“Oh, ‘eck,” I
thought, “This has turned out to be another of my extensive
‘essays’!” Of course I hope that you will find it interesting,
but if all you really want is the bottom line then scroll down
to the third paragraph from the bottom: there you will find
a suitably succinct summing up. If, on the other hand, you want
further background information, you can access other “essays”
by clicking on the “review” links! There’s also a general introduction
to Harry Partch here.
They do say, “Everything
comes to he who waits,” but have you ever pondered its meaning?
Somehow, the more I think about it, the less sense it makes.
Logically, it’s about as watertight as a colander. Nevertheless,
there are two reasons I’m going along with it, for the time
being at least. Firstly, in my review
of Enclosure 4 I said, mainly in the interests of the
security of the media, “I sincerely hope that Innova are
actively pursuing the transfer of these films, and those of
Enclosure 1, onto DVD.” Secondly, my review
of Enclosure 6 mentioned a “bonus album” supposedly included
in the original LP boxed sets. This recording, of Partch introducing
the sounds of his instruments, vividly complemented the comprehensive
booklet illustrations.
I say “supposedly”
because it wasn’t always there – in particular, someone had
developed an annoying habit of leaving the bonus album out of
export sets. Consequently, many Partch fans, myself included,
were left feeling – shall we say? – somewhat robbed blind. Innova’s
securing of the rights to issue Delusion on CD raised
hopes that the bonus album would hitch a ride. Fat chance. Sony,
bless their cotton socks, quickly put the mockers on that one,
and Innova’s hopes - for a 2-CD Enclosure 6 including a resurrected
bonus album – were dashed.
Now, along comes
Enclosure 7, the final instalment of Innova’s invaluable
publication of Partch archival material - the single stone which,
if it doesn’t kill, then at least it mildly inconveniences my
two birds, and in passing demonstrates beyond reasonable doubt
that “some things come to he who waits”. Tourtelot’s
treasurable film of Delusion has been safely secured
onto DVD and – wonder of wonders! - the bonus album appears
to have been liberated from its dungeon. However, albeit for
differing reasons, neither is quite what it seems! So, let’s
deal with these major “reissues” first.
As I’ve already
given the low-down on the artistic side of the Delusion
film in my Enclosure 4 review,
here I’ll just pick up on the differences made by the re-mastering
onto DVD. Enclosure 4 contains a straight transfer onto
VHS of the original film which, by the look of it, was shot
on common-or-garden 16 mm. “home movie” stock. To put it mildly,
the image quality is hardly what you’d call good – or even “passable”
- and the monaural soundtrack is of fairly grotty quality, the
two being about as well synchronised as the dubbed dialogue
on those old Italian “sword and sandals epics”.
In preparing the
DVD edition, Innova’s number one option was to adopt a wholly
non-interventionist approach. However, as the nose on your face
will reliably inform you, this would have perpetuated those
severe technical shortcomings. No doubt historical archivists
would have been delighted by this, but I’m not so sure about
the rest of us. It’s one thing putting up with all the murk
when it’s Hobson’s choice, but another thing entirely when modern
technology is dangling tempting remedial carrots before your
very eyes.
Innova, presumably
mindful of the sensibilities of the majority, took the number
two option. They have done an impressive job of cleaning up
the visuals, in particular restoring the colours – which, certainly
on the Enclosure 4 VHS/PAL tape, were positively pallid
- to reasonably realistic intensities. Quite simply, it looks
pounds better, and a very considerable improvement over
my recommended remedy, for Enclosure 4, of cranking up
the telly’s colour control to a level likely to induce oxygen
deficiency.
Regarding the sound,
Innova could simply have done a proprietary clean-up job on
the original soundtrack. Certainly, this would have made it
sound a bit less grotty, but it wouldn’t have done a thing for
the synchronisation. However, here they had a further option.
The day after the film was made, John McClure made an audio
recording under studio conditions (see Enclosure
6). Because the tempi and overall playing times remained
pretty consistent, it was technically feasible to replace the
monaural soundtrack completely by this rich and detailed stereophonic
recording.
Artistically, though,
this option was somewhat controversial. The arguments pro. and
con. are fairly obvious, so suffice it to say that, to the horror
of those “historical archivists”, Innova decided to give it
a go! In all fairness, it falls a long way short of artistic
vandalism – quite the contrary, in fact: it makes a good deal
of sense. Think about it: nobody bats an eyelid when old masters
are restored, even though some of them are now almost devoid
of their old masters’ original paintwork. All right, strictly
speaking this option could be construed as a violation of Partch’s
corporeal philosophy, but the artistic damage is minimal because
the filmed performance turned out to be, in a very real sense,
a dress rehearsal for the subsequent audio recording.
Both musicians and
vocalists were clearly as hot as the proverbial iron that they
were striking. Flushed with success but, presumably, champing
at the bit, they took full advantage of the studio conditions
and got it as near spot-on as they could possibly manage. In
substituting the soundtrack, the only real minus point is a
mild feeling of “detachment”, which I put down to the absence
of that nigh-on subliminal backdrop of stage noises – the shuffling
of actors’ feet and such like - inevitably picked up, to a greater
or lesser extent, by microphones at live performances. That’s
a loss I can easily tolerate, methinks.
To synchronise the
vision with the new “soundtrack”, Innova could of course adjust
only the visuals. This was easy enough when the action
was slipping behind the music – all it needed was a judicious
“snip” at a cut from one camera angle to another. However, it
was somewhat trickier when the action was getting its nose in
front. In these instances, synchronisation was restored by copying
a carefully selected snippet from elsewhere in the film. Philip
Blackburn cited one - and perhaps the one and only – really
obvious example: “a shot of waves crashing, early on, [is] a
copy of what you see later in the Sanctus, but here [it
was] used for its ‘abstract’ quality and [to buy] us some time
to catch up”.
Of course, there
is a limit to how often this can be done before the whole thing
is reduced to a patchwork of shreds, and consequently the synchronisation
can’t be buttoned down tightly right across the board. To Innova’s
immense credit, they’ve struck a beautiful balance: whilst the
synchronisation is far more accurate than it was originally,
I don’t think anyone apart from the most eagle-eyed is going
to notice any significant difference in the visuals.
Innova did tweak
the CD audio, but only to synthesise a 5.1 Dolby surround-sound
ambience. I’m not equipped for this, so I can’t comment, other
than to suggest that if you don’t like synthesised ambiences,
you can always switch it off. Other than giving me a feeling
that the dynamic range was a bit cramped, the bog-standard DVD
stereo sound compares well with that of the superb Enclosure
6 CD.
I’m tempted to say
that this is not just a straight re-mastering job: it’s more
on the lines of an entirely new edition, invested with a great
deal of thoughtful preparation – the one oversight being in
the booklet credits, which list “Live Sound Recording: Cecil
Charles Spiller”, whose sound you don’t hear, but not John Culshaw,
whose sound you do hear. As anyone who possesses a copy of Enclosure
4 will testify, the beholder’s brain is kept constantly
busy trying to “filter out” those technical shortcomings.
I must admit, I
did feel a twinge of trepidation, that scraping off the cobwebs
might have exposed to the bright light of day a whole host of
other inherent technical flaws. Happily, my fears were unfounded.
In fact, if anything it’s gone entirely the other way – now
you can just sit back, relax, and enjoy the show - and rest
assured that, to a remarkable degree, it does keep faith with
the original film. Of course, you still need to hang on to your
Enclosure 4, because it also includes the invaluable
28-minute film, The Music of Harry Partch - the original
of which, along with all the others, I am assured is safely
tucked away in a carefully-controlled environment. Overall,
this new DVD edition is an astounding improvement.
Now for a minor
revelation. I might have given the impression that somehow Innova
have now managed to screw out of a reluctant Sony permission
to release the bonus album. Well, that was a bit naughty of
me, because Sony’s vault doors remained firmly shut. Instead,
by a sheer stroke of immense good fortune, Philip Blackburn
discovered that the bonus album’s original sound recording hadn’t
actually been made by Columbia – oh, dear me, no; it
turns out that Danlee Mitchell had taped Partch’s commentaries,
along with appropriate musical illustrations, and then made
his tapes available to Columbia. Sony effectively owned only
the copyright to Columbia’s edition of the recording. With appropriate
and easily-obtained permission, Philip Blackburn was free to
use the one and only, truly original set of tapes!
It soon became obvious
that Columbia’s editors had been very busy. Because Partch had
spoken very deliberately and with lots of long pauses, they
were reasonably justified in taking the scissors to the recorded
commentary. With rather less justification, though, they had
also butchered the musical illustrations or, sometimes, even
replaced them altogether. This latter especially was regrettable,
as many of the examples were improvisations by Danlee Mitchell
and Linda Schell, and therefore unique. Thus far, I presume
that they were just trying to squeeze it onto a single 45-minute
LP. However, they then went and did something that was entirely
unjustifiable. Without so much as a by-your-leave, they
hacked up Partch’s spoken Prologue, extracting material from
which they concocted a spoken “Epilogue”. “Voiced over” a percussive
crescendo hoicked out of the Delusion recording, this
artifice lent the album a feeling of climax that, although rousing,
was nonetheless entirely phoney.
Naturally, this
gross misrepresentation was not exactly lost on Philip Blackburn.
His comparison of the original bonus album with the Mitchell
tapes brought it home to him that, really, he wasn’t the least
bit interested in replicating the bonus album itself, but in
realising Partch’s presentation as originally envisaged.
So, he set to and produced a completely new edition of the original
commentary, into which were spliced the original audio samples.
This time, the only trimming done was purely for the purposes
of “pacing”. Finally, to complement this soundtrack, he devised
a video slideshow, a completely new sequence of images that
drew on the full range of photographs available to him. Ironically,
clocking in at a nadge under 44 minutes, Blackburn’s finished
soundtrack would have fitted perfectly well onto a single LP!
Does it work? That
depends on your expectations. If you’re expecting an audio-visual
spectacular even remotely on a par with Raiders of the Lost
Ark, then I can guarantee that you will be disappointed.
If you’re expecting something on the lines of a leisurely guided
tour of Partch’s instrumentarium, with the signal honour of
being personally guided by its creator, then you will
be over the moon. Mind you, it’s not often that you bump into
a virtual curator who starts off with a vitriolic rant about
“basic mutilations of ancient concepts”, although this one does
at least go on to justify his fervent abhorrence of equal temperament,
“operatic” singing and the like. Harry Partch, as the uninitiated
will rapidly find out, does little or nothing by halves!
The images, many
of which are stunning in their own right, are immaculately cued
to the commentary, which sounds considerably clearer and cleaner
than my transcript of an admittedly fairly scratchy copy of
the Columbia bonus album. Having said that, the Marimba Eroica
still sounds somewhat strangulated – although this isn’t surprising,
for reasons explained by Partch in his commentary! Philip Blackburn
decided, I would say rightly, against slipping in any video
clips. However, whereas in the original LP set the illustrations
were constrained to one picture of each instrument, this new
slideshow goes much further. Not only does it draw on a wide
variety of pictures, pulling focus on instrumental details and
other matters, but also it neatly mixes “catalogue-style” shots
of the instruments with shots of them “in action”.
There is one particularly
telling example where, as Partch is discussing the development
of his Marimba Eroica, we see pictures of Partch’s original
“upright model” - an alarming-looking beast, to say the least.
Yet, equally graphic is Partch giving vivid voice to his fantastical
dream of an “ideal” Eroica, which for the obvious reason can’t
be illustrated. It may be “only” a slideshow, but it is remarkably
absorbing and a vast improvement over the old bonus album arrangement.
It’s not only a pleasure to see and hear, but also of great
educational value, an invaluable “primer” - vaguely akin to
a “Young Person’s Guide to the Orchestra” - for anyone unfamiliar
with Partch’s instruments, and looking to eliminate that “un”.
Right, now let’s
look at the “new” stuff. Back in 1971 Stephen Pouliot, a graduate
student of Film, attending a quiet dinner party, ended up getting
his socks blown off. First of all, he was distracted by the
exotic music playing in the background. Next, on being shown
the picture on the LP cover, his eyes popped out on stalks.
Of course, he became desperate to meet the “astonishing alchemist”
responsible for the instruments pictured and the sounds they
made (actually, I thought that “alchemists” were essentially
con-men, but I think we know what he meant!). It just so happened
– as it does in all the best films! – that Betty Freeman
was in the room and, well, she just happened to be a long-time
friend and immensely generous supporter of that very “alchemist”.
Like the Good Fairy, she immediately made Stephen’s dream come
true, by offering to introduce him to the Wonderful Wizard.
To cut a long story short, Partch and Pouliot got on like a
house on fire, and they soon hatched the idea of Pouliot making
a movie incorporating a piece by Partch. The ever-generous Betty
agreed not only to produce the film, but also to commission
from Partch a new work to be incorporated into the venture.
Effectively, A
Portrait of Harry Partch is a documentary, which Pouliot
slightly enlarged (in 2005) to incorporate a few additional
materials made available from the Harry Partch Estate Archive.
Although the film incorporates a complete performance of the
commissioned work, The Dreamer That Remains, you don’t
get it in one lump, but in segments which are inter-cut with
documentary scenes. However, on the DVD the performance segments
occupy distinct chapters so, if your player permits, you can
programme it to replay just the performance. Because some of
the joins in the film are faded, the programmed playback will
necessarily be a wee bit “dog-eared” - but, as they say, compromise
is better than doing without!
The overall picture
quality, only a bit on the fuzzy side but with decently-balanced
colour, has the “look and feel” of high-quality 16 mm. film.
The monaural soundtrack, particularly if you’ve just been wallowing
in Culshaw’s luxurious accidental soundtrack for Delusion,
is a touch harsh. It tends to operate at just two general levels
- “loudish” and “background mushy” – although, having said that,
it’s still much easier on the ears than the sound on, say, the
earlier Tourtelot films.
The documentary
segments divide into three broad categories: “workshop/practice”,
“interview”, and “home and garden”. The first captures scenes
of Partch the carpenter, working on those exotic, endlessly
fascinating sculptures of his, along with scenes of Partch the
practical musician and teacher, conjuring endlessly fascinating
sounds out of his sculptures, showing his “bandsmen” the ropes,
and seeking solutions to practical performance problems. Quite
apart from their intrinsic value, these scenes are extremely
useful appendices to Partch’s Slideshow discourses.
The second category
provides as immediate an experience as we’re going to get of
Partch as a person. My teeth grind in frustration to think that,
given just a few more years, they would have been able to set
up dozens of “fly-on-the-wall” cameras and just let them record
for hours on end. Now, wouldn’t that have been a much better
use of the technology than any amount of “Big Brother” footage?
As it was, Pouliot was presumably constrained by the expensive,
non-reusable film medium. Hence, sometimes he had to make do
with footage in which Partch, evidently self-conscious in front
of the camera, came across as somewhat awkward and stilted.
Fortunately, when sparked by some idea or memory, he was prone
to igniting and – instantly forgetting about the prying lens
- cutting loose.
The third category
captures such things as Partch trotting down the beach for a
refreshing – or, as it appears here, bone-chilling -
dip in the ocean, pottering around in his garden, hanging out
his washing, or trying to set his house on fire. All right,
maybe that last had something to do with preparing to cook some
coffee, but no matter - the real question here is why?
Does posterity really need a record of a composer going about
his dull, daily domestics – would we benefit from seeing Herr
J. S. Bach enjoying his evening pipe of tobacco, perhaps, or
maybe Mr. E. W. Elgar taking tea in his drawing-room? The shortish
answer is a resounding you bet your cotton socks we would!
– such things flesh out the characters, remind us that these
men were mortals - extremely gifted ones of course, but still
made of the same flesh and blood as the rest of us.
However, there’s
more to Pouliot’s images than meets the eye. Pouliot also recorded
conversations with Partch, and used these to create voice-overs
in which Partch talks about his beliefs and motivations, his
experiences as a hobo during the Depression, and the lasting
effect that these had on his outlook. The circle closes, as
we observe their resonances: these are not just in his music
but, as we can see with our own eyes, inform even the routine
of his daily life. And so, there seems to be a deliberate order
to these categories: from the man, his memories and daily grind,
through the philosopher, his ideas and beliefs, to the practitioner,
lending substance and capability to what he stands for. Then,
there’s the icing on the cake - the enactment of a corporeal,
ritual drama, an example of the “end product” of his life and
work, suffused with those very philosophies we have heard expounded.
This is the last link that locks the loop, almost with an audible
“click”.
Subtitled A Study
in Loving, Partch’s short ensemble piece appropriately concerns
some of the motivations inherent in the documentary. To paraphrase
Pouliot, it’s something of a plea for mankind to take more time
to “hang out”, get to know one another, be a bit more “laid
back”. In his final scene, Partch perhaps adds a dash of warning,
by taking a sardonic side-swipe at the discouraging attitude
of authority, as exemplified by the words “Do Not Loiter”. In
all of this, oldsters like myself will readily detect an aura
of the Hippy generation. Perhaps it should come as no surprise
that, at that time, Partch lived in Encinitas, which in those
days was something of a bohemian artistic enclave. It must have
fitted Partch like a glove – as I often remark, his unique sound,
which just shouts “flower power!” at you, predates hippies by
donkey’s years. Moreover, this “hippy” quality also shines through
the visuals.
Apart from the final
scene, the ensemble is set against a seamless, bright white
background. Whatever Pouliot’s artistic motivations were for
this choice, it strikes me as though they were performing inside
a pearl light bulb. On balance I find it counter-productive,
because everything is three-quarters in silhouette. This is
all very dramatic, but also very frustrating if you’re keen
to observe the details of Partch’s instruments in action which
- let’s face it – with otherwise little opportunity, most of
us will be.
The members of the
all-male “cast” are decked out in jeans and brightly-coloured
“tank tops” - in the UK, we’d call them old-fashioned “vests”.
Stephen Pouliot reckons that, 30 years down the line, these
outfits still appear “fresh”. Hum – well, allied to the hair-styles,
I’m afraid that they remind me of Jason King preparing for his
ablutions. Sorry, but this all looks “dated”, quite unlike Partch’s
exotic, ritualistic, totally timeless costumes for Delusion.
Things look or sound dated because they use, say, the fashions
and vernacular of a particular era. What generally sorts out
the wheat from the chaff is whether the “message” is dated –
West Side Story, for example, transcends its 1950s setting
and styles because its message is universal. So, don’t get me
wrong, I’ve nothing against things being “of their time” - it’s
just that, like yesterday’s loaf, I don’t particularly want
it being sold to me as “fresh”!
In any event, all
these considerations are forced into the background by the performance
itself. The majority of the performers were students. Before
becoming involved in this project, they were utterly untutored
in Partch’s intonational system, instruments, notations and
corporeal production values. Yet, if you weren’t told
that, I suspect that you’d never guess. This strikes me as one
of the less obvious justifications of Partch’s entire approach.
Although it turned out to be impractical in his large-scale
pieces, his corporeal principles demanded that performers be
“all-rounders” - and that included the musicians. They weren’t
supposed to just play their instruments, with that air
of deadpan concentration that characterises “conventional” musicians.
On the contrary, they were expected to perform, with balletic
grace, on their instruments, and always to be fully part
of the stage action. Ideally, like everyone else on stage and
as dictated by the drama, musicians should migrate between the
diverse rôles of playing, singing, intoning, dancing and acting.
Obviously, this
is a pretty tall order, and to the best of my knowledge it is
something that Partch never fully realised in practice. Yet,
in The Dreamer That Remains, you can see the principle
at work, more so than in most of the other filmed Partch performances,
and indeed the one live performance that I’ve seen. The
members of the chamber ensemble variously “perform on
their instruments”, intone, sing and - to a lesser extent -
act. Moreover, they do so with a confidence and zest that totally
eclipses their “rookie” status. Did they pick all this up so
quickly and thoroughly simply because they were very talented
young men? Well, no matter how talented they were, I can’t quite
bring myself to believe that. It seems to me that they - along
with others who preceded them - were given a leg up by Partch’s
principles, which somehow must be finely attuned to the inherent
human spirit. In a sense, they found themselves “doing what
comes naturally” and so, naturally, they took to it like ducks
to water.
Stephen Pouliot’s
Commentary is a monologue that expands considerably on
his note in the DVD booklet. It’s a detailed, fascinating, insightful
and - most importantly - first-hand account of a young
man’s encounter with a cantankerous genius old enough to be
his grandad. It is especially notable for the uncommon – in
one so young, certainly! - care and consideration with which
Pouliot handled his subject, both on and off the set. For instance,
not only did Pouliot have to figure out a modus operandi that
took account of Partch’s failing health and energy, but also
he had to accommodate some unpredictable and violent mood-swings.
The degree of his success is measured by the quality of the
product – and it must have been good to earn him a big hug from
Harry himself!
The Commentary
is heard, in place of the soundtrack, over the film’s
visuals. When Pouliot stops talking, the film just rolls on,
in total silence, until its conclusion some ten minutes later.
Philip Blackburn had expected that Pouliot would talk as he
viewed the film, and time his comments to nicely fit the film’s
span. Unfortunately, it turned out that the commentary wasn’t
long enough (or the film was too long!). In view of Philip Blackburn’s
already colossal investment in time and sheer hard graft, I
hesitate to carp, but there was a further option – another slideshow!
Philip Blackburn himself has noted that occasionally – and to
some extent accidentally – the commentary and visuals harmonise,
suggesting that a suitable “slide” sequence could have been
constructed using stills extracted from the film itself, padded
out with a few more choice shots from the Partch Archive. Then,
it could have concluded, neatly and tidily, with a dramatic
portrait of Partch, fading gently to black under a closing title.
I think that this
would have been “fair grand”, as they say in my neck of the
woods, so – seeing as it’s a fairly obvious solution – why wasn’t
it done? I gather that the answer lies in a technical and financial
consideration. As you may be aware, the DVD format permits alternative
soundtracks for the same visuals, a space-saving feature intended
for use in multi-lingual productions. It was thus a neat idea
to designate the Commentary as an alternative soundtrack
to the film – and that’s why we have to have the film
in its entirety. The extra space required by distinct visuals,
such as a slideshow or indeed a copy of the film faded out after
18 minutes, would have spilled the production onto a second
DVD.
Looking at it that
way, I’d settle for what we’ve got, because here the only important
thing is Stephen Pouliot’s voice! But, what do you do with that
left-over ten minutes? Philip Blackburn has suggested that viewers
be encourages to choose one of three options: (1) when the man
finishes speaking, reach for the remote control, (2) take the
opportunity to go and make some more popcorn, (3) improvise
your own accompaniment at the piano – which, I would add, should
first be justly re-tuned!
Apparently Rose-Petal
Jam, one of the out-takes from The Dreamer That Remains,
was shot because it illustrated the pervasiveness of Partch’s
taste for the exotic. In the end, Partch himself vetoed it,
on the fairly guarded grounds that it would attract critical
ridicule to the detriment of the overall picture. However, as
the scene approaches its end, we possibly get a bit nearer the
nub of the matter. It’s here, right in front of the camera,
that Partch suddenly makes that “critical” connection - and
it sparks a stream of venomous abuse. I’ll leave you to guess
the target. The film clip, even after Chris Campbell’s efforts
at restoration, gives every impression that it’s been belatedly
retrieved from a refuse skip. However, it is very short, and
makes its point with a smile-inducing pungency that is, if anything,
enhanced by its parlous condition!
Finally, there’s
what we might call a filler, or perhaps an encore, a few murky
minutes of Madeline Tourtelot film. These snippets of Revelation
in the Courthouse Park provoke some presumptions. Firstly,
it must have been a dress rehearsal, because the filming was
done two days before the work’s première. Secondly, as
the film was subsequently broadcast on “Channel 12, WILL-TV”,
the entire production must have been captured on film. Thirdly,
judging by the curiously disjointed nature of these excerpts,
by now much of it must have gone the way of all flesh!
Even if that last
is not the case I suspect that it would be a labour of love
to endure the entire 80-odd minute production - in fact and
in passing, this suspicion is confirmed by Philip Blackburn,
whose complete copy also scuppers that third presumption! The
sound comes a pretty poor second to your average shellac disc,
and the black-and-white images remind me of A Foggy day in
London Town. Nevertheless, it’s gratifying to have this
modest sampler, because – with your pain minimised by its brevity!
- it provides some intriguing images to complement the much
larger selection of audio-only excerpts on Enclosure 5 (see
review)
– or, if you can manage to find a copy, the excellent digital
audio recording of the complete 1987 American Musical Theater
Festival production, issued by the now-defunct Tomato label
(2-CD set, cat. no. 2696552).
In the excerpts
you see the marching band, the back-projection fireworks, the
tumblers – including the “synchronised trampolinist” – and witness
the horrifying denouement. Incidentally, this dreadful
climax also features early on in Pouliot’s film. Here it is
performed by Partch himself, sitting alone at the chromelodion,
which he uses to render the string of searing chords that mirrors
Agave’s anguish.
Right - time to
sum up, but first here’s a word of warning, though I doubt that
seasoned DVD buffs will need it. This DVD comes in NTSC format
only, so if you live in a PAL region and your player does not
support NTSC/PAL conversion, you won’t exactly get the best
out of it, if you take my meaning!
Thanks to Innova’s
careful and imaginative application of new technology, the priceless
treasure of Madeline Tourtelot’s Delusion film has been
given a new lease of life, and can for the first time be enjoyed
as it should be - without strain! Philip Blackburn’s Slideshow
is a truly masterly production, a reincarnation not of the old
bonus album but of the original artistic intentions that got
lost courtesy of Columbia’s uncomprehending scissors. Backed
up by his eloquent Commentary, Stephen Pouliot’s film
is a credit to the art of the documentary - a carefully prepared,
thoughtful, and enjoyable production that expands our appreciation
of the “astonishing alchemist”.
A few very minor
- and in any case fairly personal - reservations apart, Enclosure
7 strikes me as a stunning achievement, and an eminently
fitting conclusion to the series as a whole. Comprising CDs,
a book, VHS tapes and now this DVD, the Enclosures stand
as the finest, widest-ranging assembly of Partch materials currently
available to the public. Surely, somebody should now award Philip
Blackburn and Innova a medal of commendation for this impressive
achievement, otherwise they’ll have to make do with this one
from me: “Well done, chaps!” Oh, and in case you hadn’t noticed,
this DVD will keep you glued to your TV for well over two
and a half hours, so even I can’t grumble about short measure!
Paul Serotsky