Paint Your Enemy (But Do It Nice)

"I was, after the fashion of humanity, in love with my name, and, as young educated people commonly do, I wrote it everywhere."
-Goethe, Poetry and Truth, 1811

Oh, sweet, charmed and happy life. Lucky me, surrounded by free popcorns and a vitamin water (naturally flavored but artificially preserved) on this Friday afternoon. I stretch my legs, play with my toes, put my neck on the edge of the mini coach and relax while the comfort takes me... it takes me... take me... SPLASH! WHAT WAS T-H-A-T!?? A part of my body has a green paint, Pollock style. Am I a bleeding alien? I was just bombed. Director and producer Jon Reiss' Bomb It starts powerfully with a mix of animations after a night-vision intrusion that welcomes the spectator to the global world of graffiti. It's making a lot of noise in Tribeca, while its co-producer and DP Tracy Wares spreads the word passionately--well deserved after risking her life through all kind of dangerous places. This documentary has confronted everyone (a graffiti exhibition planned for the premiere was thumbed down) and raises very complex issues about art, social justice, public space and law among other indirect problems. "Don't" seems to be the magic word to stay more activist than ever. Like those alternative guys called Rage Against The Machine claimed in 1991 about the freedom of political prisoners and re-interpreted the American dreams:

"...we're comin' back then with another bombtrack... think ya know what it's all about..."

Born and raised in Buenos Aires, Argentina, where graffiti was first popular through a comedy group called Los Vergara, spray paintings in my streets were generally ugly and disrespectful. Los Vergara appeared without art but with content to express in some way that graffiti must be something else, and also to wake up people. "Fascist are trembling: Maradona is lefty" or "Everybody promises, Nobody accomplishes it... vote Nobody" were some of the graffitis that later on evolved into fútbol (soccer) gangs battles, dirty money political official campaigns, and then came the art. Art that in most of the cities is consider a felony, though it's very difficult to establish where it's harmful and where not. The only crime where people sign their names raises another issue: what is or should be considered a crime? In the dictionary it goes from an action that is injurious and legally prohibited, to a gray zone of any offense. The essence of graffiti in itself is rebellion. If the government allows it in some places, some graffiti artists could agree to stick to the designated areas, but others would be tempted to use the forbidden zones. As we can see during the first part of Bomb It in New York and Philadelphia, "my name to the world" is probably one of the biggest purposes in graffiti. Cornbread explains it clearly: "The more they said my name, the more I wrote it". The train was also used in this city as an alternative way of expression and chatting: a greeting would appear in a car, and a few days later the response would be ready on another. Some people call them graffiti artist or writers. Many of them consider themselves "bombers". It's about a war against the system. PHFSH!. My left leg is red now... hold on a minute, weren't my jeans blue?

"Something must be done about vengeance, a badge and a gun, 'cause I'll rip the mike, rip the stage, rip the system, I was born to rage against 'em."

The team effort in this global project resulted in around 400 hours of footage (yes, two zeros), and it was put together to great effect by Salvadorian Alex Márquez and Cuban-American Jessica Hernández who the footage with different kind of formats (cartoons, animations, and archive footage). Less than two hours of footage (.5%) made the cut, rearranged with a very tight rhythm and creative transitions. Venezuelan David Garcia completes--with a few more co-producers--the main crew as music supervisor. Latinos, women and other punished labels of the society are here unified to be unlabeled paradoxically through another label... well, a tag: "bomb it". Like those tags and paintings that used to appear in caves since the beginning of the human kind. Today we have the subway tunnels: dangerous but peaceful too.

"Im a brother with a furious mind, Action must be taken, we dont need the key, We'll break in."

The movie becomes global while the screen spatters my fingers with black and my body slowly becomes a graffiti. In Paris, Blek Le Rat started painting all around the only free animals in the city: rats (casual acronym for "rage against the system"?). Le monsieur asks permission to the homeless people--not to the State--to paint on the wall where they camp as a response against racism and calling for social justice. Amsterdam is witness of another interesting case: a kindergarten teacher during the day, graffiti artist at night. Eyeballs watching the world, playing as a kid. Another kind of eyeballs take care of London with Big Digital Screen Brother watching you: "Get off the bicycle". The woman obeys immediately. The public space is neutral; it's for everyone, but it excludes many people. Surveillance transforms it into a blurred space. I wonder if they can also push a button from the main control and fix the water fountain... I'm so thirsty. In Berlin, CBK take it seriously: he does it for his family and friends, a commitment for ever. Every region has an interesting approach. Barcelona's artists use graffiti as therapy and to provide art to the people who can't afford expensive museums. They use some restricted inoffensive zones to paint non-codified graffiti for everyone. An old lady loves how the street has a beautiful color now, while the old man threatens the artists: "you'll clean it with your tongue". A tongue that this time speaks through the hands.

"Now I got no patience, so sick of complacence, with the D the E the F the I the A the N the C the E"

A latex hand is signing my feet in the darkness of the theater while the travel continues to Capetown. A city that with the Apartheid was divided in black, white and colored. Graffiti unites them with many more colors. Political awareness and art are a fantasy for poor people in search of very basic things to survive. The artists spray a school in front of the fascinated looks and smiles. But in São Paulo there are no smiles anymore. It's a dragon that eats all, like New York in the '70s. Guns are probably cheaper than spray cans. It's the perfect place with the wrong people for some, a scary place with great people for others. The words order doesn't alter the meaning: chaos. A police ask Os Gemeos if they have permission to paint that big funny animal in the middle of a wall: "Well, it's an old work about ambient preservation... we're just retouching it, cool?". The audience burst into laughter. Nor the police. They just get into the patrol car again, not worried about the war of words and colors but about the war of bullets in the favelas. Inside the most humiliating sewer and other subterranean places Zezão finds a public/private space to paint with a healing power as a therapy against depression. He also finds a family living there who soon become his family, too. A dream: take them out of that hole. It's not the same as the hole found by Tokyo's bomber. A controlled city with some cracks that can be penetrated. A woman changes the state from hate and angst to happiness and her graffitis change with her.

"The finger to the land of the chains What? The land of the free? Whoever told you that is your enemy!"

And here we are. In the land of Jon Reiss and his film-bombers: Los Angeles, where not everybody is un ángel. Here the graffiti takes at least three forms: the artists' tags, the gangs' tags and the T.A.G. (Totally Against Graffitis). This organization recognized as one of the best national public programs has interesting educational activities against graffiti vandalism and children safety, working with a reward program: if your little boy reports a graffiti act he and his school will obtain cool prizes. Although the intention of getting the kids involved is wonderful, I just hope they don't win any super-sized, fast-food party or tickets to NASCAR. I'm also Totally Against Gaming your kid in a S.H.A.K.T.I. warrior activity--web store included--with the good soldiers vs. the good-looking bad guys. I prefer Sesame Street style and creative, educational awards. Nevertheless, that's another story and it's true that some kind of anarchy is taking the control of the streets with an ego that can't stop. For those who obey the billboards Ron English have a second view if you turn around to avoid being raped by the ads (and Shepard Fairey has a third one). For those whose graffitis are being commercialized, good... they must also pay debts. For those who think that doing money with graffitis turns you into an entrepreneur, the graffiti life continues in the shadows.

"Yes I know my enemies: They're the teachers who taught me to fight me. Conformity... submission... ignorance... hypocrisy... brutality..."

I leave the theater with a moral conflict. Although I love those big walls, boats, schools and complete buildings around the world with incredibly beautiful graffitis, I don't like to see graffitis wherever they want. While graffiti bombers, artists, writers, or painters are being jailed, many rapists and thieves remain free, but it doesn't mean that the guy who sprayed that car in the street shouldn't be prosecuted. The situation is complex and as urgent as their call for social justice. I have an original Nic One's graffiti in my Metrocard. Am I a criminal? I'll use it anyway, it still has credit. I hope nobody stops me while I travel through the spiritual and visual vacuum of the post-Giuliani subway system. Now it's clean and bright, although the "E" train is not running this weekend, a shuttle bus is replacing the "1", and the "L" will soon substitute employees with robots. Now I wonder... is my blog a graffiti?

(Written for NYRemezcla)


Bomb It
Tribeca Film Festival 2007, New York
World Documentary Competition
2007, U.S.A., 93 min., World Premiere
Director/Screenwriter: Jon Reiss

Code: BOMBI
Tuesday, May 1, 9:15pm (Clearview Chelsea West)
Friday, May 4, 10:30pm (Regal Battery Park Cinemas)
Sunday, May 6, 5:30pm (AMC Village VII)

La Memoria Colectiva

David "Coco" Blaustein, director del documental Hacer Patria (Forging A Nation), ingresa al Registro del Hotel de Inmigrantes de Buenos Aires, Argentina. Pregunta por sus padres, tíos y otros familiares de sus dos ramas: los Blaustein y los Korogodzky, provenientes de Polonia y Ucrania. El señor que lo atiende con gusto, trae los libros de 1923 y 1927, y en base a nombres de las personas y los barcos, encuentra los registros del día en que sus abuelos ingresaron al país. Coco festeja como un niño el hallazgo de tan preciosa información. La pantalla se funde a negro, y comienzan los créditos, mientras se escucha el Kol Nidrei, uno de los cantos más sagrados del pueblo judío que se realiza en el comienzo de Yom Kippur (Día del Perdón). Este rezo que trata la transgresión, las obligaciones, el perdón, la ignorancia y el agradecimiento por la vida, no está puesto en la película por casualidad.

Co-escrita por Irene Ickowicz junto a Blaustein, una buena cantidad de fotos y archivo filmado, y una mayor aún cantidad de aportes y anécdotas familiares, este documental de poco más de dos horas de duración es una viva reconstrucción de la historia entre varios integrantes de la familia. Todos los judíos argentinos en algún momento lo vivimos en nuestras casas: escuchar las historias de testigos directos mezcladas con las que se transmitieron por generaciones, adornadas de "supongo", "seguro" , "creo" y "me dijeron". De esta manera se va rearmando un enorme rompecabezas que Blaustein intenta armar con detalle.

Las calles de barro, los reencuentros, la búsqueda permanente, la emoción, y la reconexión con el pasado se hacen presente junto todo tipo de anécdotas, desde un maletín con joyas que salvó la vida de un familiar en manos de un soldado cosaco, los 30,000 sindicalistas hablando en idisch, hasta la época en que la tía Matilde se bañaba en vino porque abundaba y faltaba agua (a lo que el tío Efraín agrega "te hubiesen bañado en leche, como Cleopatra). En el proceso de reconstrucción se transforman las memorias y también los nombres: Iuda pasa a ser Judah oficialmente... para los amigos Oscar. El camino que Blaustein sigue lo lleva a reencontrarse no sólo con su propia historia sino también con sensaciones. La casa de Montevideo 502 en Tandil, la necesidad urgente de colgarse de la medianera para ver que hay adentro, y la invitación a pasar al patio lo hacen revivir, oler y respirar hondo casi ochenta años después. El primo Bubi también vuelve a Lobería, y sus piernas tiemblan cuando después de mucho insistir da con un señor que se acuerda de su padre y las hermosas trenzas de su madre. El viaje de "Coco" Blaustein es el viaje de toda su familia y de tantas otras familias que emigraron no sólo de origen judío, sino también católicos, especialmente italianos, españoles y tantos otros que han dado forma a la identidad de Buenos Aires y otras provincias, como también pasó en Nueva York con muchas otras colectividades.

Ante tan emotiva investigación la película se olvida del lado artístico y técnico que puede embellecerla. Tanto la cinematografía, como el sonido y la edición por momentos quedan descuidados y se diluyen en el océano de testimonios. Será tal vez que se puso todo el foco en tratar de entender cómo era la figura fundamental de Don Blaustein padre, o por qué la familia se hizo con el tiempo más Argentina y menos judía, aunque con esta película "Coco" parece revivir su legado judío. La economía del centavo, la infancia en que se tuvo tan poco, el sufrimiento, las persecusiones, la perseverancia, el miedo a perderlo de nuevo, y la idea de estar listo para zarpar nuevamente a otro lugar, son una constante que aparece como un sello en esta ola de inmigrantes que en la década del '20 y el '30 llegó al país.

Mamá Blaustein (Korogodzky) habla en su silla con una autoridad irreprochable frente a la íntima conferencia de prensa formada por hijos y nietos. La "conspiración del silencio" que en algún momento hubo entre los padres se repite en los hijos que deben escaparse por motivos políticos. Y los viajes parecen ser destino inevitable: Mexico, España y Bolivia esta vez hacen de recordatorio que el exilio es un estigma judío, también Argentino. Como los ideales y el poder de adaptación. Lo dice uno de los hermanos: por evitar el dolor cuando se revuelve el pasado, se cae permanentemente en malentendidos al no contar toda la historia. La necesidad de amalgamarse a la nueva sociedad de la diáspora en la que les toca vivir por momentos parece chocarse con ser judío, aunque esa llama interior no se apaga nunca, sino que de alguna manera se transforma. Porque al hacer patria, el judaísmo y la argentinidad no se excluyen sino lo contrario. En este viaje en el que Blaustein nos guía resurge la obligación de no olvidar, la necesidad de saber y comprender, el homenaje a los padres y el agradecimiento por llegar a este punto del recorrido en el que se comparte la música, se comparte la culpa, y a pesar de las diferencias se comparte la vida.

(Escrito para NYRemezcla)


Hacer Patria (Forging A Nation)
Tribeca Film Festival 2007, New York
World Documentary Competition (Documentales del Mundo)
2007, Argentina, 127 min., Premiere Norteamericana
Director: David Blaustein
Escritor: Irene Ickowicz

Code: FORGI
Domingo 29 de Abril, 11:00pm (Tribeca Cinemas)
Martes 1 de Mayo, 4:00pm (Tribeca Cinemas)
Miércoles 2 de Mayo, 6:00pm (AMC Kips Bay)
Viernes 4 de Mayo, 4:30pm (AMC VIllage VII)

Indifferent Shame

It's true... they are invisibles for me too. At the beginning I react catching my breath. Then my throat starts trembling. While the shorts keep on going, I start crying. Then I stop. Then I breathe again. The amount of information I receive in such a short time is so condensed and sad that I lose my sensibility. Then I don't cry anymore, like them. At the end I'm still touched, but I want to see the light again outside the theater. I want to grab a coffee, a chocolate, and live my life again. Now I write about them... tomorrow I will be one more of those millions who don't want to see them. They aren't invisibles by nature. We make them invisibles.

No words can describe real tragedy; no images can show the dimension of losing somebody we love. Luckily suffering people aren't invisibles for all the world. Doctors Without Borders deal with them every day, and Javier Bardem, who was one day researching in Africa to create a new character, was so impressed that he decided to do something. His company Pinguin Films produced Invisibles, that first screened in Berlin Film Festival and is now impacting in Tribeca. Thank to the awareness campaign that this group is carrying on, all these unnoticed tragedies are trying to wake up a world that is accustomed to the terrifying power of mass media and disrespectful use of death. The documentary explores just a few of a vast list of social problems in Africa and Latin America. The millions of persons living without media and political tools in our oblivion, are raised to the world with a unique voice after being muted by a lack of caring. It's also a homage to that incredible group of doctors, NPOs and volunteers who refused to avert their eyes.

Letters To Nora, by Isabel Coixet opens the film with a story about a Bolivian woman living in Spain, where she is far away from her hometown Chagas--sudden death disease. However, the eighteen millions of Latin American exposed below the line of poverty can't find a cure, simply because there is no laboratory in the world producing a medicine or even remotely researching about it. Well, that's understandable: 1,800 weight-loss-related patents pending are more profitable. It's so difficult to believe that it would be a great plot for a science fiction movie, but unfortunately it's a documentary. "Remember when we were kids and played to be invisibles? It used to be fun... now I feel I am invisible", explains Nora's sister in a letter. The paradox is that Nora is a nurse, a housekeeper and a baby-sitter. She helps everyone but nobody helps her. If her people die, although she sends money from Spain to help, I wonder how much more she could help where she in Bolivia. Invisible vinchucas to my eyes, so far away that I can't see it.

Wim Wenders travels to Congo to portray Invisible Crimes. He does so in a very particular: they appear; they disappear. Now you see them; now you don't. Is it magic? Is it a game? The Maï-Maï rebel militia abuse the women with such a cowardice and impunity that it also tempts policemen and official military government. All of them with sticks and weapons, while the women carry heavy loads from town to town working for their families. Sorry to insist, but this is not a box office tale, and it's not a grammatical mistake. They kill the women's husbands in front of them, they rape the mothers in front of their kids for days, and if they don't escape crawling to survive while their genitalia still feels the hurricane, they are dead by now. However, they survive. They don't cry; they don't feel; they don't hope; they are... invisibles. An association of "sisters" helps the victims of these savage abuses to talk, to fight, to not being ashamed, to go to the hospitals. They sing with no enthusiasm, defeated because they only helped 346 women. I don't differentiate numbers anymore. 346 or 3,460 has the same effect. I used to be good with numbers. The boys used to be good in school, but the war turned them into violent and untouchables animals, kings of the jungle. Lions.

Not everything is lost: there are other kind of leones, like Fernando León de Adanoa, who directed Good Night, Ouma, probably the most moving short of this series, about the child-soldiers of Uganda. The Noah's Ark night commuting center for kids from 7 to around 14 years old is a symbol of hope and salvation. This time it isn't about keeping two of each species, but a bunch of frightened kids that don't feel safe at home. So when the time for nightmares approaches, they go almost naked, provided just of a blanket, to a place where they can be together, laugh a little, share experiences, and sleep. Though not everybody can conceal a happy dream: one of them dreams about crying because he feels guilty of what he has done to others while being a soldier. He doesn't cry when he's awake. Nobody cries in this documentary except the audience. If the kids are trapped and kidnapped by the rebels of this war that has last more than 20 years, they are sent to combat or traded as slaves for a few guns. Also as a rehab center for ex-soldiers, the center only works until 6:30am, when it's time for the kids to go back home. I wish to be a kid again, and they wish to be adults, so nobody can kidnap them. These "gorillas", as the rebels call them, are stronger than adults and fearless. They kill easily, as in a game. The center coordinator is the father of all of them. Millions obligued to fight, 180,000 casualties, and an urgent call for aide, with the first tears in the film: "please, help..."

I drink another sip of juice while I think how could I help. I find no explanations. Even if I had the power to arrange these words in a beautiful way I still would feel empty. Although if you watch Invisibles instead of Vinchuca-Man III probably we will be now two feeling empty, then four, until a big emptiness and desolation could wake us up from our ignorance. At least we don't have the sleeping sickness as Bianca has. Mariano Barroso shows with an unusual way a conversation between an NGO and a pharmaceutical executive in Bianca's Dream: the eflornithine--commercialized as Aventis Ornidyl®--is used for hair removal, a more profitable use than curing cancer or bringing an African from coma. Luckily for the labs, a five-year agreement for donations has just finished, so they are transferring their knowledge to the next victim-lab. Only one lab? I don't get it. What's going on with the research in this world? Oh, I remember... the 1,800 weight-loss patents... the vitamin colored waters. Water used to be invisible.

Javier Corcuera's The House Of Stones closes the suffering and brings us hope: in fifteen more minutes we will return to normality out of the theater. But not before being affected by the displaced Colombians who during four years were persecuted, killed--then camouflaged as guerrilla!--for doing social work on land rich in oil and emeralds among other things. The Democratic Security destabilizes the zone while an assembly of brave peasants resist. Where are the martyrs? Where is the remnants of El Encanto (The Charm) going? Probably to the humanitarian zone... a place with no weapons where people still believe in a future. Probably to their original lands. What would do a peasant without fertile ground? Nothing else than die. Like their sons in the military service. The names of the victims lie on stones. They can take their bodies and lives... but not their dreams.

The media, the techniques, the cinematography, the aesthetics, the way to tell the story, no matter if it's beautiful or boring, smart or common... all is justified in this document that bears witness to all kind of atrocities. Including the indifference.

(Written for NYRemezcla)


Invisibles
Tribeca Film Festival 2007, New York
Spotlight, Narrative
2007, Spain, 106 min., U.S. Premiere
Directors: Mariano Barroso, Isabel Coixet, Fernando León de Aranoa, Javier Corcuera, Wim Wenders

Code: INVIS
Sunday, April 29, 3:00pm (Clearview Chelsea West)
Monday, April 30, 6:15pm (AMC 34th Street)
Wednesday, May 2, 3:30pm (AMC Kips Bay)