My passage out of the forest took mere minutes. The kind leonine snake waited at the forest threshold, assumedly to ensure I was safe. Wanting to afford the snake courtesy and respect, I implored it to wait, making stop signs with my hands. It obeyed and I made a dash for the nearest hat vendor of repute. The alleyways that surround my work are bulging with hat vendors of every conceivable sort. In matters of civility and manners, I tend toward bell crown toppers as I believe these convey an appropriate level of respect. Few vendors see fit to stock such headgear, but over the years, I’ve certainly done my research. A gentleman by the name of Hooster Bean has had a small stall for many years and in this instance, I knew he was my man. I fought my way through the crush of hat vendors, seeking Hooster out, hoping that my snake tour guide remained in wait. On a couple of occasions I had to be rather forceful with particularly pushy vendors who insisted that I sample their wares.
Hooster had been relegated to the deepest recess of the dingiest alleyway. It alarmed me to note how little prize we pay quality these days. Immaculately attired in a Valentino Newman suit and deadman top hat, Hooster beckoned me over.
“Worthington, my lad,” he said to me. “It’s been days.”
“Yes, my dear Hooster. I apologise for my scarcity, I’ve had urgent business that required my full attention.”
“Pay it no mind. It’s just so jolly good to see you.”
“The feeling is completely mutual,” I replied. “As much as it pains me, I must dash off as soon as possible.”
I made a show of studying my fob watch to illustrate the point.
“Certainly,” he replied. “In what manner may I be of assistance?”
“So kind of you to ask, Hooster. I require, and I do hope you can provide, a bell crown topper immediately.”
“Ah, Worthington!” He said with a kind smile. “You certainly are a man of superior taste. I believe I have exactly what you’re looking for.”
“Smashing!” I replied, letting my excitement get the better of me.
Hooster began foraging through hat boxes beneath his stall, carefully moving one aside to examine the next. He emerged a few moments later with a pink and red-striped cylindrical box.
“Wait until you lay your eyes on this number,” said Hooster. “This work of supreme artisanship has been imported from France.”
The Europhile within pumped a gentle fist of excitement. Hooster placed the box before me, slowly removed the lid and then, ever so carefully, peeled back the white tissue paper. The redolence of the Bastille filled my nostrils, briefly overriding my other senses. As my vision returned, I was greeted by the most adequate hat I had seen in some weeks. Hooster held it toward me.
“Would you like to try it on?” Asked Hooster.
“Indeed, I would, but I’m afraid I have no time. I really must be off. That said, I will most certainly purchase this kingly hat. How much do I owe you?”
“Let’s see,” he said, fingering the label on the box. “That will be $840.”
“A remarkably good price,” I replied while placing the cash before Hooster.
With a handshake, followed by a mutual bow, I made haste back to the threshold of the bamboo forest, hoping the snake would be waiting. I freed my new hat and disposed of the box in one of the many repositories that map our city.
I was relieved when I found the snake waiting patiently where I had left it. It seemed nonplussed. I carefully lowered the bell crown topper to my crown and centred myself before I continued my approach.
“I’m so happy you waited,” I said to the snake, who didn’t seem to acknowledge what I was saying. “After the assistance you’ve given me, it would have been most inappropriate not to afford you courtesy.”
With that said, I bowed and titled the bell crown topper ever so slightly.
“You earned that,” I said.

The book is coming soon. I’ll probably announce it here when it’s ready.

- Matthew Revert

I have a lot of CDs. While there are many collectors and music fanatics out there who have many more than me, my collections runs into the several thousand, which I’m sure is more than most. Anyone who has been following Trash Complex for more than a few days will probably get the impression that I’m a total music geek. I love my collection and, no matter how ubiquitous digital solutions become, I will continue to add to my CDs, LPs and tapes until the day I die. It’s who I am. I want a physical manifestation of the music that moves me the most. This applies to films and books too. I own a lot of stuff…

But now, I’m undergoing the most brutal cull of my CD collection I’ve ever attempted. The problem I have is that although I own some of the most sublime music ever recorded, I also own a lot of the not so sublime. This isn’t to say that these ‘not so sublime’ CDs are bad, they’re just not worthy of my perpetual care. Culling my CDs used to be easier… I had accumulated a fair amount of substandard music throughout my teens and upon discovering ‘good’ music, it was easy to dispose of the ‘crap’ music. But now I have some reason for owning everything in my current possession. I had always found it difficult to part with something if I ascertained some semblance of merit. But now that has to change. I don’t want to be owned by music collection anymore. My goal is to reduce my collection to less than a quarter of its size – a concept that months ago, would have consumed me with dread.

i have no idea why this photo is upside down

The first stage of my cull hasn’t been as difficult as I might have predicted. It turns out I had accumulated a fair amount of unessential music via my tendency to pour through bargain bins and take punts. Living in the outer suburbs, I’m hardly in a mecca of compelling art and the CDs available to purchase within walking distance are of a fairly generic standard. Occasionally I’d chance upon an amazing bargain bin find, but more often than not, although not bad per se, I was purchasing more than my share of music that doesn’t call me back. So the first few hundred CDs in my cull have caused little to no conflict. I can throw these away without the slightest hint of regret. This is the stage I’ve just finished. I feel good… a post-enema euphoria that inspires much self-gratification. But the next stage is going to sting…

I look at the music that survived the initial cull. Everything I see has a reason to stay. This is good music… often amazing music. I don’t want to get rid of it, yet I want to get rid of it more than I can say. I know I won’t ultimately miss it. I know that the pain comes in the projection, not the reality. But I am an expert in projecting catastrophe. I’ll be able to conjure a scenario wherein disposing of a good CD will result in the death of my family.

So here I am at the beginning of something that in my meagre world is pretty profound. I’m ridding myself of some baggage that not so long ago, I wouldn’t have been able to. I’m not remotely worried about the money that I spent on the  CDs destined for the bin. I’m more worried about the transformation such a seemingly simple act will trigger. And at the end of it, I will have a compact collection comprised of the most sublime music I’ve ever heard. This is a way of honouring the art. Perhaps after this, I’ll move on to my books and DVDs.

I don’t mind if my life ends amidst an infinite sea of stuff that no one will want. But it has to be the best stuff. I don’t want to waste my time anymore. There’s so much out there that deserves my full attention… I just have to stop getting distracted by passing birds.

- Matthew Revert

- Matthew Revert

And so, it is with great excitement that I approached Patrick Farmer’s ‘Green Rings around the Eyes, this Grass in Vibrant Motion’ – an album that, other than a contextless recommendation, I had absolutely no knowledge of. The cover itself, as you can see in the above image, lacks visual inference. Patrick Farmer, although a musician that I believe has been active for some time, was one I hadn’t personally heard. I don’t think I need to explain to you, in the hyper-connected world in which we live, how rare it is to have the opportunity to experience something in such a blind fashion – to be handed a blank slate for you to fill in as you please. It is with this in mind that I have decided to write this review without seeking external reference. For all intents and purposes, the totality of this album begins and ends right here. This introduction emerges as a nice little irony, because reading what follows will remove your blindness, replacing them with my prejudices. The joy!

‘Green Rings around the Eyes, this Grass in Vibrant Motion’, is a process of stripping back. All unnecessary elements have been removed and all the remains are the naked veins, pumping the blood. Using the barest tools (turntable, wire brush and a contact mic), Patrick Farmer inspires a laser-like focus from the listener by removing their choices. By removing simultaneity, we are left with two choices – engage with the phenomena of a single sound source, or ignore the recording completely. As one might expect, calling all your attention to a singularity has the effect of revealing the complexity inherent in the singularity. And what is this singularity exactly? For Farmer, it is the clicks, pops and spurts picked up by the wire brush and fed by the turntable. In experimental music, the existence of clicks, pops and spurts are certainly not rare. What separates ‘Green Rings…’ from the myriad other recordings happy to explore the potential of sonic detritus, is that these sonic elements are not subsumed into an overall stew. They are forced to stand naked, begging for scrutiny – a brave tactic.

This isn’t without precedent in the world of experimental improvisation. I’m immediately reminded of Sachiko M’s stunning, ‘Salon De Sachiko’ which implements a similarly minimal approach with two oscillators (this is one of the better albums I heard last decade… check it out). In both releases, Farmer and Sachiko intersperse silence with their singular sound source. The emphasis on silence is perhaps stronger on Salon De Sachiko, but the effect is similar. Without the distraction, all we have is the one sonic option. And in accepting this, the versatility and intricacy of something so outwardly simple is dredged to the surface. The listener deconstructs the popping sound, until they begin to reflect upon the type of pop it is. Our common generalisations no longer work and we are constantly seeking out deeper levels. The ingredients are simple, but the possible tastes are endless.

Sachiko M - Salon de Sachiko

Another surprising observation I’ve made about ‘Green Rings…’ is the emotive nature of the recording. There’s an initial period where one must adapt to the temperature of the sound, but when we acclimatise to it, there’s a certain desperation at work. Perhaps this is largely my projection, but, most likely as a result of the isolated sound source, there’s sadness and loss. Upon writing this reflection, it’s not difficult to understand how a conclusion like that could be reached, but it has an interesting affect nonetheless.

What I ultimately take away from a recording like ‘Green Rings’ isn’t so much a critical assessment as much as a general musing on the nature of complexity. In mining into the core of the clicks, pops and spurts, I’m reminded that we perceive so very little of what’s around us. As a matter of self-preservation, this is necessary, but as a controlled experiment in focus, this album is a magnificent tool. Everything is complex, and superficial simplicity is a perfect example of that. It’s the search that only ends when we stop searching.

I apologise to all for my laughably poor philosophical musing, but hopefully the fact I’m even attempting such a thing should prove that Patrick Farmer has made a very fine recording – one that almost begs you to underestimate it.

‘Green Rings around the Eyes, this Grass in Vibrant Motion’ was released by Nadukeenumono. I highly recommend it.

As a brief aside, I highly recommend everything I’ll ever review on Trash Complex because I refuse to spend my time writing about that which I don’t like.

- Matthew Revert

The Necks

For the last several years running, usually in January, it has become a tradition to see Australian improvised jazz trio, The Necks, in their annual show at The Corner Hotel in Richmond. During these shows, The Corner Hotel, which is usually a mecca for Pitchfork-endorsed indie cred, transforms into an intimate, seated venue. Due to the programmatic consistency of their touring schedule, it’s safe to say that I have seen The Necks live more than any other band. Such predictability is interesting when one considers the ever-evolving music they make. Beyond the tried and tested walls of The Corner Hotel, I’ve seen them in myriad other live environments, some that were woefully inappropriate (the open air of a large music festival) to others that worked surprisingly well  (opening for The Swans at The Forum).

Chris Abrahams (Piano)

The Necks are the long-time project of Australian musicians, Chris Abrahams (piano), Tony Buck (percussion) and Lloyd Swanton (bass). Over more than 25 years, 15 albums and countless live shows, they have emerged as one of the most beguiling, surprising and intuitive groups to have ever called Australia home. The nature of compelling improvisation typically eschews such long-term collaboration. Improvised music tends to yield the greatest rewards when the musicians involved lack long histories together. Part of improvised music’s reward lies in the conflict that can arise from unfamiliarity and the solutions adopted to overcome this. When playing as The Necks, Abrahams, Buck and Swanton are less likely to encounter such procellous hurdles. And so, when experiencing their music, it is with other characteristics in mind.

Tony Buck (percussion)

I first became aware of The Necks following the release of their 2003 album, Drive By. Of the albums of theirs I’ve heard, this is still my favourite. I’m not sure whether this is due to specific merit of Drive By or because this was my introduction to a group that would go on to become such a constant in my life. Drive By is an immediate indication as to where The Necks stand on an aesthetic level. Over the course of a single, one hour track, Drive By gives gradual form to a nebulous cloud of sound. Abrahams keeps the unraveling piece anchored with a reoccurring piano motif. Drive By works on two different levels. There’s the illusion of momentum, driven by the overt, reoccurring motifs, and then there’s the real momentum that occurs on a much more subtle, almost clandestine level. The overt motifs don’t propel the track as one may at first superficially suspect. They merely provide reference points. As the motifs fade away, the remaining sound appears largely unaltered by the imposition of the motif. This has a disorienting effect. It is then that the committed listener digs deeper and the magic of The Necks truly begins to reveal itself.

Lloyd Swanton (bass)

As musicians, it could be said that Abrahams, Buck and Swanton have a arterial connection to one another, the resultant sound being the heart that feeds each attached component. The individual contributions coalesce into one, brand new organism powered by total empathy. The three move through the sound like a single cloud, seemingly unaware of the self. And so the momentum of their music becomes something much more complex. Each step forward becomes so minute that only by stepping back can one truly comprehend the ways in which the sound has evolved. And it is then, as a listener, that The Necks inspire their unique breed of transcendence. Theirs is a sound we ride, not always aware of the overall shape, but lost in each moment. Mirroring the artists on stage, your eyes close, shutting out anything not pertinent to the pure sound. And this includes Abrahams, Buck and Swanton themselves, as they are now mere conduits for something much more important. And it is in these movements we, as listeners, make between the immediate detail and the overall shape that The Necks become something so much more than the simplicity of their constituent parts.

Having arrived at The Necks rather late into their existence, it’s hard to fathom them ever being anything but the singular entity they are today. There is clearly a connection that exists between these musicians that allows for the constant development of their sound. It is in the live environment that they really shine, and it has been the most recent shows that I’ve connected with the most. It’s hard to know whether it’s due to their development as musicians, or my development as a listener. It would be nice to assume it is a bit of both, and it’s one of life’s little joys that I’ll never really know.

Drive By (2003)

Perhaps it would have made more sense to write about The Necks in the wake of tonight’s performance, when the resonance of their final notes still seduce my ears. But sometimes we can take certain joys for granted, and I’d much rather reflect upon what I am set to experience before the fact and use these reflections to help feed the atmosphere they will undoubtedly create. Tonight should be a wonderful experience.

All three shows at The Corner Hotel appear to be sold out, which is a shame if this post had inspired any locals to check them out. Rest assured, they will be back. And to those who reside everywhere else, keep a lookout.

- Matthew Revert 

He apologised to himself, but knew there would never be forgiveness. It wasn’t in the script.

- Matthew Revert

“There are idiots who define my work as abstract; yet what they call abstract is what is most realistic. What is real is not the appearance, but the idea, the essence of things.”
- Constantin Brâncuşi

The above quote by Romanian-born sculptor, Constantin Brâncuşi (of whom the Hearing Metal series is a hommage) resonates deeply within me when considering the music of Michael Pisaro. Throughout his Ricefall and Hearing Metal recordings, he has forged a strong conceptual unity that embodies the very essence Brâncuşi alludes to. Through abstraction, Pisaro constructs realities far more tangible than the forumla of regular music allows. Pisaro’s compositions exist within exacting constructs and are executed with careful precision. Yet to describe these recordings as austere would be incorrect. His compositions are inviting, allowing the listener to swim into their heart or float on their surface. I have no consistent approach to the listening experience and find myself oscillating between microscopic examination of individual characteristics and panoptic views of the overall world. My first introduction to Pisaro’s work was his Ricefall (2) album (also with Greg Stuart). For the first time in quite a while, I felt as though a new musical experience had finally graced my ears. The album is conceptually simple – rice falling upon a surface at varying intensities in accordance to the composition. The execution of the idea is bliss and, to this day, something I find difficult to put into words. Before I discuss Hearing Metal 2, I would quickly urge you to seek Ricefall 2 out. Everyone I have played it to has been moved both physically and emotionally by the experience.

Off the bat, I must admit to not having heard Hearing Metal 1 yet so I am unable to place the second instalment into the overall picture. It is for this reason that I will focus solely on Hearing Metal 2 without further allusion to the rest of the series.

Michael Pisaro

Hearing Metal 2 is a continuous 62 minute piece separated into three tracks for listener convenience (I haven’t yet needed to utilise this convenience). Pisaro (utilising field recordings, radio, guitar and sine tones) performs with his regular collaborator, Greg Stuart (various percussion) on the piece. As Hearing Metal 2 ebbs into existence with gentle field recordings (the field recordings on this album are internationally sourced) the listener is very quickly put at ease. The sounds are familiar yet distant, like watching a movie within a dream (an inadequate simile). Stuart’s percussive underpinning contributes a metallic depth to the accumulating drone. It’s to both these musician’s credit that I didn’t pick up on Stuart’s percussion for most of my first listen. The piece absorbs the individual contributions into a (mostly) indivisible whole.

Greg Stuart

The field recordings on Hearing Metal 2 embody a certain delicacy that, when focused on, relax you. Where Hearing Metal 2 really excels is when it plays this delicacy off against the darker nature of the other sonic contributions. Stuart’s percussion and Pisaro’s sustained sine tones inject the darkness that I hear in this piece. Perhaps ‘dark’ isn’t the right word. maybe ‘desperate’ is more suitable. Within the poles of their existence, these desperate elements seem trapped in momentum, moving ever-forward. It’s during the second part of this piece that the more desperate elements take control, crashing from the speakers like floodwater.

Ricefall (2)

When part 3 begins, we are once again dominated by the delicacy of the field recordings. Using my above analogy, this is after the flood. The memory of the disquiet still resonates, keeping you alert. The flood of the previous part isn’t necessarily one of damage. It’s the natural fluctuation of the world around us, bound by an overriding order. It’s the bark of a dog that now sleeps curled up in the morning sun. It’s a reminder that occasionally life is unsafe, but it always settles again, just like disturbed sand.

If we revisit Brâncuşi’s above quote and spend some time reflecting upon the clear pictures Hearing Metal 2 provokes, we can see the undeniable truth in his claim. Abstraction is reality and it up to us how we interpret it. For no two realities can be alike, and as a listener, I respect music that allows my own interpretation to develop. This is the beauty of abstraction in all its ambiguous forms. With Hearing Metal 2, Pisaro and Stuart have very careful built a looking glass that reflects variations of ourselves. When an artist trusts you enough to build your own realities with their work, it is cause for celebration indeed. It is when art becomes most valuable and when I, as a listener, become most involved.

Constantin Brâncuşi

Hearing Metal 2 (along with several other beautiful Pisaro records) is available now from the Gravity Wave. I can’t imagine the print run for these discs are enormously high, so don’t wait too long. I cannot recommend this album highly enough. I haven’t even started listening to Hearing Metal 3 yet. I have a tendency to get lost in beautiful moments, and Hearing Metal 2 is a moment I’m not quite ready to leave.

- Matthew Revert

- Matthew Revert

Welcome to hell

When attempting to write about Sátántangó, I can’t help but feel I should address a couple of the superficial issues that obfuscate a pure experience of the film. The first is the length. At  7 and a half hours, there’s no denying that Sátántangó is a significant investment in time in relation to what one expects from the medium. As a result of this, I’ve found that much of the dialogue about this film concentrates on its length at the expense of the qualities of which the length is merely a necessity. I feel that approaching Sátántangó as an exercise in endurance belittles the significance of Bela Tarr’s achievement.

The other issue that has dominated much of the dialogue about Sátántangó involves a prolonged section of the film wherein a cat is tortured and poisoned. These scenes resulted in a general reluctance by some countries (most notably the UK) to allow screening within its borders due to animal cruelty laws that (rightfully) exist. Please don’t mistake my claim that this is a ‘superficial issue’ with a personal tolerance of animal cruelty. This is not the case. While the scenes in question are difficult to watch, the cat was not harmed. A veterinarian was on set at all times and after the shoot, Bela Tarr even kept the cat as a pet. So rather than excusing animal cruelty, the film only provides a facsimile of it. While difficult to watch, I hope that the information provided helps one approach it within the context of the film. It’s a shame that such a misconception exists because the scenes involving the cat are of enormous importance to the film, acting as a pivotal plot point. I’ll discuss this scene in more depth a little later on. I just wanted to address a point that doesn’t relate to the film.

Based on the debut novel by László Krasznahorkai (which, for the first time is finally about to have an English translation!), Sátántangó tells the story of lost souls clustered in a small, unnamed former agricultural community in the immediate aftermath of Hungary’s transition from communism to capitalism.  The world that these pitiful creatures inhabit is one of abject despair and hopelessness. Devoid of vitality and meaning, this small cast of political victims float about their bleak environment like ghosts – existing in the barest sense. The unforgettable opening scene illustrates the plight with devastating effectiveness. A herd of cows slowly (very slowly) migrate from their barn to the opposite side of the farm. Tarr makes his aesthetic intentions clear from the start. The camera is patient, almost painfully so, as the cows plod from point A to point B. As the cows move, so does the camera, tracking their path, obscured only by rotting structures. We can already see a reflection of the people we’re about to meet, cognitively programmed to move from point to point, without aim, in perpetuity.

It is afterward that we’re introduced to the narrative proper. A large amount of money is to be paid collectively to members of the village for the prior year’s work. It becomes apparent early on that a faction exists within the group and plans have been made to abscond with the money in order to increase the share of the few, leaving the rest to continue rotting. These plans are compromised, however, when news of the return of a mysterious man called Irimiás, who was presumed dead, reaches the ears of the villagers. Details surrounding the history between the villagers and Irimiás are not made clear. What we do know is the idea of Irimiás carries with it a sense of foreboding, as if death is about to pay a visit. Soon after, we meet Irimiás, with his sidekick, Petrina in a breathtaking scene. The two travel toward the village, passing a barren city in ruin. Mountains of trash, caught in a ferocious gale, follow the two on their treck. When listened to with a subwoofer, the wind shakes the foundations of wherever you happen to be.

At one with the garbage

Irimiás speaks in philosophy, impressing the slower, Petrina, with his ambiguous insight. Irimiás becomes a symbol for capitalist self-interest – self-interest that is not made immediately apparent. His is a talent for galvanising others to serve his selfishness.

Toward the end of part 1, we meet the doctor (a doctor in name only). He is perhaps the perfect embodiment of hopelessness. He refuses to even participate in the facade of life like the others. Instead, he sits in his room, drinking himself to oblivion and taking obsessive notes about the happenings outside his window. He is a man who no longer even moves from point A to point B. If he leaves the house at all, it is in pursuit of alcohol and done so most begrudgingly. In him there is no longer any attempt at civility as he burps, farts, pisses and falls in the mud. His humanity is lacking as much as the wretched animals that populate the film.

The Doctor

In part 2, as the villagers oscillates between their desire for money and fear in the face of Irimiás arrival, we are introduced to the most tragic figure in the film, Estike. Estike is a young girl, alive in a world that shouldn’t allow the existence of life. In a scene that may encourage laughter, but nevertheless acts a scathing indictment of capitalist promise, Estike, under the guidance of her older brother, plants a bundle of coins in the ground and is assured that a money tree will grow as long as it’s watered every day. It is shortly after that the film’s most distressing and infamous scenes take place. Pushed outside in the endless rain by her prostitute mother, Estike is left to her own devices in an environment that offers no warmth or entertainment. She crawls into the ceiling of an empty building where she has a cat. The unnamed cat sits on Estike’s lap, purring contently, providing viewers with the only glimpse of warmth in the film to date. But with a life that offers no hope, and building frustration that has no outlet, we then endure Estike torture the cat, the only thing she can have any control over. She rolls around in the dust, unwilling to let the cat go. As a viewer we implore her to stop, but she continues. Rolling and rolling, crushing this cat beneath her. We understand her weakness and frustration. We understand her need to control something… anything. She mocks the cat, informing it that she is stronger than it. She can beat the cat. She can kill the cat. Estike captures the cat in a net bag and then proceeds to fetch it milk laced with rat poison. Soon after, the cat is dead and Estike, seemingly unmoved by its death, carries its body around as a macabre reminder of her ability to control.

Estike left to her own devices.

Estike with dead cat in tow

And then, as if to reinforce her hopelessness, she arrives at her  money tree, stiffening cat under arm, to find it dug up and stolen. And it comes as no surprise to learn that it is her older brother, the one who helped plant the money, that has stolen it. We are truly in a world that, by virtue of necessity, no longer understands morality. As a centrepiece of the film, these scenes are immensely important, which is why the controversy that arose in the wake of the scenes involving the cat is a shame. It distracts from the power. I’m hoping that by knowing the cat was ultimately safe, it might help future viewers assess the scenes within the context of the film. It is shortly after that Estike, in search of some comfort approaches the pub. In a scene that accentuates her isolation, the villagers, intoxicated and oblivious, dance ramshackle tango while Estike watches from the outside.

Dancing the tango

...while Estike watches on

I fear I’ve already given away too much, so I won’t go into detail about the fate of Estike, except to say that it comes as no surprise. It is what inspires the villagers to try and take matters into their own hands and better their life.

As you can imagine, I could go into depth about each scene within the film, but I want to allow viewers to experience some of this film without prior knowledge. With that in mind, I want to spend some time talking about the aesthetics of director, Bela Tarr. The notion of the cinematic ‘auteur’ strikes us as antiquated these days. When we consider the term, it usually conjures up art cinema from the 60s. Quite often an element of derision is placed upon the concept. It is in the arena of art cinema that accusations of pretentiousness are often directed. In my younger days, this stigma made me feel self-conscious about expressing my love of art cinema.

Bela Tarr

If we ask one to give a stereotypical definition of art cinema, the following traits are often cited: black and white, slow, long takes, ambiguity and silence. A superficial viewing of anything Tarr has made would convince some that the stereotype is completely apt. But you really don’t have to dig very deep before the artistry of Tarr’s films become apparent. In partnership with cinematographer, Gábor Medvigy, Tarr has produced one of the most beautiful looking films one could hope to see. You will come away from Sátántangó with myriad still images burned into upon your mind’s eye. I’ve watched the opening scene many many times in isolation simply to experience 10 minutes of magic. If I never watched this film again, I have no doubt scenes and images would never leave me. Working in tandem with the compositional beauty is the graceful movement of the camera itself. It never hurries and seems to glide with ethereal grandeur. It always knows what it’s doing and as a viewer, we trust it without question. Beyond this we have the chilling sound design of Mihály Vig, who also plays the role of Irimiás. Tarr and Vig have collaborated on many films and it doesn’t take long to understand why. Sátántangó places an emphasis on sound. Be it distant bells, the ticking of clocks or the rattle of trolleys on dirt roads. The sounds are unnaturally amplified and refuse to move forward. They come across as endless loops that only reveal variation upon close listening. The use of sound embodies the stasis the film as a whole thrives on. At times the sound only resides slightly at the edge of your periphery and other times, it thunders and shakes, overpowering all else. It’s a rare film that marries so many important elements so perfectly and idiosyncratically.

Mihály Vig as Irimiás

Sátántangó took Tarr several years to make, which is understandable. It fills me with joy that a film such as this could be made at all. It is rare to witness a vision as pure as this given the right to flourish. With each of his films, Tarr has honed his aesthetic, but with Sátántangó, he completely altered the cinematic landscape. Tarr is a director that proves the auteur can still exist, and whatever connotations this may inspire in viewers, any lover of art will be moved to varying degrees by what he has achieved. It is not merely a film to be endured. It is a film to be experienced in the truest sense. It proves that through art, we can experience transcendence. I am a better person for having seen Sátántangó.

Following his latest film, The Turin Horse, Tarr has publicly announced that, in fear of repeating himself, he is no longer a filmmaker and will instead focus his energy on a filmschool in Croatia he  is launching. In my selfishness, I bemoan Tarr’s decision. But I do respect it. If you’ve never experienced the work of Bela Tarr before, I can only hope that perhaps this review might steer you toward doing so. The copy I own is the Artificial Eye edition, which I certainly have no complaints with.

The Turin Horse

Thanks for reading this far. A film such as this deserves much more than the inadequate layman’s treatment that I have given it, but I felt compelled to share some thoughts. I’d love to hear your thoughts about Sátántangó, or any Tarr films in general. Please comment and share.

- Matthew Revert