Poking at the little token of the days gone by
When it comes to housekeeping I'm a complete nightmare as I tend to spend all my money on music and film. Still in some respects I'm kind of stingy at the same time. I know what I want and rarely buy anything at a price I wouldn't consider an exceptionally good deal. The fact that I'm interested in such diverse things helps, because there's always something I want/need being sold cheap somewhere.
Although my relation to (pop-)cultural products is often passionate and always fetishistic, I approach the question of ownership in a very practical way. I usually don't buy books or comics, not for lack of interest but because I find the act redundant - I can borrow most of whatever I want from friends or lend it from the library, and after all, there's few things I'd want to read repeatedly over the course of less than say, 5 years.
For the longest time I maintained a similar attitude towards cinema, even though the situation grew uneasier over time due to the relatively worse issues of availability. Eventually I gave in to buying the more obscure stuff for myself, but the problem remained: how could I justify this new habit of hoarding movies when few of them are likely to get viewed very often? As a partial solution to this problem I've taken into watching most of the potentially "out there" stuff in a highly inebriated state. While this initial experience can be very satisfying, it often leaves only a fleeting impression instead of a clear understanding of what was actually going on. This, however, is not a bad thing. Unorthodox as it may be in the eyes of the more discerning movie-buff set, this method gives me the ability of breaking the experience down to the first "WTF" round and to the second, more enlightening if you will, but usually just as rewarding. Of course provided the flick's any good in the first place. As it happens, this was the case with
The American Astronaut - dir. Cory McAbee (2001)
In some respects this dark musical comedy in space is a classic "works better with weed" movie. It's all about the atmosphere while the actual plot mainly serves the purpose of switching from one weird setting (and musical number) to the next. There's a certain touch of predestination that's essential to the story of Samuel Curtis (McAbee himself), whose Odyssey through the more remote corners of the solar system we observe. This is most evident in the Nemesis character of professor Hess A.K.A. "The Birthday Boy", who kills everyone in his way without a reason. Only when he has a reason to kill, as is the case with the galactic cowboy Curtis, he is faced with a dilemma: he can't fulfill his mission before Samuel agrees to sing "Happy Birthday" to him.
Every character and place portrayed is shrouded in an overbearing feeling of loneliness and seclusion. Take for example the mining colony of hard working men who worship The Boy Who Actually Saw A Woman's Breast - and correspondingly - Venus, a planet of women with one stud for entertainment. Then there's the almost self-evident bunch of inbred and deformed hillibillies with a barn for a spacecraft.
Yet underneath the ominous and the absurd, the film also comments on the theme of fatherhood, made only more urgent by all the layers of detachment and space oddity. While the main character and his Nemesis have their father-and-son-like bond right from the start, similar links later develop between Curtis and the aforementioned Boy - and ultimately between professor Hess and a gimp-like creature called "Bodysuit".
The style of the film is hard to describe in a way that would give it proper credit. Suffice to say The American Astronaut makes the most of it's small budget with inventive details and a consistent, ramshackle western look. McAbee makes arch nods towards Aki Kaurismäki and Guy Maddin, as well as Walerian Borowczyk and Chris Marker's seminal short, Les Astronautes. The most obvious source of inspiration are the works of Jim Jarmusch, especially Permanent Vacation and Dead Man. Such a heavy load of influences could prove fatal for any debut effort, but this is not the case here. I gather The Billy Nayer Show, who are also responsible for the film's music, is Cory McAbees "day job". In this respect his ability to make something as curious as American Astronaut work is a considerable achievement.
The comedic value of the film and it's musical numbers are in analogue relation. At best they're both utterly strange and wonderful, but at times it does get a bit silly as well. If you're an ardent Residents fan, you'll probably enjoy it from start to finish. If you're not, there's still so many amazing and insightful things you shouldn't by any means let this one pass you by.
In fact the most amazing thing in this picture might well be the fact that it's musical score is the work of one band, seeing that the individual pieces range from country blues to glam-ish weirdo rock. I recommend checking out The Billy Nayer Show, who might have enjoyed cult acclaim in the U.S.A. for quite a while, but seem to be quite unknown on this side of the pond.
Although my relation to (pop-)cultural products is often passionate and always fetishistic, I approach the question of ownership in a very practical way. I usually don't buy books or comics, not for lack of interest but because I find the act redundant - I can borrow most of whatever I want from friends or lend it from the library, and after all, there's few things I'd want to read repeatedly over the course of less than say, 5 years.
For the longest time I maintained a similar attitude towards cinema, even though the situation grew uneasier over time due to the relatively worse issues of availability. Eventually I gave in to buying the more obscure stuff for myself, but the problem remained: how could I justify this new habit of hoarding movies when few of them are likely to get viewed very often? As a partial solution to this problem I've taken into watching most of the potentially "out there" stuff in a highly inebriated state. While this initial experience can be very satisfying, it often leaves only a fleeting impression instead of a clear understanding of what was actually going on. This, however, is not a bad thing. Unorthodox as it may be in the eyes of the more discerning movie-buff set, this method gives me the ability of breaking the experience down to the first "WTF" round and to the second, more enlightening if you will, but usually just as rewarding. Of course provided the flick's any good in the first place. As it happens, this was the case with
The American Astronaut - dir. Cory McAbee (2001)
In some respects this dark musical comedy in space is a classic "works better with weed" movie. It's all about the atmosphere while the actual plot mainly serves the purpose of switching from one weird setting (and musical number) to the next. There's a certain touch of predestination that's essential to the story of Samuel Curtis (McAbee himself), whose Odyssey through the more remote corners of the solar system we observe. This is most evident in the Nemesis character of professor Hess A.K.A. "The Birthday Boy", who kills everyone in his way without a reason. Only when he has a reason to kill, as is the case with the galactic cowboy Curtis, he is faced with a dilemma: he can't fulfill his mission before Samuel agrees to sing "Happy Birthday" to him.
Every character and place portrayed is shrouded in an overbearing feeling of loneliness and seclusion. Take for example the mining colony of hard working men who worship The Boy Who Actually Saw A Woman's Breast - and correspondingly - Venus, a planet of women with one stud for entertainment. Then there's the almost self-evident bunch of inbred and deformed hillibillies with a barn for a spacecraft.
Yet underneath the ominous and the absurd, the film also comments on the theme of fatherhood, made only more urgent by all the layers of detachment and space oddity. While the main character and his Nemesis have their father-and-son-like bond right from the start, similar links later develop between Curtis and the aforementioned Boy - and ultimately between professor Hess and a gimp-like creature called "Bodysuit".
The style of the film is hard to describe in a way that would give it proper credit. Suffice to say The American Astronaut makes the most of it's small budget with inventive details and a consistent, ramshackle western look. McAbee makes arch nods towards Aki Kaurismäki and Guy Maddin, as well as Walerian Borowczyk and Chris Marker's seminal short, Les Astronautes. The most obvious source of inspiration are the works of Jim Jarmusch, especially Permanent Vacation and Dead Man. Such a heavy load of influences could prove fatal for any debut effort, but this is not the case here. I gather The Billy Nayer Show, who are also responsible for the film's music, is Cory McAbees "day job". In this respect his ability to make something as curious as American Astronaut work is a considerable achievement.
The comedic value of the film and it's musical numbers are in analogue relation. At best they're both utterly strange and wonderful, but at times it does get a bit silly as well. If you're an ardent Residents fan, you'll probably enjoy it from start to finish. If you're not, there's still so many amazing and insightful things you shouldn't by any means let this one pass you by.
In fact the most amazing thing in this picture might well be the fact that it's musical score is the work of one band, seeing that the individual pieces range from country blues to glam-ish weirdo rock. I recommend checking out The Billy Nayer Show, who might have enjoyed cult acclaim in the U.S.A. for quite a while, but seem to be quite unknown on this side of the pond.