Grim's Review of Hamid Qureshi's Epic Kitchen Heelflip
We're initially greeted by what appears to be a weathered, grainy, jumpy and aged film... either this is a yellowed and wretched old film because the ancient tape was left in the back of an improperly temperature-regulated tool shed, or maybe it's mini DV with a few too many plugins? Regardless... the effect is enough to allow me a suspension of disbelief; for I find myself uneasy... as the state of the image on the film reminds me so much of World War Two footage... the same hops and skips. Maybe it's my own fascination with WWII films, but I get the same sense of imposing dread here as I do when watching documentation of places such as 1940's era Auschwitz... or perhaps even Hitler's own home movies (the ones showing a madman appearing human, perhaps because a glowing yet wanting Eva Braun tempers the demon of a man to such a degree that I become, if only for a second, interested in the man as a man, but as soon as I wander, quickly I snap back into reality thankful that the beast is dead... sometimes wishing that I had been able to rid the man of his life myself). It's the feeling of dread that makes me wonder... does the title of this film document the actual landing of Hamid's heelflip, or does it (I shudder to think), paint a story of cruel irony? Does Hamid wind up credit carding himself into a life of a eunuch? At this point (only in the opening credits, mind you), I find that I've inched myself closer to the screen... forgetting that my theatre is merely a computer screen pushing You Tubery... for a second, nay, for 45 seconds, I feel that I'm a lurker in the kitchen of someone strange to me... will he see me? Could my mere observation have an effect on his actions in the same way simply observing quantum particles forces those same particles to act differently had there been no one to observe them?
I digress.
The music is subtle; with a decidedly south Asian influence... the repetition speaks to the repetition known all to well by all great and lesser men that ride the steed that is a skateboard. The music does it's job, putting me in a trance... the same way I become entranced when attempting to add yet another trick to my quiver. "Will I manipulate my board, or will it manipulate me?" It is through repeated actions that we iron out the incorrect electrical impulses from our brains to our feet... it is through repeated actions that we feed out limbs the training they need to accomplish the goals we set before them... in our streets, our skateparks, or in this case... our compact yet efficiently designed kitchens.
I feel that I must step back a bit, though not too far, to note that this piece... this opus, if you will, cleverly concentrates two vital organs to this creature that is this work... you see, Hamid, in the midst of presenting us with weathered, degraded title sequences, also foreshadows the events to come by feeding us small pinches of failed heelflips (in the same aforementioned kitchen). It was the repeated (yet individually unique) failures I witnessed that helped to fortify my feelings of dread for what was to come... a racking of the sack? A dented refrigerator? God forbid... a sprained toe? Hamid is unapologetic in the way he strikes his audience with miscalculated trickery... he kicks us in the face with heelflip that almost renders him primo-bruised... he pummels our loins with yet another attempt that leaves him on the floor... in what seems to be a contemplative pose... I find myself exhausted... battered by Hamid's struggle. Unable to pick up my coffee, I contemplate with him.
Hamid does not rest... no, no, no... far from it! I would say that he regains his composure, but that would be of great insult... he seems almost empowered, as do I! As he stands himself, I find that I too, am now standing. As he sternly kicks his board back into a usable orientation, I find myself kicking a phantom board of my own imagination! He pushes away, his runway, but a hall... but that hall, a device that will provide Hamid the speed he needs to overtake the mischievousness that his board is so eager to delve into.
Through the wonders of clever editing, Hamid immediately returns to us... this time, the sitar that was gently being brushed by the instrumentalist is plucked with a hand engorged in adrenaline... a glacier of hope drives itself over and through the mountain of dread that held me captive for so long! Hamid executes the act in a decisive manner, much like a war hardened Sergeant in the French Foreign Legion might sight and engage a move to a kill... and make no mistake, Hamid kills.
Left in disarray, what in me isn't reeling is surely spent... a surreal mindset that has me wondering if what I saw was real. "Was this...?" As if to answer my (effectively) unspoken question, Qureshi offers me a personal note to ensure me that yes, what I've seen is no mere illusion... with two characters; he reaches to me and says:
: D
Like the D in this timeless emoticon... I smile, mouth agape. I'm not just pleased, you see... I find myself joyful. Hamid's image (a still midair shot of the trick in it's success), hangs... the red that was the wall of his separating wall in his kitchen transforms from its blood hue to that of a soothing blue (cerulean for a second?), then an aqua, followed by a green, to a sun-inspired yet muted yellow, eventually cycling back to the red that at one point caused me to stir (something I didn't realize until I was greeted by Hamid's well-chosen prism).
In summary, I'd like to say this clip is glorious... though glorious isn't a word I like to see in print. It's my firm belief that such a word was intended only for verbal use... to read it cheapens it. I ask you, reader, to say the word on your own, as its creator intended it to be said.
That, my friends... that is how I feel about Hamid Qureshi's Epic Kitchen Heelflip.
Topic: no way (Read 1332 times)