I love Tokyo’s ultra-specialised restaurants, from places that only serve sea urchin or fugu fish, to tiny audiophile bars under railroad arches with thousands of dollars worth of kit and records. For whatever reason, London and to a large extent New York, never really picked up into this obsessive groove – probably partially due to real estate prices (not that Tokyo acreage is cheap) and partially, likely lack of custom.
So it’s cheering to see a recent opening in Dalston – Brilliant Corners, (presumably) named after Thelonius Monk album. It’s a venue with 4 massive Klipsch speakers and a rack of old valve amplifiers; customised sound-absorbing wall panels; an awesome selection of natural wines; and very good, albeit simple and reasonably-priced, Japanese food. An odd combination, but the wonderful owners and staff make it work – they’re pumped about what they’re doing and it shows.
The Dalston & Hackney trendy food scene is pretty grim fare – burgers, somewhat gross American junk-food elevated into haute cuisine (£21 friend chicken), served in supposedly stylish, and utterly undifferentiated, shabby-chic venues, with the obligatory tattooed, characteristically Antipodean, and extravagantly bearded cooks/waitstaff/DJ/owner. Even the acheingly hip Cafe Oto’s food is very much second fiddle to the music, booze, coffee, and cakes. The owners of Brilliant Corners are, I think, ex-City, so a far cry from the slightly ghastly food-world insiders, often backed by cashflow-hungry investors, rolling out series of dismal restaurants that cater to the latest fad (whether it be “tapas”, “no bookings”, “Venetian ciccheti”, “Peru”, “street food”, “artisanal pizza”, “hog roasts”, etc.)
So it’s great to see Brilliant Corners’ unpretentious menu, cut rolls and hand rolls, chicken kara-age, or donburi on brown rice. No fancy fish, only salmon, which keeps cost down and keeps the “save the sea” brigade happy. The clean flavours work really well with the excellent natural wines; as it happens, a topical tipple – this weekend is RAW’s natural wine fair at the Truman Brewery, with old favourites like Frank Cornelissen, Stan Radikon, and (hopefully) a contingent of mad Georgians.
Standouts from the wine list are Salvo Foti’s gutsy white/gold wine from the shoulders of Etna, and La Stoppa’s orange from Emilia-Romagna, both at £38 by the bottle. A wine I haven’t tried, but described as having “cult status” in Japan, the ultimate accolade in my book, is a Crozes-Hermitage Syrah by Dard & Ribo, at £38. Wines by the glass are a very reasonable £5-6. As with any natural wine, it pays to enquire what the flavour profile will be (“funky”, “barnyard”, “oxidised” are terms often used, rather unflatteringly if enthusiastically, to describe them), and if possible, ask for a taste. At their best, they should have intense flavours in the whites, a tannic grip and enhanced mouthfeel in the oranges, and a fresh grapiness in the reds (at least those based on Gamay). They should be as far as possible from the ghastly mass-market high-alchohol wines endemic to the UK market.
These aren’t wines for drinking all the time, but they are absolutely worth a try. And….no hangover, owing to the reduced use of sulphites. Anyone living East for a few years will remember the happy 18-month tenure of 259 Hackney Road, that used to sell similar wines, albeit from the Jura or Loire; unfortunately Florian & Milena left, and the wine shop has been replaced by a bubble tea vendor (see “latest fad” above).
Brilliant Corners: 470 Kingsland Road E8 4AE. Info on Facebook (they don’t seem to have a website)
On an otherwise grim, sometimes overcast, Sunday in the Essex-hinterland that is Brick Lane, I made an effort to find the RAW Natural Wine Fair in the Truman Brewery (which incidentally was filled with nasty old clothing and a great deal of “street food”, served indoors and at decidedly non-street prices).
It was a breath of fresh air – I arrived at 10.30am, and found 5 long tables of animated, occasionally a little tipsy, mostly just mad, winemakers, babbling in tongues ranging from Provencal to Georgian. The show was organised geographically, Italians in one set of rows, French in the other, Georgians with a massive clay amphora, and Austrians and Germans nestled in the middle. Without a map, you could divine provenance just by looking at clothing and manner: the green trousers and red-rimmed glasses of the Piemontese and Tuscans, the ample proportions and generous gesticulation of those from Rhone and Languedoc, and the ruddy yet anxious faces of the Germanic peoples. Up and down the rows were cardboard boxes filled with a mix of sawdust and what looked like tobacco leaves (but obviously weren’t), and as the day went on, these filled up with purple spitoon-juice. Occasionally, the more experienced tasters, particularly from the trade, would vigorously slosh the wine around in their mouths and spit, all in one motion, from a great height, with considerable noise and velocity. Mostly they were admirably accurate in hitting the box, but a wise newbie would do well to keep distance.
The tasting itself, as always, was a matter of discipline – faced with some fantastic, hard-to-find and expensive wines, it was hard to spit out, but nothing could be worse than peaking early, or worse, dropping one’s glass or flattening an elderly fair-goer. Speaking of which, there were a great number of florid gentlemen of a certain age, copiously making notes, and I never did actually see one of them avail themselves of the boxes.
The winemakers were super-friendly, even to retail visitors (distinguished by blue wristbands as opposed to the red of trade and journalists). It reminded me, by way of contrast, to commercial contemporary art fairs like Frieze. There are also similarities: newish wine (which a great deal of the wine at RAW was), like new art, has a greatly evolved technical jargon, extreme differentiation, a high level of subjectivity underpinned by a certain rigour, and a healthy sprinkling of frauds and charlatans.
My favourites are below but with a slight caveat: my experience and taste are mostly confined to Italy and Friuli Venezia-Giulia (FVG) at that.
A couple of notes: “natural” has a quite precise definition (available on the webiste http://www.rawfair.com), but the long and short of it is: organic/biodynamic cultivation of the grapes; hand-harvesting of the grapes; no yeasts or additives, except for sulfites, which should be (far) below EU levels and more imporantly, documented by lab tests; limits on mechanical processing/manipulation, chemical processing like acidification and chaptalisation. In practice (looking at it postively), this means the wines more distinctively express their terroir and altitude/temperature conditions when the grapes were picked, with minimal influencing post-picking to achieve a “house” or “international” style. Some detractors would say the wines are highly variable, vintage-to-vintage, even bottle-to-bottle, are unstable when opened, have weird smells (“farmyard” is the euphemism), and in the worst cases, are indistinguishable from homebrew or vinegar. Indeed, certain of the offerings would have done my accomplice’s father’s vintages proud (albeit his are made with rhubarb or elderflowers).
A particular interest are orange wines: these are made from white grapes (such as Friuli’s Ribolla Gialla or Malvasia), which after pressing, are held in contact with skins and sometimes stems, for 1-30 days. In some cases (as in certain Georgian wines), the wines are even crushed/macerated in clusters, so have a massive amount of skin/stem contact. This contact gives them tannins but also the distinctive orange (or “amber” as Gravner prefers to call it) colour. So one gets a wine that has the fruit or perfume of a white wine, but with the slight firmness (of flavour) that tannins provide to balance the often-intense aroma, as well as often the mouthfeel of a red. I believe the tannins also allow the wine to age better without sulfites. Certain orange wines (though this is by no means confined to orange) are aged in clay amphorae, which allow the wine to breath without imparting oak flavours.
Orange wines have very little similarity, other than perhaps a morphological one, with rose: the latter are made from red grapes that are macerated without skins (so the colour is coming from the pulp of the grape not from skins or stems). Roses generally aren’t especially tannic and only some have any noticeable complexity.
Frank Cornelissen: we had the honour of an extensive tasting by Frank (courtesy of Tutto Wines and Noble Fine Liquor), who is one of the most revered winemakers of the Italian natural wine world. He’s a Belgian who set up a vineyard on the shoulders of Mount Etna in Sicily, and has made some fantastically distinctive wines, usually challenging, but made with great passion. See below for his site/blog, other tasting notes, and retailers/importers. My favourites were his orange, Munjebel Bianco 8 (2011), and his entry-level red, Rosso di Contadino 9 (2011). Both are using Sicilian autochthonous (the lovely word for indigenous, from the Greek – in fact the archaic Greeks believed their were “autochthonous”, borne directly from the earth, ie. not settlers from elsewhere, therefore not foreigners nor barbarians) grapes. I believe “Munjebel” is the old Arabic name for “mountain”.
Stan Radikon: Radikon’s wines have gravitas, particularly the orange wine with its strong tannins. The first time I had his wine, upon opening the bottle, I was convinced it was skunk – and then over an hour the wine evolved beautifully. This doesn’t mean it necessarily went well with food, this was very much a conceptual wine, a Duchampian experience (food for another post – conceptualism in food & wine). There were 6 wines in the tasting, but I still lean towards the austerity of the Ribolla Gialla. Incidentally, his vineyard is near the Gravner estate in Oslavia – though Gravner wasn’t at the fair, his wines are probably the most famous of Friuli, and he’s done the most to bring the old (Georgian) winemaking back and has done a great deal to market the wines of FVG.
Gabrio Bini: Bini is another iconoclastic winemaker who produces on the tiny Sicilian island of Pantelleria, closer to Africa than it is to the Italian mainland. His white, with the Zibibbo grape, is aromatic, while the moscato, made with the Moscato di Alessandria grape, is amazingly perfumed, yet the slight sweetness and aroma blend into a full finish, that is never cloying. He’s also a great person to talk to, and in between greeting visitors, he stopped by the Georgian stall and waxed lyrical about how his grapes came from Georgia via the Levant and Egypt to Sicily.
Lagvinari: This was a great pleasure of a stall – there were 3-4 Georgian wines available, and one winemaker made the long journey to talk to visitors. This gentleman I think was from Lagvinari, and spoke with great pride about Georgian winemaking in general (said to be 8,000 years old and therefore probably the oldest in the world) and the specific characteristics of the various wines on offer, his own and others. Two macro observations: the orange wines and natural processes, particularly skin contact and amphora-ageing, that are fashionable in Italy and other places, clearly have historical antecedents in Georgia (hence are less likely to be a twattish fad that one might at first think). In fact, Gravner imported his amphorae from Georgia. Secondly, the Arab and Georgian influence was richly but subtlely intertwined with wines in the fair – most obviously in the names (Munjebel, Moscato di Alessandria, etc.). The Arabs acted as excellent conduits in bringing the gift of Dionysius to the modern world, before foreswearing the whole business in more recent times, and the Georgians provided a model for a particularly poetic and attractive method of wine-making. The winemaker talked of one wine, called “Colchis”, after the mythical land where Jason and the Argonauts went to find the Golden Fleece.
Although these wines aren’t that easy to find in London, they’re worth seeking out; I last had Georgian wine while living in Moscow (before the embargo after which it was a black market luxury), and it goes splendidly with the gutsy, spicy, outstanding food of the country.
Others: There were also some lovely wines from other producers, particularly the Austrians Weingut Sepp Muster (near the Slovenian border, in Styria/Sudsteiermark); Strohmeier (from Weststeiermark). Of the Italians, I liked the Tuscan Macea (northern Tuscany, not far from the sea and Carrara); the Venetian Daniele Piccinin (Verona zone); Le Coste (from Viterbo, nearer the sea than Rome, overlooking the Lake of Bolsena); Quarticello (Emilia Romagna) is one of our favourites on a value basis, particularly their two Lambrusci, which have an awesome acidity that makes them delicious for drinking with food, while their Le Mole is one of the most reasonably-priced orange wines we’ve had.
I would add an honourable mention for Stefan Vetter of Germany (northern Bavaria) with his Sylvaner wines, for his enthusiasm and effort in making it to RAW. The wines perhaps need a little more work, and we look forward to seeing next year’s production.
Even the most achingly cool ‘ster, in his high-and-tight waxed-up haircut, Rizlas, and fixed-gear bike, eventually settles down, gets fat, and sheepishly resigns himself to a BMW and 2.5 babbitts. Similarly, “street food”, that mildly oxymoronic concept that started in hot & dusty places no hipster would actually be caught dead in (say Bamako, Beijing or Bombay), came to the less posh bits of London in 2011 and by 2013 is firmly established in pricey, zoomlens-central Neal’s Yard. Homeslice started out as a mobile pizza shack in a few locations around London, and like Pizza Pilgrims (which operates out of a Piaggio Ape in Berwick Street Market), served great pizza with no frills. They now operate out of a small restaurant in Covent Garden.
The pizza is really good. I went in planning to have two slices, ended up eating four (£4 each). The margherita is great, very little cheese, super thin & light crust. The courgette & artichoke was more substantial and chewy with the courgette barely cooked. They also have more adventurous dishes like bone marrow & caramelised onion, but only as a full 20″ pie. I’m pretty sure I could get through a full pie at lunch, chase it with a little Chartreuse at the French House, and be in good shape for a big dinner. Hard to say that for, say, Franco Manca… There wasn’t much/any char on the bottom of my slices but not sure if that was because I was there early at lunchtime.
Regarding pizza-by-the-slice generally, Homeslice have a good chance of successfully transplanting the “taglio” (basically pizza by weight) concept from Italy to the UK; 2011/2012 saw a spate of taglio pizzerias, most of which had greasy leaden fare, served by slightly shifty characters (Italian or otherwise), who seemed to know their wares were dodgy, who warmed the slices up in those ghastly electric toaster-oven like things. The things came to you seeping ancient rancid oil, like something out of a really nasty fry-up in early-1990s London. Unlike in Italy there simply isn’t enough customer volume to keep the pizza turning over and inevitably the product ages thereby. Even Princi’s pre-made pizza is necessarily closer to foccaccia. Homeslice sell 3 of their pizzas by the slice, and while these are pre-made, they are in small enough quantities that there’s (probably) little risk of getting a pie past its prime. That being said, the crust is very thin so there little tolerance for error – my slices went soft pretty quickly, but not as quickly as I dispatched them.
Incidentally, the outer crust ring, the “cornicione”, was excellent; historically, the rich in Naples wouldn’t be caught dead eating it, for it was conspicuously poor people’s food, and would be gathered from pizzerias, to be sold or given away on the street.
Speaking of sordid port towns, I hope they bring in one pizza variation that is awesome but rarely found (basically a Marinara) – tomato, origano, garlic, capers & anchovy – the one at Chez Etienne in Marseilles’ Panier neighbourhood will live forever in my taste memory – as will the hard men dealing drugs outside.
Some niggles: no fork, knives, or plates (other than paper) give the place a pretty pessie feel, which is fine if one is eating on the street out of a shack in Hackney, or at a New York pizzeria (and in both cases paying a lot less than six dollars a slice). It’s not great at an otherwise polished sit down restaurant. A salad would be good as well. Wine at £4/glass is okay price but not especially cheap, belying the mildly gimmicky bottles which are measured when the bill is made up (this is a nod to humbler places in Italy, with the difference that those places mostly are under €1/glass)!
Both those are all points of economics and style, the important thing is the pizza is excellent, and saves one the trip to Franco Manca, now that Spaccanapoli has left Soho.
The show of Duchamp, Rauschenberg, Johns, Cage, and Cunningham was not so easy to get through, and is, for this reason amongst others, all the more important, from an art historical perspective, to see. Duchamp, as most people know, doesn’t come off as particularly cuddly or passionate or loveable, what with the slicked back hair, omnipresent phat cigar that not even bankers would be seen smoking anymore, and particularly un-funny Francophone wit. His artwork sometimes has the elegance of Georg Cantor’s “diagonal slash” proof or a bottle of Joszko Gravner’s odd orange wines, an intellectual tour de force but ends up leaving one a bit raspy and dry in the throat. In fact, most of Duchamp’s work is bereft of traditional visual appeal…you end up lusting for the simple pleasures of a Chardin skate-fish or an Ingres odalisque in a Turkish bath. Or to drop back into wine terms, it’s a bit like going from Gravner to an exquisite, traditional, ruinously expensive and splendid bottle of Fiorano, that, in one glass, luxuriously expresses most of the last 2,500 years of human experience, of literature, of poetry, of money, of power.
Having said all that, Duchamp is brilliant – he forms the link between the early 1900s and a good bit of contemporary art. When we see a pile of wood shavings in an otherwise empty, yet reputable, Fitzrovia art gallery, and try, in vain, to connect that to Titian and Manet, the path often leads through Duchamp. For he pushed the locus of avant-garde art-making out of the perceptual realm, that is, the field of pictures and paintings, howsoever fractured or tortured, as in the cases of Braque, Giacometti or even Pollock; into the conceptual realm, where the art object needn’t be a picture or sculpture at all, in order to receive the imprimatur of “art”. In doing so, he dramatically blurred the line, which was probably always slightly porous, between “life” and “art”.
This show’s premise is to explore the themes above, and two others: the implicit or explicit emphasis of relationship on the viewer’s relationship with the art-work (the so-called “activation of the viewer”); and the fusion of visual art, namely painting or sculpture, with the performance arts of dance and music. It does this by considering Duchamp, the painters Robert Rauschenberg and Jasper Johns, the composer John Cage, and the choreographer Merce Cunningham.
The Duchamp aspect is built around his early painting-on-glass masterpiece, The Bride Stripped Bare By Her Bachelors, Even, but includes other key painting- and object-pieces. He is shown to be something of an informal eminence grise for most of the other, younger, creators. John Cage tried to push the boundaries of music-making, for instance by emphasising the qualities of environmental noise in his well-known 4′ 33” , as well as making compositions that were based on interrogations of the Chinese book of numerology, I Ching. In doing he largely sidesteps the melodic/harmonic tradition of Western classical music, as well as the atonal innovations of Schoenberg. This exploration of chance resonates with Duchamp’s work 3 Standard Stoppages, which is a set of images formed from the random positions that three strings take when dropped on the floor.
Rauschenberg, of whom I have written before, is perhaps the most visual of the 3 painters: a number of major works in the show, highlight both his conceptual innovation, the juxtaposition of cultural images and objects (newspaper photographs, advertisements, logos, chairs, stuffed animals, tin cans, etc.) on the plane of a painting (what Leo Steinberg called the “flatbed picture plane”); and his interest in materials, including plenty of silk and gauze, the stuff of Gagosian’s show Jammers (reviewed here).
Johns’ contribution is similarly fundamental yet a bit harder to grasp: he took as subject matter images utterly familiar to his viewer, like the American flag or a map of the USA, and rendered them in paint, or wax, or collage. His rationale for this was to free his aesthetic drive to concentrate on things other than composition or subject, and instead to focus on material, on execution, on viewer impact. In doing so, in a sense he emptied his painting of the most obvious evidence of the subjective hand of the artist, namely, his taste in selecting a subject or a composition. While a commonplace approach since, this was indeed pretty revolutionary in its day, in the context of Abstract Expressionists like Pollock, Rothko and Newman, pouring their agonies, betwixt another glass of bourbon at the Cedar Tavern, out on the canvas in a heady mash-up of Aeschylus and the Old Testament.
The connection between Johns’ and Rauschenberg’s aesthetic, and that of Duchamp, also lies in the integration of everyday objects and images into art. Famously, this Duchamp was the one who submitted a urinal to an art exhibition (apparently, he also arranged for one of his friends, the collector Walter Arensberg, to buy the piece, which unfortunately was subsequently lost, only to be remade in an “authorised re-issue”). Cage’s interest in allowing the environment into his pieces has an analogy in Rauschenberg’s White Paintings, which, having emptied the canvas of almost any figuration and all colour, were almost mandatorily receptive to their exhibition environment, and pretty much forced the attention of the art work back onto the viewers…..what else were they going to look at? In doing so, of course, they prefigure many strands of Minimal, post-Minimal, and Contemporary art.
I’m not particularly familiar with Merce Cunningham or modern dance, so won’t comment on that. There are a few evening with performances and dancing in the gallery, which might be entertaining, or tedious, depending on how many drinks one has had at the nearby Barbican Red Room.
This show, as is the contemporary curatorial fashion, is lateral, in that it treats 5 creators, their inter-relationships and the differences between their works, and therefore, it demands a certain nous of the viewer. There is little of the easy anchoring that biographical events present in a single-artist retrospective. Yet, the show, organised by the Philadelphia Museum of Art, where many Duchamp works reside, is very well-explained and has an excellent catalogue with lots of turgid analysis and interviews, as well as photographs of works not in the show. Moreover, the experience benefits hugely from the gloriously spaces and sight-lines of the Barbican Gallery. Bride Stripped Bare… in particular, has the full play of shadow and reflection against the high ceilings and crepuscular light of Chamberlin, Powell, and Bon’s magnificent Brutalist edifice.
It remains only to end with an enigmatic quote of Duchamp, whom we must remember, conspicuously stopped making art mid-career, preferring instead to play chess (though it turned out he had spent much of the last years of his life working on a characteristically pornographic final piece, Etant donnes):
“But you see, I am not so interested in art per se. It’s only one occupation, and it hasn’t been my whole life, far from it. People speak of art with this religious reverence but why should it be so revered? It’s a drug, that’s all. The more I go on, the more I am convinced of that. I’m afraid I’m an agnostic in art. I don’t believe in it with all the mystical trimmings. As a drug it’s very useful for a number of people, very sedative, but as a religion it’s not even as good as God.” (Calvin Tomkins essay, excerpted in exhibition catalogue)
To earn our wonderful, but dear, twin Vesper martinis at Duke’s Hotel, we took in 4 shows on Saturday. The Humphrey Ocean (National Portrait Gallery) was lovely, not least for the artist’s name; but I’ll talk about two at Thomas Dane, a lovely gallery, up a narrow flight of stairs with turned-wood banisters and wood panelling all around, discreetly hidden on a side-street in St James’s.
The show (Limp Voyeur in a Humid Landscape) was of Dominick Di Meo, one of the Chicago school of post-war artists, loosely grouped into collectives with names like Monster Roster and Hairy Who. Nancy Spero, Leon Golub, and Jim Nutt are artists from these groups that are widely known (at least if you pick a narrow enough circle of people to ask).
Di Meo himself sounds funny, a quote from the NY Times, about (New York’s) Soho where he has lived since 1974: “I didn’t want to move here [in 1974]…it was a huge artists’ dormitory. I don’t particularly like artists, being one myself…It’s nicer now that most of the artists have left…artists are prima donnas, you know.”
The works’ appeal to me was primarily the references to much-loved work by Surrealists and other European artists that we’d visited again in Paris: Jean Dubuffet, Alberto Giacometti and Joan Miro being the most obvious ones. Yet the work wasn’t derivative. His formal devices are uncanny: putting together of nude body parts that, if one can unravel them at all, are perhaps mildly pornographic, sort of like a less-aggressive Hans Bellmer. He combines these shapes on great rectangular fields on his canvas, brown adjoining black, yet the border quite shakily drawn. Then there are the forks hanging about.
Another group of paintings seem to be X-rays or radio-graphs of objects, forks, scissors, spoons, but possibly they were made with spray paint.
There were a number of pieces that are more anthromorphic, and remind of some of Jean Dubuffet’s impasto paintings from the 1940s. Although the Di Meos don’t have the material richness of the Dubuffets, they derive power from the shapes, the jaw-lines, the simplicity of colours, in short, the graphic-ness of the images. Some of Di Meo’s other works are much more like reliefs, with clay or thick paint or rope laid onto the canvas.
I can’t say, because I don’t know enough, where this ranks vis a vis Di Meo’s Chicago peers and how, if at all, it takes its European antecedents in a materially important new direction, but the show was enjoyable – a criterion perhaps we’ve lost sight of in these conceptualised days. Oh…lastly, I would love to have one of these on my wall.
I last saw the Turkish film-maker Kutluǧ Ataman’s work in London, at the old Royal Mail sorting office in New Oxford Street. It was called Küba and was made up of interviews with 40 residents of a marginalised shanty-town neighbourhood in Istanbul. Importantly, it’s not clear whether the neighbourhood still exists or ever existed or was made up by Ataman. It was filled with mesmerising stories of daily life (and death) by a range of people, mostly the poor, religious, sometimes uneducated sort, that one doesn’t really see encounter in the posh restaurants, hotels, and bars of Bebek and Nisantasi. Gripping stuff.
The video at Thomas Dane (Journey to the Moon) was sparser, more elegent, funny: one of the two channels showed still archive images of an incident that apparently happened in 1957 in Erzincan, one of the most backward parts of Turkey, on the Iraqi border. These images show a group of villagers, intoxicated by the US and Soviet space-race, as well as Turkey’s breakneck modernisation, deciding that they would travel to the moon, in a rocket made from a minaret that is carried aloft by balloons, inside which they sit.
Sounds unbelievable, and it is, in fact, made up. Never happened. Or did it? The stills certainly exist: showing the preparations, the launch, the flight, the other villagers watching in open-mouthed wonder. Ataman then took the archive to a range of professionals: aeronautics and astronomy professors at Istanbul’s presitigious Bosphorus University, and others; a historian; a lawyer; and so forth. These people all give their views on whether this could have ever happened, each from their own professional perspective, and if it did happen, the likely fate of the villagers (eventually either they or the balloons would explode, with uncomfortable results).
Formally, the work recalls Chris Marker’s great film La Jetee, where the entire story of a world after nuclear holocaust is told with still images and a voice-over, and gains immense power in this telling. The title of Ataman’s film is similar to the famous ground-breaking film by the Melies brothers, La Voyage dans la Lune.
What’s the point? Conceptually, I suppose it’s a little like Ataman’s earlier work – he has blurred the line between reality and make-believe, documentary and performance, and in doing so, tells us something about Turkey: contrasting the people of the back-country and the sophisticates of Istanbul. In a sense, that is a reflection of Turkey’s identity, like Russia, it is two countries, torn between tradition and modernity, the European and the Asian. The film is done with great sensitivity, obviously there is no intention to make fun of the villagers (if, in fact, the archive is fictional).