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Straight talk
VINCENT GALLO

Since its infamous debut at the last Cannes Film Festival, director and actor Vincent Gallo’s The Brown Bunny has become the year’s most controversial movie, as much for its deliberately slow pacing as for the final scene, in which Gallo and Chloë Sevigny engage in an explicit, unsimulated sex act. Gallo chatted with us recently about the film, his philosophy of art, and getting hassled by Minnesota state troopers after making out with a 1970s-era supermodel at a roadside rest area.

THE RAKE: What would you say to skeptical filmgoers to convince them this is a film they should see?

GALLO: If someone is skeptical, this is a very difficult film. If you have a sense that my intentions are questionable, it’s going to be very hard to follow the multidimensional first half of the film, which on the skeptical surface is where nothing happens. I’d rather a skeptical person not go to see the film. It doesn’t play to win people over. It’s not Lost in Translation.

Your scene with Cheryl Tiegs was filmed here in Minnesota. Any interesting stories to relate about that?

We went out on I-35, no more than ten miles out of town, and shot that sequence at a roadside rest stop. The rest-stop employees called the police. The police came and I said, “I don’t understand. People walk around with their video cameras and you don’t arrest them. There’s three people here; this can’t qualify as a production. I know my rights, and good day, sir.” He asked us all for a license. They always seem to handcuff me. The cop said something extremely mean to Cheryl, and I was taken aback by it—he looked at Cheryl’s license and said “Oh, Cheryl Tiegs—you were a model, huh? Wow, you got old. Fifty-four!” She was so cool and polite. She just said “Yeah.” And then he left. I’ll never forget that. It was just so bizarre.

The Chloë Sevigny sex scene has become notorious. But how important is that scene to the film aesthetically?

There’s no film without that. Sexually graphic images are not an accessory or a selling feature or a luxury. The whole point of the film was to bring insight into pathological behavior in loss of love. To remove those graphic images would severely diminish the disturbing nature of that scene. It would be fraudulent. I am not an eroticist or a pornographer. I’ve been working for twenty-five years, and I’ve never used exhibitionism or voyeurism in any of my work. I’m not interested in those things. I’m interested in emotional hangups and how they translate into the behavior.

You have an offbeat approach to cinematography, especially when shooting yourself—often we see only the back of your head, or you’re only visible on the extreme edge of the frame.

I have a very specific aesthetic point of view and a sense of composition. When I was shooting this film, I was always looking at myself in a monitor. There’s never a scene, not even in the shower—certainly not the sex scene, where there’s ten monitors and I’m watching the whole thing—there’s never a moment where I’m not watching what I’m filming. So I can play to the camera in a way no one has ever been able to do before in cinema, because the photographer is in charge of capturing the performer but the performer is unaware of what’s going on compositionally. However, if the photographer is the performer, I can do very extreme things. Unfortunately, I hate to see myself, especially my face. I can’t bear being captured on film. That’s a problem, because I’m a filmmaker and I choose to include myself in the performance of the film. That’s why the accusations of narcissism were so painful to me. I don’t care if people say I’m a jerk, I don’t care if they say I’m ugly. I’m really controlling and bold when it comes to concepts and aesthetics, and incredibly un-self-protective when it comes to me. I’m comfortable being hated for what I am. I just don’t like being hated for what I’m not.

The Brown Bunny opens October 1 at the Uptown Theatre.

Now in its ninth year, the Rain Taxi Review of Books remains a stalwart champion of “difficult” literature—stuff that challenges our assumptions about narrative, language, or even what makes a good story. It also celebrates the larger world of things bibliophilistic with the Twin Cities Book Festival, which it has sponsored since its inception in 2001. How did our bookish burg go sans book festival for so long? No matter—this free, all-day affair makes up for lost time with an impressive array of readings, exhibits, a literary magazine fair, used book sale, and even art activities for younger bookworms. This year’s readings include best-selling novelist Karen Jay Fowler (The Jane Austen Book Club), essayist and poet Wayne Koestenbaum, Eleni Sikelianos, whose The California Poem is a book-length work dedicated to the Golden State, and many more. Given Rain Taxi’s steadfast dedication, it only seemed fitting to limit its editor, Eric Lorberer, to naming which five titles he would cart along to his enchanted isle of literary solitude.

1. The fattest book I own that I haven’t read is The Gormenghast Trilogy by Mervyn Peake—so there.

2. The American Alpine Association puts out a yearly compendium of mountaineering accidents, so I’d take along the latest edition—I bet tales of high altitude and bad luck would make one feel better about being on a desert island!

3. A book of haiku, to keep me humble. Maybe, vis-à-vis the previous answer, Japanese Death Haiku, which collects poems by monks presumably composed just before they shuffle off this mortal coil. (Whoever has my copy, if you’re reading this, give it back!)

4. It’s a well-worn trick among book geeks when playing this game to name collected works as one item, such as the collected plays of Shakespeare, or the collected poems of Wallace Stevens—good choices, but I might prefer a complete run of The Legion of Super Heroes. The eponymous teens of this comic book series each have a unique ability. For example, “Matter-Eater Lad,” who can, um, eat anything. I think it might yield some good, Gilliganesque ideas.

5. Finally, I’d take along a copy of the dictionary—which, as comedian Steven Wright noted, is sort of a poem about everything. From this book one can invent virtually all others, given time.

The 2004 Twin Cities Book Festival takes place October 16, 10 a.m.–5 p.m., at the Minneapolis
Community & Technical College; 1415 Hennepin Ave. S., Minneapolis; www.raintaxi.com/bookfest

Only in the snotty West have we developed this idea of “outsider art” for crafts and art forms that are “vernacular.” Look to the East to find traditions that not only predate modernity, but keep right on ignoring it. Like Russian lacquer boxes. These incredibly detailed and lush paintings on boxes, plates, miniature caskets, and other functional forms go back five hundred years, and they’re still made today in Palekh, in central Russia. That’s a lot of twenty-four karat gold leaf and microscopic cyrillic. If you haven’t checked out the Museum of Russian Art—which normally specializes in Soviet-era socialist realism—this is a rare opportunity to appreciate folk art at its finest. Outsider art? Count us in! 11300 Hampshire Ave. S.; Bloomington; 612-914-0200; www.tmora.org

If it makes us sound shallow, so be it: We love supporting the arts because we love parties. Is there a finer way to show your support than to enjoy cocktails, hors d’oeuvres, and dancing with intriguing, passionate, and creative people (many of whom inevitably have amazing footwear)? And when you can buy art and support art at the same time, so much the better. The benefit for Midway, the gutsy gallery edging up on its fourth birthday, will include an auction of twenty works by emerging artists both local and national. Names weren’t available at press time, but suffice it to say, if the roster’s anything like the artists Midway has shown the past few years, we’re sold. 3306 5th St. N.E., Minneapolis; 651-917-1851;
www.midwaycontemporaryart.org

We’d wager there are a few families left who prefer slide shows or Super-8 screenings to home videos. But how many do you know who create art exhibitions celebrating their life together? Melba Price, Bruce Tapola, and their daughter Oakley did so in 1993 at the Minneapolis Institute of Arts; eleven years later, it’s time for another installment, this time at the south side hotspot known as SooVAC. How to draw the familial connections between Bruce’s playful and sometimes acerbic takes on pop culture and pop art, Melba’s portraits with a gravitas harking back to early Renaissance painters, and Oakley’s saucy indie-kid cartoons? We’ll leave that up to them. We weren’t able to see their exhibit before press time, but it’s bound to be fun. Bring the whole fam damily! 2640 Lyndale Ave. S.,
Minneapolis; 612-871-2263; www.soovac.org

Scotty could kick Dave’s ass. We got your ribfest right here, in Southwest Minneapolis. Scott Ja Mama’s is a screen-door two-seater joint that does a sweltering ribs business every week. It’s a call-ahead-and-order place, and we think the two seats are for the few who can’t escape the saucy aromas and make it to the car with their purchases. Scotty’s ribs are tender and meaty and swathed in his Mama’s secret sauce, which rings that perfect balance between spicy and sweet. You can order a full, half, or quarter rack of ribs or go for the pork sandwich, which has a cult following. Don’t forget the twice-baked potato the size of a small country, and don’t miss the door, which is marked by a glowing rendition of Scotty’s head. 3 W. Diamond Lake Rd., Minneapolis; 612-823-4450

It used to be called the Mill City coffee shop and people in the know have, for years, stopped by to while away the hours on its peaceful and lovely patio. You wouldn’t think that it could improve, but it has. Dramatically. Now Mill City is the California Building Café, with extended hours, a full bar, and a dinner menu offering all sorts of Mediterranean-style treats, such as mousaka and a notably hearty lamb stew. Just to lure you in—as if you needed any more lures—there’s a killer happy hour: half-price drinks from 5 to 8 p.m. Monday through Saturday and half-price bottles of wine on Wednesdays. A patio and a white Russian. Now that’s the way to welcome fall. 2205 California St. N.E.; Minneapolis; 612-789-8262

Eating lunch in your office cubicle is tantamount to committing a sin against food; everything will eventually taste beige. Maverick’s is here to save your soul, sister. While their décor isn’t much better than your cubicle, their offerings are pure inspiration when it comes to “better fast food.” Imagine slow-cooked roast beef piled high on a Kaiser roll with all the fixins of your dreams. Try the tender pulled pork or beef brisket for a change of pace. The goal of the quick and smart counter staff is to get you the most kick-ass sandwich and send you on your way. And if you can leave without one of their thick, creamy, miraculous milkshakes in hand, you might already be a lost cause. 1746 Lexington Ave., Roseville; 651-488-1788

We’re not sure where the line lies between traditional folk music and contemporary world music, but we know Rokia Traoré seems to work both sides of the equation beautifully. Whereas we’ve recently been obsessed with Nordic roots—particularly Swedish sirens paired with cold dirges of
distortion and modern big beats—we also hanker for the more homespun varieties that work better in live settings without computers and amplifiers. Traoré, a quiet and gifted singer, works in the traditional Malian mode with plenty of Western influences. But since she continues to use old-time instrumentation (guitars, lutes, marimbas), hers is the sound of dusty African streets more than sterile German sound labs, despite recent disc-dabblings with multi-tracking and chamber
quartets. 416 Cedar Ave. S., Minneapolis; 612-338-2674; www.thecedar.org

The title of Waits’ new record seems to reference his favorite themes: lost love, lost lives, and a lost mind. Think of it as an elegant soundtrack by which to warm your hands over a trash-can fire. As with any new Waits recording, expect a loose mix of broken-down hipster calliope music, dark tales, and bluesy hollerin’ that have made the man the freakishly cool icon that he is. Conspicuously absent, however, is his signature piano, replaced with turntables (courtesy of Waits’ son Casey) that provide a jerky percussion element. African and Latin rhythms mixed in with Waits’ own take on the human beat box create what we can only describe as a “hobo groove.” In his own fingerless-glove kind of way, Waits describes making records as “Capturing birds or photographing ghosts, an uncertain enterprise.” Please adopt us. Available October 5