I survived E3 2002, and all I got was this Lara Croft pin-up and a massive earache. The ear pain came from several hours of communicating by yelling into the ears of others in order to be heard above the sound of car crashes, sniper fire, clashing swords, and all the other cheerful, twinkling noises that video games make.
Not that I'm complaining, no. My friend David and I were in gamers' heaven as we perused the booths, although he was often preoccupied by the fact that so many of the attendees were his height (6'4"), an improbable fact which he felt must contain some secret message. I, meanwhile, was concerned with the secret message I kept hearing from the trade show floor, and it was this: "Is there really anything wrong with owning 3 gaming consoles? Huh? Is there?"
I hate to say it but the game that really captured my attention was Panzer Dragoon Orta, an X-Box exclusive. The visuals for this game were mind-blowing. And here I was, all set to buy a Playstation 2 ("Is there anything wrong...?"). Other things that looked tasty: WarCraft III (PC), Mario Sunshine (GameCube), Age of Mythology (PC), Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon (Playstation 2), and The Lord of the Rings (X-Box). Unfortunately, a lot of the most touted games (The Sims Online, Doom III, Everquest 2) were invitation-only or required you to stand in a long line, just for a peek. I skipped that.
There was plenty of other fun stuff to see, too. I got to see Tony Hawk skating a half-pipe, and Evolution Robotics had their new robot roaming the floor. But perhaps the most exciting thing of all was the unexpected appearance of Fear Effect 3: The Inferno, starring our favorite lesbian console hero, Rain! I questioned the folks at Eidos about the title but they said they had zero information on it. However, from the footage I saw, it's quite clear that Rain's special relationships will continue to be highlighted in this new saga.

(No Spoilers.) All praise goes to my sister, whose total ass-kickingness I humbly acknowledge here. Because she is the one who got me my ticket to the Los Angeles premiere screening of Star Wars Episode II: Attack of the Clones, which I've reproduced here. If you're a fan and want a fan's perspective on the film, I'll give you the essential information right now: I think it's right up there with Episode V. I just loved the hell out of this movie.
I arrived at the Grauman's Chinese Theater yesterday at the time requested, about 2 hours early. As I descended the stairs onto Hollywood Blvd., Darth Vadar, 4 storm troopers, and Jango Fett crossed in front of me, making their way to the threshold of the theater, where they would greet the entering audience. Across the street, a crowd had gathered in the record-breaking 96 degree heat to watch the stars arrive.
Once inside the theater, I joined the other seated audience members in trying to pick out celebrities from among the better-looking and better-dressed people heading for the reserved middle seats. You would be surprised however, at how difficult it is to spot famous people in a crowded, semi-lit theater. Nonetheless, there was no mistaking Samuel L. Jackson when he entered from the back, looking stylish in a cream-colored suit and matching Kangol cap.
The actor who played Jar-Jar Binks introduced the film, which I suppose is a good segue into what's wrong with the movie. Like most fans, I had some strong reservations going into this film. First, there was the sad memory of Episode I to contend with. And, I was frankly worried about the romance at the heart of Episode II--not to be hard-hearted about it, but I'm at the age where nothing could bore me more than the idea of watching two people under the age of 20 fall in love.
But neither of those concerns proved to be a problem. The plot ticks along at a face pace, and Natalie Portman is so meltingly luscious, Hayden Christensen so broodingly charismatic, that it was easy to get wrapped up in the movie right away. However. Some of the dialogue is a bit awkward, with the result that some of the performances at times lack conviction. Luckily, those moments mostly occur in the first part of the film, and the involving plot and swift pacing quickly erased them from my memory.
Episode II is incredibly rich in detail and offers fans the kinds of rewards one would expect from a serial. The foreshadowing of future events, the resolution of backstory, and the echoing of familiar themes give the film its unique narrative texture. For that reason, the more you know and understand about the series--the inter-relationships between characters, the timeline of various events--the more satisfying this particular chapter is. Like Episode V, Episode II thrills by dramatically asking provocative questions that will need to be resolved in a later movie.
The art direction in the film is spectacular, although in some instances, the compositing of scenes is a bit rough. But in scope and consistency, the art direction, special effects, and costuming was superb. Actually, I can't say enough about the art direction. Let's just say that if you like lots of scenes of dirty, hot metal you're in for a good time. I also especially liked the deep bass effects on the soundtrack and recommend that when you do see the film, that you find the theater in your area with the best available sound system. MTFBWY.

Living in Los Angeles, one becomes used to unusual things happening in one's vicinity. Being jaded in L.A. is like a safety precaution: if you don't assume that some lunatic is going to set himself on fire on a bridge during rush hour, or that Robert Blake is going to be taken into custody down the street, or that the LAPD might at any moment appear in front of you in full riot gear, one might find oneself taken sadly, fatefully, unawares.
Still, despite being an L.A. native, I admit that I nearly caused a traffic accident this morning with my neck-craning behavior. I was just driving along my usual route, minding my own business, when suddenly:


To give you a sense of scale, here's another pic:


Since I live within spitting distance of the Sony studio--where this balloon sculpture perches on the wall facing Washington Blvd.--I was able to walk back to the area and take a few polaroids. Like the song says: Look out, here comes the Spiderman.

Yesterday afternoon, I went with my friend Joe (often seen in the Comments section) and my Cute Little Red-Haired Girlfriend to the Richard Heller Gallery in Santa Monica to see an exhibit of Dame Darcy's drawings. On display were many of the original boards from her Meat Cake comic books, along with individual pen and ink drawings and several painted Meat Cake covers.
I was impressed with the quality of the pen and ink drawings and urge you to see them in person if you have a chance. The printed comics do not do a good job, in my opinion, of capturing the subtlety and fineness of her line work. My appreciation was undoubtedly also due to the gallery format, which drew one's attention towards the drawings and downplayed the lettering and story elements, which, when viewed in the context of reading, can give an impression of busyness.
There were also what appeared to be several hand-made frames--I'm guessing they were made from construction paper, stencils, and silver spray paint--that I felt contributed to the pieces' originality. The exhibit also included a wall devoted to letters, drawings, and objects left or sent to Dame Darcy in appreciation of her work, with a line of devotional candles at the base. The DIY frames and the fan altar reminded me of Exene Cervankova, from the band X, a connection that now seems obvious but which I had heretofore not seen.

Yesterday I happened to be in downtown L.A. on an errand when I saw an unusual sight in an empty parking lot. A long line had gathered around a mid-size car, where someone appeared to be handing out clear garbage bags to a waiting crowd. The combination "car + empty parking lot + bags changing hands" is usually a sign that it would be best to move along, but since I was a comfortable distance away from the action, I just watched the scene unfold.
A security guard standing nearby noticed my attentiveness to the gathering and helpfully explained to me what was going on. Every weekend, he said, an old woman drove out to this particular parking lot and dispensed bags of goods to anyone who came. There was no announcement about it, and the woman wasn't affiliated with any organization--it was strictly a word-of-mouth deal.
It seems silly to compare an activity like giving out food and other basic items to creating, handing out, or distributing art. One seems essential and the other one doesn't. But if you believe, as the great writer Audre Lorde once wrote, that "poetry is not a luxury" and that art is not a luxury, then one understands that the two activities are related. It's just that one takes place in the social sphere, the other, in the cultural sphere.
The part of the Internet that gets me the most excited is the independent web: weblogs, p2p, small community sites. It's the part of the web that's like someone handing out trash bags full of goods from the back of a car. These are the projects where word-of-mouth or other forms of person-to person sharing create a serial effect of goodwill: culture gets passed from one person to the next, mostly for free, and sometimes building a community in the process.
I've run across a number of literary sites lately that embody this spirit. BookCrossing, for example, is a community site that encourages users to register their old books on the web site, then purposefully pass them on or leave them in public for someone else to enjoy. The finder or reader is encouraged to visit BookCrossing and leave a message about their experience with the book before passing it on again.
The site BookLend is a sort of DIY lending library. Started by a handful of individuals, visitors to the site can sign up to borrow a book from the highly personal collection. The generous lenders cover the cost of book rate postage to deliver the books, which can be kept for as long as six months before a reminder notice gently prompts their return.
Nervous Industries is an original yet unpretentious site that organizes the distribution of "Land Mail Art Objects," or just "Objects" for short. Participants sign-up to receive a journal by mail and then add, write, draw, or collage an entry based on a pre-established topic or theme. 1000 journals is a similar project, though less populist, and more arty.
I found many of these links through the most excellent Boing-Boing, one of my daily must-reads.

I recently read GameSpot's series of articles previewing what games will be coming out for the X-Box, GameCube, and PlayStation 2 over the next year or so. Until the time that I decide to plunk down several hundred dollars on one of these next generation consoles, I intend to work myself up into a frenzy of consumer anticipation by going over the pros and cons of each set-up in minute detail. I feel that will make my final purchasing choice that much more satisfying.
X-Box has two games coming out that make me drool. The first, Circus Maximus, should be released next month. It's basically a Roman-flavored chariot race in which the contenders bash each other with nasty weaponry while they compete. What more can you ask for, really? The other game I'm interested in is Project Ego, a role-playing game in which the main character interactively matures based on the decisions that one makes during the game. If you act ugly, you age ugly.
The GameCube already has the incredibly cute Pikmin available, plus the future title Eternal Darkness: Sanity's Requiem sounds really creepy. In Eternal Darkness, the player character has a "Sanity Meter" (something like Fear Effect's Fear meter, I imagine), which constantly moniters how close the character is to madness. If the character gets too whacked out while adventuring, he or she will begin to hallucinate, which changes the game environment. I love the idea of a Sanity Meter! I want one right now!
PlayStation 2, however, has the hands-down winner now with the game State of Emergency. I guess it must be because I'm from L.A., but the idea of a riot simulator is just irresistible to me. Things never get too quiet around Los Angeles, but I like the idea that if I ever get nostalgic for, say, the 2000 Democratic National Convention, I can always break out the console and relive the olden days.

Last week's LA Weekly has a multitude of articles on comics, all worth checking out.

I found a lot of food for thought in an interview with the Hernandez Brothers, Jaime and Gilbert, regarding their most popular comic creation, "Love and Rockets." I never knew that it was their mother, a rabid comic book reader, that instilled in them a love for comics. So often, comics readers are referred to as one homogenous group: "teenage boys." Although the bulk of readers may fall into this category, I wish there was more recognition of female readers of various ethnicities, sexual preferences, and age groups.
The brothers amusingly discuss the difficulties they encountered when they began to draw women--how they initially misunderstood female bodily proportions relative to male figures. Eventually, they came to love drawing women and discuss how their own desires and the women in their lives--relatives, mostly--have affected the way they represent female characters.
Gilbert also talks about what it was like for them to be Chicanos involved in L.A.'s punk culture--which I loved because I was going to clubs in L.A. at that time and listening to Chicano punk bands like the Plugz and the Brat and it was cool to hear about it from another perspective. Jaime also surprised me by remarking about his popular "Love and Rockets" character Hopey, "It's hard to imagine a sexier character than a 21-year-old punk rock chick." I'm not going to argue with that.

I recently read "Aria: the Soul Market #3," which I picked up at the monthly Los Angeles Comic Convention held at the Shrine Auditorium.
There were good aspects and bad aspects to this Aria number. On the positive side, Aria's new artist shows off some creative paneling in the telling of this story; on the negative side--and I've noticed this before in other titles by other publishers--is that the artist changed midway through the issue. Now, in this case, the substitute artist was a good one, but that's not the point. There was no narrative reason for the change in style and so it detracted from the story. It reminded me of those ocassions when an actor is replaced on a soap opera without warning.
The Comic Convention was fun. My girlfriend and I were invited by my friend Joe and we were introduced to a friend of his who is an old-time Wonder Woman fan. I hadn't been to this particular convention since I was in high school some twenty years ago so it was fun to go back and see what it was like. More toys, more Japanese items than I remember, but basically pretty much the same.

This past week, I went to see the "Road to Aztlan" exhibit at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art. The exhibit displayed the history and imagery of Aztlan, the mythic homeland of the Aztecs. As is almost always the case with exhibitions devoted to Mexican art that encompass long stretches of time, the break between the pre-Columbian and colonial periods was striking. This exhibit, however, illustrated the transitional phase between pre-Columbian and colonial art through several religious images that showed native artists first copying the European style and then slowly adapting local artistic styles and techniques to Catholic imagery. I thought it made a strong and compelling demonstration of the syncretic religious process.
I've seen stronger collections of pre-Columbian art at LACMA before; I thought the real strength of this exhibit was in its contemporary selections. Choosing representative examples of contemporary art is difficult and I have to take my hat off to LACMA for consistently choosing to highlight contemporary art in its major exhibits. One of my favorite artists on display was Enrique Chagoya, represented by two pieces, both of which incorporated comics. They reminded me of Scott McCloud's argument in "Understanding Comics," in which he makes the case for many early forms of art--including Egyptian hieroglypics and Mexican codices--as examples of comics or "sequential art."

I watched Toy Story 2 last night on DVD. I hadn't seen it before, but I agreed with what the critics had said about it--that it was as good as the first one.
I really enjoyed the characterization of the toy collector--played by the always-good-to-see Wayne Knight--as an underground hipster type, such as are frequently found in certain parts of L.A. They had all the accoutrements down: from the classic 1950s car to the retro modern furniture in his home. That was a giggle, particularly since I'll bet it was intended as something of a self-parody on the part of the animators.
I also loved the scene where the toy repairman comes in with all his paraphernalia to clean the cowboy doll. I was fascinated by all the tools and the obsessive detail of it all.
My girlfriend and I were embarrassed to find ourselves tearing up during the Sarah McLachlan song, about the pain experienced by a toy when it is discarded by its owner. I have to give big points to this movie for its effective use of music, since so many movies seem to have songs pinned on to them without regard to how they contribute to story development.
The massive Barbie doll pool party was on screen for only a moment or two but my mind boggled with the many Sapphic possibilities. An idea for a sequel, perhaps?
I also enjoyed the "outtakes" that were included as part of the DVD bonus material. It was a fun goof on the concept of bloopers, which I usually find somewhat boring.

Last night I read the interview with artist Raymond Pettibone in L.A. Weekly, conducted by novelist Dennis Cooper. Pettibone talks about his work in relation to cartoons and comics and claims a closer artistic affiliation to comics than to illustration. In comics, Pettibone asserts, writing and drawing are born of the same artistic moment, whereas in illustration, there is a descriptive intent that is based on the priority of writing. In other words, illustration comments on writing but comics is an organic presentation of drawing and writing. There is also a nice enlargement feature on the web site that allows the reader to see samples of Pettibone's work close up.

Last weekend I went to the Getty Museum in order to see an exhibit on
landscape drawing. It was, however, the landscape itself that captured my attention on this trip, especially the central garden designed by Robert Irwin. Walking through the main garden, one finds an incredible density of imagery in a relatively small space. Irwin has arranged the landscape into a compact sequence of views, with each view providing a separate and distinct angle on the central garden. The walk begins at the top of a hill with a spectacular view overlooking the wide expanse of Los Angeles, before then descending along an abruptly angular zigzag path offering a newly framed section of the garden with each turn. At the bottom of the hill, the view again broadens into a panoramic view of the city, along with a backward view onto the multi-tiered garden, which appears to be held back by a broad purplish stone wall over which a waterfall breaks. Then the walk continues with more partial views of the garden, this time by way of a circular maze-like path that ends with an actual formal maze arrangement of azaleas sunken in a large shallow pool. This back and forth movement between large-scale views and smaller, partial ones is emphasized by Irwin's unusual emphasis on plant foliage as opposed to plant flower. Irwin creates broad tapestries of silver and purple foliage and at the same time spotlights unusually textured and patterned foliage, bringing what are usually thought of as background elements to prominence. I have visited many beautiful gardens but I don't think I have ever seen one that made me think as much as this one did.

Yesterday, I unexpectedly received a half day off from my employer--whom I shall hereafter refer to only as "TheMan.com." I decided to take advantage of the time off by going to see the "Superflat" exhibit at the newly opened MOCA Gallery at the Pacific Design Center. The exhibit documented the influence of Japanese manga comics on Japanese art and design, focusing particularly on its two-dimensional qualities.
The Gallery was rather small, only two rooms split between two stories, with the larger not quite big enough to hold a mid-size airplane (more on that later). The exhibit showed a wide variety of art and design objects, including fashion, photography, models, animation cels, video, drawings, commercial objects, and a number of installations. Unfortunately, there were only a smattering of examples in each medium, which made it difficult to draw conclusions regarding the show's theme. This was especially true due to the lack of curatorial context for most of the items--aside from a brief statement, there was little to help the viewer make sense of the collection.
Nonetheless, the exhibit was worth attending as a kind of teaser for further exploration into Japanese art and culture. There were several striking installations, including an airplane composed of 15,000 sequential photographs and cellophane tape and a startling wall-sized digital print of Karen Carpenter, hung sideways. My top find was the animator Koji Morimoto, represented by a series of concept sketches and animated cells. The pornographic influence of manga was also well represented in a number of rather haunting illustrations.

I recently viewed the Max Palevsky Collection of Japanese Woodblock Prints at
LACMA and can recommend it to anyone living in the LA area. The exhibit consists of 50 prints by three artists collected by Palevsky: Harunobu, Utamaro, and the most famous of the three, Hokusai (his "Great Wave" is the star of LACMA's permanent collection of Japanese woodblock prints).
The curator who ran the tour of the exhibit explained that in their time Japanese woodblock prints served the same sort of function as photographs do today--they were mass produced and intended for mass consumption, and they were also highly disposable. Not surprisingly, subjects were often those with mass appeal: scenic spots, celebrities from the opera and theater, beautiful women.
My favorite of the three artists was Harunobu. His color palette was muted but distinct, his compositions strong, and I especially liked his depictions of women in quiet moments of reflection. There were several gorgeous examples of triptychs by Utamaro--sophisticated three-panel prints that were unified by a single horizontal element, such as a scarf or long boat, running across the panels.
The Hokusai prints included several examples from his print sequences Thirty-six Views of Mount Fuji and Eight Waterfalls. I've reproduced one of the Thirty-six Views prints from the exhibit, called "Couriers Leaving Sekiya Village on the Sumida River," below.

One of my favorite things about the exhibit was hearing about Max Palevsky's strategy for collecting these prints. Palevsky, who made his fortune in high tech, chose to impose order on his collection by limiting it to 50 prints. Once he had collected 50 prints, he was forced to "trade up"--that is, he had to discard one of the 50 in order to replace it with another print of higher quality. As the quality of his collection steadily increased, his choices of what to keep and what to discard became more excruciating as the qualitative distinctions between prints grew finer and finer.
For a collector of large monetary means like Palevsky, limiting his collection to 50 prints makes perfect sense. If one is strapped for cash, then collecting quantities of any item is a challenge, and the joy of collecting comes from overcoming those obstacles to accumulation. But if one is very wealthy, the obstacles to quantity do not exist. It is by restricting quantity artificially that the wealthy collector is able to invoke the drama of loss and recovery that animates the collector's passion.