Cremaster 3

Matthew Barney

The Cremaster Cycle is one of the dividing lines between the incisive, inquiring artistically sensitive mind and the common ruck of humanity. Simply, you either get it, or you don't.

My exposure to the Cremaster cycle of films began with an episode of the new movie show on ABC TV here in Sydney. After a prolonged bout of describing "I, Robot" as a kind of crap that one could guiltily enjoy, the hosts did a round up of the newer stuff that was available on screen. Over a series of montages of some of the most beautiful images I have seen in a very long time the omnipresent voice announced that the Cremaster cycle was playing in one of the more artistic cinemas here in town. I was gobsmacked by the images. A woman walking in a stadium trailing Goodyear blimps. The Chrysler building wrapped in ribbons. I was overtaken with memories of how gorgeous "Koyaanisqatsi" was to watch, and how nice it was to occasionally get to use my brain at the cinema.

Two days later, we were queuing up for tickets, amid some of the less common species native to Sydney, Australia. Within arms reach of me, there was a rather moth eaten looking hippy! Several young ladies with large quantities of heavy black eye makeup! A half dead looking punk who looked like he had escaped from one of Sydney's less reputable circuses. An older looking man wearing a golf hat with such aplomb that his very ear hair shrieked "art critic." A porky looking young man in a green velvet jacket! A young man who had long hair and obviously used Linux in preference to facing up to his transgender issues! And me. Most of the other patrons reeked of stale marijuana. I writhed in a strange funk of true pain that I had never been attractive to young ladies with too much eye makeup, even back in my student days.

It was a heavy scene.

But then again, any scene involving young ladies who are heavy into Art always is.

There is something deeply wrong with seeing an art film in a modern strip mall type theatre. The clean lines and the sparkling surfaces that proclaim that capitalism can own art suffuse the experience to come with a sad sleaziness that is never easy to swallow. I feel that Art films need stinky dusty theatres with bad coffee and the barely perceptible vaginal aromas of long ago young ladies into Art. The carpet should be sticky. The seats should squeak. The crappy environment should underscore that art and "the movies" can never mix. That protest and capitalism are sworn enemies.

Or something. I had been assured that Cremaster 3 was the best of the films to see first, and I was looking forward to it.

The film started and something very odd happened. Within two minutes I was bored. I no longer remember what I expected but I know that I didn't give one solitary shit about fat men in bad makeup pretending (acting is not the word) to be cyclopses. (Cyclopii ?) I sat there and I thought unpleasant thoughts. I thought:

"Fuck. For every Koyaanisqatsi there are two Ciao Manhattans."

After awhile, the bad acting stopped, and was replaced by a group of cars smashing another car in a room in a large office block. This was eventually replaced by a badly choreographed scene of a bartender dealing with a spreading mess. Which was replaced by a scene of a woman dicing potatoes with blades attached to the soles of her shoes.

I found myself sinking lower and lower into my comfy chair. My right arm found its way up into the neck of my sweater. My neck was warm. My arm liked the fact that my neck was warm. As some sad, fat, wanker sang a song, I went to sleep. Being asleep was nice.

I woke up about half an hour before intermission. To my highly trained eye I had missed nothing. My other eye, (less highly trained) informed me that the ceiling was very clean. My mind informed me that I was still bored to tears. My arse hole informed me that the seat was squishy and very comfortable. My gut informed me that popcorn had never been a sensible breakfast. My memory informed me that it was cold and damp outside.

I don't know why I went back after intermission. An inherently parsimonious nature? A vain hope that that the crap "Riverdance" ^TM inspired music would move the young ladies with too much eye makeup into starting some form of all in protest orgy that I could at least watch in preference to the film? That perhaps there would be less fucking Riverdance music. That maybe Michael Flatley would be ceremoniously disembowelled during some unexpectedly inspired finale that featured the slow motion mass suicide of everyone involved in making the film? The fact remains that I returned, and that fact alone must be psychologically significant.

It was worse not being able to sleep. The cold air outside had invigorated my brain, and suffused my muscles with a powerful urge to use someone as a bongo drum. There was more Irish jig music. Followed by more Irish jig music. Followed by (ah Jaysus) some fecking Oirish jig music. The genius responsible for the film climbed up the inside of the Guggenheim. The Guggenheim had been padded so that he couldn't hurt it, and he was wired so that he couldn't fall and hurt himself.

Which is as fine an example of an insurance company removing all available interest from an artistic endeavor as I have ever seen.

There was more searing symbolism. More Irish jig music. And fuck me, but once the industrious little fucker had finished climbing all the way up to the top of the Guggenheim, but what did he do but turn around and climb all the way back fucking down.

Then, at some point the whole sorry mess finished.

I can't say that I waited for the credits.

The End.

ADDENDUM

There are some who say that the Cremaster films are symbolic. Everything from Norse legend through to "the great cycle of birth and death that the Boodhists call KAHma" are bandied about as elements. Those who know, these symbolism spotters say, are THOSE who... *KNOW.*

One reviewer I have read mentioned that when the film was released here, that he was provided with a highly detailed press book, so that he, as a journalist, could give the impression of being someone who KNEW. He said that the book explained all manner of symbols available to the cognoscenti, from the great wheel of KAHma through to the meaning of Saint Thomas thumb and Saint Thomas Ass. They could mention all this stuff in their reviews. How handy.

I wondered then, and I wonder now, how could it NOT be so? You have to tell the witnesses down the street EXACTLY what the Emperor is supposed to be wearing or the poor sad nudist dimwit will get thrown out on his skinny naked arse. This is supposed to be a democracy! Why not give us ALL a book, explaining the arcane symbolism, so that we can ALL bullshit each other about the significance of Yggdrasil the world snake?

Perhaps a free pamphlet explaining that Michael Flatley's music is symbolic of the fact that the Irish are dead drunk most of the time to get away from the fucking racket?

Perhaps just a piece of paper, with "You've been had mate" written on it, that we could all put to good use, later, when the spirit of Michael Flately moved us?

That at least would be accurate symbolism, and good value for money.

As far as symbolism goes, Matthew Barney should have a good look at my review of Mel Gibson's "The Passion of the Christ" elsewhere on this site, and should understand that in the body of the review, the words "Mel Gibson" should be taken as symbolising the concept "Matthew Barney."

With extra curry.

(C)opyright Alex Rieneck, 2004.