Project
Shirley Volumes 1-3: The Connection
(1961), Portrait
of Jason
(1967), Ornette:
Made in America
(1985/Milestone Films Blu-rays/separate releases)
The
Connection
Picture:
A Sound: A Extras: B+ Film: A-
Portrait
of Jason
Picture:
B+ Sound: B Extras: B Film: B
Ornette:
Made in America
Picture:
B- Sound: B Extras: B Film: B
Milestone
Films is doing God's work, cinematically speaking. From resurrecting
I Am Cuba in 1995 to resuscitating Charles Burns' unassailable
American classic Killer of Sheep in 2007 to restoring Lionel
Rogosin essential filmography beginning with the 2011 rerelease of On
the Bowery, Amy Heller and Dennis Doros have filled crucial gaps
in not only the independent canon but, as importantly, the home video
market. So many of the films included in the Milestone catalog - The
Exiles, Losing Ground, Come Back, Africa, The
Daughter of Dawn, Strange Victory, In the Land of
Headhunters, My Brother's Wedding - are works that have
been forgotten or ignored, created by filmmakers who are
underrepresented or marginalized, about people and communities and
cultures that exist at or have been pushed to the periphery of
mainstream experience. There is clearly an obsession at play here -
one that should be celebrated - to reclaim the documentary evidence
of lives, true and otherwise, that discarded by an ever more
homogenous cinema, one that borders on monoculture.
It's
that obsessive nature that led Milestone eight years ago to embark on
the ambitious task of restoring the work of pioneering filmmaker
Shirley Clarke. Called Project Shirley, it includes four
volumes of features, shorts, outtakes, documents, behind-the-scenes
footage, interviews, trailers, and other ephemera. These are
collected in The Connection: Project Shirley Vol. 1, Portrait
of Jason: Project Shirley Vol. 2, Ornette: Made in America -
Project Shirley Vol. 3, and The Magic Box: Project Shirley
Vol. 4. Taken together, they chart the most complete course of
Clarke's career ever assembled (a claim Milestone will likely hold
forever), from her first feature, the proto-fauxumentary The
Connection released in 1961, to her final film, the actual
documentary Ornette: Made in America released in 1985. In
all, Clarke only made five features - the other three are The Cool
World and Robert Frost: A Lover's Quarrel with the World
from 1963 and 1967's Portrait of Jason - and Milestone has
released four of them. (The lone exception is The Cool World.)
The rest of her oeuvre is comprised of shorts: about dance, about
people, about place.
THE
CONNECTION
Born
in 1919, Clarke began her career as a dancer, where she had limited
success as choreographer. That led her to move to film. She studied
with Hans Richter and soon became a fixture of New York's avant-garde
arts scene in the 1950s. She was part of a circle that included
filmmakers like Jonas Mekas, Lionel Rogosin, D. A. Pennebaker, and
Stan Brakhage, and that overlapped with the kind of experimental
performance happening at the Living Theater. (It should also be
noted her sister is Elaine Dundy, the author of the fantastic and
criminally overlooked The Dud Avocado, which is available from NYRB
Classics.)
It
was at the Living Theater where Clarke encountered The Connection,
Jack Gelber's 1959 play notorious among the anti-obscenity-driven
conformity of New York's mainstream art world. The jazz-infused
work, constructed as a window onto a group of junkies waiting in a
grungy apartment for their connection to arrive with a batch of
heroin, was rife with vulgar language and populated with gritty
characters whose lives and experiences exist outside the narrow view
of polite society. The framing device was also novel: A theater
producer wants to stage a play about addicts, so he invades these
characters' lives for research because he wants to use real addicts.
That led to the titillation that attracted viewers, an
is-it-or-isn't-it-real moment of someone shooting up on stage. That
blurring of lines between reality and fantasy extended beyond the
stage, too. The actors, still in character, would approach audience
members in the lobby during intermission begging for money and
berating them as hypocrites.
The
Connection was shocking. It was beyond the pale. And it ran for
more than 700 performances, picking up numerous Obie awards on the
way. Naturally there was interest in making a film version, and
Clarke saw the play as a way to interrogate cinema verite and the
blurring of lines between reality and fiction. So the film version
of The Connection became a kind of found-footage documentary
about a filmmaker, Jim Dunn (William Redfield) and his cameraman J.J.
(Roscoe Browne), trying to make a documentary about junkies. What we
see was assembled by J.J. after Jim gets too close to his subjects,
who goad him into trying heroin. It messes with the pretentious
young man's clean mind, and the user becomes the used - in more ways
than one.
Written
by Gelber, The Connection is bound to a single set: the
run-down apartment of a guy named Leach (Warren Finnerty, who looks
and sounds like a cross between Steve Buscemi and Willem Dafoe), who
repeatedly harangues his fellow junkies that they're ruining his
well-appointed palace. ''I live comfortable,'' he says to the
audience early on. ''I'm no junkie bum. Look at my pad. It's
clean.'' (It's decidedly not clean, as evidenced by the mounds of
junk and detritus piled up in the corners and the cockroach crawling
up a wall.) There are numerous moments of this kind of direct
address throughout the film, which not only recreates the theatrical
experience in the cinematic mode but also shakes us out of our
position as passive, complacent consumers.
In
one particularly memorable example, Solly (Jerome Raphael), a jovial,
overweight corner philosopher in need of a wash and new set of
clothes, grabs us by the lapels and confronts us about what we hope
to find by watching them: ''What do you want to hear? That we're a
petty, self-annihilating microcosm? That's what you want to hear.
Dope fiends! Hurry, hurry, hurry the circus is here! Suicide is not
uncommon among us. The overdose of heroin is when the final line of
life and death surges in a silent breeze of ecstatic summer. Who
else can make so much of passing out? Who else can make so much out
of passing out? But existence on another plane, whether to alleviate
the suffering of this one or to wish for death? It doesn't matter...
Eh, I hate oversimplifications....''
It's
Clarke's commitment to eviscerating not just the fourth wall but the
safe space afforded the audience by sitting in a theater, at a
seeming spatial and dimensional remove from what's on screen, is
total. And The Connection is subvertly dense and exquisite as
a result. There are all sorts of issues about racial dynamics at
play: Jim, a white filmmaker, constantly shoves his camera in the
faces of not-having-it black jazz musicians rehearsing in the
apartment; his cameraman, also black, is reduced to a mostly-faceless
subservient role; but the connection, Cowboy (Carl Lee), who is
black, is ultimately the one in control. (And then there are the
related confrontations with class and power.) The film is
exquisitely shot, from intense close-ups that evoke photographers
like Walker Evans, Gordon Parks, and W. Eugene Smith, to people in
environments that recall the best mid-century photojournalists.
Clarke and cinematographer Arthur J. Ornitz (who later shot Serpico)
capture these hollowed out people as stand-ins for those beginning to
actually be left behind by the postwar American machine hollowing out
cities in its promotion of white flight to the suburbs.
Without
qualification, The Connection is a masterpiece - the kind of
film that speaks to its moment, still reverberates more than a half
century later, and will continue to resound as long people watch
movies. Not only is it a technical and narrative accomplishment, it
works at something more interior, as Jonas Mekas articulated in a
1962 ''Movie Journal'' column for the Village Voice: ''This film
(like the play), this moody, suffering new art, really is not a
forecast of disaster, but a joyous sign that there is a deep despair
going on somewhere in us - that not everything is so air-conditioned
(as we used to say) and dead in man - for we know that the deeper our
despair, the closer we are to the truth, to the way out. The
Connection, thus - like most of the new 'nihilistic,' 'dadaist,'
'escapist,' etc., art - is a positive art, one which doesn't lie or
fake or pretend about ourselves. It reaches beyond the naturalistic,
pragmatic, surface art and shows something of the essence.''
PORTRAIT
OF JASON
That
attitude would continue to be Clarke's ethos as a filmmaker
throughout her career - and Portrait of Jason might be the
apotheosis of it. Shot over a 12-hour period (9 p.m. to 9 a.m.) on
December 3, 1966, in Clarke's apartment, the film is a one-man
performance piece with maybe the most unreliable subject of all time.
In essence, Clarke turned her camera on and let Jason Holliday (born
Aaron Paine) do his ''thing,'' as she described it in 1967. What
that thing is, it seems, is regaling us, the off-screen Clarke and
Carl Lee, and whoever stops to listen with stories about his life and
judgments of people he has encountered. But more to the point, it
allowed Clarke the ultimate opportunity to challenge the boundaries
of cinema verite. ''We have rarely allowed anyone to speak for
himself for more than a few minutes at a time,'' she told Mekas in
1967. ''Just imagine what might happen if someone was given his head
and allowed to let go for many consecutive hours. I was curious, and
wow! did I find out.''
Jason
is a gay black man in 1960s America, a ''stone-cold'' hustler,
performer, and a kind of raconteur with dreams of mounting an
autobiographical cabaret show charting his journey from getting
''hung up being a house boy'' to studying acting with Charles
Laughton and dance with Martha Graham to whatever is happening the
moment he's on the stage. He also has a reputation with Clarke, Lee,
and others in that group as being duplicitous and, it seems downright
hurtful. At one point, he recalls how he squeezes friends and family
- some over and over again - for money to fund his as-yet-conceptual
show. ''If they went for it once, if you wait long enough and go
back again...'' he says, all but calling this well meaning folks
suckers. Earlier on in the film, he says, ''I go out of my way to
unglue people.''
But
in a way Portrait of Jason is a way for Clarke to unglue her
subject. ''I suspected that for all his cleverness his lack of the
know-how of film-making would prevent him from being able to control
his own image of himself,'' she told Mekas. Shot almost like a TV
show, with focus cuts between vignettes and stories acting like
segues into and out of commercial breaks, the film feels like kind of
news program of its era - an expose of this man who stands as a
microcosm of a subculture. Jason is seated at a quarter turn,
smoking and drinking, answering questions that might as well be
coming from Edward R. Murrow as Shirley Clarke. But what we get is
far more raw than what you'd get from CBS. The film is highly
destabilizing in its honesty; Jason's stories can get intimate and
intense.
Yet
there's an off quality to the way the evening is managed. In the
course of the shoot, Jason drinks - and drinks and drinks and drinks
- and as he seems to get progressively more sloshed his guard slips
and drops. And as the night wears on, his shifts between being on
and off become more dramatic. He'll gesticulate and beam
gregariously through a story, and when it's over his eyes seem to go
distant and somber before someone off-camera says ''Tells us
about...,'' and Jason is back on.
It's
easy to view this as Clarke and her crew using Jason for some
cinematic experiment. But in fact the reality is more complicated:
they were using each other, and the resulting film - not quite a
documentary, not quite a performance piece - is a kind of therapeutic
bloodletting. Again, from Clarke's 1967 interview with Mekas:
''One
thing I never expected was the highly charged emotional evening that
took place. I discovered the antagonisms I'd been suppressing about
Jason. I was indeed emotionally involved. Since the readers of this
'conversation' haven't yet seen the film, I should say here that
while Jason spoke to the camera, other people were in the room,
during the shooting, besides myself, who reacted to what Jason said
and did, got involved with him. We have a tiny crew, plus two old
friends of Jason who knew all his bits and had suffered from his
endless machinations as well as enjoyed his fun and games.
''How
the people behind the camera reacted that night is a very important
part of what the film is about. Little did I expect how much of
ourselves we would reveal as the night progressed. Originally I had
planned that you would see and hear only Jason, but when I saw the
rushes I knew the real story of what happened that night in my living
room had to include all of us, and so our question-reaction probes,
our irritations and angers, as well as our laughter remain part of
the film, essential to the reality of one winter's night in 1966
spent with one Jason Holliday, ne Aaron Paine.''
The
result, then, is this odd and authentic document - partly of a
friendship, but more importantly of life as a gay black man in New
York City in the 1960s. There are undoubtedly questions about how
much of what Jason says is part of his direct experience, how much
was embellished or made up, and how much was appropriated from
others. But the reality is that these things did happen, and to have
that voice and that world preserved in this way is beyond invaluable.
ORNETTE:
MADE IN AMERICA
The
same can be said for what Clarke collects in her final film, Ornette:
Made in America. Ornette Coleman, one of the defining jazz
musicians of the 20th century, plotted a course from the bop era to
the more experimental, funk-infused music that would emerge in the
late 1960s through the 1980s with his seminal 1959 album, The Shape
of Jazz to Come. Clarke's history with Coleman dates back to the
1960s, and the documentary leverages that to not only track his
development as an musician but excavate the interior life of a unique
artist.
The
film is loosely framed around Coleman's 1983 return to Ft. Worth,
Texas, where he grew up in a segregated slum, to premiere his
jazz-classical composition Skies of America with the Ft. Worth
Symphony. But on those bones, Clarke hangs vignettes of Coleman's
days as a kid in Texas through reenactments; rehearsal and interview
footage shot by Clarke in New York City in the late '60s; traditional
talking-head interviews with painters and critics and other
musicians, like his son (and the drummer in his band) Sabir Kamal;
and monologues from Coleman himself about where his creative impulse
originates.
One
of the bigger influences that emerges is architect and theorist
Buckminster Fuller, who Coleman calls ''probably my best hero. ''In
the film, he recalls being inspired during a Fuller lecture he
attended as a student at Hollywood High School. Coleman thought he'd
be an architect, before turning to music. And in Fuller he found a
kindred spirit. ''The one thing that just really blew me away was
his demonstration of his own domes,'' Coleman says. ''And when he
demonstrated how his domes are put together and how geometric they
were done, it just blew me away because I said, 'This is how I've
been writing music!' '' It's unsurprising to learn that Coleman,
whose music is way more angular and geometrical than someone like
John Coltrane, would find inspiration in someone as creatively
progressive as Buckminster Fuller. But his viewpoint and ideas -
particularly on imagination - continued to influence Coleman as he
continued to refine his personality as an artist. ''The expression
of all individual imagination is what I call 'harmolotics,' '' he
says. ''And each being's imagination has its own vision. And there
are as many visions as there are stars in the sky.'' It's a fitting
sentiment - not only for Coleman's iconoclastic work but Clarke's, as
well.
In
many ways, Ornette: Made in America is Clarke's most
conventional film. She bounces around between all the different
elements she uses to reconstruct (and articulate) Coleman's
experience, but the end result is a pretty straightforward narrative.
Yet it's still infused with the restless, probing spirit endemic to
all of Clarke's work - as well as the beautiful dissonance of an
Ornette Coleman composition - that she uses to investigate not only
an individual or group but the contours of national culture and
identity. So it's appropriate she used Skies of America to frame
Coleman's life. A man who pulled himself out of crushing poverty to
become one of the world's premiere musicians and artists, not in some
direct line from A to B but via a looping path of experimentation and
success and failure and acceptance, while navigating the fault lines
of race - that's the kind of story that was once emblematic of the
''American Dream.'' But in 1985, at the start of the Reagan era, it
felt like the dream was slipping away, which adds an elegiac note to
the film.
And,
ultimately, it became the final Clarke's final cinematic statement.
She died in 1997, and while Ornette was released 12 years
earlier it is a fitting coda to a career that began with The
Connection, a film that forced confrontation with the first
cracks in that receding American promise.
PROJECT
SHIRLEY DISC EXTRAS AND TECHNICAL THOUGHTS
The
first three volumes of Shirley Clarke films are each one disc sets,
but they are all loaded with extras. The Connection includes:
''The Connection Home Movies,'' six minutes of black-and-white
behind-the-scenes footage; ''A Conversation with Albert Brenner,'' a
four-minute reminiscence by the production designer of the film;
''Connecting with Freddie Redd,'' a 27-minute interview with the lead
musician in the film; a 29-minute radio interview with Clarke from
1959; the four-minute short ''Carl and Max at the Chelsea;'' two
marketing songs from 1964; a photo gallery, and the trailer.
Portrait of Jason includes: ''The Lost Confrontation,'' a
seven-minute bit that was cut from the film; the 25-minute
documentary short ''Where's Shirley;'' a three-minute short from
1967, ''Butterfly;'' a 53-minute interview with Clarke from 1967; a
54-minute audio-only piece ''The Jason Holliday Comedy Album;'' a
nine-and-a-half-minute episode of Underground New York from 1967 that
focuses on Clarke; 35 minutes of audio outtakes; color footage of
Jason; a restoration demonstration; and a trailer. Ornette: Made
in America includes: radio and video interviews with Clarke;
''The Link Revisited,'' a short documentary about the club featured
in the film; the short ''Shirley Loves Felix;'' a trailer; and a
booklet with an essay by producer Kathelin Hoffman Gray.
Overall,
the extras on the discs are exceptional. But where there's a glaring
soft spot is on Portrait of Jason. Of the three films, this
is the one that demands the most context. The relationship and
dynamic between Clarke and Jason is fraught, and their backstory
helps explain a lot about what is going on in what we're seeing.
Without it, you have a feeling of being unmoored in this cinematic
sea. And, frankly, it can be unpleasant. As noted above, there is a
definite feeling of one party exploiting another the first time
around.
After
watching the film, I worked through the extras hoping to find
something to help make sense of what I had just seen - not the actual
footage, but the emotional and interpersonal dynamics at work - but I
came up mostly empty. It was only in doing my own research that I
was able to find more to help fill in the gaps. Once I did, the film
became increasingly nuanced. What I had originally seen as
exploitative, for example, turned out to be far more complex and
faceted. There is certainly a lot to glean from the film on its own
- again, as a document of the experience of a gay black man in the
1960s, the film is unimpeachable - but it does feel like a missed
opportunity to give viewers the fullest portrait of Clarke at this
particular moment.
When
it comes to the technical presentation, The Connection and
Portrait of Jason discs both feature restored prints and they
look incredible. The tonal depths and clarity of detail in The
Connection (1080p monochrome 1.33 X 1 with PCM Mono) is
especially beautiful. There's a lot going on in Leach's apartment,
and it's all crisp and clear. The crisp blacks and subtle grays in
the cinematography bring out everything that's happening in Leach's
apartment. And there's a lot, from paint peeling off falls to bits
of debris caught on shirts and in hair. At the start of the film,
Leach wears a black blazer over his plaid button-down. In one shot,
the light catches a pattern in the jacket that, frankly, is
impossible to believe could be visible in a print of a low-budget
independent film made 55 years ago. But there it is, yet that's how
good film stock (16mm or 35mm) could be at the time, and it's
gorgeous. Portrait of Jason (1080p monochrome 1.33 X 1 with
PCM Mono), meanwhile, looks light years better than it ever has (at
least based on the restoration demonstration). Clarke's apartment
isn't as visually interesting as the set in The Connection, so
it's easy for things to feel flat and lifeless. And indeed it was in
previous prints. But now, there's a sense of scale and scope in the
space, image focus has been improved, and flecks of cigarette ash and
details in Jason's wardrobe pop against his dark sportcoat. Ornette:
Made in America (1080p 1.78 X 1 (footage from various periods)
with PCM 2.0 Stereo) looks the shaggiest of the three, but that's not
an indictment. While it's a bit grainer than the other two films, it
adds a certain beamed-from-another-dimension quality that absolutely
works given the subject of the documentary. Audio-wise, the discs
get the job done. None of the three films were made to blow the
doors off a theater, and they don't. But dialogue is clean and
clear, and in the case of The Connection and Ornette,
the musical moments are rich and textured.
Milestone's
Project Shirley is a staggering achievement. Not only is it a
nearly-complete accounting of one of America's most important
independent filmmakers (the lack of The Cool World in any of
the volumes is impossible to overlook), it's a dynamic and vital
document of an era of American filmmaking that should be on a
cultural endangered-species list. As streaming services and home
video producers increasingly prioritize hits, name recognition, and
guaranteed money makers over smaller or lesser-known titles and
commercial failures, and as more and more films get locked away in
vaults to be forgotten or deteriorate into dust, it is more necessary
than ever to fight for and proactively guard our underground,
experimental, marginal, independent, avant-garde tradition. With its
work on Shirley Clarke's legacy - as well as those of Lionel
Rogosin's and Charles Burns', among others - Milestone has
established itself as perhaps the premiere sentinels in this ongoing
fight.
-
Dante A. Ciampaglia