{ feuilleton }

Visa de censure numéro X

Synopsis: This flamboyantly poetic film includes two works of art: Livret De Famille and Carte De Vœux. A hallucinogenic voyage, psychedelic images float across the screen, of family and friends (Jean-Pierre Kalfon, Yves Beneyton, Valérie Lagrange…) as they share their adventures.

A slight return to Cyrille Verdeaux via actor Pierre Clémenti. If you watch enough European art cinema from the 1960s and 70s you’ll eventually run across Clémenti in films by Visconti, Pasolini, Buñuel, Bertolucci and others. His roles were often minor ones but his fashion-model looks made him stand out wherever he appeared. Clémenti also had a side career as a director, producing a number of mostly short films from the late 60s on. Visa de censure numéro X appears to be a product of his earliest experiments with a camera, being a collage of silent home-movie fragments which have been chopped up, filtered and overlaid to create a French hippy equivalent of Kenneth Anger’s Invocation of My Demon Brother; or maybe Derek Jarman’s early Super-8 films, although Jarman’s painterly approach to cinema tends to be more sedate.

Where Anger had his film soundtracked with an irritating Moog score from Mick Jagger, Clémenti had the good sense to ask Cyrille Verdeaux and Ivan Coaquett to write some original music when the film was being prepared for release in 1975. Visa de censure numéro X runs for 42 minutes which is longer than most people want to spend watching a group of hippies partying, running around naked or cavorting in the woods. But this does give us a whole album of music in which Verdeaux and company—Christian Boulé and Tim Blake among them—go all-out for psychedelic rock; Boulé is credited with “cosmic guitar”. The improvisations were released under the name Delired Cameleon Family, an ensemble whose sole release sounds like Clearlight if they’d been liberated from the necessity of following Verdeaux’s compositions. As Clémenti’s film demonstrates, France had embraced the psychedelia of the 1960s as much as other European countries but French psychedelic rock wasn’t so common. The Delired Cameleon Family album is a notable exception, albeit one that arrived several years too late.

Cover art by Jean-Claude Michel.

All the online copies of Visa de censure numéro X that I’ve seen are horizontally stretched: the film should be viewed in 4:3, not 16:9. This copy at the Internet Archive may be downloaded then viewed in any application that allows you to change aspect ratios.

Previously on { feuilleton }
• Clearlight: Symphonies
• Into the Midnight Underground
• Us Down By The Riverside, a film by Jud Yalkut
• Kusama’s Self-Obliteration, a film by Jud Yalkut

Clearlight: Symphonies

The Clearlight that concerns us here is a French musical ensemble with a shifting line-up, formed by and oriented around the activities of its keyboard-playing composer Cyrille Verdeaux. Clearlight, in other words, shouldn’t be confused with the short-lived American psychedelic band known as Clear Light. Cherry Red have just released five Clearlight albums in one of their well-produced CD boxes: Clear Light Symphony (1975), Forever Blowing Bubbles (1975), Les Contes Du Singe Fou (1977), Visions (1978), and Impressionist Symphony (2014). The box bears the subtitle “The Collected Recordings” but these albums comprise only one half of the Clearlight discography. I doubt there’s much demand for anything more substantial than this, at least in Britain where the group have been chiefly known for their first album, Clear Light Symphony. Cyrille Verdeaux’s booklet notes describe how he secured a deal with Virgin Records thanks to the success of Mike Oldfield’s early albums. Verdeaux’s demo tape was aiming for a similar blend of rock music with classical structures, with one long “symphony” divided into two parts. When the album was being recorded Virgin persuaded him to flesh out his composition with three musicians who were signed to the label via Gong—Steve Hillage, Tim Blake and Didier Malherbe—all of whom play on the second part. Or what should have been the second part… Virgin switched the two playing sides of the recording around in order to give the Gong artists greater prominence. The switch has been reversed for this latest release.

Cover art by Jean-Claude Michel.

I’ve not heard everything in Cyrille Verdeaux’s discography but the Clearlight albums that follow the debut are further excursions into quasi-classical prog-rock composition. There was a lot of this around in the 1970s, especially from keyboard players like Rick Wakeman, Vangelis, Bo Hansson and others. Verdeaux isn’t as much of a Liberace show-off as Wakeman, and he’s not as original as Vangelis, but in Clearlight his piano and keyboard flourishes benefit from the other musicians assembled on each release. Tim Blake had settled in France in the late 1970s, and turns up on several of the albums that follow Clear Light Symphony. The presence of Blake’s burbling synthesizers and Christian Boulé’s Hillage-like guitar lead the music out of the concert hall and into the cosmos. I have to admit to being pleasantly surprised by this collection of albums. I bought the set mainly to restore Clear Light Symphony to my record collection, an album I used to own on vinyl then sold following a shelf purge in the early 2000s. (One thing you’ll never get on a CD reissue is the locked groove that ends side two of the vinyl release.) My worries about the other albums being severely unpalatable haven’t been realised.

Cover art by Jean-Claude Michel.

Forever Blowing Bubbles was another Virgin release, this time with shorter pieces separated by electronic bubbling noises that posit each composition as one of a number of musical “bubbles” that we’re visiting in turn. A couple of these are songs which I was less keen on but the music is just as good as on the debut album. This is also the first album in the box featuring bonus tracks, a common feature of album reissues which often prove to be superfluous. Not so here, where the additions sound like a continuation of the album as a whole. King Crimson enthusiasts may like to know that David Cross plays violin on this album.

Cover art by Jean Solé.

Les Contes Du Singe Fou continues the formula, with more short compositions and a couple more songs, one of which is so close to the beginning of Supper’s Ready by Genesis as to be almost plagiaristic. In place of David Cross on violin there’s a recent exile from Magma, Didier Lockwood, whose fiery contributions are especially welcome. I didn’t expect there to be a tangible link with the Zeuhl artists when Verdeaux’s compositions are generally more palatable than Magma and co. Christian Boulé was touring in Steve Hillage’s band in 1977 so Yves Chouard takes over on the guitar. I ought to note that this album and the one that follow have been mastered from vinyl sources.

Continue reading “Clearlight: Symphonies”

Weekend links 824

“A view of Earth taken by NASA astronaut and Artemis II Commander Reid Wiseman from one of the Orion spacecraft’s windows after completing the translunar injection burn on April 2, 2026. The image features two auroras (top right and bottom left) and zodiacal light (bottom right) is visible as the Earth eclipses the Sun.”

• I was surprised this week to find myself quoted by David Hudson at Criterion Current in an overview of the schedule for Cold War Visions: Nuclear Anxiety in Eastern Bloc Cinema, a short season of films that will be showing at the Barbican throughout this month. One of those films is Andrei Tarkovsky’s Stalker, a cult film round here, which a handful of lucky Londoners will be able to see on a big screen.

• 邪神三十六景 (Thirty-six Views of the Evil Gods) is collection of drawings by Takeki Yamada that combine Hokusai’s celebrated views of Mount Fuji with beings from Lovecraft’s Cthulhu Mythos. I’m a little underwhelmed by the results but the book is out there for those who want it.

• Among the new titles at Standard Ebooks, the home of free, high-quality, public-domain texts: Last and First Men by Olaf Stapledon. (Previously)

• Coming soon at Unquiet Things: The Art of the Unknown: A Visual Treasury of the Esoteric, Uncanny, and Unexplained by S. Elizabeth.

• At Public Domain Review: Elizabeth I’s manuscript copy of Pierre Boaistuau’s Histoires Prodigieuses (1559).

• New music: Enter the Nuummite Cosmos by Brotherhood Of Sleep.

• At the BFI: Where to begin with Peter Weir.

• A Brief History of the Dust Jacket.

• Out Of The Unknown (1984) by Died Pretty | Brian’s Nightmare / The Unknown, Part One (2005) by Robin Guthrie / Harold Budd | A Gift Of Unknown Things (2017) by Teleplasmiste

Visions of Light

Good to see this again even if it is an unofficial “remastering” of the original. Visions of Light is a feature-length documentary about the art of cinematography as practiced in (mostly) American cinema. The film was made by Arnold Glassman, Todd McCarthy and Stuart Samuels for the American Film Institute in 1992, and is unique in being related solely through the words of cinematographers; there are no actor-narrators, actors, directors, academics or celebrities blathering about “iconic” moments. The format is very simple and direct: short clips from feature films showing the evolution of photographic styles and techniques from the silent era to the present, with each clip being commented on and contextualised by the cinematographers. Each clip includes an on-screen caption listing the title of the film, the director and the cinematographer. Most of the interviewees are Americans but there are a few notable Europeans such as Néstor Almendros, Sven Nykvist and Vittorio Storario.

The version of the film archived here is an unofficial “remastering” which has upgraded the original to high definition. I haven’t seen Visions of Light since it was broadcast on TV in the 1990s so my memory may be faulty but I think the incorporation of some of the interviews as picture-in-picture overlays may be a new addition. While it’s good to see high-quality extracts the real attraction for me is the interviews. The people who photograph feature films are essential to the film-making process yet they’re seldom given the opportunity to talk about their work outside extras on hard-format releases. And now that the masses have stopped buying films on disc the opportunities for this kind of discussion are limited once again. The interview with Conrad Hall was one I found especially revelatory for his discussion of breaking the studio rules when filming Cool Hand Luke in 1967. This was the first major Hollywood film to show sunlight flaring into the camera lens, an effect that would have had the shot rejected in the days when studios policed each production with great rigour. Once Hall had got away with this everyone started doing it, with the result that American film and TV after 1967 is filled with lens flares. Cinematography, in other words, creates and follows trends as much as other film-making techniques.

Ninety minutes is too short a time to cover a hundred years of cinematic history in any depth. It would have been better for the AFI to produce a multi-part TV series but I doubt there would have been the audience for such a thing. Aside from actors and the occasional high-profile director most film-viewers are happy to remain ignorant about the identities of the people who make the films they watch. Visions of Light was obviously edited down from a great deal of interview footage which makes me wonder now what happened to the material that didn’t make the final cut. Will we ever get to see it?

Previously on { feuilleton }
• Vilmos Zsigmond, 1930–2016

Tadami Yamada’s weird covers

Earlier this year when I wrote about Tadami Yamada’s illustrations for William Hope Hodgson I mentioned the existence of books by other authors that were published along with the Hodgson as part of a series. Kokusho Kankōkai published ten of these books from 1976 to 1977, most of them being collections of short horror fiction by European and American authors, with the series as a whole being referred to as the “Dracula” editions. Yamada painted the covers and provided interior illustrations for eight of the books, including, as I suspected earlier, a Lovecraft collection. I was hoping I might be able to find copies of his interiors for the Lovecraft but so far nothing has turned up, Yamada’s web pages only featuring illustrations from the Hodgson and Henry S. Whitehead collections. Searching elsewhere is complicated by a number of factors such as the age of the books, their being Japanese publications, and the sheer quantity of Lovecraft-related material to sift through.

Yamada says that his illustrations weren’t appreciated by readers who were expecting more typical horror imagery. This doesn’t surprise me given the Surrealist tenor of his work as a whole. The Hodgson illustrations are relatively orthodox but many of his other book illustrations from this period are collages that resemble the simpler things Max Ernst was doing in his collage novels. Collage is also evident on the “Dracula” covers, together with decalcomania, another Surrealist technique visible in the Hodgson illustrations. These books are a minor diversion in Yamada’s wide-ranging career but, as is often the case with Asian publications, none of them are currently listed at ISFDB. I’d still like to see his Lovecraft illustrations, if only to assuage my curiosity.

Continue reading “Tadami Yamada’s weird covers”