What a special feeling when you bond with a TV show. And I’m not talking small returns like getting your weekly dose of laughs or escapism. I mean the awe-inspiring, mind-bending, occasionally even cathartic kind. To be honest, it’s only happened a handful of times in my life.Read More
Yesterday I went to the opening screening of the always thoughtful and provocative Frames of Representation (FoR) at the ICA. Now in its second year, the festival aims to support and generate dialogue around emerging practices in documentary cinema. This time round, the theme is "working". The organisers want to "explore the significance of work today and its social, political and cultural themes." It seemed apt, therefore, that the first film be called Machines, and transport viewers to a textile factory in Gujarat, India.
Here, people work in 12-hour shifts for about $3-4, many struggling to keep their eyes open despite all the humming and whirring around them. Their expressionless faces convey a mix of resignation and stoicism. As one worker says: "God gave us hands so we have to work." Another man has travelled more than 1,600km to work and denies that he is being exploited. That's because this is life and people just get on with it … until someone gives them a better option.
First-time feature director Rahul Jain spent two months observing in the factory before beginning to shoot. In all, he and his cinematographer Rodrigo Trejo Villanueva kept rolling for six months, patiently waiting for the right composition and for beauty to reveal itself amid all the drudgery and hardship. Occasionally you feel claustrophobic, at other times incarcerated within each frame.
The film affects the viewer through hypnosis as the camera lingers on each stage of the manufacturing process. Vats of deep-hued colours are wrestled into position, fabric is cut and dyed, patterns are printed, material is guided through rollers by hand and body-like bundles are dumped into wheeled bins with a jarring thud. It must have been quite a task to whittle down the 600-plus hours of footage. However, there is a real light touch to the editing, which gives Machines its metronomic rhythm and sense of suspension in time.
Despite the constant motion in this film, it feels eerily calm throughout. Perhaps that is because the wheels keep turning in this place. Product is made but little appears to be resolved. As soon as one fabric is finished, it's on to the next one without fuss or fanfare. There is no obvious satisfaction in the craft and the film really captures that process of dehumanisation. The workers have themselves become machines.
Voices are minimal in the film. In fact, it must be at least half an hour before we hear one of the workers speak. By that point, you are desperate for someone to "speak their truth" as Jain put it in the Q&A. This was a very personal film for the director, whose maternal grandfather owned a factory like this (in Surat). This world fascinated him, particularly his place in relation to it as someone of privilege. When the time came for the California Institute of Arts film student to find a subject for his mid-term, he started with the one place he knew he could get access.
Jain went into this project with questions and came out with even more. The intention was never to analyse or find answers. It certainly wasn't to produce a piece of cause marketing or start an impact campaign as some members of the audience were calling for. His honesty as a filmmaker was refreshing, particularly when admitting that he made this film because he wanted to … and nothing more. As Jain explained, it's in our nature to seek quick answers to questions. In reality, "there is no black and white," as he put it, "just this long spectrum of grey."
After the sensory overload of the first half of the film, our call for reason is partially answered as a few more voices interject. The factory boss brags about how much more loyal and hungry his workers were a few years ago when they used to earn ten times less than they do now. Towards the end, we step outside and the filmmaker is met by crowds of curious people. A spokesperson asks Jain, "Do you want to save us? Then tell us what to do and we will.” Another simply takes comfort in the fact that we all leave this planet with nothing. Even the rich people.
Admittedly, "you can't expose the sun," as the director argued, particularly in an industry that's reportedly worth $40 billion and built on the backs of cheap labourers. However, I did walk away wanting more from this film than Sundance-winning cinematography and assuming the role of voyeur in Jain's inquiry. Did that mean a stronger narrative or point of view on the situation from Jain? Or was I desperate for action which could lead to better wages and working conditions? If it's the latter then it's down to all of us as accomplices of global capitalism and not the director of a documentary.
He did tell us that he has funding to show the film for a couple of weeks in cinemas around the factory area so let's hope something positive comes from that.
Machines film will be released and distributed by Dogwoof from 19 May. It's definitely worth a look.
Tallinn and I are old friends. I first visited in 2005 to play records, wide-eyed and full of wanderlust, yet completely unsure what to expect having never ventured to the Baltics. A week later I left with many reasons to return, my head spinning with countless adventures and conversations about the past, present and future of this fascinating city.
I also felt reassured because – north, south, east or west – we are closer than we realise. Even in a post-Brexit funk. It could be a mutual respect for family, a belief in community, the call of the dancefloor, a love of art, sharing an ice-cold beer… As familiar as I had become following subsequent visits, it was surprising to see how fast things were changing as I flew in to experience the last few days of Tallinn Music Week (TMW).Read More
Think contemporary art and this small corner of South-East Asia is not the first place that springs to mind. But a casual flick through Vietnam Eye – part catalogue, more book – will have you turning to the East and booking your flights in no time. Over the past few years there has been growing interest and anticipation around a groundswell of new talent, whose work is both visually striking yet deeply thoughtful and frequently provocative. The breadth of styles, often produced by one artist, is also really impressive.
But why now? And how did this happen? Editor Serenella Ciclitira, who founded the Global Eye Programme with husband David, gives important context in the introduction. "Reforms that took place thirty years ago in art education [known as "Doi Moi' or "open door"] have borne fruit, with a new generation who have been able to combine local concerns with a sophisticated awareness of international contemporary art. The growth of an international Vietnamese diaspora also meant that a number of artists, such as DInh Q Le, grew up with both a global and a Vietnamese sensibility."
At its best, art is fascinating because it can reflect what's going on in a place and time, but also in the artist himself/herself. Surveying inner and outer worlds and pondering a compelling tension between the two. A country like Vietnam has gone through so much change over the past century, the effects of which are still contemplated to this day as Nguyen Quan explains in his essay.
"Pre-war artists were romanticists always in search of poetic and lovely objects. Resistance/war patriotic artists used their tools to look for realities and truths that were 'presumptively established' by the then ideological system. Doi Moi artists, instead, only embrace the quest for their own identity. Asking themselves the most important of all questions , 'Who am I?', they were able to resurrect the original and universal core of artistic creation. After the year 2000, this 'modern-style' confidence, arrogance even, was further backed by their willingness to provoke and challenge anyone to defined anything that was contemporary art-related."
A combination of international patronage, the burgeoning digital economy, restless ambition and pockets of healthy resistance have conspired to create a scene that is so hard to pin down. Here are a few favourites from the 75 artists included in the book. Many of these people will be part of a huge showcase exhibition that opens at the Saatchi Gallery this September.
It's not my go-to app but occasionally someone does something interesting with Snapchat. There is editor Yusuf Omar and his mobile team at the Hindustan Times, for example. They have covertly reported on the drugs problem in Punjab and discreetly given voice to sexual abuse victims. But student Trim Lamba's short film Cracked Screen has taken the social media tool into a whole new realm.
Chantelle Levene stars as a regular young woman sharing her everyday life with followers on Snapchat. She goes to the gym, goofs around with friends, dances in her bedroom to the likes of Nadia Rose and airs her frustrations about job hunting, among other filter-enhanced moments. When she suffers a horrific attack, the story becomes quite gripping … and disturbing.
Having read the synopsis, you expect the worst and wait for the shocking act. As Short of the Week's Chelsea Lupkin points out, "You’ll experience empathy for her injuries, the betrayal she feels by her followers, and a creeping guilt at being a voyeuristic spectator in her undoing." For me, it's the reactions of others, played out through her reactions on Snapchat, that are most affecting. How things can quickly turn nasty, and friend becomes foe. Her see-sawing emotions as the victim becomes increasingly insecure, unraveling in a series of images and messages.
Good news travels fast but bad news is almost instant. In the intemperate and often disheartening world of social media, people frequently bypass compassion and empathy, taking pleasure in the misfortune of others. And they love to gang up on those under fire. It's the mob mentality that Jon Ronson wrote about so poignantly in his book So You've Been Publicly Shamed.
The title Cracked Screen acknowledges the obsession with image and the power of myth-making in the age of social media. When that image is tarnished or shattered, what then? Where does that leave us? This is a bold and exciting use of the medium. Snapchat, an in-the-hand experience, definitely makes the narrative feel more intimate. And real. Chantelle's character could be your friend. You feel complicit.
The composite narrative – a sequence of moving image, stills, captions and doodles – adds tension and mystery to the story, not least because we only see the victim's reactions. The viewer's imagination then goes to work. Trim Lamba and his team have done a great job on this. It's exciting new ground for filmmaking and, as she says, challenges our conception of what we deem 'cinematic' — an idea that should intrigue and propel us all".