James Franco and Travis Mathews’ Interior. Leather Bar. is a short feature re-imagining the 40 lost minutes from William Friedkin’s 1980 Cruising (starring Al Pacino as a straight cop tracking a serial killer of gay men). But it is as much about the making of the new film, and the various levels of discomfort among both the gay and straight actors involved, primarily that of the straight lead Val Lauren. After its screening at last year’s Berlinale, Mathews, who is known for his gay-porn series In Their Room and the feature I Want Your Love, discussed the making of Interior. Leather Bar. and the mixed reactions it’s getting from gay and straight men, and from those who like it best — women.
BLATC: Let’s start with the obvious: How did you and James Franco come to work together on this project and why?
Travis Mathews: When James first approached me, it was a larger sort of situation where there was a series of different films from the 70s that he wanted to revisit in some capacity. Cruising was the first of these. It was never about doing a remake, it was always about doing a nod, and doing some sort of [take on] how far have we come as a culture, or with gay culture, or with sexual freedom, creative freedom. And he knew that he wanted explicit gay sex in the film.
We didn’t know each other. But the through line in my work has been about masculinity, gay male intimacy. In the last couple of years, I had been using un-simulated gay sex to weave into narratives in a way that wasn’t meant for titillation or pornography but was used for other reasons — funny moments, awkward moments, character development moments. There’s so much substance there that’s underutilized in terms of story.
Last summer, I had a feature film, I Want Your Love, that is a narrative with sex woven into it. James had seen it and reached out to me about collaborating. I got an email and then within twelve hours we were on the phone discussing this. He said he wanted to revisit Cruising and he didn’t have any real ideas of how to enter into it or what we might do but he was interested in me being involved and hearing my thoughts. And the first time we talked I had a whole series of questions and concerns, knowing his history behind and in front of the camera in films with gay content. I was, like, Okay, you’ve done all this stuff. And most of it’s been very positive, whether people have appreciated it or not, it’s been very positive, like the different characters and the different gay icons he’s brought attention to.
But Cruising’s going to be a very different situation; it’s still very much a problematic film for people, for its representation, and it has this very well-documented history of why. And he understood that and agreed with that and I thought it was important for us to include all of what we knew was going to be chatter into the film without making that the film. So it was this dance where I felt we needed to acknowledge certain things about who he was and what he’s done and why he’s doing this without letting that overtake the whole movie we were making and having it be completely about that.
We were looking for parallels with the original Cruising that would, for people who knew the film, make it richer but also wouldn’t be vital for an experience with the film. And Val’s character is the arc that’s supposed to model Al Pacino’s character.
Before I even wrote a treatment for it, the first thing that we both sort of connected to (and that I hadn’t heard about) were the lost 40 minutes. And this whole mythology of them being destroyed or them being buried, or Friedkin has them in a dungeon somewhere. Actually I hope with the amount of attention that the film has gotten that somehow they’ll surface and just be their own thing. I think that would be kind of amazing. I know that they’ve never publicly been screened. I’ve heard Friedkin say some controversial things about them, but I’ve not had a chance to talk to him about them personally.
So we used that as a launching point for what we were going to do. We had four weeks, from the moment we talked on the phone till the moment we went into production, which was a two-day shoot. And with the confined limitations that we had, and also the number of things that seemed important to cover in the exploration, it seemed, and I still think so, the wisest thing to do was not try to recreate these 40 minutes on a two-day shoot but instead do pieces of that but to make it more about the process of making this film. And find arcs within that process that could make it a cohesive whole.
So that’s how it started to come together. And when you see in the first scene in the film, in the hotel, where we’re talking, and then Val comes and we’re introduced, none of that’s scripted. And that’s actually the first time that I met James. When I walked into that hotel there were three cameras on me. Once we decided that we were going to make this as much about the process, and our exploration, there was never a moment when something wasn’t recorded. So there are scenes that are scripted and crafted, and then there are scenes that happened in a much more organic sense.
And there were always cameras, so we could just quickly be, like, “Okay let’s do this! Hang on, hang on, don’t start yet.” And then there would be people in the moment really negotiating or figuring out what was happening. You know, all of this happened so quickly, there was no time to worry or ruminate or over plan anything. It was like making quick choices and then just sticking with them and then seeing what quick choices that meant you had to make because of the ones you had just made five minutes earlier.
What was your casting process?
When I got there, there’s like 50 guys – about half of them gay and half of them straight — and there’s absolutely no direction whatsoever. I wish this had been filmed, actually, because this was a very rich and interesting scenario that unfolded. You know, these guys didn’t know what they were coming for, right? But they wanted to be there because of Franco blah blah blah. But James wasn’t there, one of his producers was there, and I was there. And she was like, “Okay, go.” And I didn’t know how this was supposed to go. So I just stood up and I was, like, “Okay, thank you for coming. I want to let you know that there’s going to be actual gay sex in this, and I’m not asking or expecting any or you to go there. If you are interested, then we can talk, but if you’re not interested that doesn’t mean that you’re not involved in the film. I want that to be clear.”
But then it became this really interesting thing where people had so many levels of excitement and levels of discomfort that I actually had to ask the guys to go into different sections of the room based on how far they were willing to go sexually with another man.
So on one hand there was a group of guys who were, like, “I’m okay taking my shirt off and being in the milieu but I don’t want to touch another guy, I don’t want to kiss another guy.” And then there was another group that was like, “I’m fine touching and kissing a guy but I’m not going to get naked, I’m not going to do anything sexual.” And then there was somewhere in between, like, “I’m okay being sexual to a point.” And then, like, “I’m ready to full on fuck anybody you want to put in front of me.”
So we had clusters of guys in different parts of the room, and I had to go over to them and be, like, “So remind me, you guys are the ones that will just be okay with kissing?” And you can see them having this internal process. “I should say yes because it’s this James Franco thing, but where are my boundaries, what will my friends say, what will this do for my career?”
My initial instinct was to bring in only the extras who were not only gay but who had a comfort level. But overnight, I thought about it, and I connected with one of James’s producers, and then it just seemed obvious that we should invite all of them. And we should let those different layers of comfort and discomfort be part of the rich texture of the film, because this is part of what we’re doing.
So the arc of it is Val’s experience kind of piggybacking on these various other peoples’ experience. And their discomfort with it may have had nothing to do with the gayness but just about what it might do to their careers, being involved with something like this – both in a positive and negative way. So there were all of these ways in which it seemed exciting to capture people negotiating boundaries — ways that were somewhat scripted as well as ways that were very much live and present. As a filmmaker it was super exciting because I like to work with basically a map that I’m ready to throw away at a certain point and then revisit, and that was a lot of what this movie ended up becoming.
And did you wind up cutting it yourself?
This is an interesting story that I’ve shared but I haven’t shared with any of the press. Not for any reason, it just hasn’t come up. The film was originally conceived as a 5-10 minute art video that was going to play during Fashion Week in New York. And there was a shorter version that did play there. But there was tons of footage, and I had done an episode of this series, In Their Room, in London in April. And I had reserved the whole month of August to go back and stay at my mom’s house in the middle of Ohio-nowhere to edit this In Their Room London episode. So I had four weeks already reserved, I was going to be focused on that.
And of course this came into my life and superseded the other project temporarily. So I had two big hard drives and I went back to my boyhood bedroom in rural Ohio and it felt like I was in high school again. My door would always be shut. I mean, I had like three weeks to edit this and the thing that was hard — in addition to constructing it – was knowing when to pull back and when to give more. There were so many cameras that at different points we were capturing the same moment and to layer that and to sync that was its own difficult process.
But I was in my room, working like 14 or 16 hours, and my mom would always be knocking on the door. And I’d be, like, “Mommm, I’m working!” She’d be, like, “I’m sorry, but I went to the store and I got that turkey you like, and let me know if you’d like me to make something for dinner.”
My mom was actually the first person to see a lot of the scenes that I was crafting – nothing that was super sexual – but scenes where there’s a certain level where I wanted the viewer to understand just enough but to still be slightly confused in figuring out. So she’d come in and she’d get her glasses and her soda and she’d say, “Okay, what do I need to know?” “You don’t need to know anything!” And she’d be, like, “Okay, so how confused am I supposed to be?”
I love my mom, she’s great, but she has a pretty simple life 500 million miles away from this world.
Tell me about your expectations for the film and the reactions you actually get.
The Q&As are intense and a bit of a dance. I think this is very much seen as a gay film, but it’s not really a gay film, it’s more of a queer film, because there’s a straight protagonist, and we’re dealing with sexuality. People come into it with very strong feelings about what the film is going to be. And for some people, they’re thankful that it’s not what they thought it was going to be. And there are others who are upset about that. I get a lot of questions from gay people who know and like the work that I’ve done and are challenging me with why I did this, what it means that I’m doing this, and what my purpose is in doing this. So there are little bombs here, little bombs there, and I can almost feel people wondering if I’m going to be truthful, if I’m going to be coy, or am I going to put my foot in my mouth.
There’s a whole demographic that loves the film and there’s a whole demographic that hates it. Actually, women seem to like the film the most. I think women have connected with it because how often do women get this sort of voyeuristic look into men talking about sexuality, whether it’s gay sexuality or straight sexuality, and seeing men have to negotiate boundaries – and where those lie. And women are not involved in the discussion in the film, so they’re not being provoked to sort of check in with their own processes as much as both gay and straight men are.
I’ve had straight men come to me — liberally minded straight men mind you — come up to me and say, “Your movie really made me check in about things, like, you know, I didn’t think I had any homophobia still in me, I thought it was totally cool and I just wanted to let you know that I had my own sort of process with it.” And for me that’s fucking amazing because I feel that, of any audience, a straight male audience is probably the hardest to actually reach with the kind of material that this film explores.
But with some gay men I think there’s some disappointment that the ark and the weight of this movie rests on a straight man’s experience, whether you think it’s James’ or whether you think it’s Val’s. And that bugs me because, not that I feel like I’m being ghettoized and trying to jump outside of doing film with gay content, but I feel like, Why can’t straight men be part of this conversation? I don’t feel like I’ve pandered to straight men, I don’t feel like I gave easy answers that are, like, now the straight man is taken care of, he’s okay now and he can go home to his wife. I don’t feel like that’s how we approached or made this film.
Yet I’ve had men who are livid that, in 35 years since the original Cruising, we’re still concerned about a straight man and his discomfort or his negotiating around gay sexuality. And I’m, like, that’s part of the world we live in. If I made every film about exploring a straight man’s experience with gay content, well, sure. But then there are gay men who just want 40 minutes of sex, or they want to see James Franco’s ass, or they want to see him do something sexual.
And then of course James brings everything that James brings to the movie already where people have strong feelings for and against him, so that becomes another thing to negotiate. I’m not his mouthpiece, I’m not going to speak for him, and I’m not going to go to a lot of places I think people want me to go, of solving the riddle that they think he is. That’s for him to do.
In 1984, I interviewed Helmut Newton for the now defunct weekly newspaper, the Los Angeles Reader. Newton was staying at the Chateau Marmont, his home in L.A., and also working there. When I first saw him he was down on Sunset Boulevard, shooting a couple of models. Later, inside a room at the Chateau, he did a Vogue shoot of the renowned Hollywood photographer George Hurrell shooting the actress Michelle Pfeiffer. I sat in on this session, and took two noisy Polaroids, to Newton’s annoyance. The story would share the Reader’s cover with Matt Groening’s far better interview with Malcolm Mclaren. Twenty years later, Newton would die when the car he was driving crashed coming out of the Chateau’s garage. In the top shot, Newton shoots Pfeiffer alone, with two assistants. When he died, he was with his wife June AKA the photographer Alice Springs, who is in the foreground in the lower shot, which shows Newton to the left and the bed on which Pfeiffer lay for Hurrell’s camera. Springs now runs the Helmut Newton Foundation in Berlin.
In 1986, I was working as a young editor under Harold Hayes at California Magazine. In the 60s, Hayes had made magic at Esquire, sending William Burroughs and Jean Genet to the 1968 Democratic National Convention in Chicago, assigning Gay Talese to profile Frank Sinatra (who had a cold), shipping Michael Herr off to Vietnam, and creating endless iconic covers with George Lois, including Andy Warhol drowning in a can of tomato soup and Muhammad Ali as St. Sebastian. Hayes, in other words, had a knack for mixing the times with its leading voices. He knew how to get people to do things, at little or no cost if need be, mainly by flattering their ego but also in such a way as to open them up. For our annual travel issue that year, he had us ask well-known people to act as cicerones, or personal guides, to take someone of their choice on an imaginary tour of their favorite haunts. Who would they choose, where would they take them and why? One of those I asked was Charles Bukowski, who decided upon the Chinese poet Li Po (also known as Li Bai, 701-762). This is the result, recently recovered from my archives, i.e., a box in a closet. For those who don’t know Los Angeles well, Musso & Frank Grill is an iconic restaurant in Hollywood, and a hangout for writers during the 30s and 40s. Bukowski’s text, as written below on, yes, a typewriter:
Well, with Li Po I’d take him to Musso and Frank’s and we’d go to the bar while we waited for a table. I’d put in a request for a table in “the old room” with Gene as the waiter, if possible. I never mind waiting at the bar except on a Saturday or Friday night when the tourists bevy up to the wood. I prefer to partake of vodka-7’s and Li Po, a good red wine. Upon getting our table we’d order a bottle of Gamay Beaujolais and look over the menu. I’d tell Li Po that Hemingway, Faulkner and F. Scott used to get stinko at Musso’s and that I did too, mostly in the mid-afternoon, ordering bottle after bottle at the table while checking out the menu and then most of the time not eating at all.
After Musso’s we’d simply go to my place and drink some more, probably more red wine and we’d smoke sher bidis from India. I’d talk and he’d listen and then I’d listen while he talked. There would be some good laughter and then that would be the night. Unless he wanted to write some poems, burn them and float them in the L.A. Harbor.
In any town, good taste and good sense are not so much what you see and do but more what you don’t see and don’t do. What is outside of us is hardly as important as what is inside of us, though granted, we must also live with what is outside of us. Li Po would know this, and so slowly drinking away the night would be the finest thing for both of us.
oh yes, yes, yes,
Big. Bold. Luscious. Tractors. That would sound absurd and dangerous for most artists, but Karen Carson is as fearless as she is humor-full. Known for wildly shifting directions as much as she is for her painting chops, Carson changes projects like sex addicts change partners: “I just wake up one morning and I’m interested in something and then I look for ways to satisfy the need,” she said over the phone on a hot, arid day in Los Angeles.
It must have been a strange morning last year, then, when she got up and decided to go to her local John Deere dealership. That would have been in Montana, where Carson and her husband, a former rancher, live four months of the year. She said she used to watch him drive a swather, the hay cutters also known as windrowers, and had lately formed an interest in – or an attraction to — big American farm equipment.
“I was avoiding landscapes, and realized that I was a lot more interested in machines. Of course, these machines just plow through the landscape. They are kind of monsters and they’re beautiful and very sexy the way they plow – they’re sexual but not until I painted them did I realize that.”
J.G. Ballard in the heartland? “There is something anthropomorphic about them,” she said. “You find when you’re doing them, they become body parts. You get to a point when you can’t separate life and art.”
In several large works on canvas (shown recently at the Rosamund Felsen Gallery), Carson’s vibrant colors match the peculiar intensity of the John Deere green. “I’m a woman, 70 years old, and I wanted to do something macho, if macho can also be feminine, as in the use of color. I wanted to make these things into celebrities; I painted them in a way that says, ‘Look at me, look at me!’
And they are very much alive, almost jumping — or accelerating — off the canvas, with palpable personality and traction. Through these souped-up, decked-out, expensive machines, ubiquitous on today’s big modern farms, Carson has wittingly portrayed contemporary rural life. Yet she was caught off guard by the reaction she got from people whose connection to John Deere et al is also one to family and to the land. “I had no idea these tractors had so much resonance with people, it’s just amazing how happy people are with them. ‘God,’ I thought, ‘did I do something wrong?!’”
Could be something right. The artist, meanwhile, is feeling a little needy for something new, but this time not so far afield. “I was thinking I’d go into the Caterpillar realm,” she said. “I just see them as an agrarian symbol. It’s agrarian expressionism.”
"Memory is not an instrument for surveying the past but its theater. It is the medium of past experience, just as the earth is the medium in which dead cities lie buried. He who seeks to approach his own buried past must conduct himself like a man digging."
— Walter Benjamin, Excavation and Memory
Quintan Ana Wikswo’s “Sonderbauten: The Special Block” is a photographic teasing out of repressed collective memory. At Dachau, Wikswo learned, there was a special building, the titular Sonderbau, which served as a functioning brothel. When prisoners from Ravensbrück women’s camp near Berlin were brought into Dachau, they were separated into two groups. Some were shipped off to a side camp in which they assembled Agfa cameras, while the others were assigned to the brothel. Their “clients” were male political prisoners, ostensibly, who apparently needed an excuse to stay away from each other (or so the Nazis thought). But there were surely others, says Wikswo — it was not difficult for officers to quietly slip inside a back door to experience what was otherwise strictly verboten. Visiting Dachau, Wikswo asked to see the brothel, and was told, not surprisingly, that the structure no longer existed. It had not been deemed memorable, or, rather, the right kind of memorable. Which is to say that the Sonderbau was truly too much.
(The murder of Jewish and other prisoners was one thing; the contiguous raping of them another. In fact, by the time the women reached Dachau, they had been almost fully debased. Upon arrival at Ravensbrück, they had been stripped naked in front of the camp’s male guards, their hair shaved off, and collectively showered. Prior to that, of course, their lives had merely been destroyed, their families separated, loved ones missing or worse. Forced sex must have seemed like the next logical deprivation.)
Wikswo, an American artist, began collecting the Agfa cameras, which she found on eBay. Then she returned with them to Dachau and photographed the space where the brothel had been, so as to capture not just its absence and its missing workers but its missing history as well, and to shed light on the decisions that led to this erasure. She was not unaware of certain creepy parallels between the two camps; key word aperture. All of the effects in the images are done within the cameras, Wikswo says, these Agfas that were sometimes damaged in such a way that allowed in light and/or dirt. She took multiple exposures and, in some cases inserted Dachau flowers between film and lens. She used color to combat our preconceived notions of what such photos should look like. And she stayed out-of-focus because there is no way to bring her true subject, this missing history or its blurring, into focus. Her focus, one could say, is the lack of focus, the space between here and there.
The Sonderbauten photos have shown in New York and Munich and are now at the Jüdisches Museum in Berlin as part of a larger, dry and frankly schizophrenic exhibition of Jewish rites and customs, “A Time for Everything: Rituals Against Forgetting.” The best one can say is that this survey of objects provides a well-designed forum for Wikswo’s images, which manage to take us somewhere we don’t want to go, and to do it not with a hammer to the head or to the senses, or with accepted and expected visual histories, but with a glimpse of blue sky or a blooming dandelion juxtaposed with a dance of barbed wire or a priapic guard’s tower. That’s pretty much the way it really was, after all.
“Sonderbauten: The Special Block” and “A Time for Everything: Rituals Against Forgetting” continue at the Jewish Museum Berlin through February 9, 2014.
The Berlin architect Engelbert Kremser, now 75, is known for his Erdarchitektur, or earth architecture. Although he managed to get a few notable buildings built back in the day, and his name and designs appeared in architectural journals with some frequency, he was largely frustrated, playing the organic outlier to Berlin’s boxy Bauhaus establishment. More on this later: I recently sat down with the architect, who happens to be my landlord, for a more in-depth piece. In the meantime, check out these thumb-nosing photomontages he made in the 60s, replacing prominent structures he abhorred with his own fabulous vision. Some enterprising gallery or museum should show the original photomontages, which are hand cut and deserve exactly what Kremser detests – a white cube.
An oak tree grows in Malibu, California, on the outskirts of Los Angeles. You know Malibu: Zuma Beach, fires in the Summer and Fall, then the Winter floods and mud slides that follow. Brown rolling hills, oak trees. One such tree is struck by lightning. An artist with the lovely, honorable and appropriate name of Taft Green harvests this fallen fruit and devises a sculptural series for and from it. There are five works in all, with titles relating their composition to movements, and vice versa: Fold, Loop, Repeat, Rotate and Expand. Each piece includes the sculpture of oak and mild steel as well as a logo, printed from a carved block of oak that retains traces of its lightning-scorched history. The works are grounded in notions of image making, transformation, and language reduction per the theories of Jean-Francois Lyotard, says the artist with the alarming ease of a physicist explaining string theory to a rope salesman. But happily, such explication is not necessary to appreciate Green’s muscular, kinetic sculptures. When in their physical presence, these oak and steel printing combines exert an enigmatic magnetism — maybe it’s those traces of lightning. Four of the five pieces can be seen at Praterstrasse Berlin through January 14.
Galerie Praterstrasse Berlin, Bergfriedstrasse 20 (Ecke Wassertorstrasse), 10969 Berlin-Kreuzberg. Tuesday-Friday 10 - 15 Uhr and by appointment. firstname.lastname@example.org
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With the dark, wet days of winter upon us, Germany is awash in strange art-world stories linking past and present, namely the amazing, appalling, even sad tale of Cornelius Gurlitt and his 1400 entartete Kunst paintings. In a bit of welcome news, Berliners celebrated the return of one piece of entartete Kunst, Lotte Laserstein’s Im Gasthaus. But today brings news of another tragic affair: Detlef G., a 73-year-old Berliner, has taken his own life after confessing to police that he forged and sold some 100 works over the last ten years as those of the German-French painter Lou Albert-Lasard.
Real, oder? Lou Albert-Lasard, Ohne Titel (ca 1920s)
Albert-Lasard, sometimes spelled –Lazard, is perhaps best known for her two-year relationship with the poet Rainer Maria Rilke, with whom she lived in Munich and Vienna from 1914-16, and which ended her marriage. When her affair with Rilke was over, she moved to Switzerland, then Berlin, where she was associated with the November Group of Expressionists, and finally to Paris in 1928. Settling in Montparnasse, she is said to have hung out with the likes of Matisse, Delaunay and Giacometti. In 1940, the Jewish Albert-Lasard was interned along with her daughter at Gurs, in southern France, where she continued to produce drawings and watercolors, mainly of prisoners, under the name Mabull. She and her daughter survived the war and travelled extensively together, Albert-Lasard drawing and painting all the while; she died in Paris in 1969, aged 84.
Lou Albert-Lasard, drawing from Gurs (1940)
Detlef G. was a former gallerist known in Berlin for his love for and expertise on Albert-Lasard. One unconfirmed report suggests that he was administrator of her estate, and he often offered her works to church auctions benefiting refugees. On November 12, police searched his apartment, where they found evidence of his forgeries, including an “estate stamp” of Albert-Lasard’s signature used to “authenticate” the paintings. Detlef G. signed a confession two days later. His wife reported him missing the following day after he failed to come home or call. On Sunday a walker discovered him in his car, which was parked along a forested road near Trebbin, a town 36 kilometers southwest of Berlin.
If you think you may have purchased a forged Albert-Lasard work, the Berlin police would like to hear from you, at +49 (0)30 46 64 94 54 00.