First and foremost, welcome to the first issue of The Menteur. Developed over hours of dinner conversation and the incessant popping of corks, we are proud to present the brain-child of a few of us over here at the University of Kent at Paris. In keeping with Albert Camus’ philosophy that “Fiction is the lie through which we tell the truth,” we decided on the name The Liar. After further discussion, it seemed only fair to honour our home and headquarters here in France, so within minutes of its birth, The Liar was dead and The Menteur was born. Early on, it became clear to us that The Menteur would be a magazine only in the sense that it holds ammunition. Although based in Paris, our staff is a truly international group. We were brought together by a shared passion for art and were not willing to pass up the opportunity to at least try to do something great during our time together. We strive to not only produce inspired work in this truly global city, but to give a voice to others like us, just finding their way in the world. Our submissions in the form of poetry, short fiction, critical essays, reviews, as well as rants and ravings, have come in from across several continents. The result is the literary magazine you see before you today. Best enjoyed in a pub or on a long train journey, we hope this first issue of The Menteur as well as the ones to follow can inspire people to read, write, paint, play instruments, learn a language, go biking, plant a garden, keep a bee hive, build a canoe, bake a pie (preferably blueberry), climb a mountain, go abroad or maybe even just buy another drink and keep reading. Whatever it is, we hope you become passionate (or were at least happy that you tried something new) and pick up the next issue, which is currently accepting submissions and due out next month.
On behalf of all of us here on staff, thanks for reading and when you’re done, we hope you’ll pass us on to someone new.
Here’s to new adventures,
If you were to look into the window at number seven Forest Street, you’d see something quite peculiar indeed. A small child actor by the name of Katrina inspecting a crippled wine bottle that had just been hurled at the portrait of her grand father, which hung above the china chest in the dining room. She found the cracked bottle by the table after all the grown ups had dozed off, catatonic from drink. She stuck her pinky deep, as far she could. The liquid lubricated her finger and she smelled the alcohol linger. At the age of six, it was nothing new to her. Beautiful really, the aroma of liquid courage. She tasted it and loved it and looked around. They were all asleep, so she drank some more. Pressing the green bottle to her lips, she tipped it back and let it fill her mouth. It seeped out the sides and down her neck and stained the collar of her gentle dinner dress. She dropped it and coughed. The lovely, white carpet, fresh from the vacuum was stained the color of Shiraz and she wandered off. If you’re still standing at the window, be sure to wipe away the condensation from your breath for a better view.
It was beautiful, how everything melted away from the loneliness of it all. Her mother was asleep in the wicker chair, holding her fathers hand. A cigarette was taut between his lips, the ash breaking off and falling to a pile in his lap. His mind was off with his mistress, somewhere up above the ceiling fan. The priest invited for dinner was holding his crotch and nodding his head, eyes closed to the dinner jazz that drifted through the home. His face seemed to be turning blue. Uncle was
cradling his wine and playing footsy with her aunt while her brother was all ears to the radio in the hall. Our child actor slithered for the front door and turned the gleaming, brass knob with both hands. The door blew open. Outside, cars were passing and they were marvelous and melodic with their windows open. Headlights, lost in the discreet distance of the cul de sac lit up the drizzle in their bright eyes. Twisted tree limbs hung barely from the last tornado that came through like a freight train and she cried. The stench of fresh rain on hot pavement hung in the air and crippled her. She vomited red all over the ceramic goose on the patio. Across the street the neighbor’s dog unleashed a volley of barking at her wretched retching.
“Mommy, where are you please?” Mommy sprang from her parlé and bolted, lost in the shame of it all. The fire sank and the priest finally
exhaled.
It was his last breath and he died, right there at the table. His right hand was still down his trousers, his collar was loose and speckled with gravy. The coroner was called to arms and her father rose at last.
“Dinner without dessert tonight.” He was an extremely coarse man but he always helped her mother clear the table.
If you’re still standing at the window, now would be a good time to leave. The coroner is on his way and undoubtedly the police will arrive before him and you wouldn’t want to be charged as the peeping tom at an occasion such as this. The rather unflattering death of a priest at the hands of a malchewed, butter covered brussel sprout. Not buttered enough, it seems.
There was a man, lets call him a boy, in a city so great and grand that you could say it was a country by itself. A city that conquers your heart as soon as you set one foot on its surface. This is the story of a boy that said he could not be touched.
I believe this story began on a day that was boring. A day like all other days, a day where now and then you grasp the unchangeable boringness and try to change it. It started on a day like that.
It was the city that called his name, and he came. Packing up, picking up stuff had never felt so easy; all the weight he could carry, all that he would need. It was a plane that took him there, rushing through thin air. The city was happy with the arrival of this boy and wanted to thank him well. Late that evening, it whispered in his ear:
Explore me, run through my veins. Explore me, like offtrack trains. Explore me, do you believe in my power? Explore me, I will devouer.
This being said, he ran the streets, the streets he did not know, the streets that would soon start to eat, without him knowing how he would fall into defeat. That first night was the night he fell in love, not with man nor woman, but with a fluid that burned his throat, like a fire fanning out in a forest dead and dry.
As the days passed, he saw him or her, whatever you want to call the damn thing, almost every day. Like friends, like lovers and even like life companions. A tragic and pathetic love that would never be answered, just accepted for what it was. A one sided feeling.
Days went like they came at night. Taken over. Just like the city, big as a country, the fluid that burned was trying to get him. The night, that knew the boy had been taken by those two, now had to come up with something special too. It could think of only one sentence that would strike the boy down. If this would not succeed he would leave it there. This one sentence was uttered without shame of his two current lovers standing by:
The day is merely an illuminated night.
He fell, he fell in the arms of the night, lifted on its hands, those great words, so true, fair and reliable. Through all of this, not seeing the light, the people that cared, wished he would stand, but he could not even hear those voices anymore, and when one did, the night would whisper in his ear:
Jealousy...
And the burning fluid would say: You’ll miss me...
by Julia van RoonAnd then the city huge like a country would end it: You don’t need them, when you have me. The boy would react by saying: “I am untouchable”.
As days in whole had been taken by night, they started to fade, they started to faint, fade with darkness and he would do as days do.
More and more and more, he fell deeper, oh how he could not touch the ground. One night, while the boy was dancing it away, he hit the ground. His face, expressionless, pointing to the left. The one weakness of being untouchable is knowing you are.
Whoever says art nowadays cannot be authentic, should talk to Emin Turan. This up-and-coming Turkish artist recently opened his new exhibition in Istanbul. His artwork features on the cover of this magazine and we are sure we will hear more about this engaging mind. Our editor, Osman Nuri Iyem, interviewed Emin about his art and philosophy.
Emin, you have just opened a new exhibition in Turkey. Can you talk a little about the way in which you conceptualise your own work and how your art differs from other contemporary artists?
I think it is very difficult to create new and authentic art under the current ideology. Everything is becoming one and the same –even things that appear to be refreshing at first. There is a saturation of images today – we are bombarded by advertisement photos as well as individuals’ Facebook photos. Today’s technology also plays a role; for example, everyone can take great pictures with Instagram and edit them. Visual technology has become really easily manipulative. Some artists nowadays create art by simply projecting a photograph onto a canvas and then painting over it – all in the name of contemporary art. It is very common now to turn ready-made images into something new. My aim, however, is to create something that cannot be easily consumed and absorbed.
How do you think you have achieved your aims – what techniques did you use?
I tried to make a different texture as a substructure for my painting to create something new for this exhibition. I used motion to create this texture. It’s like a big bang of paintball on the canvas, representing the earth. The motion of the canvas and the liquidity of water and paint
created topographic, map-like results. Some might say they resemble stained glass; some might say they look like Byzantium mosaics. While being a ‘shamanic’ technique, it is also ‘scientific’ because I was able to calculate the results through the angle at which I turn the canvas and the ratio of paint to water I mixed.
Did you use this technique for all your paintings?
Not all of them. But it is a big part of my current exhibition. This constituted the first stage of most of my current paintings. I also tried to keep all stages of my work as transparent layers to leave traces of the creative process. It may be impossible or utopian, but I wanted to extend the depth of the painting to infinity.
Where did you find your inspiration for your work?
Instead of looking to nature for inspiration, I tried to look inside myself. I also tried to incorporate more shamanic elements without denying the reality of analytical geometry.
Can you elaborate on that?
In France, Impressionist painters literally calculated the angle of the sunlight according to the time to the day. They worked almost scientifically. But for Turkish painters, it is more poetic: the sunrays hitting the ground do not actually represent the time of the day, but ac-
tually “the light hitting their hearts”. It’s almost romanticism.
Can we say that your canvas, paint and brushes are just like the shaman’s drums in his ritual?
Absolutely! This is my way of creating some-
thing authentic. Authenticity is at the very heart of my art. Maybe it seems naïve; maybe it doesn’t work. But at the end of the day, it’s Emin’s painting without using recruited images. As an artist, unlike a scientist, you have to create your own way of thinking, your own language, and shape your subjectivity.
Do you think it is difficult to defend your own vision in today’s environement?
It is. But as an artist, you have to exhibit your paintings and confront people in the ‘art bazaar’. You need a lot of will power to do that. My paintings contain a diversity of tendencies – maybe it seems unprofessional to some – but I insist on defending this multiplicity despite the difficulties.
So, is the ‘shamanic’ technique that you use a way of forging a new kind of artistic subjectivity?
Yes. I think we have always been trying to locate ourselves between animals and gods. We end up confining ourselves to artificial categories while trying to imitate nature. Whereas the shaman is kind of like a half-god. We are still searching for our place in the world, and it is in this sense that we can say that the Renaissance is still an on-going phenomenon for humankind.
Can we say, then, this is also how you as an artist relate to history, as well as to the contemporary situation?
I think painting might be the first technology in history – maybe even older than language. Maybe the idea of framing the painting came about in conjunction with the rise of sedentism – when hunter-gatherers settled down
and put fences around their dwellings. For me, ‘delirium’ is a good metaphor for the ways in which our experiences are structured now. We are constantly multi-tasking. This is the background against which art is being created today. In a multi-layered figurative painting, the classical hierarchies of art are broken and shattered into pieces.
You just mentioned artists’ drive to imitate nature. Do you think mimesis plays any role in your art? Can we still learn from imitating nature, or the works of masters?
The artist can imitate nature in a myriad of ways. But for me, the creative process is about how the artist sees the self. I choose not to imitate nature, but to imitate a mythological ‘half-god’.
When the kind of new subjectivity expressed through your art is situated in contemporary context, does it also constitute a political stance or statement?
We live in an epoch of complete commodification – or so-called postmodern age. Class politics are replaced by identity politics. Postmodernist theory insists that we forget the grand narratives; it refuses to look at the bigger picture. We have framed ourselves in little boxes. We lived through tragedy; we lived through comedy. Perhaps now we are living in a tragi-comical age.
‘My aim is to create something that cannot be easily consumed’
We have discussed history. Do you think geography, the fact that you are creating your art from Istanbul, affects the way your subjectivity is shaped?
Of course. Istanbul has been a very oriental place for Westerners – as an Other against which the West defines itself. But Istanbul used to be the heart of an empire too. This creates a
kind of self-reflexivity in Istanbul, where Orientalism and Occidentalism are clashing. It’s like having two shattered mirrors – each seeing the other fractured. Nonetheless, this is greatly advantageous for creative minds. It creates a multiplication of the Cartesian mind – if the Western/Eastern duality is maintained. This can very well carry the seeds of a new subjectivity, if taken seriously. M
inally, our generation has a poet. Clearly, our generation has many poets, from the development of spoken word poetry to the creation of hip hop. I’m talking about a poet whose work I hope will be read for years to come and viewed as a window into our decade. Perhaps, much in the way that the Harlem Renaissance had Langston Hughes, we--the occupying, free-loving, organic-eating, tree-hugging, war-hating, mixed-race, united people of tomorrow--have Dean Atta. Through his honesty and his bluntness, Atta has quickly gained attention from online followers, readers, and the media. His first collection of poems, I am Nobody’s Nigger , has recently been published and is an absolute must-read for any lover of poetry. The title poem in the collection, which has been accompanied by a video featuring onscreen support from a handful of UK rappers, is a response to people who say that “nigger” is a reclaimed word. He condemns rappers for using the word, and influencing so many others to do the same. His linking of the word to a history of bias and death make the poem an extremely powerful piece. His poem “Revolution Awaiting Warriors” is a call to arms as much as it is a call for unity. He says “Silence is the truth stolen.” Not speaking up and not standing up for ourselves is unacceptable. That is the message echoed by every Occupy camp and protest throughout the Arab world, who had finally had enough, took to the streets, and ousted their military dictators. Lastly, what revolution is complete without love? While reading Atta’s words of passion and lust, one cannot help but relate, regardless of sexual orientation. If you have ever experienced love in your life--romantic love, love for family, or love for the future--you will love Dean Atta, the poet of a new generation.
Digital projection has been hailed as a revolution in cinema. But can art-house cinemas survive this transition? Our editor Alex Zhang compares the situations in America and France.
The phrase fin de siècle evokes the image of large-scale historical transition. It often denotes the end of an era. It is perhaps a coincidence of chronology that the establishment of film as the medium of cinema and its gradual eclipse marked the beginning and end of the 20th century. The last decade saw the displacement of 35mm film projection by digital projection. Vast numbers of cinemas in the United States and Europe today have embraced digital projection. The industrial transition from 35mm to digital exhibition is very well captured by David Bordwell’s metaphor, Pandora’s digital box. Most major American multiplex or megaplex operators have successfully completed the digital transition despite initial resistance and speculation. However, the same process proves to be extremely difficult for arthouse theatre operators in the
US who find it almost impossible to afford the digital metamorphosis. For them, the “digital revolution” seems to be the apocalyptic horsemen announcing the end of their business – art-house cinema’s fin de siècle.
Historically, most major technological innovations in the film industry have been introduced in the production sector. The exhibition sector has traditionally resisted technological changes initially due to the risks involved in technological shift. If a new technology does not catch on, the exhibition sector often has to bear most of the cost. The distribution sector in the US has grown over the years to become the most powerful and profitable sector. The current digital revolution not only represents vast potential cost savings for distributors, but also gives them more power over exhibitors. In other words, digital conver-
sion signals another victory for the distribution sector and further consolidation of the oligopoly of the major production and distribution companies in Hollywood.
This essay does not seek to deny the validity of Bordwell’s insight, that “the ongoing digital revolution can be conceptualised as the product of a long historical process of the changes in technology”, but aims to add another dimension to his arguments by comparing the experiences of American and French arthouse theatres in the current digital conversion process. Technological and industrial changes are not uniform, but uneven processes that are facilitated or constrained by specific geographies that circumscribe them. The current “digital tide” does not sweep across the globe with equal ferocity, leaving a homogenous industrial landscape in its wake. Instead differences in cultural-political environment produce varied impacts on art-house theatres undergoing the digital transition.
The adoption of a new technology in cinema goes through the phases of “invention” (the development of
necessary technology), “innovation” (the manufacturing and marketing of the technology), and “diffusion” (its widespread adoption by the industry). The condition in which this process takes place is constantly changing, resulting in the uneven development of new technologies.
Due to the risk-averse nature of the exhibition sector, it is often the most conservative towards technological change. The digital conversion of cinemas was initially very sluggish until three important
problems were sufficiently tackled: a common industrial standard, the ability to demonstrate the benefit of the new technology to the audience, and cost effectiveness.
The prophecy of the digital revolution was announced more than a decade ago. At the ShoWest Exhibition in Las Vegas in March 1999, exhibitors were intrigued by the presentation of the “digital future” of exhibition in the film business. Later in the same year, one of the most vocal champions of digital cinema,
George Lucas, showed his new film, Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace, in four cinemas in the United States with digital projection. Confident that the future would be digital, he compared the digital transition to the coming of sound and colour, and announced that not only will films now be made digitally, they will also be distributed and exhibited digitally.
But the exhibition sector did not respond with equal enthusiasm. The lack of a common industrial standard
for projection made it very risky for exhibitors to embrace large-scale conversion. 35mm film prints can be distributed around the world, and every cinema equipped with a projector will be able to project the film in a routine operation. Digital files, however, were not universally compatible. In order to eliminate this problem, the major Hollywood distributors – MGM, Paramount, Sony
Pictures, 20th Century Fox, Universal, Disney, and Warner Bros. – decided to form the Digital Cinema Initiative (DCI) in 2002 in order to establish a set of specifications for digital cinema. These specifications were published in 2005 and sought to end debates within the industry regarding questions such as minimum resolution, file format, encryption methods, and the risks of piracy.
The introduction of the DCI specifications meant that major Hollywood distributors would be releasing films in a common format to ensure inter-operability. The competition in hardware also settled with Texas Instruments’ Digital Light Process (DLP) projector system as the winner against its major competitor Hughes/JVC. Now three major manufacturers of digital projectors, Barco, Christie,
NEC, have acquired licences from Texas Instruments to make DLP projectors that are compliant to the DCI specifications, dominating the market. An additional advantage for distributors is that they will have more control of the use of their contents. Encrypted digital files require specially delivered digital keys, which enables the exhibitor to read the file at specific times. This gives distributors a “re-
mote control” over exhibitors’ programming.
However, for a new technology to catch-on, there has to be something worthwhile in store for the audience too.
Writing in 2002, John Belton argued that the digitisation of cinema was not comparable to the introduction of synchronised sound and colour; it was a “false revolution” that would mainly benefit Hollywood oligopoly, but would of-
fer no new experience for the audience. But Champions of digital cinema were aware of the potential disappointment audiences would feel toward a digitally projected image. One article in Boxoffice discussed possible branding strategies for digital cinema:
“…it will be important to keep marketing in check with the value perceived by the audience. In other words, don’t over-hype digital cinema into
something it’s not. The value of digital perceived by the audience will vary from little to significant, depending on creative use of the content and what special enhancements are being used.”
However, John Belton, when making the argument in 2002, was not able to take into account the demonstrating power of 3D. Increasing numbers of films made and distributed in 3D boosted
demand for the new digital technology.
There was, in other words, a concerted effort by the Hollywood oligopoly to push through digital cinema. But the cost of conversion remained high; it was too much a financial risk for exhibitors to take, especially during the early 2000s when many American theatre chains, which operate thousands of megaplexes, were filing
bankruptcy protections. The potential cost-savings of digital cinema are, still, predominantly on the side of distributors. Digital cinema files, or the Digital Cinema Packages (DCPs), stored on a hard-drive or delivered via satellite, present huge savings opportunities for distributors. Traditionally, it costs about $1,500 to $2,500 to make a 35mm print, whereas a DCP hard drive costs only
about $150 to make. A projector that conforms to DCI specifications costs about $100,000. Unlike technologies such as mobile phones or personal computers which have an economy of scale that can quickly bring down the cost, digital projectors are not likely to be a product to achieve mass circulation, especially when megaplexes have reached a kind of saturation point, and are faced with mounting pressure from growing home entertainment innovations like HDTV and Video-On-Demand. The cost
of projectors is not likely to decline.
Because of this, even the most widely adopted business model is the Virtual Print Fee (VPF) system. This model resembles a kind of bank loan system where the digital projector is “leased” to theatre operators through a third party called an “integrator”, which gets a loan from a bank to purchase the projector. Apart from the contribution from exhibitors, the distributor pays a fee, now about $800, when a DCP is used and projected, to the integrator to-
wards the total cost of installation of new equipments. After enough digital projections have been made, the cost of the projector will be covered by the sum of Virtual Print Fees paid by distributors and the exhibitor’s contributions; the exhibitor will in turn own the projector. Despite the fees paid by distributors, many art-house theatres in the US still cannot afford the required contribution.
While the VPF scheme, which will close its sign-up period in 2013, has helped some theatres, according to
the National Association of Theatre’s (NATO) estimates, around 20% of the theatres in the US, representing some 10,000 screens, would have to close because they cannot afford the ferry fare across the digital river that is dividing the American cinematic landscape.
Another problem facing this 20% of theatres is the availability of films that attract attendance - two-thirds of all ticket sales at arthouse theatres are still based on major features. However, because of the “Digital revolution” those films that are considered ‘mainstream’ are becoming less and less available. Twentieth Century Fox notified theatre owners in April 2012 that it will stop releasing films on 35mm print in about two years time. It is likely that other Hollywood majors will soon follow suit. If art-house theatres fail to successfully convert to digital, they will not be able to show films produced by Hollywood majors, or any other digitally distributed independent films that conform to the DCI specification.
The small theatres in the US have been responding to the challenge of digitisation in various ways. In the absence of any governmental support, some have appealed to the communities that they are embedded in for donations.
The County Theatre in Doylestown, Pennsylvania is one such theatre that successfully transitioned to digital with the help of its community. This follows the growing consensus among art-house theatre owners that they should re-orient themselves as non-profit theatres that are “community-based and mission-driven”, theatres that “generate revenue from sources beyond the typical sale of tickets and popcorn”. However, this kind of “cappuccino” multi-purpose art-house venue also needs substantial capital for its survival and models like this are not likely to save many theatres. Also, the kind of cinephilic culture that will bolster ticket sales takes time to foster: many independent theatres will have already closed before such a culture is mature enough to bail them out.
Caught in this ongoing technological and industrial upheaval, the digital future does not
shine bright on the silver screens of art-house theatres in the US. It is perhaps not a surprising conclusion to draw given the political as well as cultural environment of the US in which the digitisation process is unfolding. Where free-market doctrines are the rules of the game, it is almost cliché to assert that the trend of history is on the side of oligopoly and that smaller theatres are left on their own to fend for themselves. Without public support, digital cinema simply “doesn’t add up” for arthouse cinemas. They can be seen, in the last analysis, as the “collateral damage” caused by the “logic of capital accumulation”.
Compared to the up-hill struggle art-house theatres in the US face, the European counterparts are fairing much better. Norway’s cinemas are predominantly public-owned, and by 2011, all cinemas in Norway have been converted for digital projection. A tax credit system is adopted in Italy, and the British Film Council has invested £34 million in building over 200 digital screens across the country with a focus on independent/British-oriented programming. The European Commission’s MEDIA Programme also explicitly recognises the need for state support for small theatres, and offers various public funding channels to help small theatres digitise.
President of NATO in the US, John Fithian, reporting on the European Cinema Summit in Brussels in 2009, loathed the “religious fervour” of the “massively protective policies” of European governments against “the invading hordes of American entertainment”. He complained that such measures would have been against international trade rules were it not for UNESCO’s distinction of “culture” from other forms of trade. The result of such protective measures is that “way too many” European films get made every year. The investment of millions of Euros by EU governments to help theatres convert to digital sounds almost alien to Fithian, who takes the American lais-
sez-faire industrial environment as the norm.
The experience of France is a particularly good case wherein two significant features stand out. One is the strong state support for French cinema; the other is an art-house friendly cinephilic culture. By early 2012, over 3,600 screens, two-thirds of national total, had switched over to digital in France. The difference between France and other EU countries is perhaps France’s adamant stance on the policy of “cultural exception”. Since the General Agreement on Tariffs and Trade (GATT) negotiations in 1993, the French government has insisted on a policy that treats cultural products, such as films, differently than other commodities that are subject to international free-trade rules. France has also been a vocal advocate for the “cultural diversity” agenda set by UNESCO to the discomfort of the United States. Since Mitterrand’s Socialist government in the 1990s, the policy of cultural exception has been the most defended policy despite governmental changes.
Even the conservative Sarkozy government prided itself on not cutting state budget for arts funding. In fact, state budget for arts funding increased during Sarkozy’s government. Commenting on the success of Michel Hazanavicius’ The Artist (2011), President Sarkozy said in a radio interview that the film’s success “should reinforce the idea of supporting creation, of supporting directors…we must defend the cinema, defend authors”. The presidential candidate of the Socialist Party at that time, François Hollande, also attributed the international success of The Artist to “a specific means of financing” that is “the strength of French cinema.” When it comes to cinema, French “protectionism” and “anti-Americanism”, a source of frequent complaint for Hollywood, seems to unite both the left and the right of French political spectrum.
This policy is likely to continue under the current Socialist government led by Hollande.In
terms of public funding for cinema, the French government has been exceptionally generous. Elevated to status of the emblem of French culture, cinema has become the centre around which the French government constructs its public image. In a way it was French cinema that led the fight against globalisation in Europe. The Centre National du Cinéma (CNC), the French equivalent of the British Film Council, has been offering generous financial support for French cinema since the 1980s. In the current wave of digital cinema conversion, the CNC has also thrown its weight behind small theatres that might be financially endangered. According to Variety, the CNC expects to spend about €125 million over a three-year period from 2010 onwards to help cinemas complete the digital transition. The public subsidy will cover 90% of the conversion costs for theatres in small towns and rural areas, as well as cinemas that are experiencing financial difficulty. Coupled with subsidies, there are also bank loan guaranties available for cinemas that lack the means to convert.
Another factor that makes France stand out is its cinephilic culture and its popular support for independent cinema. In other European countries, Hollywood films dominate about 90% of box office; the same figure is about 4565% in France. It is argued that digital rollout in Europe since 2009 has been driven by 3D, and has been benefiting Hollywood at the expense of European cinema, as most Hollywood majors have been releasing their films in DCP format while many European distributors were still making 35mm prints. Again, the French case seems to be the exception. The year 2011 was a particularly good one for French films; French titles accounted for 41% of the box office sales, whereas in other European countries, the domestic market share was in single digits. In 2004, art-house cinemas sold over 50 million tickets – over a quarter of all admissions in France. Unlike in the United States, more than 40% of French cinemas are officially designated as art-houses. Every French locale with over
200,000 inhabitants has an art-house cinema, and over 63% of towns with a population less than 10,000 do. Art-house cinemas in France, unlike those in the US, are not an endangered species. Art-houses in the US, often characterised by the trade press as representing a marginalised “niche market”, are caught in an existential crisis in the current digital era. Whereas their French counterparts, far from constituting a negligible “niche market”, are still a vital part of ordinary French cultural fabric and are in very good health.
American and French art-house theatres are experiencing the “digital revolution” in strikingly different ways, and the comparison leads to a conclusion that paints a different picture than the apparently irresistible Americanisation of digital culture.
Both American and French art-house cinemas are subject to the potential financial stress produced by the rapid technological change. However the situation of American art-house theatres is alarming due to the consolidation of oligopoly power and government negligence, whereas the French scene is much more optimistic due to the public support received by French art-house cinemas.
The experience of French art-house cinemas indicates that cultural-political environment does influence the effects a technological change can have on the film industry. The damaging effects of digitisation on art-house theatres in the US, driven by the Hollywood oligopoly, are mitigated by the protective public policies and the art-house friendly cinephilic culture in France. Governmental intervention in the film industry seems almost unimaginable in the American context, whereas in France, it is a policy that unites the political spectrum. Perhaps there is a valuable lesson that can be learnt from the “anti-Americanism” adopted by the French government. To use Bordwell’s metaphor, “Pandora’s digital box” does not necessarily spell doom for all arthouse theatres; it depends on where you open it. M
Spit flies
In poor direction
Angers, egos flare
We are five
He is one
Strident lack of care
Legally a boy
Illegally drunk
He invokes
Profanity’s vengeance
Then his hand
Agitated reaches Into His black sweatpants
Breathless dread
Bewildered beseeches
Caution, ending of rants
His hand comes out
Too slow for steel
It’s wood his fingers grasp!
A child’s hurley
Red grip frayed
He’s pulled it from his ass!
One wide swing
We rush in
Disarm him
Pin him, squirming
Sirens abound
Blue lights surround
This laughable
Teenage warrior
the state seams undressed, lolls mind’s the gap. Sole coming out a bathroom’s stall. Barred
Your hand is not a metro stop (though i did get off, i did sleep, reminded of bouquets of buttery piss. The wet fluorescence subsides; noise cancelings in to mute alarms like Disney soundtracks.
A gate grey locked and Le Monde in the corner thank you, “well-pleased pleaser,” for these huddled polyglots. Growling gut, sick from porridge delicious as poverty to a Polish Marxist.
A gender away & skint on autodialogues from a bender; Bulleit and coke drooling out her nose in 1080dpi. Intervening blocks, centripetal polygons alie
allez rinsing off / the smell of Gallieni a transient between trench and center. Decide: freeze or stink?
Not the width of the Atlantic between us, but the accidental Faraday cage, the length of the waves prevents resting, again, on your cool concrete in nights where you scorched my sieving rakish spring.
Drag down smoke— dehydrate, alveoli, my blackening boughs.
Knights battling with trees
Rum in hand in red plastic cups
Tire irons, pine cones
Muddy shoes, beer cans
Waging war – determination
Dodging and focus
The tree shakes under the retaliation.
Dodging and focus
And the frisbee comes free.
Right turn down
A spitfire sundial
We watch duelling rain
Fall through crowds
Famed boulevards
Framed in string quartet
Tributes bloom sweetly
In our ears
Today’s a puddle
Vibrant water pools
We tip on toes ‘round footprints
Filling up to school
Music grows
In my good time
Solo bending slow
Knees like old gears creek
We take a cup midmorning
Repair a good day
Spoiling
Rotten dreams
In the dream both her nipples are pierced, A strange heaviness in my mouth as she pulls me further into warm, spiced flesh. We spend all the next morning in the preserved warmth of a mattress on the floor.
On awaking, head bent over coffee, the scene replays on loop like the resident melody of the ear or a comic-book superhero drawn over and over on loop like a resident melody or a muscular comic-book superhero drawn over and over in each frame.
The birdsong, from the sky-hatch window is a reminder of something else. Yet, I still spend the rest of the day chasing icy white teeth and slender rusted bars down cold bricked corridors away from each word I write.
The east-side hotel
Hangs with snowflakes on its windows
Icicles dangle on edge as a nation holds its breath Then smash into fragments on icy ground
Stepping outside brings cold air And waves of history
I still feel a jolt
Whenever I see a place
Where frequent faces stood before This side of the city Is full of buildings decayed with time Walls worn dirty Old and lonely parks
I am sitting on a wooden bench
Watching people go by Happy and vibrant
This would be a horrible place to die
Outside the abandoned barrier
History is just some rubble
Everything has merged into one as far as the eye can see But in some parts this place Is still 1963
The other side of the city computers light up the sky
Crowds flock through marble squares
My mind alive with the modern world Cars line streets
I have to cross the road more carefully Sitting in this prism
I stare at the altar of God
He is a symbol here And a presence there
by Joe BaldwinWhen I sit on buses
I feel I am in London or New York
When back on the other side of history’s greatest divide Things are quieter
There is a respect for times gone past A respect that even the other place has allowed to last.
In the winter garden my feet froze. I could feel them. Nails turning yellow, then hard as if that was the way.
We talk about things we could think of not what we want to say in the winter garden it is so.
Your gurgle echoes off walls wisps of smoke from a pyre enough to give my extremities faux warmth.
True, though we afford too much life to it, snow in our winter garden will soon melt, but will not thaw.
True, though it’s a secret space, we are afraid, unable to describe the outside world avoiding opinions that will lead back the wrong way.
Yes, cobbled stones, a little ankle high dead hedge, coniferous vines - all the white in our Winter Garden.
longer hear the sound of the river, which means that time has stopped. Bracing for the inevitable end of the world that she can feel coming, she closes her eyes and clings to her friend. She knows that soon it will all be over and finally back to reality. Still drunk but no longer lost, both girls turn and say together in unison, as if they really had been tossing thoughts to each other “I’m so glad we are both still here.” Holding hands, they return to the fire, where a collection of kids who were not interested in finding out what that random drug would do are drinking beer and toasting marshmallows. There, a boy turns to them and with a smile says “Welcome back. You two look like fawns in headlights.” The girls laugh lightly, for that is exactly how they feel.
by Kelly Mongillo
Two girls are laying in a plowed hayfield along the Susquehanna Valley in September. They are tripping on some legal weed substitute garbage that they bought at a truck stop in Pennsylvania. They are staring at the stars, holding hands, clinging to each other, laughing hysterically. The girl on the left is laughing because the stars keep twinkling in and out of existence, making the cutest little noise like the soft peep of a chick. The girl on the right is laughing because the moon is giving her the thumbs up. They are both attempting to tell the other one what is happening but words won’t come out so they just keep eye contact in hopes of sharing thoughts subliminally or by pitching brain waves back and forth in the dark.
they kept racing, Village to village raiding, Carcasses of sons carelessly left out baking under the sun for the ravens. Then it came back to him Like life is reborn. A town in which they swarmed With faces like his own Was truth shot to be shown. Clearly he saw even if his eyes were closed, Time froze ripped the badges off his uniform Dropped the guns, walked away whole. With a hole in his heart, he was home.
Past is scared future of his soul is sold and signed away on that straight line, the mirage assured him his salvation has come to him.
Flown to a zone unknown, Yet was very well his own. While pleased to be accepted He believes to feel collected, what came next was surely unexpected, or was it? Flipping through channels he had caught it on TV. Thrown into battle Hit! Its reality. Clutching his knee limping he chose his destiny. Scoping for the remote Hoping to turn off misery!
War wounds battered his body badly bruised and aching
There was a child bright-eyed and cheery, Weary and scattered he grew of his own strange brew. A different kind of strand he stands feeling stranded. No one to lend a helping hand.
He’s drowning, Attempting to swim off this nightmare of an island. Suddenly it came to him like death comes to all. With arms in his palms he rose up tall, swore the oath and marched forth.
photos by Lindsay Schmitt
am the perfect match. Then we can start our family then. We will sleep through my alarm and cuddle with the sheets together. Our non-lying family. It is forbidden to lie in our family. Damn lying people! I bet you have no idea about any of this. None. Bring me some more rum now, please. Why is the rum gone? I run out pretty quick these days. I must be drinking a lot. Maybe not. Maybe the bottles are getting smaller. They lie anyways! The companies. The alcohol companies, the drug companies and the banks. They lie big time. They lie big and simple. Like Adolf said, ‘make it big, so big that they will be afraid to deny it’. The lying companies and the lying families, they are the core of these church-going and lying societies.
That wasn’t the best idea. Never been. But the church-going family! Who knows what else is going on there? I can picture the faux joy leads them into a race. Do they even know what is possibly going on in my head right now? Do they even know about my existence? My sole existence? Do they even know that I know about them? Who knows. ‘Cuddling with bed sheets’, you are still questioning that one right? You must think that I am weird, a creep even. Weirdo maybe. I am. I am bit of weird. It’s been a long time since I cuddled with an actual human being. That doesn’t mean I like this situation though. It’s because they lie, the women –and I don’t like lies. But I can say, I have a shared toilet and a small kitchenette, with also a desk and sheets to share as well. She would read my ad and understand that I
by Osman Nuri Iyem
I t must be late. Almost noon, or afternoon. Maybe earlier though. You wouldn’t know thatme neither. Lying down on my bed, crushed up under my blanket and in between my sheets, I can see the gray sky. At least parts of it, a partial view, I would say. Other buildings are higher anyways. A partial gray sky view. That can go in my ad when I need to find a roommate. I woke up earlier actually. My alarm went like crazy. But I slept through. I remember saying to myself, I can just cuddle with my sheets for a while. That’s what made me sleep this late. I shouldn’t have. Not that I had anything to do this morning, but my alarm stays on, just an old habit. Reminiscence of my old life in a way. But the old and cold coffee. Did I tell you there was mold on it? But I drank it anyways. I shouldn’t have. Maybe just a little to swallow the pills, but WHY DO I HAVE TO GO ALL THE WAY ALL THE TIME?
must be in tears. She is, I am not. Not scared I am. Caffeine just started to kick in. I’ll be awake to catch them to explain it’s not my fault when they all fall to my room. Shit. My heart must be beating faster than the church’s bell. Can I actually hear thatmy heart beating? Would it matter? It would matter if there was a difference. And there shouldn’t be any difference why should there be any different than each other, my heart beat and God’s? They should have been the same anyways. One heart. Smeothnig must have gnoe terribly worng along the way. Dman. But I am on pcaraetmeol rgiht? That is the dfiferncee. What si the dfirecenef? Siht. I shulodn’t hvae tkean the pills.
themin desperate madness, thinking somebody might read them? Maybe I should go put my ad now, on the newspaper for a roommate. Or I can just relax and take it easy. Should come down now. Need to come down. Should I come down? I should now. These paracetemols I took and the caffeine must not be getting along with the mescaline. Down. Will I come down? Take a deep breath in and out. Naa, shit! The ceiling coming down now on me. Such scenery! Wait, what if the lying and church-going family is up above me and wildly falling down on me ? They must be scared. The young one especially
What a simple and a big lie to exist for; fake happiness which is sold at the mall. I wonder if paracetemol can have anything to do with this. I mean who knows what they put in these pills? Depressants, antidepressants or chemical castrators! God only knows what! Giving it a second thought maybe, just maybe he doesn’t know anymore either. Shit. I could have done a lot in my life. Maybe now I’ll have more coffee. Ugh. No mold in my coffee. I shouldn’t have drank that last night. Was that last night? How to know what day it is actually? God knows. Shit. What could have gone this wrong? What went this wrong in my life that I am actually writing these linesand you are reading
Students don’t need to speak fluent French to study at the University of Kent at Paris as all teaching is in English. French lessons are provided before and during the stay in Paris and living in the city helps students to gain valuable language skills and experience.
The University of Kent at Paris is based at Reid Hall, a beautiful 19th century building in the heart of Montparnasse, just minutes by foot from the Jardin du Luxembourg, the Sorbonne, the Latin Quarter and Saint- Germain-des-Prés. With trips to major museums happening most weeks, students really do get to see the best of Paris.
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