface of his music aren’t floating there to show how ridiculous and impotent the feelings of our parents’ generation were. Like his patrons in Animal Collective, Pink’s music deals in, to paraphrase critic Mike Powell, the terror and murk of firsts.

Not to say there isn’t humor to spare — just that I won’t waste time trying to explain what’s satisfying about misanthropic bursts like "mankind is a Nazi" on the 10-minute prog epic "Trepanated Earth" off Worn Copy (Paw Tracks, 2005). Pink’s inability to recreate his ad hoc recordings live has earned him a special place in the annals of "you get what you pay for" online vitriol. But how can one expect him to be faithful to his recordings when the recordings aren’t even faithful to themselves? *

ARIEL PINK

With Duchess Says and Cryptacize

Tues/17, 9 p.m., $10–$12

Bottom of the Hill

1233 17th St., SF

(415) 621-4455

www.bottomofthehill.com

His royal highness

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March 11, 2009

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› a&eletters@sfbg.com

REVIEW Yinka Shonibare’s 1998 photographic essay Diary of a Victorian Dandy, Member of the Order of the British Empire runs like clockwork.

At 11 a.m., Shonibare the nobleman is shown waking and then donning a nightcap in his gilded bedroom; he’s surrounded by four ruddy-cheeked buxom maids and a pale, thin butler, who each cater to his every whim. At 2 p.m., dressed in a three-piece blue-gray suit, he tends to business in his private library. Busts of Greek and Roman conquerors sit atop mahogany bookshelves, observing while high-collared, porcine sycophants with handlebar mustaches congratulate Shonibare on squandering what’s left of his father’s fortune.

By 3 p.m., Shonibare’s nobleman has retired to another bedroom, where — sporting a salmon-pink velvet vest and matching satin tie — he reclines on a chaise lounge with a glass of red wine. An undressed brunette woman on his left caresses the vest, her eyes turned upward as if she’s entranced by his wealth and power. A red-haired girl to his right runs her fingers through his hair. In the background, a woman dressed in a hoop skirt fellates one of Shonibare’s sycophants, another woman lies at the foot of the bed, and still another looks bored as she’s buggered by one of Shonibare’s consorts.

Five p.m. brings a rousing game of billiards in the parlor. The day’s activities end at seven, with white ties, tails, and candelabras in a plush dining room replete with red velvet curtains and gilded framed oil portraits of aristocrats in powdered wigs.

Shonibare is a heavily bearded, 46-year-old Nigerian. This hairy black man, assuming the role of a dandy, places himself at the center of all his photos, reveling in absurd glory. "Historically, the dandy is usually an outsider whose only way through is his wit and style," Shonibare explains, in a text within the monograph Yinka Shonibare MBE (Prestel USA, 208 pages, $55), edited by Rachel Kent. "His apparent lack of seriousness of course belies an absolute seriousness, and that attracts me to the dandy as a figure of mobility who upsets the social order of things."

Shonibare has upset the British social order and gained mobility — including an exquisitely absurd and very real royal appointment — by creating Victorian costumes from Dutch wax print fabrics, then placing them on headless mannequins that strike leisurely poses. Much like the dandified role that he often assumes, his art seems excessive and frivolous at first glance — high fashion in extremis. But it takes on greater dimensions with consideration. The Dutch wax prints that play a prominent role in Shonibare’s work, for example, are usually associated with Africa, though they were first designed in Indonesia, then imported by the Dutch, who brought them to West Africa during the slave trade, making them a symbol of the height of colonization and imperialism.

The actions of Shonibare’s figures: skating (in 2005’s Reverend On Ice), seducing (in 2007’s The Confession) and swinging, both literally (in 2001’s The Swing — after Fragonard) and figuratively (in 2002’s Gallantry and Criminal Conversation), contain surreal, violent, erotic, and decadent connotations. Like his contemporary Kehinde Wiley, or like Ghostface and Prince in the realm of music, Shonibare uses the rococo movement of pre-revolutionary France as a point of departure. Figures of excess and tools of subversion, his headless mannequins take on references to the guillotine.

"Excess is the only legitimate means of subversion, " Shonibare has said. "Hybridization is a form of disobedience … an excessive form of libido, it is joyful sex." An illustration of such ideas, this monograph retrospective of Shonibare’s painting, sculpture, photography, and film work is a must-have piece of Afro-surreal ephemera.

Home suite home

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March 11, 2009

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› cheryl@sfbg.com

How’s this for lowest common denominator? The first sentence of Kiyoshi Kurosawa’s Wikipedia entry explains that he is a "Japanese filmmaker best known for his many contributions to the J-horror genre." With his latest film, family drama Tokyo Sonata, particularly fresh in my mind, I’d nearly forgotten he was even part of that late-1990s trend. It’s inarguable that he made one of the best of the genre — 2001’s cult nugget Pulse, a meditation on the cold, paralyzingly lonely soul of the Internet masquerading as a sublimely creepy ghost story. Pulse is the only one of Kurosawa’s films made widely available to American popcorn-munchers, albeit in the dumbed-down form of a bastardized PG-13 remake starring Kristen Bell (tagline: "You are now infected.")

Fortunately, as the San Francisco International Asian American Film Festival program notes point out, you’ll soon be getting a chance to see the original Pulse on the big screen, where its sinister sparseness should freak out even those who’ve already watched it on DVD. SFIAAFF’s spotlight on Kurosawa, encompassing seven films (including the local premiere of Tokyo Sonata) and an in-person visit from the man himself, couldn’t have been easy to curate. His filmography stretches back to the 1970s, with pink films and yakuza films and pre-J-horror horror films. His breakthrough, at least to stateside art house patrons and festival attendees, was 1997’s Cure, a serial-killa-thrilla lacking anything resembling Hollywood-style story beats. As the New York Times marveled, "Kurosawa constructs an elaborate psychological maze and then strands us in the middle of it" — a favorite technique that echoes throughout his work.

Though the SFIAAFF program spotlights Kurosawa, in many ways it’s also the Sho Aikawa show, with the actor appearing in paired films The Revenge: A Visit from Fate and The Revenge: The Scar that Never Fades (both 1997), and Eyes of the Spider and Serpent’s Path (both 1998). The stone-faced Aikawa — also a Takashi Miike regular, having triggered the total destruction of Planet Earth at the end of 1999’s Dead or Alive, among other triumphs — is particularly moving in the later films, wherein he plays a same-named character caught up in mirror-image circumstances who is, nonetheless, decidedly not the same dude. A child is snatched and murdered, and vengeance is sought, but Kurosawa focuses on the mundane aspects of gangsterhood, with the crew in Eyes of the Spider, for example, discussing polar bears and fishing strategies during stretches of downtime.

But this ain’t no Tarantino-style crimes-‘n’-chuckles set of films. With Tokyo Sonata, Kurosawa does away with the yakuza element, along with the overtly scary stuff, though the film is so timely it’s near-eerily prophetic. The economy is the boogeyman here, as an average Japanese family fractures when Dad is laid off (and doesn’t tell Mom) and the older son decides that joining the U.S. military seems like a pretty good career option. Dinner-table calm is soon replaced by ever-bizarre and sometimes tragic events, but the hidden talents of the younger son suggest all may not be dark in the world. The end result is Kurosawa’s most fulfilling work to date, in a career that’s already delivered quite a few winners. To borrow the title of one of those films, a bright future awaits.

THE SAN FRANCISCO INTERNATIONAL ASIAN AMERICAN FILM FESTIVAL March 12–22. Main venues are the Castro, 429 Castro, SF; Sundance Kabuki, 1881 Post, SF; Pacific Film Archive, 2575 Bancroft, Berk; and Camera 12 Cinemas, 201 S. Second St., San Jose. Tickets (most shows $11) are available at www.asianamericanmedia.org. For this week’s schedule, see film listings.

Keeping their cool

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March 11, 2009

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>>Click here for our complete SFIAAFF coverage

Did Asian American hipsters arrive with the cinematic appearance of Mr. Miyagi or Gregg Araki? The moment Hipster Bingo included an "über-hot Asian hipster (female)" square? Face it, we are everywhere — bubbling up from every microniche to make zines, play in bands, draw comics, and chafe against those model-minority, math-geek stereotypes, ready to rage against the Man’s machine.

According to You Don’t Know Jack: The Jack Soo Story, it all started with the star of Flower Drum Song (1961) and late-1970s TV series Barney Miller. Oakland-raised Goro Suzuki got his start as the life of the Tanforan and Topaz internment camps, evolving into a popular crooner-comedian in the Midwest where he attempted to sidestep prejudice by shortening Suzuki to the more Chinese Soo. He hit the Hollywood big time with his scene-stealing nightclub owner Sammy Fong and his beloved Detective Sgt. Nick Yemana, a role showcasing an understated wit that seems to define Asian cool. Alas, The Slanted Screen (2006) director Jeff Adachi concentrates so hard on Soo’s hipster cred, reinforced by pals like George Takei, that the drumbeat gets a bit deafening in this valuable if flawed doc, which fails to truly reveal the man behind the parts.

That’s the flip side of cool — the more you stress on it, the more elusive it is. On the opposite side of the spectrum: the 1990s-ish iconoclastic, workaholic breed of Asian hip obsessively worked by David Choe in Dirty Hands: The Art and Crimes of David Choe. Exhaustively documenting the Los Angeles-born artist for eight years as he matures before our eyes, director Harry Kim charts the growth spurts: from mischievous tot to shoplifter and graf artist to porn illustrator to street-art superstar to spiritual penitent after a stint in a Tokyo jail. The filmmaker doesn’t seem to know quite when to stop, but then neither does his subject: an obviously intelligent, playful talent who specializes in compulsively analyzing himself and pushing himself to the limits of the law, his work, and his own (r)evolution as a human being. So driven in his pursuit of edge-skating experiences that he comes off as less hipster than haunted, Choe and his Bukowskian tendencies, Vice aesthetics, and "deep" thoughts rivet long after the bodily fluids and sensory overload murals congeal.

YOU DON’T KNOW JACK: THE JACK SOO STORY

Sun/15, 2:30 p.m., and March 18, 7 p.m., Kabuki

DIRTY HANDS: THE ART AND CRIMES OF DAVID CHOE

Sat/14, 9:30 p.m., Castro

Tues/17, 4:30 p.m., Kabuki
———

THE SAN FRANCISCO INTERNATIONAL ASIAN AMERICAN FILM FESTIVAL March 12–22. Main venues are the Castro, 429 Castro, SF; Sundance Kabuki, 1881 Post, SF; Pacific Film Archive, 2575 Bancroft, Berk; and Camera 12 Cinemas, 201 S. Second St., San Jose. Tickets (most shows $11) are available at www.asianamericanmedia.org. For this week’s schedule, see film listings.

Copy this

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March 10, 2009

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Do you copy? If people who still like books — rather than people who stare at screens all day — are the zombies, then secret zombie networks are forming and strengthening throughout the Bay Area. An example is "One to Many," a group show at the homey Partisan Gallery: 20 artists — including Tauba Auerbach, Keegan McHargue, Emily Prince, and Leslie Shows — use and abuse toner cartridges to contribute an edition each to a box set of zines, and to create single pieces that are larger than the 11-by-17-inch maximum often associated with photocopying.

A handsome cardboard-encased object, the "One to Many" zine collection has a kinship to Noel Black’s Angry Dog Midget Editions, a 2003 collection I contributed to that Art on Paper caught up with last year. It also shares the folding tactics of Los Angeles artist-curator Darin Klein’s recent book projects. Both in and outside of the book format, the act or art of photocopying is an excuse for many contributors to paint it black — Lindsey White’s standout piece uses the white of the page and darkness of the ink to create misty effects.

Casual visitors to Steven Wolf Fine Arts routinely mistake Molly Springfield’s current show "Translation" for a series of Xeroxes. In fact, Springfield uses graphite on paper to create a handmade version of photocopied pages from the first chapter of Marcel Proust’s In Search of Lost Time. Working from four different editions, Springfield generates 28 drawings, each an uncanny act of meditation and dedication (she’s admitted that the couple-weeks-long process of creating a single piece can be physically painful). She renders the ghost scratches where ink doesn’t take to the page, and the smudges and waves in the center where two pages meet.

To what end? The subject of matter in its literal and figurative forms has been at the fore of Springfield’s past projects. In selecting Proust’s classic memory piece as a source to work from — and upon — she mines a rich vein. Speeding ever-faster into a frenzied post-material future, do we only have time to ingest portions of the very beginning of Proust’s remembrance? By recreating Proust’s text, does Springfield translate it? In the seven-part series "A Brief Note on the Translation," she travels through the editorial stages of an introduction she’s written for a soon-to-be-published book of these drawings. Stories about her work (and about her collaborator Bill Berkson’s connection to Proust’s last maid, Celeste Albaret) linger and transform within, and outside of, the text. (Johnny Ray Huston)

ONE TO MANY

Through March 21

Partisan Gallery

www.partisangallery.blogspot.com

MOLLY SPRINGFIELD: TRANSLATION

Through March 21

Steven Wolf Fine Arts

49 Geary, SF

(415) 263-3677

www.stevenwolffinearts.com

Naked kiss

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March 10, 2009

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› johnny@sfbg.com

One of the things that I appreciate most about Curt McDowell’s art is its shamelessness. It is shameless in a lively, funny, righteous, even virtuous manner that should embarrass prudish American moralists. "An uneven dozen broken hearts," a show of the late filmmaker’s paintings and drawings, is a revelatory pleasure because of how directly it conveys McDowell’s lust for and love of simple revelry. A scrapbook of photos and drawings attests to McDowell’s appetite for asses and fascination with faces, but ultimately, it’s a testimonial to a sexuality that shirked labels as it stripped off clothing. A collaged wall of comics and portraits brings one in close contact with McDowell’s rich sense of community — one that blurred love and friendship, and mixed family members with figures of imagination.

McDowell’s untamed and uncensored spirit couldn’t be more refreshing today, when pornography (whether commodified or autobiographical) is endlessly subcategorized. But while McDowell’s big heart and healthy libido make for predictable discoveries, his serious talent as a painter comes as a surprise. As a filmmaker, McDowell blazed his own path with short works such as 1971’s self-explanatory yet unexpectedly rich Confessions and 1980’s equally direct Loads. (In 1972’s Ronnie, he merges porn and biographical portraiture with unmatched potency.) His most famous work is the two-and-a-half hour pornographic epic Thundercrack! (1975). It turns out he was just as fierce and skillful with a paintbrush or a set of Magic Markers as he was with a camera.

One of the show’s centerpieces is Untitled (the Beatles in autopsy), a nearly life-size oil-on-canvas naked and dead portrait of the Fab Four from 1968 that deserves a spot in the rich museum of cryptic Beatles iconography and perhaps even within the hall of pop art classics. John has his left arm over Paul’s shoulder while a diminutive Ringo, lying on his side, is nestled into Paul in a manner suggestive of a child seeking comfort. George is isolated — he’d be looking off in the other direction from the other three if his eyes were open, but like theirs, his are closed in eternal drowsiness. The languid full-frontal sexuality of the painting is tonally different from the sexual high jinx in McDowell’s movies. Melancholy emanates from the image, as much due to its dark colors as its subject matter. And there’s an eerily prescient element: the late John’s and George’s names are visible on their corpses’ ID tags, while Paul’s and Ringo’s remain obscured.

"[Curt’s] beefcake was hot off the streets and the cheesecake was equally tart and titilutf8g," McDowell’s closest peer George Kuchar writes with quintessential alliterative brio in a note for the show. "All of this was served in a blue plate special that was generously filled with obsessions immune to none." Anyone who has a heart won’t be immune to "an uneven dozen broken hearts," another inspiring act of queer revivalism by curator Margaret Tedesco.

CURT MCDOWELL: AN UNEVEN DOZEN BROKEN HEARTS

Through March 29

[2nd floor projects]

www.projects2ndfloor.blogspot.com

Letters

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March 10, 2009

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THE VICE MAYORS

Thanks so much for the great article on Climate Theater ("Still crazy after all these years," 2/25/09). I’ve lived and worked in SoMa since 1973 and can think of no art venue that has done more to create a vibrant, inspiring community.

If playa types like Suck Up Willie Brown (I’ve seen him at Hollywood parties) and our current mayor, The Talking Haircut, could live in Climate World for six months, they might develop souls.

Joegh Bullock and Marcia Crosby are the co-mayors, or shall I say vice-mayors, of South of Market. Thanks for giving them props.

John LeFan

San Francisco

THE FATE OF THE CHRON

Good riddance to the San Francisco Chronicle and good luck finding a buyer.

I know of one union that has already been cut to the bone — pressmen and prepress workers, Local 4N. As a matter of fact, there will be about 200 press workers out of a job in June when the Canadian Company Transcontinental starts printing the Chronicle at the new printing facility in Fremont. Not one member from the San Francisco Local has been hired.

All production department union jobs are being outsourced. This includes mailers, machinists, and electricians. I wouldn’t count on any of them giving anything up since they are going to be unemployed come June 29th.

Maybe the Hearst Corporation should cancel the 15-year, $1 billion contract it signed with Transcon. I’m sure all the unions that will be out on the street come June would be willing to sign contracts for a lot less.

Bruce Carlton

Local 4N retiree, San Francisco

SF’S SLEEPING GIANT

Paging Matt Gonzalez! If truth is the first casualty of war, what is ceded in total occupation? Calvin Welch’s op-ed ("It’s a recession, let’s get cracking," 2/25/09) reflects the nascent realization that what San Francisco lost in electing Gavin Newsom over Gonzalez, the nation has now lost in validating the pro-corporate centrist DLC (Democratic Leadership Council) wing of the Democratic Party on a grand scale.

The opposition from the right is inarticulate and, as Welch notes, the truly democratic left is hopelessly inarticulate. Sustainability, of our environment, our economies, and our health is the challenge that must be met. It wasn’t that long ago that "a sleeping giant stirred in San Francisco." Can it happen again? Paging Matt Gonzalez!

Poplicola

From sfbg.com

The Guardian welcomes letters commenting on our coverage or other topics of local interest. Letters should be brief (we reserve the right to edit them for length) and signed. Please include a daytime telephone number for verification.

Corrections and clarifications: The Guardian tries to report news fairly and accurately. You are invited to complain to us when you think we have fallen short of that objective. Complaints should be directed to Paula Connelly, the assistant to the publisher. We prefer them in writing, but Connelly can also be reached by phone at (415) 255-3100. If we have published a misstatement, we will endeavor to correct it quickly and in an appropriate place in the newspaper. If you remain dissatisfied, we invite you to contact the Minnesota News Council, an impartial organization that hears and considers complaints against news media. It can be reached at 12 South Sixth St., Suite 1122, Minneapolis MN 55402; (612) 341-9357; fax (612) 341-9358.

The livin’ on concrete

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March 10, 2009

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Editor’s note: The Second Annual Poetry Luchador Battle of ALL of the Sexes on Valentines Day was a multi-generational, multi-lingual, multicultural ash-up of art, gender, poetry, wrestling, language, and theatre brought to you by the favorite revolutionary poets, media-makers, poverty scholars and cultural workers at POOR Magazine. As cosponsors of the event, we’re proud to run the winning poem. The second- and third-place winners are at sfbg.com.

When you walkin’ thru the downtown, and lookin’ in around, you see the

down of humanity, who was once somebody’s baby, layin’ down on the

concrete, street, on the ground

And do ya dare to care, and say what you want to say, step on and stare —

Double standard mind warped thinkin’, not my problem, this is where —

Ya got it wrong, think you are strong, move along, but its your

conscience layin’ there —

Cuz it is what it is — what it is — what it is

Livin on concrete —

What it is — what it is — what it is

Livin on concrete

So, call it whatever you wanna call it — at a distance

But in reality, it’s a casualty of a capitalist existence

Thru the food chain of command, it’s the plan of the man

So step off — shut the fuck up, walk on by, why take a stand?

And be grateful for what you got, even if ya been just tossed a bread crumb

Cuz the hypocrisy of democracy’s leavin’ nothing for that street bum —

What it is — what it is — what it is

Livin on concrete —

What it is — what it is — what it is

Livin on concrete

NIMBYism ideology, no apology, psychology

Haven’t ya realized, ya been hypnotized, homogenized, desensitized?

To a typical, statistical, egotistical psychology

To accept, the neglect and disrespect your own humanity

What it is — what it is — what it is

Livin on concrete —

What it is — what it is — what it is

Livin on the street.

So call it whatever ya wanna call it!

V.L. Hain is a PoorNewsNetwork staff writer and member of the WelfareQUEENS, a performance and media advocacy project of POOR Magazine.

Local Artist of the Week: Lindsey White

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March 10, 2009

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LOCAL ARTIST Lindsey White

TITLE Wonder (from the series A Field Guide to the Atmosphere), c-print, 50 by 40 inches.

THE STORY "I look for truth in everyday objects. I find solitude in the ones that offer me gateways elsewhere. For example, I came across a metal-encased flashlight with the brand name Wonder written across the front. This flashlight offers itself as a multifaceted tool of discovery. Everyday magical acts are happening before our eyes, but how often do people identify what they’re seeing as extraordinary?"

BIO White was born in Tulsa, Okla. She teaches at the California College of the Arts and is currently an Artist in Residence at the Kala Art Institute. Her work has been exhibited at Southern Exposure and Eleanor Harwood Gallery in San Francisco, and the Blackfish Gallery and Reading Frenzy in Portland, Ore. She is contributing to upcoming group shows in Izmir, Turkey and Houston.

SHOW "A Field Guide to the Atmosphere," through April 10. Tues. and Thurs., 6–9 p.m.; Fri., 11 a.m.–5 p.m. Ping Pong Gallery, 1240 22nd St., SF. (415) 550-7483, www.pingponggallery.com

WEB www.magicmadesimple.blogspot.com

Peepshow: Punk sex “Roulette”

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March 9, 2009

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Each week Justin Juul highlights a rad upcoming local sexy event

Who Don’t you hate it when you forget to close your browser after a hot and heavy self-petting session and then you suddenly find yourself watching porn with your brain instead of your naughty region? What is this shit, man?! Porn sucks. The plotlines are non-existent, the music sounds like it was made on a garage-sale Casio, and the production value is just total shit. But the worst part is the casting. Big beefy jocks with tribal tats and goatees, peroxide blondes with implants and tramp stamps -they may be good at fucking, but compelling character actors/artists, they are not. The problem with porn is that most of it is made in Los Angeles by brainless douchebags and clueless ex-cheerleaders looking for a quick buck. But this is San Francisco. This is the art capital of the entire world, the home of the free thinker, and the land of the awesome. Can’t we get some porn made for us? Yes, we can! Yes, we can! If you’re as sick of Barbie Doll smut as we are, then you should get to know local filmmaker/producer/writer/artist Courtney Trouble. Trouble is the founder of a “queer porn” (“queer” as in not just homo, but alternative as well) site called Nofauxxx.com and she’s the final word when it comes to smut with attitude and character. No Fauxxx is the oldest running queer porn site on the Internet and, to this date, the only spot that mixes alt, gay, lesbian, straight, trans, kink, and BBW genres into one common site. It’s sexy, artsy, entertaining, and totally DIY. In a word: ours.

Talk about the passion

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March 6, 2009

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There’s an argument to be made that record love really begins when you start noticing the labels. Slumberland was one of my earliest such epiphanies. I was bit by one of the label’s groups, Velocity Girl, because, as much as anything, I felt I had come to them on my own. This secret knowledge kept me satisfied until an older friend made me a cassette mix heavy on the Slumberland set: pastel guitar music by Rocketship, the Softies, Lilys, Black Tambourine, the Ropers, and Amy Linton’s much-missed Bay Area groups, Henry’s Dress and the Aislers Set. I started paying more attention to the sleeve.

Slumberland has been a byword for the more melodic runoff of post-punk since 1989, when its premier release — a three-band 7-inch titled What Kind of Heaven Do You Want? — closed the gap between New York noise and English indie-pop. This is an area of music subject to quarrelsome subdivisions (see shoegaze, C86, dream pop), but Slumberland’s common denominator is the taste and passion of Mike Schulman, former member of Black Tambourine, Powderburns, and the underrated Whorl.

Though still associated with its initial crop of D.C.-area groups, Schulman has run Slumberland from the East Bay since 1992. After a dry spell in the early aughts, the label is disproving F. Scott Fitzgerald’s quip about second acts with a much-buzzed-about round of releases by Brooklyn pop stylists Crystal Stilts, Cause Co-Motion, and the Pains of Being Pure at Heart — an impressive slate that puts Schulman in the unusual position of encountering his own footsteps.

“I look at what we’re doing now, and I could easily imagine any of these bands being on Slumberland 10 years ago, 15 years ago, 20 years ago,” Schulman tells me between sips of coffee on a gray Sunday morning in Oakland. He’s expansive about the joys of record collecting and vicissitudes of music press in spite of having been up since 4 a.m. with his new baby. Schulman’s tastes are eclectic — he ran the dance record store/label Drop Beat in Oakland’s Rockridge District from 1996 to 2000 and is happy to gab about doo-wop or Japanese noise — but Slumberland was dedicated to scruffy pop from the start. It was an obvious niche, though striking for its proximity to D.C.’s thriving hardcore scene. “I used to go see Minor Threat, Rites of Spring, and I loved those bands, but there were tons of hardcore labels,” Schulman reflects. “I couldn’t have named three labels in America that would do stuff by HoneyBunch or Small Factory. That music just seemed underserved.”

The Slumberland aesthetic was also a romance with a format. Schulman traces his own 45 rpm fixation back to his father’s R&B collection as well as a life-altering experience with the Jesus and Mary Chain’s 1985 A-side “Never Understand” (Blanco y Negro). “It just makes so much sense — the one great song on the one great side, something that fits in your hand. You can pick it up and carry it around. You can have a little box to take it to your friends to play it for people…. Historically, it was a very economical way to transmit the most amazing three minutes of music you’ve ever heard.”

This kind of object-oriented pleasure, along with visual aesthetics and the relative gender equity of the Slumberland bands, tends to get short shrift from blog critics who take the label to task for “playing it safe” with unabashedly melodic music. “I just think rock music is inherently conservative,” Schulman weighs in. “Everyone goes back to the same 15 references. I love the Siltbreeze stuff — those are great records — but you can’t tell me that there’s something shocking or new about them.”

Of course, a credible brand has the upshot of generating its own ancestry. The Brooklyn bands are all well-versed in the Slumberland back catalog — easily navigable on the label’s smartly designed Web site — though the Pains of Being Pure at Heart earn extra points for tapping Archie Moore (Velocity Girl, Black Tambourine) to mix their eponymous debut. Listening to the first 10 declarative seconds of every song on the album is a humbling refresher course in the elevating art of the single.

The Crystal Stilts don’t play for the same caffeinated high, but their 2008 full-length, Alight of Night, is addictive nonetheless. The disc’s zoned out, organ-laced stomps pull off the neat trick of making New York City post-disco punk sound good again. The creamiest song on the album, “Prismatic Room,” lights up the same pleasure zones in my brain as those early Velocity Girl tracks. I find myself going for seconds as soon it finishes — something I didn’t think I did anymore

www.slumberlandrecords.com

News: flash!

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March 5, 2009

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Body art-averse parents are allegedly up in arms over the Totally Stylin’ Tattoo Barbie, who is clearly totally styling with her totally stylin’, tiny butterfly tattoo (my prediction: if they make a Ken version, he’ll have something tribal).

Don’t worry, Mom and Dad! Just because kids are begging for tattoos like Barbie doesn’t mean you have to cave! Take ’em to see Britney Spears’ new tour, where this t-shirt will be available. Buy it and pad the laser-removal fund for Brit-Brit’s many tattoos (most souvenirs from her unfortunate downward-spiral period, and many in the realm of Barbie’s pink butterfly). And if your little precious does get some ink work done, don’t fret — as part of her Sephora make-up line, L.A. Ink goddess Kat Von D has introduced — somewhat ironically — tattoo concealer. Billy Bob forever, never!

Appetite: Txistorra burgers, ultimate bar food and a new Date Night

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March 4, 2009

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Welcome to Appetite, a new column on food and drink. Long-time San Francisco resident and writer, Virginia Miller, is passionate about this incomparable city, obsessed with finding and exploring its best spots, deals, events and news. She started with her own service and monthly food/drink/travel newsletter, The Perfect Spot, and plans to pass along up-to-the minute news to us. View her last installment here.

New restaurant openings

Flavors of Spain delight Noe Valley at Contigo

Noe Valley’s tastebuds awaken to the flavors of Spain as chef Brett Emerson shares his passion for and knowledge of Spanish cuisine in this week’s debut of his long-awaited Contigo. This isn’t your usual tapas joint. The gorgeous, sleek room, wood-fired oven, and charming back patio with emerging vegetable garden, set the stage for warm service reminiscent of a welcoming neighborhood hangout in Spain.

Conversing with friends over a glass of Cava, Sherry or Rioja, order fresh Anchovies straight from Spain, intriguing Oxtail Fritters, a salted Rock Cod and Orange Salad or the Txistorra Burger with manchego cheese and fried onions. If the sneak preview I attended is any indication, this will be many a local’s regular go-to for finely-crafted food that comforts as well as challenges the palate.

1320 Castro Street
415-285-0250

Pickles opens in FiDi serving gourmet burgers under a retractable roof

The closing last year of Myth, one of our better upscale restaurants, was a sad one. But Myth alum chef Matthew Kerley has resurfaced in an unexpected place: the former Pickles (the new owners kept the name) which, prior to that, was Clown Alley. I personally am happy to see creepy clown motifs and circus colors gone. The place has gone upscale, or as upscale as a burger joint can, with brown tones and wood, a fireplace and a retractable roof in the shadow of the Transamerica Building. The menu entices with bacon burgers, mini corn dogs, beer-battered onion rings, sundaes and favorites from the also-shuttered Cafe Myth menu, like deviled eggs and Brussels sprouts. I’ve heard about long lines and service issues still to be worked out, but give ’em time… gourmet burgers are the right idea for the Financial District set by day or North Beach crowd at night (Pickles will soon be open till 3am; it’s lunch only until April 1st).

42 Columbus Avenue
415-421-2540

Bar news

North Beach’s 15 Romolo re-invents itself with premium cocktails and crispy hot dogs

15 Romolo is back. The North Beach fave re-opened a few days ago, reinvented by bartenders from Coco500 and Rye. It’s in an alley, and there’s a still that speakeasy air about it, but the aqua-colored interior is gone, with a more understated look and neutral tones. $8 cocktails, like the Yellow Bicycle (St. Germain, Yellow Chartreuse) or a classic Corpse Reviver #2, are made with premium liqueurs, while there’s also a wealth of top shelf pours and gourmet beers, like local Speakeasy’s Hunters Point Porter. A kitchen is the biggest addition, with two deep fryers frying up tortilla-wrapped Crispy (hot) Dogs, Pork Sliders and Savory Funnel Cakes. Now that’s what I call the ultimate bar food.

Happy hour daily, 5-7:30pm
15 Romolo Place
415-398-1359

Events

Tre Bicchieri, Slow Food’s Italian Wine Awards, comes only to N.Y., L.A. and S.F.

Only coming to three cities – New York, L.A. and yes, S.F. — Tre Bicchieri (i.e. “three glasses”) is the Italian wine event of the year with some big names hosting. Gambero Rosso and Slow Food Nation are showcasing wine producers honored with the Tre Bicchieri award. Tickets are available through K&L Wine Merchants at $50, which includes a complimentary copy of Gambero Rosso’s “Italian Wines 2009” (a $40 value and guide to all things Italian wine). Sounds reasonable for the added bonus of being able to taste more than 100 wines at the event.

4:30-7pm
Fort Mason Center, Herbst Pavilion
415-441-3400

Deals

Cafe Maritime impresses your date with free champagne and cream pie

Cafe Maritime is one of those underrated gems that’s been around for years but many locals still don’t know about. One reason: it’s tucked in the midst of cheap motels and chain restaurants on Lombard Street, where a few unexpected spots reside (hello, the ultimate, Zushi Puzzle ?) Maritime is one of those cozy New England seafood houses serving buttery lobster rolls, crispy fish and chips and creamy chowders. Wednesday nights are now “Date Night Special” with a free glass of champagne with dinner and a free coconut cream pie to share afterwards. On top of that, there’s a new prix-fixe every night with three courses for $33, starting with New England Seafood Chowder or a salad, moving on to your choice of four entrees, ending with dessert.

2417 Lombard Street
415-885-2530

Classes

Go whole hog with Meatpaper mag’s butchery class at UC Berkeley

The Society for Agriculture and Food Ecology starts the series, “Meet your Meat,” with “The Art of the Butcher,” a class at UC Berkeley hosted by Meatpaper magazine. The meat panel is all-star: Ryan Farr, formerly of Orson, now Ivy Elegance, A16/SPQR/Urbino’s Nate Appleman, Avedano’s Melanie Eisemann and David Budworth, Mark Pasternak of Devil’s Gulch Ranch and moderator, Marissa Guggiana of Sonoma Direct and Meatpaper. Ryan Farr demonstrates how to break down an entire carcass into cuts of meat, while the panel discusses getting whole animals from local slaughterhouses to more humanely, economically use all meat instead of buying plastic-wrapped grocery store meats.

7pm
UC Berkeley Campus, 105 North Gate Hall
Berkeley
510-536-5800

www.agrariana.org/speakers

RSVP: agrofoodecology@gmail.com

Call for help: SF artist in coma in India

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March 4, 2009

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By Molly Freedenberg

My dear friend Hollis Hawthorne, a major force in the San Francisco art and bicycle scene, is in critical condition in India. The 31-year-old dancer, artist, and activist was in a tragic motorcycle accident near Pondicherry last Tuesday, February 24, which left her with severe head injuries and in a coma. As of today, she is at Apollo Hospital in Chennai and still unconscious, though she’s finally breathing on her own. Her prognosis is still unknown.

(For the full dramatic story, including heartbreaking details of how her boyfriend kept her alive for 30 minutes doing CPR, and the freak occurrence that rendered her motorcycle helmet useless, check out the blog www.friendsofhollis.blogspot.com. For updates on her health status, check out www.helpholligethome.blogspot.com. Donations can be collected at both sites.)

Hollis is known in San Francisco as co-founder of the Bay Area Derailleurs , an all-female bicycle dance troupe whose purpose is bike activism and female empowerment; founding member of the Cheese Puffs, a tap-dancing burlesque troupe who’ve performed at Hubba Hubba Revue, BootieSF, and for the Guardian at Maker Faire and the DeYoung Museum; member of Burning Man Organization’s DPW; and as a part of Ron Turner’s Last Gasp operation. Her community of friends, family and collaborators also extends to the Sprockettes in Portland, Oregon; Chicken John; the Yard Dogs Roadshow; Extra Action Marching Band; Cyclecide Bike Rodeo; ArtSF; promoters and owners of 1015 Folsom, the Independent, Rickshaw Stop; Los Angeles performance troupe Lucent Dossier (who starred in a Panic at the Disco video on MTV); and many more art, fashion, and activism groups. She is vibrant, creative, inspiring, and passionate – as are the communities she’s a part of.

The illuminated room

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March 3, 2009

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› johnny@sfbg.com

It would be revealing, if not revelatory, to ask Nathaniel Dorsky to name his favorite times of the day in which to film — if asked to comment on seasons in San Francisco, one senses he could likely break down the differences in quality of light from hour to hour. This assertion is probably presumptuous, but a single shot in Dorsky’s Sarabande (2008) — of a woman and child and a glass door — prompts it. Just one of many of Dorsky’s moving pictures that pierces through its sheer clarity — a kind of beauty that hurts and heals — the shot is brighter than most of Dorsky’s daylit visions. It has a downtown light that is different from that of the avenues and garden paths where some of his recent work resides.

As Dorsky inspires some of the most open-mindedly and -heartedly conversant writing on film today, perhaps it’s time to claim him as a San Francisco filmmaker, acknowledging that while such a tag suits him, his films strip away such restrictive labels. In an excellent preliminary response to Sarabande and Winter (2008), the critic Michael Sicinski referred to the latter as a corollary to the "sharp, biting cold" of San Francisco winters, a description that makes me want to replace sharp and biting with wet and lingering, while adding bone-deep for good measure. Somehow, Winter makes these qualities revivifying.

Winter is bejeweled by rain — its splendor is an earthy, non-campy variant of the bedazzled visions of gay filmmakers such as Kenneth Anger, James Bidgood, and Jack Smith. I’ll switch to a confessional voice and admit that, in comparison to Michigan’s windy and below-freezing baptisms, I find San Francisco winters tortuous to endure. They’ve played host to my worst depressions. To behold and then remember a film devoted to them — Dorsky’s brief note: "San Francisco’s winter is a season unto itself. Fleeting, rain-soaked, verdant, a brief period of shadows and renewal" — is to receive a gift.

Shadowplay and reflection are the essence of cinema, and Dorsky makes cinema from their occurrence within daily life. Dorsky’s films are elemental. One can posit them as a manmade form of photosynthesis — just as sunlight passes through leaves and makes them semi-transparent (a process that attracts Dorsky’s gaze), so light passes through celluloid so it can become something on the screen. A passage in Song and Solitude (2005-06) looks up at the moon in the night sky, and what a star — the greatest movie star? — it is.

Dorsky’s films are silent. They are also songs, an inference present in Sarabande‘s title and the name this week’s San Francisco Cinematheque program, introduced by Bill Berkson. "Dark and stately is the warm, graceful tenderness of the Sarabande," writes Dorsky in his brief description of that film. Yet faster and livelier is Dorsky’s editing there, so that — as Sicinski perceptively notes — the singular montage he (and perhaps the late Warren Sonbert, in a brotherly way) developed undergoes a transformation, and certain images recur or echo in a musical or Apichatpong-like manner. The first time I saw Winter and Sarabande I had a terrible headache, and by their conclusion, I felt better than "normal," so it was funny to reread Dorsky’s book Devotional Cinema (2003–05) recently and see him relate a similar experience about attending a Mozart opera. These films are more than cinematic Tylenol, though. Composed from a singular point of view, they’re ravishing — on a human, rather than crushingly panoramic, scale.

NATHANIEL DORSKY: THREE SONGS

Thurs/5, 7 p.m.

Phyllis Wattis Theater

San Francisco Museum of Modern Art

151 Third St., SF

(415) 357-4000

www.sfcinematheque.org