Review

“2012: Super-Bato Saves the World”

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REVIEW Energy must not be conserved in Enrique Chagoya’s universe. From his earlier pieces on paper through his show-stopping work on linen at the turn of the century (Le Cannibale Moderniste, 1999; Aparición Sublime, 2000; Pocahontas Gets a New Passport (More Art Faster), 2000), the experimental printmaker’s mock-specificity and hidden sensitivity — both aspects of a brilliant pictorial stubbornness — leave the whole body buzzing. This is art that gathers energy from its viewers as much as its subjects. An edition of eight fully-functional, gaudy, lusty, but also mystically calm slot machines in the style of souped-up Camaros, "2012: Super-Bato Saves the World" lacks the intentionally confusing expansiveness of Chagoya’s accompanying work on paper, but maybe that’s the point.

Spread out in one area of Electric Works is Histoire Naturelle des Espécies: Illegal Aliens Manuscript I, a 2008 contribution to an ongoing series that explains our country and the world at large, especially the art world, to "others." In this panoramic piece, creationists are represented by an ape kneeling before a paper-like flame, conservatives by a man in monk’s clothing, and neocons by a happy couple between human and ape; all are setting fire to Aztec iconography. Elsewhere art historians lay siege to the museums and emerging media artists visit the world in a UFO. Around the corner, Super-Bato grins.

The date cited by Chagoya doesn’t just mark the next U.S. presidential election — it’s also the end-year of the ancient Mayan 5125 year calendar. In Chagoya’s eyes, the world might have already ended, collapsing in a mockery of a sham. In addition to an obvious affinity with Guillermo Gómez-Peña’s vision (the two have collaborated on some iconic books), Chagoya’s most affecting work here recalls Mildred Howard’s politically charged, lushly wrought assemblage sculptures and intricate installations. Both artists map aesthetic delights on top of the real world. What happens in politics no longer stays in politics.

2012: SUPER-BATO SAVES THE WORLD Through July 2. Electric Works, 130 Eighth St., SF

(415) 626-5496, www.sfelectricworks.com

A bailout for the middle class

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OPINION I don’t need to remind you that our economy is in trouble. The current banking crisis has demonstrated to all of us just how fragile and susceptible to manipulation our current system is. President Obama has spent billions of dollars and untold hours trying to bail out our failing banks and financial institutions. Whatever your opinions about his efforts, I think we can all agree we should also be helping out American workers — the real engine of the economy. The Employee Free Choice Act, currently being debated in Congress, offers needed help.

In 1979, 23 percent of the American workforce earned the inflation-adjusted equivalent of $20 an hour. This level of pay, about $41,000 per year, is generally considered the minimum necessary for a family of four to live something like a middle-class lifestyle. I wish I could say that progress marched on, that every year after 1979 the percentage of workers earning the minimum to support a middle-class family grew. In fact, the opposite happened — today only 18 percent of American workers earn enough to support a family of four.

What happened to the other end of the spectrum during that time? In 1978, American CEOs earned 35 times what the average worker earned. Over the next 10 years, this ratio grew, so that in 1989 the average CEO was earning 71 times what the average worker was earning. By 2007, the ratio had grown to an unbelievable 275.

The causes of this imbalance are many, but one is declining labor union membership. In 1983, 17.7 million workers were members of unions, accounting for 20.1 percent of America’s workers. In 2008, only 16.1 million workers were unionized, accounting for 12.4 percent of our nation’s workforce. These numbers are critically important because union membership makes a large difference in the well-being of America’s workers. In 2008, the average union worker earned $886 a week, while the average nonunion worker was paid only $691.

With all the effort we’re putting in to a bailout of the banks, we need to be discussing a bailout of the middle class. We don’t have to wait for the Treasury Department to come up with the plan — it’s sitting there in Congress and is called the Employee Free Choice Act. The bill would give workers a fair, direct route to forming a union without illegal interference from corporations.

Unfortunately, the middle-class bailout is stuck in Congress. The U.S. Chamber of Commerce and the other shills for mega-corporations have turned up the pressure and succeeded in preventing the Employee Free Choice Act from moving forward in the Senate. Our own Sen. Feinstein recently said she wouldn’t vote for the bill because of the economic downturn, even though she cosponsored the legislation last year.

With the current state of our economy, we need a middle-class bailout — and we need it soon. Feinstein has the ability to make that happen. She should deliver the one bailout we all really need. *

Debra Walker is a San Francisco artist and progressive activist.

FOR THE RECORD


The caption for last week’s dine review should have referred to Fly, not Terzo.

Erykah Badu is out of her mind

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By Michael Krimper

LIVE REVIEW In anticipation of releasing her brilliant sound odyssey, New Amerykah Pt. 1: 4th World War (Universal Motown, 2008), Erykah Badu, a.k.a. “Analogue Girl in A Digital World,” a.k.a. “Fat Belly Bella,” a.k.a. “Low Down Loretta Brown,” clarified her artistic objectives on an Okayplayer form. Posting as analoguegirl, Badu affirmed, “As much as I would love to be just a recording artist, I am not. There’s a difference. I am a performance artist first; there’s a difference.” Having the chance to see Badu perform live at the Warfield June 6, I could not agree more with her distinction.

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Dressed in a mystical mauve kimono, golden skull cap, and gem encrusted space goggles, Badu strutted onstage in profile, tracing her steps forward like a celestial, hieroglyph narrative. A cinematic whirling rainstorm of bleeps and lasers and synth bubbling keys reverberated in the background, aspiring to transport the audience to the far reaches. This intergalactic resonance would remain the most consistent frequency throughout the performance; each transition of song and style marked by its cosmic joy of noise. Badu’s enigmatic presence recalled Sun Ra’s theatrical myth making, framed by an open ended aesthetic in Egyptology and a surreal space age, radicalized belief in the power of music to free the soul from its rusty, earthly shackles.

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Erykah Badu performs at L.A.’s Club Nokia June 5, 2009, the night before her San Francisco gig. Photo by Beth Stirnaman.

But this outlandish and historically rooted ethos did not restrain Badu’s emphasis on the contemporary. The high priestess of hip-hop soul incorporated the gods of our musical past into the urgency of the now. The tensions of old and new styles and sounds continuously pressed against each other throughout the remarkable performance.

Recession, renewal

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johnny@sfbg.com

REVIEW When it comes to the negative impact that economic recession has upon the art world, there are as many problems as missing dollars. Yet among contemporary artists, such times tend to skew various views back toward those whose work isn’t epically expensive to begin with, a development that can be welcome. Moreover, careful budgeting can inspire reflection rather than a mad dash to acquire the newest, most expensive, and trendiest work.

At least two significant survey shows in 2009 follow this impulse in search of revelation. Next month, SFMOMA is opening "Not New Work," for which artist-curator Vincent Fecteau has selected art owned but rarely-to-never shown by the museum. Currently, Berkeley Art Museum executive director Lawrence Rinder taps into his curatorial insight with "Galaxy: A Hundred or So Stars Visible in the Night Sky," a multifloor epic exhibition that reveals the breadth of that institution’s art collection, and allows elements of it to ricochet off of each other in provocative ways.

Rinder is no stranger to such huge undertakings, having curated an installment of the Whitney Biennial and also co-conceived the landmark 1995 queer art survey "In a Different Light," one of the Berkeley Art Museum’s largest undertakings and banner shows of the previous decade. With "Galaxy," Rinder’s playful and subtly lively sensibility might even use a recent contemporary BAM exhibition as a trampoline of sorts. Last year, the site played host to Trevor Paglen’s "The Other Night Sky," a present-day photographic installation that provocatively muses on literal presences up above. With "Galaxy," Paglen’s literal stars and spy satellites are traded for the metaphorical celestial brilliance of artwork by Rembrandt, Rousseau, Dürer, Klee, and Rubens. One of the exhibition’s strongest facets is its tremendous array of remarkable etchings and engravings. Blake’s 1825 With Dreams upon My Bed and Behold Now Behemoth Which I Made with Thee are pettily awesome — worth an afternoon worth’s of scrutiny on their own.

While this excavation of canonical treasures tiny and large might be a new endeavor for Rinder, whose focus has primarily been on contemporary art, his selections and their arrangement are designed to trigger unpredictable associations and make a case for some comparatively-undiscovered contemporary local artists, such as Todd Bura. Thus a 2008 ink-on paper piece by Ajit Chauhan — who recently had a terrific show in a small side gallery at the de Young — holds its own and takes on added resonance next to works by Bruce Conner and Barry McGee, who might or might not count as Chauhan’s kin. In Chauhan’s A Mid Summer Night’s Cream … and McGee’s Untitled (2008), patterns of lettering and faces metamorphose into one another. Conner is one of a handful of recurrent artistic presences within "Galaxy" — his reappearance a testimony to his strong but varying presence and his influence upon Bay Area art.

Louise Bourgeois is another signature personality within "Galaxy," an impish creative force that darts in and out of different eras, styles and materials without ever seeming out of place. Rinder’s curatorial freedom allows for elliptical echoes that span centuries and floors of the museum. Bullfighting stampedes into the show in two different galleries, via an 1815-16 etching by Goya and a 1986 geutf8 silver print by Zoe Leonard. Etchings of village life congregate on one wall, landscapes and seascapes occupy a different area, experiments with color join up in groups of three and four. There are wave-like rhythmic patterns to the shifts between large-scale and miniature pieces.

A great sense of detail or flair has been given to the matter of framing many of these works, and Rinder’s use of framing extends to the show itself, which begins and ends with metallic or kinetic sculptural works that evoke Peter Selz’s 1966 Berkeley Art Museum exhibition "Directions in Kinetic Sculpture," while making a case for the tactile today. "Galaxy" begins with spinning metal discs and white button of Harry Kramer’s 1966 Jorg’s Chair, and closes with Edward Krasinski’s well-titled 1964 Perpindiculars in Space and Vassilakis Takis’ 1962-63 Tableau magnetique. In between these, there is a sense of queer flirtation and enjoyable perversity, thanks to the Caravaggio-esque crotch-pointing of Guiovanni Caracciolo’s 1610 oil-on-canvas The Young Saint John in the Wilderness, the eerie singed fringes of David Dashiell’s Dionysian 1992 Study for Queer Mysterties, the deathly delicacy of D-L Alvarez’s 1992 "In a Different Light" contribution Shawl (a net made of hair that likely degrades or is at least altered each time it is shown or moved), and a 1947 foam breast by Marcel Duchamp which asks to be touched.

Associations aside, "Galaxy" also is remarkable simply for exposing works so powerful that they stand alone. Such is the case with a 1955 untitled painting by Clyfford Still that takes the visceral and mortal concerns of the show into its deepest sense of experience. Gazing at this work is like passing through a threshold of elemental muck. In Still’s colors, beauty and horror entwine.

GALAXY: A HUNDRED OR SO STARS VISIBLE TO THE NAKED EYE

Through Aug. 30

Berkeley Art Museum

2625 Durant, Berk

(510) 642-0808

www.bampfa.berkeley.edu

The deadbeat church

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news@sfbg.com

The Roman Catholic Archdiocese of San Francisco is trying to duck paying as much as $15 million in city taxes, according to documents filed by the city assessor’s office.

Assessor-Recorder Phil Ting argues that the archdiocese, which governs a collection of churches, schools, parking lots, commercial buildings, and other real property in the city, shifted 232 parcels of land from two church-held corporations to another church corporation in April 2008, triggering real estate transfer taxes.

The legal issues are complicated, and church lawyer Philip Jelsma wouldn’t return our calls, but the city officials say the deal amounts to this: The archdiocese is moving valuable property out of the hands of a corporation that might be liable for legal claims and into a separate entity that would be exempt from those claims.

And the church is taking two contradictory positions on the reorganizing. According to documents from the Assessor-Recorder’s Office, when the archdiocese is discussing the protection of its assets from litigants, it claims that the legal entities in question are separate and distinct under civil law. However, when the city comes calling for much needed transfer tax dollars, church officials argue that the entities are merely interdenominational under the common banner of the Roman Catholic Church and that the transfers are considered "gifts" under canon law.

The issue comes before the Transfer Tax Board of Review on June 16. If the board, made up of the controller, the tax collector and the head of the Department of Real Estate, upholds Ting’s position, the city will be able to collect between $3 million and $15 million, depending on the assessed value of the transferred parcels.

Major corporations in San Francisco have a long history of using bogus property transfers and shifts in corporate ownership to avoid paying property and transfer taxes. But this case is a bit more curious: why is the Roman Catholic Archdiocese, self-proclaimed champion of the poor, fighting tooth and nail to keep the city from collecting tax dollars that would help fund public welfare programs?

Munyurangabo

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REVIEW Don’t be deceived by the serene, pastoral setting of Lee Isaac Chung’s Munyurangabo (2007), a neorealist drama that follows unlikely friends Sangwa (a Hutu) and Ngabo (a Tutsi) as they journey home nearly a decade after the Rwandan genocide. The film’s hauntingly peaceful veneer and desolate beauty speaks to the hundreds of thousands killed on Rwandan soil and belies Sangwa and Ngabo’s simmering resentment and shame. Refusing to fixate on the war’s carnage, Munyurangabo focuses on its psychological repercussions instead. As the pair arrives home to tend to the decimated farmland and to each other, Sangwa struggles with the prejudices that his estranged family still harbors while Ngabo wrestles with his duty to avenge his father’s murder. Delving into Rwanda’s tragic past, this provocative film that befittingly ends on National Liberation Day wonders if Rwandans can forge new identities unburdened by guilt or vengeance to ultimately find freedom.

MUNYURANGABO opens Fri/12 at the Sundance Kabuki.

Beaching youthful shyness with the Lemonheads

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By Max Goldberg

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Just Dando

For a brief time in the early 1990s, Evan Dando was an It boy. He wore great jeans and hid behind his hair — the shaggy pop songs didn’t hurt either. His band, the Lemonheads, coasted to success with an easy cover of "Mrs. Robinson," and then Atlantic took a bath on Come On Feel the Lemonheads (Atlantic, 1993), an album that’s likely still haunting remainder bins. These are the facts, but the melodies that snag your adolescence are destined to boggle any attempt at objectivity.

I still remember picking It’s a Shame About the Ray (Atlantic, 1992) off the rack after spotting it in an older friend’s collection — I must have been 11 or 12. Soon, I went the extra mile for a couple of bootleg cassettes I then listened to in ritualistic isolation. In Dando, I heard the sympathetic reticence of a dropout. I beached my shyness on his languid refrains; he was good company. I wouldn’t say I wanted to trade places (Ben Lee took up this mantle on "I Wish I Was Him"), but the Lemonheads furnished my imagination with yearning and ennui — sensing those things without knowing them was sublime. I loved the band for coming from Boston; their stoned melodies padded the lonely stretches of Memorial Drive and sandy dunes of Cape Cod where I moved into my feelings. Nearly all Lemonheads songs are letters, and I imagined I too would come to know a "you."

Trying to sort out how memory imprints my continued weakness for these melodies would require a novel rather than a capsule review, but I like to think the Lemonheads albums still hold up because I wouldn’t have had it any other way. I don’t put them on very often, but I can easily lose a whole afternoon when I do.

THE LEMONHEADS With Kim Vermillion. Wed/10, 8 p.m., $21. Slim’s, 333 11th St, SF (415) 255-0333. www.slims-sf.com

The Lemonheads

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REVIEW For a brief time in the early 1990s, Evan Dando was an It boy. He wore great jeans and hid behind his hair — the shaggy pop songs didn’t hurt either. His band, the Lemonheads, coasted to success with an easy cover of "Mrs. Robinson," and then Atlantic took a bath on Come On Feel the Lemonheads (Atlantic, 1993), an album that’s likely still haunting remainder bins. These are the facts, but the melodies that snag your adolescence are destined to boggle any attempt at objectivity.

I still remember picking It’s a Shame About the Ray (Atlantic, 1992) off the rack after spotting it in an older friend’s collection — I must have been 11 or 12. Soon, I went the extra mile for a couple of bootleg cassettes I then listened to in ritualistic isolation. In Dando, I heard the sympathetic reticence of a dropout. I beached my shyness on his languid refrains; he was good company. I wouldn’t say I wanted to trade places (Ben Lee took up this mantle on "I Wish I Was Him"), but the Lemonheads furnished my imagination with yearning and ennui — sensing those things without knowing them was sublime. I loved the band for coming from Boston; their stoned melodies padded the lonely stretches of Memorial Drive and sandy dunes of Cape Cod where I moved into my feelings. Nearly all Lemonheads songs are letters, and I imagined I too would come to know a "you."

Trying to sort out how memory imprints my continued weakness for these melodies would require a novel rather than a capsule review, but I like to think the Lemonheads albums still hold up because I wouldn’t have had it any other way. I don’t put them on very often, but I can easily lose a whole afternoon when I do.

THE LEMONHEADS With Kim Vermillion. Wed/10, 8 p.m., $21. Slim’s, 333 11th St, SF (415) 255-0333. www.slims-sf.com

The deadbeat church

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0

news@sfbg.com

The Roman Catholic Archdiocese of San Francisco is trying to duck paying as much as $15 million in city taxes, according to documents filed by the city assessor’s office.

Assessor-Recorder Phil Ting argues that the archdiocese, which governs a collection of churches, schools, parking lots, commercial buildings, and other real property in the city, shifted 232 parcels of land from two church-held corporations to another church corporation in April 2008, triggering real estate transfer taxes.

The legal issues are complicated, and church lawyer Philip Jelsma wouldn’t return our calls, but the city officials say the deal amounts to this: The archdiocese is moving valuable property out of the hands of a corporation that might be liable for legal claims and into a separate entity that would be exempt from those claims.

And the church is taking two contradictory positions on the reorganizing. According to documents from the Assessor-Recorder’s Office, when the archdiocese is discussing the protection of its assets from litigants, it claims that the legal entities in question are separate and distinct under civil law. However, when the city comes calling for much needed transfer tax dollars, church officials argue that the entities are merely interdenominational under the common banner of the Roman Catholic Church and that the transfers are considered "gifts" under canon law.

The issue comes before the Transfer Tax Board of Review on June 16. If the board, made up of the controller, the tax collector and the head of the Department of Real Estate, upholds Ting’s position, the city will be able to collect between $3 million and $15 million, depending on the assessed value of the transferred parcels.

Major corporations in San Francisco have a long history of using bogus property transfers and shifts in corporate ownership to avoid paying property and transfer taxes. But this case is a bit more curious: why is the Roman Catholic Archdiocese, self-proclaimed champion of the poor, fighting tooth and nail to keep the city from collecting tax dollars that would help fund public welfare programs? *

Editor’s Notes

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Tredmond@sfbg.com

The long, long battle to get civilian oversight for the BART police is coming to a head, and the BART Board could be voting soon on a proposal. To nobody’s surprise, the battle lines pit the community activists, the progressives on the BART Board, and police-review experts against the BART police and general manager.

In essence, the cops and the GM want to be sure that the police chief or the general manager (who hires and fires the chief) have the final say over any police discipline. The community wants either the BART Board or an independent citizen commission to have the final say.

It’s a crucial issue, as we’ve seen over and over again in San Francisco. Police chiefs don’t tend to be terribly good about taking disciplinary action against the troops; they all started in the rank and file themselves, and they’re close with the others on the "Thin Blue Line," and when one of their own is criticized, they circle the wagons. Most chiefs don’t want any sort of civilian review that undermines their authority.

BART is leaning toward creating an independent police auditor, which could work — but only if the auditor (who would report to the BART Board) has the authority to go over the chief’s head. If the auditor finds evidence of misconduct and the chief won’t file charges, or the chief finds misconduct and imposes discipline so mild it’s pointless, the auditor has to be able to appeal. And the best forum for that appeal is a citizen commission.

At the June 8 meeting of BART’s police policy subcommittee, the two representatives of the police union flat out refused to go along with that idea. So did General Manager Dorothy Dugger, who has never been very supportive of police reform. But a 5-4 majority of the committee, including board members Tom Radulovich and Lynette Sweet, seems in favor of model that at least has the outlines of positive reform.

And if the BART Board — which is not the most progressive institution on the planet (and not the hardest-working or most effective, either) decides to go with the cops on this one, Assembly Member Tom Ammiano will have all the evidence he needs to pass a bill in Sacramento forcing BART to do this right. *

Review: “A Snow Mobile for George” at the Burning Fuse Film Festival

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By Laura Swanbeck

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Confounded after Bush (the “George” in question here) allows manufacturers to reintroduce a discontinued snowmobile engine that pollutes 100 times more than a car, director Todd Darling set out across America looking for answers. With Sindy, his snowmobile in tow, he documents the devastating impact of deregulation on the environment, including wildlife endangerment in California, water depletion in Wyoming, and asbestos contamination in post-9/11 New York City. Refreshingly unpretentious and even-keeled, Darling interviews everyday ranchers, fishermen, and firemen, listening to opponents and proponents of Bush’s policies alike. He truly hits his stride by exposing Federal conflicts of interest and illuminating the political power play behind-the scenes. In the end, the film finally answers its original query, but asks other lingering questions like, “Does less regulation really mean more freedom… and at what price?” Sure, Snow Mobile’s humor can be a bit hokey, but the sentiment is spot-on.

A Snow Mobile for George screens Sun/7-Mon/8, 6 p.m. as part of the Burning Fuse Film Festival, which runs today and Sun/7-Mon/8 at the Roxie .

A distant memory

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a&eletters@sfbg.com

REVIEW I was cautious when I got the galley for Attica Locke’s first novel Black Water Rising (Harper, 448 pages, $25.99). I’d been intrigued before by beguiling plots of intrigue and suspense, only to find myself in the middle of a tepid affair with no way out except for closing the damn thing and chalking it up to yet another life lesson. All the warning signs were there.

The book’s protagonist, Jay Porter, is an attorney operating out of a Houston strip mall in 1981. His only client is a shady prostitute, who may or may not pay him. His wife, Bernie, is pregnant and he’s barely making ends meet to feed them, much less the baby who’s on the way. Though not happy with his mediocre existence, he’s content enough with his lot to be strong-willed and determined to make it.

Jay has a terrible secret, of course, that threatens to tear the world he has meticulously built asunder. And one fateful night, something happens that sets the unraveling in motion. He saves a mysterious woman’s life and places himself in the middle of a plot rife with sex, backroom deals, and dirty cash that will determine his fate and that of Houston, Texas, and eventually, the world!

"Easy, big fella. Easy," I told myself. "You’ve been hurt before." I saw the signs, as much as any reader would. I saw a Grisham story. I saw a Leonard tale. I knew I was being seduced, but I couldn’t put the book down. The first chapters hooked me like classic mid-list pulp — a phenomenon I miss like pay phones — and it took a minute to realize what Attica Locke was doing.

It wouldn’t be a spoiler to tell Jay Porter’s secret. He did time for running guns during the Black Power movement. This was during the days of J. Edgar Hoover’s COINTELPRO program, when black dissidents’ phones were tapped, dossiers were amassed, and organizations were infiltrated. Jay Porter the strip mall lawyer has a legitimate cause to be paranoid. This kind of justified paranoia plagues many of the resisters who managed to survive the bloodbaths of the 1960s and 1970s social movements. Lensed through Porter’s claustrophobia, grandiosity, and self-deprecation, demons lurk in every dark corner. As the plot unfolds, the first thing that disappears from view is a tangible reality, one free from dark fantasy and delusion. Jay Porter may be nuts. Then again, maybe not.

Locke, a veteran screenwriter, has an almost supernatural understanding of pacing. This aids her well in storytelling, but even more so in figuring out where to work her magic. Her early 1980s Houston is a city on the verge of Texas-sized change. Porter is asked by his preacher father-in-law to work with the dockworkers union that meets in his church. The black dockworkers are being paid less than the white workers who do the same job. A split in the union along race lines is imminent. A battle between the warring workers breaks out after a young man is beaten. A greater impetus is revealed: the arrival of containers. These containers, it is threatened, will be used on barge, train, and truck, nearly rendering dockworkers obsolete. Jay Porter is asked to speak to the mayor — a "friend" from his revolutionary past — on behalf of the workers. Simultaneously he tries to uncover the identity of the mysterious woman he saved.

This is the one drawback in an otherwise stellar debut. Jay Porter has too much going on. So much that suspension of belief is pulled to the breaking point. So much that many characters who are vital to the plot get unbelievably overlooked. When the Porters’ home is burglarized, for example, Jay leaves his pregnant wife in the house to pursue a lead on one of his cases. When a tough offers Porter money to not pursue another lead, he does it anyway — out of, what, morbid curiosity? The mayor of Houston and many of the other characters are so full, rich, and singular that it is baffling and frustrating when someone as essential as Bernie becomes a bit player in Jay’s solipsistic pursuit. Is Jay Porter crazy, or just an asshole?

Black Water Rising reads like a hard-boiled thriller, but the real trick resides in Locke’s ability to personalize an overlooked part of American history and show how far-reaching, how entrenched, it is in today’s social, political, and cultural fabric. From running the voodoo down on the Weather Underground to using 1980s Houston as a backdrop, he wraps a People’s History of America in a digestible, entertaining package. There are whiffs of Chinatown and White Butterfly, sure, but Locke’s attention to the details between the action makes the novel, and turns every reader into an oracle.

As Jay solves this book’s mysteries, we see pre-Dubya America getting dubbed. We see the sprawl that is yet to be. We see the unions breaking, the factories shutting down, the diners, bars, and cafes closing. We see the Black Water Rising. I may not want to see too much more of Jay Porter, but I better see more of Attica Locke.

Revanche

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REVIEW In the sex industry of Vienna, small-time criminal Alex (Johannes Krisch) has dreams of escape for himself and his Ukrainian prostitute girlfriend, Tamara (Irina Potapenko). With a ski mask and an unloaded pistol, the miscreant schlemiel allows Tamara to accompany him during the commission of a robbery, and disastrous consequences ultimately transpire. After Alex and Tamara cross paths with young policeman Robert (Andreas Lust), his seemingly idyllic small-town life is also upended by the confrontation. Robert’s wife, Susanne (Ursula Strauss) fails to hearten her inconsolable husband. Instead, she finds her only comfort visiting a neighbor, Hausner (Johannes Thanheiser). But this tale of city-to-country anomie transforms into a gripping revenge play when Alex (who is, we learn, also Hausner’s grandson) suddenly appears in the town, seeking bloody satisfaction. Transforming from an urban neo-noir to a village morality play and a bedroom character study, Götz Spielmann’s Revanche (in French, the act of revenge) confronts the fundamental existential conundrum — fate’s random selection of its prey, or, as the film’s tag-line asks, "Whose Fault Is It When Life Doesn’t Go Your Way?"

REVANCHE opens Fri/5 in Bay Area theaters.

MORE AT SFBG.COM


Pixel Vision blog: An extended version of this review.

“Otl Aicher: Munchen 1972” and “Veronica De Jesus: Do the Waive”

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REVIEW The 1972 Munich Olympics is mostly associated with terrorism, with Marc Spitz running a distant second. But Otl Aicher’s graphic design for the event exemplifies the better possibilities of the fusion of humanism and capitalism that characterizes each incarnation of the international event. A member of the White Rose movement and friend of Hans and Sophie Scholl, who were arrested and executed by the Nazis, Aicher later made his name through graphic design concepts that possess a rare fusion of experience and imagination. Three years after his successful branding work for Lufthansa Airlines, Aicher created a friendly yet intricate pictorial language — or pictogram — system for the individual programs, posters, and even tickets of the Munich Games. While many exhibitions fail at presenting graphic design as a form with much soul or personality, "Otl Aicher: München 1972" has no shortage of either — or of refreshingly-deployed color, for that matter. A blue and green oasis within the SFMOMA behemoth, its pleasures spiral outward from the Op Art-like symbol Aicher used for the event’s main icon, into a number of engagingly basic and extremely influential renderings of the body in motion. Or in other words, iconic images of human striving.

The latest show by the contemporary Bay Area artist Veronica De Jesus presents an entirely different take on corporate branding and athleticism — one that nonetheless possesses a friendliness quite akin to Aicher’s work. Viewed alongside "München 1972," De Jesus’s "Do the Waive" comes off even more sharply as a satirical, at times hilarious, but also troubling take on the tyranny of symbols and supposed meanings wielded by the contemporary sports entertainment complex. Simply put, the logos for CNN and Shell don’t have the ingenuity of Aicher’s iconography. When De Jesus renders them — or the trademark colors of McDonald’s — via child-like scrawlings, the taken-for-granted commercialism woven into daily life to influence kids’ aspirant dreams seems questionable and dubious and absurd at its very core. Like Jenny Holzer with a far less dry sense of humor, De Jesus also has a talent for twisting received ideas or language, whether via creative misspelling or isolated bits of media chatter. (Three of her titles: Fry Anyone, Closed for the recession, and my favorite, People are going after the french fries.) "Do the Waive" is packed with treats. I enjoyed the life-size portraits and the connection between homo-affection and homo-aggression drawn — literally — by It’s a Battle and All Hugs. But the best works are smaller ones that layer media babble and athletic imagery into visions that are confusing, exhausting, and attractive all at once, like a day’s journey through an empire of signs.

OTL AICHER: MÜNCHEN 1972 Through July 7, free–$15. San Francisco Museum of Modern Art, 151 Third St., SF. (415) 357-4000. www.sfmoma.org

VERONICA DE JESUS: DO THE WAIVE Through June 16. Michael Rosenthal, 365 Valencia, SF. (415) 522-1010, www.rosenthalgallery.com

MORE AT SFBG.COM

This week’s museum and gallery listings.

Total ‘Eclipse’

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Tredmond@sfbg.com

REVIEW Mass market novels of the mystery and thriller kind are not known for their progressive politics. The most popular authors of the political adventure set are the likes of Tom Clancy, who thinks we’re still at war with Japan and ought to be at war with China. The detective novelists tend to glorify law enforcement and disparage those weak-willed sorts who would rein in the mighty and righteous gun-wielding police. My favorite new character, Jack Reacher, who has made Lee Child a massive international best-selling writer, is a former military cop with a taste for violent vengeance.

But of course I read this stuff. It’s my guilty pleasure, what I do to relax over with my whiskey before bed, while my beloved partner is watching Super Nanny. As Pete Townshend used to say, each to his own sewage.

I’ve read almost everything San Francisco resident Richard North Patterson has written, and he’s a rarity. His stuff tends to go in a more liberal direction. (It also tends to have a subplot involving teenage sex.) He’s written about the death penalty and the criminal justice system and American politics, and his characters have more depth than John Grisham’s. I like him, but I’ve never raved.

But I do want to recommend Patterson’s latest book, Eclipse (Henry Holt and Co., 384 pages, $26). Not because it’s the most brilliant writing he’s ever written, but because it’s a real-life political novel that reveals, in graphic detail, the impact oil companies like Chevron Corp. have on the Niger River delta. Eclipse is a fictionalized account of the life of Ken Saro-Wiwa, an eloquent and charismatic environmentalist who tried desperately to tell the world how oil money had corrupted Nigeria and how the Western oil companies were conspiring with the brutal dictatorship of Gen. Sani Abacha to stifle dissent. He was hanged 15 years ago by Abacha; his legacy drives the protest movement that is still trying to force the petrolords to take responsibility for what they have done to the delta environment, its tribal residents, and the Nigerian people. Eclipse didn’t put me to sleep — it made me mad. It reminded me of what American companies are allowed to do to the rest of the world, with impunity. It’s a story, with Patterson’s typical devices (for example, I don’t have any reason to believe Saro-Wiwa’s wife had an affair with his lawyer). But there’s enough truth in it to make you think. And that makes Patterson’s novel, in a unique and surprising way, an important political book.

Contigo

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paulr@sfbg.com

For a small restaurant, Contigo is physically complex. As you enter, you glide along a six-seat food bar at the edge of a display kitchen, while beyond the host’s checkpoint opens a two-level dining room enclosed by white oak banquettes, like the remains of a Viking ship. (The wood was actually recovered from a Connecticut barn.) One sidewall consists of a bank of stainless-steel refrigerators, standing at attention like troops awaiting review; opposite is another bar — smaller, emphasizing wine, and partly recessed in the manner of a church nave. Beyond a wall of glass doors at the rear of the space is an enclosed garden, set with tables and space heaters and covered with a big sheet of clear plastic, since sunny Noe Valley can be surprisingly cold and windy.

Some years ago the city’s Board of Supervisors imposed a kind of restaurant cap on Noe Valley: new establishments could open only in spaces being vacated by departing restaurants. As far as I know, Contigo (the name means "with you") is the first endeavor to breach this line. It occupies what had been a computer store. The restaurant’s build-out has emphatically erased that past while honoring a green ethic, from the reuse of old siding as interior paneling to the deployment of glassware made from recycled wine bottles. To drive the point home, the paint scheme consists of green in several shades. I like green, but I like other colors too.

Apart from that small irritant, Contigo is as good-looking a new restaurant as I’ve visited in a long time. It manages to be modern, slick, and warm without growing sweaty from the effort, and it would probably look quite at home on a little street near the Sagrada Familia, in Barcelona’s Eixample. Chef/owner Bret Emerson’s Spanish-Catalán food would probably be a hit there, too, since the cooking honors both its traditional Iberian roots and our local ecological imperative; Cataluña, birthplace of Miró, Picasso, and Casals, has long been Spain’s most sophisticated and forward-thinking region.

The menu tilts toward smaller plates ("pica-pica") but also offers larger dishes and includes separate sections for hams and cheeses. (Spain’s air-cured hams, the most famous of which are serrano and ibérico, are worthy rivals to their more famous Italian cousin, prosciutto.) The smaller plates ($8 each, or $7 each for three or more) are divided among jardi (garden), mar (sea), and granja (farm) — or, roughly, vegetables, seafood, and meat. They could also be divided among the familiar, familiar with a twist, and unexpected.

Patatas bravas, for instance, could be the classic tapa, and Contigo’s version, finished with a peppery salsa brava and a big puff of aioli, is classic. But the potato quarters are wonderfully crusty, making them competitive with french fries and allaying the unease of persons (some of them known to me) who dislike soft, mushy, or mealy potatoes.

We did find the tacopi butter beans — big white beans, like cannellini — to be overcooked and a little floury. But the shallow bath they swam in, of erbette chard and sofrito (tomato-less here), was full of assuaging flavor.

Among the familiar we would also put albóndigas, the little meatballs — I have rarely seen a tapas menu without some version — but here they’re served in a shallow pool of ajo blanco, a white gazpacho made slightly grainy by the presence of pulverized almonds. And while croquetas (basically fritters) are a common dish and a clever way of using up leftover mashed potatoes, it’s not every day you find them filled with oxtail meat or plated with razor-like leaves of mizuna.

Among the most California-influenced small plates are a pulpo salad — braised squid tossed with shredded fennel, chopped black olives, and citrus segments that were supposed to be grapefruit but looked and tasted more like mandarin orange — and a pair of crostini-like toasts, each bread spear topped with a smear of avocado and a plump, juicy grilled sardine.

These little dishes are so good and so varied that the larger courses (called platillos, an odd use of the diminutive) seem almost beside the point. The most interesting ones are the cocas, Catalán-style flatbreads that resemble white (i.e. tomato-less) pizzas. And you probably won’t miss that tomato sauce when firepower consisting of artichoke hearts, green garlic, and arbequinas olives is mustered atop your pie ($13). Flavorful? Yes, and then some, with a subtle crust hinting of pastry. But also slightly salty even for my taste. Maybe a little acid, from tomatoes or some other source, wouldn’t be superfluous, or overcomplex, after all.

CONTIGO

Dinner: nightly, 5:30–10 p.m.

1320 Castro, SF

(415) 285-0250

www.contigosf.com

Beer and wine

AE/MC/V

Noisy but bearable

Wheelchair accessible

Criticism of BART oversight plans grows

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By Tim Redmond

I’m not the only one criticizing the BART Board’s weak and ineffective proposal for police oversight. The conservative Contra Costa Times weighed in today with a strong editorial saying that the BART proposal doesn’t go far enough and suggesting that BART adopt a San Francisco-style model:

BART should consider putting together a review board similar to what San Francisco has with its police review commission. It has a say over discipline of officers for serious offenses.

At the very least, a BART auditor and review panel should have a strong voice in developing hiring and training policies for BART officers. They also should be trusted to do more than simply offer their opinions regarding discipline of transit officers.

So when the Guardian and the CoCo Times agree on something, it’s pretty clear that a wide range of people with divergent viewpoints want more action than the BART Board has offered. I hope the board members are paying attention.

Natural light

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REVIEW The abundant drama of natural light is reason enough to see Summer Hours, a family drama by Olivier Assayas aspiring to Proustian profundity and Chekhovian chambering. I prefer Les Destinées Sentimentales (2000) for Assayas’ novelistic mode, but the new film still has plenty to like. This will be especially true for Antiques Roadshow fans, who will have a field day with all the Musée D’Orsay-approved furnishings, even if the characters themselves don’t seem quite so sturdy. The film opens with an annual reunion at the beautiful country estate where matriarch Hélène (Edith Scob, the daughter in Georges Franju’s 1960 classic Eyes Without a Face) has tended the reputation and archive of a long-dead artist relation. When Hélène dies, the question of the house and all those beautiful objects falls to the three adult children. Being an Oliver Assayas film, this a globalization issue. Frédéric (Charles Berling) is the only one who remains in Paris (an economist who doesn’t believe in economics, he’s more susceptible to sentimentality than the other two). Adrienne (Juliette Binoche) has gone after the art market in New York, while brother Jérémie (Jérémie Renier) covers the financial sector in China. A clear opposition — perhaps too clear — is erected between the memory of provincial France and the dislocated pulse of the contemporary, but to Assayas’ credit, Summer Hours doesn’t feel like it has its mind made up between the two: the darting camera courts the promise of speed and movement, while the luxurious play of light nurses what’s been lost. The characters are never more than their scenes, but there are a few breathtaking ones, including two bookending portraits of footloose youth that recoup Summer Hours‘ air of inconsequence.

SUMMER HOURS opens Fri/22 in Bay Area theaters.

BART police: It just gets worse

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By Tim Redmond

Well, maybe that’s a bit misleading: The BART board’s committee on police oversight first proposed a very weak model, but that got shot down at a community meeting last week, and now member Tom Radulovich is proposing a somewhat stronger approach. He wants a BART police commission with professional staff and the ability to investigate misconduct cases. There are still a bunch of issues — the civilian review agency should get all police abuse cases and should have a clear role in recommending discipline. I prefer a San Francisco-style model, which is what Assembly member Tom Ammiano is pushing, and I still think the Legislature needs to move forward on this.

But as Radulovich has looked into how the BART police really operate, he’s learned a lot — and some of it is truly amazing.

For example, he told me, the BART police union contract spells out the terms of allowable discipline for BART cops (which is crazy to begin with), but the result is mind-boggling in its insanity. Right now, by contract, the chief can only impose three types of discipline on an errant cop:
— A letter of reprimand
— A one-day suspension WITH PAY (that is, a paid holiday)
— Termination.

And since it’s very hard to fire a cop, that means there is basically no effective discipline.

In every American police jurisidiction I’ve ever heard of, a cop can be suspended without pay — and in San Francisco, serious offenses lead to 30, 60, or 90 day suspensions.

But if you’re a BART cop, you can screw up pretty badly and nothing at all will every happen to you.

That contract comes up in June, and the BART Board must change it. “This clearly needs to be an issue in the negotiations,” Radulovich told me.

Another looney provision: All of the officers other than the chief have union protection — and the chief can’t fire, demote or in any way control his own commanders. Nobody works at the chief’s pleasure.

So there’s a weak chief reporting to a bad general manager and no effective discipline at all. No wonder the force is such a godawful mess.

Prison report: Why are we here?

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By Just A Guy

Editors note: Just A Guy is an inmate in a California state prison. He writes on life behind bars and tries to explain to Californians what their taxes — huge amounts of their taxes — are paying for. He will attempt to answer all questions and comments, but it’s hard to communicate from a state prison, so it may take a while. His last post is here.

Hello everybody. I’m happy that many more people responded to my previous blog than I expected. I am glad that you were able to speak out a little on a more widely read forum. This seems to be working and maybe people will wake up to what’s really happening.

On to business.

So, Arnold is considering releasing many more inmates than the 8,000 initially proposed by his administration. I am not sure what the latest numbers are, I am hearing everything from 20,0000 to 38,000 potential releases. There’s even talk of selling San Quentin. Let’s all hope for the best, but let’s examine this a little deeper.

First, let me say this: I think it’s strange that Arnold is going to show the public two budget proposals, one if the propositions don’t pass and one for if they do. I strongly suspect the one for non-passage is going to be a scare tactic with which he threatens the mass release of prisoners into the public. Your neighborhoods will be overrun by all these horrible prisoners, so you’d better pass these propositions or the ex-cons will be next door to you come July!

Wow! I hope that’s not what it he says, but I think he will.

What about all these “hardened” criminals that shouldn’t be let out, or certainly not let out early? Let’s talk about them. What about all the lifers that get parole dates, but then the governor in his “Governor’s Review” denies the person his/her parole out of hand? What is the purpose of a parole board if the governor has the final say? Seems to be just more people (the parole board) supping at the trough of your tax money.

What? Only six days left to hire a hooker on Craigslist?

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By Juliette Tang

They say you have until next Tuesday to hire a hooker on Craigslist, but everyone knows that probably won’t be the case. Craigslist is shutting down its “Erotic $ervices” section after increasing pressure from law enforcement following the arrest of Philip Markoff, the “Craigslist Killer,” but because state officials and law enforcement want a scapegoat instead of a solution, the only people who end up benefiting from this situation are… the people at Craigslist? What?

Craigslist is shutting down erotic services to start the new “adult services” listing, which their blog states: “will be opened for postings by legal adult service providers,” whatever that means. Craigslist will review each posting before it goes on the site to ensure compliance with Craigslist guidelines, whatever those are. [Where do I apply!?! — Ed.] The murky details of Craigslist’s new adult services category are confusing, vague, and actually head-scratchingly bizarre.

Film review: “Treeless Mountain”

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By Natalie Gregory

So Yong Kim’s Treeless Mountain follows two young Korean sisters, Jin and Bin, and their transient lifestyle. Their mother leaves them with their aunt to search for their father, whose absence is unexplained. What’s remarkable is how Kim captures the independence experienced by these young girls (Jin, the elder sister, is six). The film is told mainly from Jin’s perspective, following her as she mourns the absence of her mother and ponders how to protect her sister. As they are passed to their aunt, the girls’ are told that their mother will return when their piggy bank is full. They sell grasshoppers to quicken the process and begin to fill the bank in hopes of their mother’s return. Jin’s realizations of her and her sister’s reality are heartbreaking. In the end, the pair ends up in a happier home, but have grown up all too quickly. Evoking emotions without the benefit of an overbearing musical score, it is a thoughtful, melancholy picture.

Treeless Mountain opens Fri/15 in Bay Area theaters.

“The Beast Stalker”

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REVIEW Missed The Beast Stalker at the just-completed 2009 San Francisco International Film Festival? Make sure you catch its theatrical run at the Four Star, a longtime hotspot for new Hong Kong genre films. (Owner Frank Lee was dishing ’em out long before 2006’s The Departed, a H.K. cops ‘n’ gangstas remake, raked in box office megabucks and Oscar gold.) Where else would I have seen 1998’s Beast Cops, starring the inimitable Anthony Wong and the irritating Michael Wong (no relation)? The Beast Stalker boasts neither Wong, but it does have Cops codirector Dante Lam, who directs solo here and cowrote the script. Prior to a car chase gone horribly awry, Tong (Nicholas Tse) was the kind of police captain his fellow officers hated to serve, thanks to anger issues, petty politics, and other charming attributes. After Tong accidentally causes the death of a child — coincidentally the daughter of an attorney, Ann (Zhang Jingchu), who’s prosecuting a mob boss — he takes some time off to become, uh, less of an asshole. It’s only when Ann’s other young daughter is kidnapped (what are the chances?) that Tong can attempt to redeem himself, though scar-faced baby snatcher Hung (Nick Cheung) proves an adversary as muddy-gray in the morality department as Tong is. Amid the gun battles and tense cell-phone negotiations (wouldn’t be a H.K. action flick without plenty of both), there’s not much beauty to be found in either of these two beasts. The movie, though, is plenty thrilling.

THE BEAST STALKER opens Fri/15 at the Four Star.

“Open Endless”

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REVIEW Not every art show allows you a chance to swim in the Pacific Ocean on a Sunday afternoon and experience the bracing cold of the water and the pull of the tide. But David Wilson’s "Open Endless" isn’t your average show, even if it is characteristic of Wilson’s community explorations of art and landscape under the Ribbons Publications rubric. Last year, he instigated a sleep-over happening at Angel Island that included live music. This month, as an extension of a show of drawings, he organized a casually beautiful mapped day and night of art in the Headlands.

No two people had the same experience. Besides a dip in the Pacific, mine included a trek up the paved trails of the North Cliff to a white diamond hung on the cliff’s face by Battery Townsley, where the duo Pale Horse sang songs in a tunnel, and then a walk back down to the beach where the duo known as Coconut played music in a little cove as two, three, four, five, six surfers took on the waves during sunset. I don’t have much to say about that latter experience beyond that it was the kind of moment that makes me completely glad to be alive. I left sated and went home and slept and dreamt deeply. Those who stayed ambled on through Rodeo Canyon to another Battery, where Canyon Cinema shared some cave cinema.

Wilson’s drawings, on display at Tartine, are a shifting sequence of meditations on the landscape and coastlines of the Headlands. His deployment of color and line is understated. The brashest aspect of the show is its use of material: the largest piece, a 22-foot watercolor of the ocean and shore, uses the blank-but-aged paper of record sleeves and the cardboard insides of albums covers as a backdrop. It’s a great tactic. Earlier this year at the de Young Museum, Ajit Chauhan performed a different but similarly large-scale trick with album covers, painting over their exteriors so that only eyes peeked from the original artwork. Wilson’s use of vintage music matter hints at the merging of art and that which is codified "nature" at the core of his events. I’m already looking forward to his next one.

OPEN ENDLESS Through May 28. Mon., 8 a.m.–7 p.m. Tues.–Wed., 7:30 a.m.–7 p.m.; Thurs.–Fri., 7:30 a.m.–8 p.m.; Sat., 8 a.m.–8 p.m.; Sun., 9 a.m.-–8 p.m. (415) 487-2600. Tartine, 600 Guerrero, SF. www.ribbonspublications.blogpost.com

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