Page 47
MacDonald:
Maybe what makes
Fuji
seem more conventional than the other films is the sound of the train, which is more continual than the sound in many other films, and has a clear, direct relationship with the visuals.
Breer:
The sound was put on six months after I finished the film. Actually, I showed
Fuji
in Pittsburgh as a silent film and realized there that maybe it should have some sound. I used all kinds of contraptions in my studio to create the train ride noises. Of course the Tokaido Express doesn't sound anything like my clackity clack, but the soundtrack does evoke "train," and it's the rhythm I thought I needed for that film. One trick that I was real happy with is the interruption of the sound near the end. After using the relentless clackity clack at various paces and pitches, I stopped it right at the climax of the film, or I should say I created the climax of the film with this sudden drop into total silence. Then just at the end the sound creeps back in as a little coda, and we see the person on the train [Frannie Breer] in live action. I withheld the sound in a couple of other places too.
MacDonald: Rubber Cement
uses a lot of collage; it seems a return to the sensibility of
Fist Fight
or
Jamestown Baloos
.
Breer:
I hadn't thought of that. I do have a tendency to pick up on neglected practices. It's possible that I had become collage starved.
MacDonald:
How did your involvement with Xerox in
Rubber Cement
come about?
Breer:
I was invited to be a member of a seven-member NYSCA panel that was formed to give artists access to Xerox machines. Part of the privilege of being a panelist consisted of getting an identity card to go into the Xerox Company. They'd just come out with a color machine. I had to share the time with some of the artists we selected: Bob Whitman was one and Steven Antonakis another. Anyhow, I didn't have a lot of time on the machine, but I generated a bunch of images by playing around with frames from some of my old films (
70,
for one). I was hoping that if Xerox looked at my film, they might think I was worthy of a little more indulgence, but I had a negative reaction from their PR people; they weren't even curious to see the film. So when I realized later that I had misspelled the company name in my title tribute, "Thanks to Zerox," I was happy to leave it that way.
MacDonald: 77
is in the mold of
69
. Like the earlier film, it explores color: the early part centers rigorously on primary colors, then at the end there's a dispersal of that control into a crescendo of color.
Breer:
I intended to make a black-and-white film, to reduce elements and simplify everything. But DuArt informed me that it would cost more to shoot in black and white than in color. I had always secretly admired the effect of black-and-white images in color film, and this
Page 48
discovery made it easy for me to decide to shoot on color stock. Then I thought, it's a shame not to let the stock see some color once in a while. I had thousands of black-and-white images, and the idea of now adding color to the images had coloring book qualities I didn't think too highly of: the color would have had a passive, ornamental role. My answer was to add color to the film by hand, which I'd done once before, in
Eyewash
. Only this time I decided to hand color the original. What this means in an animated film is that if you screw up and overpaint, you're undoing weeks of work. You can't correct. It was a situation I liked, a challenge to the predictability of my techniques. It heightened the intensity of making the film. It was a way of reversing the usual progression toward greater control and less risk. I hoped some of my excitement would rub off on the whole film. In the same spirit, I spray painted the ending of
LMNO
a year later. I looked at
77
the other day and thought that, while the film does have a mix of extreme control and some out-of-control stuff, there's too much of the former.
MacDonald: LMNO
(and
TZ,
too) uses a lot of sexual imagery, more than most of the other films.
Breer:
In
LMNO
there are these tiny objects that rain across the screen from top to bottom. Some look like sets of cocks and balls. The others look like upside-down coffee cups. The origin of those is pretty complicated. They were made with rubber stamps sent to me by Claes Oldenburg, one ordinary rubber stamp very carefully divided down the middle. One side had this giant lipstick on it (in the scribble form it looks like cock and balls, which is typical of Oldenburg: he's always dealing in phalluses and so forth); the upside-down coffee cup shape doesn't quite fit as the opposite of his phallusit's not quite the vagina shape, but it relates. Anyhow, I play with those shapes in
LMNO
and in
Rubber Cement
.
Those rubber stamps were the culmination of a drawing contest Oldenburg and I had during a period when we both were having sculptures made up in a big sculpture factory in Westhaven. Mine was a big float, now in Stockholm, that you can sit on and ride. Every time I'd go up there there'd be a drawing of his lipstick on caterpillar treads; it looked like a tank and was aimed aggressively at a sketch of my coffee cup-shaped "rider float." I had to retaliate with a drawing that had my float getting underneath his sculpture and driving off with itmy point being that my sculpture was motorized and really worked, while his only
looked
like it would move. When I came back the next time, I found a drawing of the two of these things going over a cliffhis point being that while my float was motorized, it didn't know where it was going. At the bottom of the cliff, the lipstick is stuck in the ground and the treads are up in the air. My sculpture was cradled in the treads of his as though on a pedestal of his sculpture, and there was a guy standing there scratching
Page 49
his head, wondering what kind of sculpture
this
was. My reply to that was to have the cliff that they had gone over collapse and create an avalanche that covered both of them completely. He came back and had a helicopter with a magnet fly over and pull them out of the debris. I retaliated with the same helicopter flying too close to the sun: the blades dropped (in another version it was hit by lightning), and the two pieces fell into the ocean and disappeared. His retaliation was to have the ocean turn into the contents of a pop bottle, and the two sculptures became bubbles going to the surface in huge numbers. I didn't know how to answer that. I ended up making vast numbers of little sculptures half his and half mine out of Play-doh. I put them in cotton, in a box, and sent them to him. His answer was the rubber stamp, and of course you send a rubber stamp to an animator and it's going to get into his films. All that time I never saw Oldenburg.