Over The Edge - A Cult Classic Comes of Age

The preservation and the celebration of old works of film is an infrequent occurrence unless one lives in New York City, where its commonplace. For example, The Film Forum is well-known for screening movies such as “Paris is Burning” and “Annie Hall” regardless of their age and availability on DVD. Ditto the MOMA and Walter Reade Theater at Lincoln Center as both curate retrospectives on a regular basis.

The Walter Reade Theater at Lincoln Center can now boast they have screened the cult classic “Over the Edge” - selected for the opening night film for Film Comment’s Select series (in conjunction with VICE Magazine) on February 19, 2010.

Released in theaters in 1979 by the now defunct Orion Pictures, the film was quickly removed (despite its PG rating). The reason - concerns that audiences would riot. Indeed, "Over the Edge" was deemed controversial due to its "authentic" portrayal of disenfranchised youth in "Anywhere" America (many scenes in the film were actually shot throughout Colorado and cities like Denver and Aurora).

Thirty-one years after its initial release, “Over the Edge” still resonates due to its timely subject matter - youth engaging in vandalism, violence and drugs in the context of neglectful parents who are more concerned about the value of their real estate. As such, elements of the film can be seen in the works of artists that have come of age in the 1990s, namely filmmaker Richard Linklater (“Dazed and Confused”) and Kurt Cobain (“Smells Like Teen Spirit” the music video).

There is no doubt the film will continue to influence up and coming artists. Now if only HBO would program multiple airings of the film as it did in the 1980s so the newer generations can discover this "gem."

Click on below to watch the post screening panel discussion with the cast and crew.

Still Collection not alone as new documentary portrays

As Denver readies for the Clyfford Still Museum an excellent film is set to hit theaters on On February 26, 2010. The must-see documentary getting a theatrical release courtesy of IFC Films is “The Art of the Steal.” The film tells the David and Goliath story of what happened to the thirty billion dollar private art collection amassed by Dr. Albert Barnes after his death. The film documents the struggle between those loyal to his will and the foundations eager to house the collection in a public Philadelphia museum – an act that violated the terms of the will.

While the film is strongly biased towards the former, it is this strong point of view that gives the story its emotional heft; the audience has someone (or rather people) to root for. And similar to many good stories, this too has villains - the foundations and unfortunately the teams that run them. Portrayed as power / money-hungry, the foundations are clearly looking out for their best interests first and foremost.

Meanwhile Dr. Albert Barnes is portrayed as a cantankerous man who had a penchant for “sticking it to the man,” due to the initial rejection of his art collection by the esteemed Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts.

The outcome – a really great story portrayed on film worthy of your time.

Perspectives on Romance and Love

This Valentine's Day is an opportunity - as many have been in the past. Romance is severed by those creative spirits that encourage, beckon your fascination.

We at The Art Quarterly want to "share a little love" to a few contributors (along with a heavy list of fine art greats) who have recently reviewed various venues for our readers benefit.

You were able to garner the inside scoop at "The Sundance Film Festival" through the critical reviews and entries by contributing writer Joanna Rudolph. (more) Back east, Brooklyn's Rock and Roll photography exhibit at BAM wound down - but not before contributing writer Jeff Price could capture the basic along with sophisticated connection of photography to our music lexicon (more).

This Valentine's, stop on in at a reputable gallery before or after your saunter in the park, your stroll in the carriage or your foot getting stuck in a hybrid floor mat. Ensure that you find a work that you love - and one that has lasting significance. Galleries, like Denver's GALLERY M, ensure that you can find quality and substance in your fine art collection.

And in the process you will see a glamorous shot of scenes that transform, mesmerize and invoke a tingling sensation - once found only with butterflies and cupids.

Recommended inspirations for your collection: The Birth of Venus, Lubie's Love (The Painting and the Movie), Imperial Cheetahs and Ice Skating Waiter.

Rock & Roll, I Thee Wed: "Who Shot Rock & Roll" at the Brooklyn Museum of Art

“The world, in truth, is a wedding.” –Erving Goffman


Chuck. Mick & Keith. John & Paul. Jimi. Patti. Madonna. Bjork. These names we know.

Annie. Philip. Richard. Gered. Judy. Amy. Stephane. These, somewhat more vague.

As intrinsic to the pull of rock star allure as the music itself are photographic images, or so the recent exhibition, Who Shot Rock & Roll: A Photographic History, 1955 to the Present, at the Brooklyn Museum of Art, would lead a visitor to believe. While the exhibition notes call photography, the profession, “rock & roll’s handmaiden,” let’s take the metaphor one step further and label the images themselves, those which immortalize these singing, swaying, sweating, smoking, screaming figures, dressed in majestic rags, as the rock star’s true spouse. Not such a stretch, after all. Paul and Linda only literalize it (“My Love”: Linda McCartney’s shot of Paul’s deep eyes in the rearview mirror, as, seen from the back, he directs their car down a quiet London street). Rock stars are people married to their own image. Like Pan and his shadow.

And, O, what hath they begot? After a generation or two: us. Social networking bunnies. No matter how jumbled our thoughts on love, we’ll never forget their names, those of our rock & roll icons. From the slowest creeping of the clock in our parents’ sinking homes, they drew us forth to what is bright and exciting and of NOW.

Yes, and the creators of these images, with their own names freshly etched on the walls of a fine art museum, at last receiving their due—some casual photographers, some committed, some company hands, some artists in their own right: Leibovitz, Townsend, Avedon, Mankowitz, Linn, Arbus, Sednaoui, to list a few.

Organized under six headings, the exhibition ranged from images tentative and unguarded to polished and knowing: Starting Out, Fans & Crowds, Performance, Behind the Scenes, Constructing an Image and Portraits.

Is that George Harrison of The Beatles, in shades, enjoying a smoke, back to a barred gate against which a crowd of admirers press themselves, the sign above his left shoulder reading ‘WAY OUT’? Yes, viewer, it is. (Bob Whitaker, photographer, from the Fans & Crowds section, circa 1965.)

Is that Paul Simonon of The Clash, bent almost to the floor, bass guitar brandished primordially overhead, two hands on the neck, the lights from behind him throwing his shadow forward? Viewer, it is. (Pennie Smith, from Performance, circa 1979.)

Is that Patti Smith touching her cheek, a gesture of refinement—is she really there at all?—outside CBGBs in the East Village night of 1976? (Bleeker St. sign just a little down the way.) Viewer, yes. (Godlis, from Behind the Scenes.)

How many ways can a band—three figures… four… five… more?—arrange themselves in front of a camera, as in a police line-up where “all the suspects have attitude” (the exhibition notes again); how many contexts; outfits; hair-fashions? Kiss. The Yardbirds. The Stones. Those Beatles again… with some guy named Pete and another named Stuart… and where’s Ringo? “They were just discovering who they were,” said the latter photographer, Astrid Kirchherr, “and I think that [my] photos helped them make that discovery.”

Singing on video is that a bleached out David Bowie in powder blue jacket and red mullet, wearing eye-shadow and rouge on his cheeks, telling a story with the most precise gestures of the hand, blinks of the eye? Oh man! Look at those cavemen go/ It’s the freakiest show. (Mick Rock, from Portraits.)

And how is it that we, once under the wings of parents, drawing an understanding that an image must be struck in the world to announce our presence, to make our desires felt—as different! so different! from those who came before us—found these ideas of ourselves running into those at which we stared, during the slowest creeping hours, our stored peace let loose like the yellow from within the yolk?

Lloyd Shearer’s image of Elvis in 1956, head reclined against a hotel bed, eyes gone dreamy with languor, looking almost girlish in his otherworldliness: They screamed for him. They all screamed for him.

Before a series of images showing Jimi Hendrix on his knees, pouring kerosene on his prone guitar, then lighting it aflame (Ed Caraeff, the Monterey Pop Festival of 1967), a father and son paused.

The son looked up to his father and said: “He’s crazy!”

Responded the father: “No. That was his style.”


Jeff Price is a writer and editor living in Brooklyn. In 2009, he held the position of Associate Editor at Electric Literature (http://electricliterature.com/blog/). Contact him here: jt_price at hotmail dot com.