Film

Blow Up

by Andy Spletzer

Experimental filmmaker Phil Solomon has been making movies since 1978, each of them dreamy collages of found footage and distressed film that have been looped and manipulated through the optical printer. Despite winning numerous awards and having his work collected at respected institutions like the Museum of Modern Art, in all that time he has never had a show in Seattle. Until now.

It's a testament to Seattle's growing reputation as a good place for experimental film that 911 Media Arts was willing and able to land this show (Saturday, January 3, at 8 pm). Aside from having his films screened all over the world, Solomon has been teaching at the University of Colorado at Boulder. Some of you might know that school as the same place legendary avant-garde filmmaker Stan Brakhage taught and worked at for so many years, and you would be right if you assumed that these colleagues became friends and then collaborators before Brakhage's recent death. One of their collaborations, the 2002 film Seasons, is going to play in this package.

Not only will we see these rare and beautiful films projected from 16mm, not video, but we will have the added bonus of Phil Solomon in attendance. I've seen screeners of all of the work he'll be showing (except for the Brakhage piece), which means I'll be at the screening to see the films the way they were meant to be seen: on film. Even on the DVD screener, though, the power of Solomon's work shines through. Nocturne (1980) is a black-and-white silent meditation on the night sky that slowly strips away suburban peacefulness and builds to a storm with images that flash like lightning.

Jumping forward in time are three films from the mid-'90s, all of which uses soundtracks and color film. I've read that Solomon dedicated Remains to Be Seen (1994) to the memory of his mother, and there is a sadness and sense of nostalgia in the film that makes sense in that respect. I'm not sure how he did it, but much of the film looks like old home movies projected on crumpled tinfoil or paper. That footage is mixed with shots of somebody in a hospital bed and night shots of trees. The Exquisite Hour (1994) has a similar tone, where home movies, old silent films, and even some safari footage may represent the memories of a person in a hospital bed. Finally, The Snowman (1995) rounds out what could be considered a trilogy of beautiful sadness.

You may have an entirely different interpretation of the films. After all, they are abstract pieces without traditional narrative. The one place where you won't be able to disagree with me, however, is in the fact that each of these films contains stunning examples of pure cinema.

andy@thestranger.com