THE ORDER, FROM MATTHEW BARNEY'S CREMASTER 3 (2002), dir. Matthew Barney, DVD REVIEW
It’s Not the Journey, it’s the Presentation.
The DVD of "The Order," which features footage shot at the Guggenheim museum, is more than the sum of its component parts.
What does it mean to be a "Cremaster?" I’m not sure, but web sites on Matthew Barney imply that his athletic past often informs his work, and his performance pieces focus on physical exertion and the rigors of sport. All those things can certainly be said about "The Order."
Though I might not have known without reading the "Cremaster 3" press release, "The Order" is supposed to be a race. Matthew Barney, looking like some kind of Scottish goblin with his blood-smeared jaws and pink-tinted kilt, must ascend the interior of the Guggenheim museum (a combination spiral walkway and atrium), accomplish a series of tasks, and reach ground level ahead of a stream of melted wax. Another performance artist, Richard Serra, is depositing the wax from the sixth, and highest, floor.
The tasks Matthew Barney must perform involve, or are impeded by, other performance artists. Each of them occupy their own floor. On the second floor, or first "degree," as Barney calls them, he encounters the "The Order of the Rainbow of Girls." A rockette-style chorus line, they tap, kick, and turn in a precise manner that, at one point, seems to hypnotize Barney. After eluding them, he must contend with two punk bands, Agnostic Front and Murphy's Law. Barney's task is to manipulate certain objects within their midst, a chore complicated by a frothing mass of circling moshers.
"Aimee Mullins," the featured third degree, initially appears inviting. She embraces the artist, only to tear out a chunk of his flesh with her teeth. The Mullins character is alluring in the most disturbing way. Though missing the lower parts of her legs, she gets around on prosthetics calves made out of clear glass. Once aroused, however, she mutates into a dangerous cheetah-woman.
During "The Five Points of Fellowship," Barney picks up, tosses, and otherwise rearranges an array of plastic casts. Most are shaped like columns, though one resembles a hybridized animal. The fifth and final degree is Serra himself, who splatters wax against a wall with a giant spoon. His work involves a lot of back-and-forth pacing, and battering his tool loudly against a square tile. He wears an oxygen mask that looks heavy, and his breathing becomes more labored, and his actions increasingly sloppy, the longer he spends at his task (Apparently, he is as committed to winning the race as his opponent).
I’m not sure how "The Order" was originally presented at the Guggenheim. Conceivably, they could have edited the footage down to a kind of quest narrative, following the exploits of Matthew Barney. The DVD, however, has been structured as five short films running in parallel—and in real time. The real time aspect gives "The Order" its uniqueness. It hints at a more ambitious vision than mere narrative film.
On the DVD, one can, if he/she chooses, toggle back-and-forth between the five degrees. Occasionally, this proves helpful; Barney stays in the first degree only a relatively short time. Once he leaves "The Order of the Rainbow of Girls," one can safely assume that he will soon reemerge in the second degree, "Agnostic Front vs. Murphy’s Law." But the viewer does not have to follow the artist. The viewer can stay with the dancers, who will continue to toe-tap until the end of the film. This is what’s unique about the real time aspect of "The Order."
I will grant you, watching dancers repeat the same steps for twenty minutes can get boring, even if their costumes reveal a generous amount of thigh. The same goes for a catwoman at rest, or a man flinging jelly. But I found myself hopelessly intrigued by the idea that a scene of a film could continue living, breathing, and existing, even after the main character had departed. This never happens in narrative film. There is always a restricted point of view, and the film usually stays within that point-of-view. When a character exits a scene, that place is no longer of concern. It ceases to exist. The cardboard sets are carried off the studio. The actors go home.
But in "The Order," the camera is still on. The characters still exist. Sure, he or she may be marking time in the most uninteresting way, but how does that vary from real life? As film viewers, we are used to having reality filtered through the camera. If these restrictions have not been completely broken by "The Order," at the very least, they have been loosened significantly. Matthew Barney doesn’t give us five films that take place in the same universe; it’s one universe divided into five films, all of which occur in real time.
The presence of the artist, some interesting props, and the Guggenheim itself provide connective tissue. The museum is as much a recurring character as the artist, the similar color and texture of the walls and bannisters allowing for visual continuity. Also, the Guggenheim's atrium rises past all six floors of the museum. More than once, the camera pans across the gaping abyss, as Barney fearlessly crawls like a spider to the next floor. During these shots, we can see Aimee Mullins scratching the air, the mosh-pit dwellers rampaging, the backs of the security men’s shirts. We are constantly reminded how everything exists in a connected space.
Finally, since all the floors in the Guggenheim are inclined upwards, Barney’s purpose seems obvious: He must climb up. We assume his mission will be accomplished when he reaches the top floor. Granted, it’s more of an instinctive plot than an explicitly-stated one. But the running time of "The Order" is short enough—only twenty-something minutes—that vague inferences as to where the story will lead are enough to keep us thoroughly involved.
Overall rating: Defies a star rating.
The DVD of "The Order," which features footage shot at the Guggenheim museum, is more than the sum of its component parts.
What does it mean to be a "Cremaster?" I’m not sure, but web sites on Matthew Barney imply that his athletic past often informs his work, and his performance pieces focus on physical exertion and the rigors of sport. All those things can certainly be said about "The Order."
Though I might not have known without reading the "Cremaster 3" press release, "The Order" is supposed to be a race. Matthew Barney, looking like some kind of Scottish goblin with his blood-smeared jaws and pink-tinted kilt, must ascend the interior of the Guggenheim museum (a combination spiral walkway and atrium), accomplish a series of tasks, and reach ground level ahead of a stream of melted wax. Another performance artist, Richard Serra, is depositing the wax from the sixth, and highest, floor.
The tasks Matthew Barney must perform involve, or are impeded by, other performance artists. Each of them occupy their own floor. On the second floor, or first "degree," as Barney calls them, he encounters the "The Order of the Rainbow of Girls." A rockette-style chorus line, they tap, kick, and turn in a precise manner that, at one point, seems to hypnotize Barney. After eluding them, he must contend with two punk bands, Agnostic Front and Murphy's Law. Barney's task is to manipulate certain objects within their midst, a chore complicated by a frothing mass of circling moshers.
"Aimee Mullins," the featured third degree, initially appears inviting. She embraces the artist, only to tear out a chunk of his flesh with her teeth. The Mullins character is alluring in the most disturbing way. Though missing the lower parts of her legs, she gets around on prosthetics calves made out of clear glass. Once aroused, however, she mutates into a dangerous cheetah-woman.
During "The Five Points of Fellowship," Barney picks up, tosses, and otherwise rearranges an array of plastic casts. Most are shaped like columns, though one resembles a hybridized animal. The fifth and final degree is Serra himself, who splatters wax against a wall with a giant spoon. His work involves a lot of back-and-forth pacing, and battering his tool loudly against a square tile. He wears an oxygen mask that looks heavy, and his breathing becomes more labored, and his actions increasingly sloppy, the longer he spends at his task (Apparently, he is as committed to winning the race as his opponent).
I’m not sure how "The Order" was originally presented at the Guggenheim. Conceivably, they could have edited the footage down to a kind of quest narrative, following the exploits of Matthew Barney. The DVD, however, has been structured as five short films running in parallel—and in real time. The real time aspect gives "The Order" its uniqueness. It hints at a more ambitious vision than mere narrative film.
On the DVD, one can, if he/she chooses, toggle back-and-forth between the five degrees. Occasionally, this proves helpful; Barney stays in the first degree only a relatively short time. Once he leaves "The Order of the Rainbow of Girls," one can safely assume that he will soon reemerge in the second degree, "Agnostic Front vs. Murphy’s Law." But the viewer does not have to follow the artist. The viewer can stay with the dancers, who will continue to toe-tap until the end of the film. This is what’s unique about the real time aspect of "The Order."
I will grant you, watching dancers repeat the same steps for twenty minutes can get boring, even if their costumes reveal a generous amount of thigh. The same goes for a catwoman at rest, or a man flinging jelly. But I found myself hopelessly intrigued by the idea that a scene of a film could continue living, breathing, and existing, even after the main character had departed. This never happens in narrative film. There is always a restricted point of view, and the film usually stays within that point-of-view. When a character exits a scene, that place is no longer of concern. It ceases to exist. The cardboard sets are carried off the studio. The actors go home.
But in "The Order," the camera is still on. The characters still exist. Sure, he or she may be marking time in the most uninteresting way, but how does that vary from real life? As film viewers, we are used to having reality filtered through the camera. If these restrictions have not been completely broken by "The Order," at the very least, they have been loosened significantly. Matthew Barney doesn’t give us five films that take place in the same universe; it’s one universe divided into five films, all of which occur in real time.
The presence of the artist, some interesting props, and the Guggenheim itself provide connective tissue. The museum is as much a recurring character as the artist, the similar color and texture of the walls and bannisters allowing for visual continuity. Also, the Guggenheim's atrium rises past all six floors of the museum. More than once, the camera pans across the gaping abyss, as Barney fearlessly crawls like a spider to the next floor. During these shots, we can see Aimee Mullins scratching the air, the mosh-pit dwellers rampaging, the backs of the security men’s shirts. We are constantly reminded how everything exists in a connected space.
Finally, since all the floors in the Guggenheim are inclined upwards, Barney’s purpose seems obvious: He must climb up. We assume his mission will be accomplished when he reaches the top floor. Granted, it’s more of an instinctive plot than an explicitly-stated one. But the running time of "The Order" is short enough—only twenty-something minutes—that vague inferences as to where the story will lead are enough to keep us thoroughly involved.
Overall rating: Defies a star rating.
Labels: 2002, experimental, Matthew Barney
posted by Phil | 11:22 AM
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