Tag Archives: rap music

Why I’m Still Here Is Still Such An Amazing, Quirky Film

It’s been almost a decade and a half since Casey Affleck’s I’m Still Here perplexed us all. On reflection, it is a piece of modern motion picture history and a masterpiece.

I say history because this just might be a first. Not even Borat with its pseudo-documentary style challenged moviegoers to discern whether what they were seeing was real or scripted. One thing is certain, Affleck’s film had us all believing that what we are witnessing on screen was in fact real. That’s because the film I’m Still Here was pitched, produced, filmed and shown worldwide as a documentary when in fact it wasn’t one. Or was it?

Plot Arc

A famous Hollywood actor will act no more and wants only to pursue his dream of becoming a rap music artist.

The Caper

While this film was being made- many people in Joaquin Phoenix’ circle including David Letterman, Ben Stiller and rap artist-producer Sean “Puff Daddy” Combs believed that Phoenix was going critical mass and turning his life away from cinema for good.

Stylistically, this film is a voyeur’s dream come true.

The camera follows him everywhere. Nothing seems set up or imagined. There isn’t much humor in this film unless you enjoy seeing a man seemingly self–implode and wreak havoc around insular members of his posse. (I laughed more than once.) Or, unless you cynically enjoyed David Letterman interviewing Joaquin and failing miserably in front of millions of live viewers.  (I laughed more than once.)

How about watching Joaquin stalk Puff Daddy with his demo CD only to be told “we ain’t working together”?

Whatever hidden meanings are to be found, this is a dark, dark film that impacts so forcefully because Affleck’s vision peels away the layers of Phoenix’ psyche. To an unsuspecting viewer it might all be real and that allows the movie to offer two legitimate yet different meanings. If this pre-AI mockumentary/documentary can seem so believably real, then we need to question everything that we see and read because it proves that the recipes available for cinema are indeed powerfully manipulative.

No One Is Safe From The Brute Force Of Introspection

Joaquin’s best friend appears as loyal manservant and tragically flawed aspiring musician who feeds Joaquin’s desires and takes a bastion of abuse (you’ll have to see it to believe it). The story revolves and evolves around these types of  dysfunctional connections and we are meant to endure it all. While doing so a powerfully subconscious investment in the characters is formed- it’s almost the same effect as slowing down at an accident scene and not being able to take your eyes off the situation.

Before watching this film I did not fully comprehend the impacts that media, fandom and an expectant audience have on a celebrity: Joaquin is mocked and misunderstood.  And for what? For establishing a new persona and a new artistic goal. For example, after a filmed rejection by Phoenix and perhaps believing Joaquin’s behavior to be real,  Ben Stiller wears a long hair wig, unruly beard and glasses for an Academy Award night schlock presentation. Hey, wasn’t that Steven Spielberg in the audience belly laughing along?

This movie’s effect is profound.

It’s a bag of emotional extremism, sympathy, repulsion, sorrow, and a dash of joy. It’s biblical in theme and it might not be such a stretch to suggest that Phoenix’ story mirrors aspects of The Mocking Of Jesus.

There are never enough positives to really help us feel good while trying to understand the point of it all.  Even if Joaquin manages to discard his former celebrity actor self and transform we wonder if he will be any happier as a rap artist. He seems like he’s incapable of happiness, unless of course it’s all an act.

Is the film a cautionary tale about the ramifications of an a-list celebrity actor that turns their back on the Hollywood establishment? Does it suggest that we take inventory of our expectations and of our blind trust in the media complex? Should we now question what we think, see and believe? Watch this film and find out for yourself. For the Silo, Jarrod Barker.

Griots And A Strong Sense Of What Hip-Hop Means

Mos def has a strong sense of what hip-hop means

Hip-hop is not rap, although rap is part of hip-hop. Hip-hop is a culture and style that was born in the American city, growing out of the minds and experiences of predominantly African-American communities in late ’70’s New York. But by now it is everywhere. They love hip-hop in India and South America and here where I live in Norfolk, most farmers may not listen to hip-hop, but their kids certainly do.

Hip-hop is also a beat: the beat of rap music, the beat of the city beating here in the country, over the airwaves and out of car windows, vibrating through headphones in the air-conditioned cabs of tractors. It is a beat originally created by isolating the percussion breaks of jazz and funk records and remixing them live for dancing and block party revelry, and later to accompany the flowing, groove poetry of a whole new kind of poet: the rapper, Master of Ceremonies or MC—often poor and disenfranchised, but still creative, soulful and strong. Hip-hop, in its original form, could be considered a kind of technological, urban folk music, in the sense that its early practitioners did not record their sounds, and even resisted recording. Hip-hop was something that happened live.

But was rapping really a new form? There is another part of this story that has always interested me. In many of the African tribes from which slaves were stolen, the griot (pr. gree-oh) was a cultural fixture. Griots were to West-Africa what the bards or troubadours were to Europe: mobile repositories of history in the form of oral tradition; cultural history sung and chanted to the beat of drums. Except in the case of the griot, that beat was African.

Griots were also expected to improvise poetry based on the current social and political scene, and were known for their sharp wit and verbal mastery. In many parts of West-Africa, a party still isn’t a party without a griot.

It is a testimony to the resilience of slaves that, denied the right to speak their own languages, they found other ways to speak, and sing, their true voices. There were the work songs of course,   documented before they disappeared in the field recordings of Alan Lomax. But consider other examples. As blacks embraced Christianity, they injected the forms of church with Africanness. Black preaching became famous for its emotional power, spontaneity and, you guessed it, verbal mastery. Black gospel, blues and then jazz took the existing forms of American church music, folk and brass military music and made them African. Jazz and blues again incorporated the principle of the masterful voice, not spoken this time, but sung through the instrument itself, giving us the improvised instrumental solo. And rock and roll is a whole other subject…

Given this history, hip-hop is seen as an urban innovation on an old theme and a turn, perhaps full circle, back to the centrality of The Word. Rap is not merely poetry to a beat: these words flow with and around beats to create layers of syncopation, tickling the mind while they move the body. They are polyrhythms with verbal content.

At this level hip-hop is an art form, and while we may not always like the content of an artist’s message, if we care about art we can still engage with it on the basis of its merits. And we may consider its context. Some people, even creative people, will respond to poverty and systemic oppression with anger and violence. Some will focus their desire on all the trappings of money and fame formerly denied them. It’s not so hard to fathom.

But there are some, a few, who go another direction for justice. These are the warrior-poets who seek from pain the gifts of understanding, even wisdom. Even love. Hip-hop is known to borrow motifs from kung-fu movies, because there, too,  you find the archetype of the warrior-artist, skills honed to razor sharpness, delivering beat-downs with fists if necessary, but just as often with the mind itself.

Granted, you will not find much of this style of writing on the radio. But it’s out there. To dig deeper, Google “conscious hip-hop” or “underground hip-hop” and see where that takes you. Word.  For the Silo, Chris Dowber.