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If you’ve ever wanted to shed your clothes and run around naked, Friday night was your chance to do so and call it art. The Art Coop on Delmar hosted “Eros Rising,” an exhibit of erotically charged pieces featuring the work of 40 artists. The art often straddled the fence between art and pornography, but a jolly good time was had by all.

Contrary to expectations, walking through the door of the small, two-room Coop did not reveal a decadent Roman orgy. Caligula probably would have regarded the crowd of art students and aging hipsters as somewhat of a drag. Most guests sipped a drink, puffed on a smoke, and tried to make serious comments about a giant phallus or a diagram of a uterus.

Much of the artwork was genuinely professional, however, and not just empty sensationalism. The main attraction was Michael Draga’s series of black-and-white nude prints. Draga photographs women and men, but his female subjects were the only ones on display Friday. Most of the women were average, everyday types, unembarrassed of their slightly sagging figures. From Draga’s artist statement: “I see the beauty in imperfection. I love to break stereotypes, and I see a beauty in all.” Most interesting was a partitioned section of the back of the room where Draga would photograph volunteers from the audience. Holes were cut in the black cloth to allow patrons a voyeuristic peek. Although this reporter didn’t see it firsthand, reliable sources report that two Washington University students (who will remain nameless) were reppin’ hard behind the black cloth that night. Once they were finished behind the curtain, the volunteers were encouraged to journey underground to be chained up and blindfolded. Viewers could watch the scene through a hole in the ground, which remained a hot spot throughout the night.

Other works included some glazed figurines by Tim Eberhardt depicting figures in all sorts of private positions. Titles included “Santa is Coming” (featuring Jolly Old St. Nick holding his lil’ Rudoph) and “Potters Always Have a Pot to Piss In” (no description necessary). A collection of paintings signed by a mysterious “Zeke” showed female nudes drawn in a variety of colors, as if the grown-up characters from Nickelodeon’s “Doug” had volunteered. Kathy Gomric submitted a few pieces from her “Drawing Fantasties” series, swirling, animalistic drawings that suggested a more erotic version of Henri Rousseau’s famous “Dream.” One of the more frivolous attractions was a “Twisteros” board, an old Twister game with sexual jargon painted on the multi-colored circles. With a call of “Left foot green,” players would have to plant their various limbs on words like “warts,” “G-spot,” “erector,” “pizzle,” and “nipply.” The many compromising positions caused by the game lent themselves to the sexual atmosphere.

While most of the show was either serious craftsmanship or harmless fun, a few submissions seemed downright exploitative or pornographic. Ange’ll Johanson’s silver gelatin prints, for example, definitely featured a woman holding some fellow’s saliva-covered member. “Lick It Before You Stick It” she called the piece. Indeed. Another factor adding to the slight creepiness was the presence of several older men who seemed particularly enthralled by the voluntary nude models. There’s a difference between studying a piece and ogling. These guys were decidedly indulging in the latter. It was hard to shake the idea that any sleazy pervert could have read the advertisement in the Riverfront Times and come to the show. After all, the $3 admission charge was cheaper than a night at a strip club. Despite these concerns, the night went without a hitch. Erotic art shows are apparently becoming an annual thing. It would be worthwhile to check out next year’s installment. Just be sure to leave the S & M gear and edible underwear at home.

IMDB.COM

Elephant
Starring: John Robinson, Alex Frost, Eric Deulen
Directed by: Gus Van Sant
Playing at: The Chase Park Plaza
Grade: D+

Final Word: Perhaps that panel of experts knows something I don’t, but it seems to be a case of style over substance, of exaggeration over excellence.

“Elephant” is a terrible film. Director Gus Van Sant has taken the Columbine massacre and wrapped it up in a self-indulgent failed experiment, an exercise in boredom whose moments of true beauty are obscured by the director’s obvious pretentiousness. The whole thing feels like exploitation, as if we have to take Van Sant’s art-house loftiness seriously because of its tragic subject matter. Don’t fall for it! Or at least, examine the case and decide if this excruciating film is for you.

“Elephant” is almost impossible to describe in narrative terms, since the first hour of the movie replays the same fifteen-minute span of time from multiple angles. We are first introduced to John (Robinson), who takes the keys from his obviously drunk, George W. Bush-looking father. Apparently this isn’t the first time it’s happened, since John is ready to call up his mom to come pick the old guy up. Leaving his father in the car, John walks into his high school-and time slows down. We then follow the jock-ish Jordan off the athletic field, through the hallways, and into the arms of his girlfriend. The camera follows behind him at a leisurely pace, filming for a full minute or two (in cinematic relativity, an eternity). There are no quick cuts or elliptical jumps in time. Everything is either real time or even reduced to slow-motion speed. Jordan and his girlfriend walk into the office to check out, and there is John, right where we left him after the first scene. This technique repeats ad nauseam, introducing the different characters and showing their crisscrossing high school lives in the same, boring, long-shot style.

One element drives the plot beyond a lingering look at these mostly beautiful high school hipsters (who all either look like Abercrombie and Fitch models or are painfully maladjusted nerds). When John walks back outside, shortly after he checks in, he sees two students, Eric (Deulen) and Alex (Frost), approaching the school dressed in camo and decked out in assorted duffel bags. “Just get the fuck out of here and don’t come back, shit might go down,” says Alex. We are caught off guard by this violent intrusion into Van Sant’s dreamy world, and tension fills the subsequent scenes, a feeling of dread from knowing that gunfire could explode at any moment. But when the violence finally begins, it feels like a relief, like plot and action are taking the place of coma-inducing monotony.

Is this Van Sant’s clever point? Are we supposed to find the detachment unbearable, so that the killers’ actions seem more acceptable? Is this our chance to get inside their heads, to feel the unbearable troubles of their daily existence (which include, almost exclusively, enduring spitballs, playing Beethoven on piano, killing innocent civilians in computer games, watching Hitler movies, and ordering automatic weapons online)? Is the movie one giant psychological trick meant to blur the lines between empathy and disgust?

If this is the case, I still don’t care. I still spent 81 minutes (thank God for “Elephant”‘s brevity) watching a guy cross a football field, sitting through the slow process of another kid developing a roll of film, staring for a full two minutes at a cloudy sky. These things are hard to forgive, especially when the sensitive subject matter demands honesty and a shedding of pretense. And these aren’t the lamentings of a cinematic prude who wants things delivered directly and with a clear sense of good and evil. There’s nothing wrong with “Elephant”‘s moral ambivalence or its cool, detached nature. The problem is that it’s impermissibly boring and self-indulgent considering its context. This film received a lot of attention at Cannes, where it earned Van Sant a Best Director award. Perhaps that panel of experts knows something I don’t, but it seems to be a case of style over substance, of exaggeration over excellence. All I saw was one elephant-sized turd.

Bernell Dorrough

Joy to the world the Lord is come
Let Earth receive her king
Let every heart prepare him room
And heaven, let heaven, heaven and nature,
Heaven and nature sing.

After several weeks of the scrooges that I work with telling me that it was too early to belt-out Christmas carols, I can finally sing to my heart’s content. I can’t even put into words how much I love Christmas and Christmas music. I love Christmas most of all, because it is loaded with tradition in my family.

Our Christmas tree is a tradition unto itself. My father has a friend that owns a Christmas tree farm, and each year a beautiful tree, nine feet or taller, arrives at our front door sometime in the beginning of December.

Putting lights and ornaments on a tree that big is a family affair. So is cleaning up the next morning if the tree breaks the tree-stand and falls over, which has happened more than once. In the end, however, if the tree stays standing, we always have the most beautiful Christmas tree I have ever seen. And I am never happier than when my family gathers around the Christmas tree Sunday morning, listens to Handel’s “Messiah,” and exchanges gifts.

As can only be expected from a family obsessed with food, another large part of our family’s Christmas traditions is centered on food. From my mother’s chocolate truffles which she makes by the dozens every year to give to family and friends, to our lamb feast on Christmas Eve, to my father’s Swedish pancakes that we eat on Christmas morning after exchanging gifts around the tree, we eat well throughout the holidays.

The food tradition most special to me, however, is baking cookies with my grandma. She was always been a very important, special part of my life, but I don’t get to see her a lot because she lives in Buffalo, NY. So when she comes into town for the holidays we spend a lot of time together.

A couple of years ago, a friend called me during the holidays to ask if I could go to a movie, and I said I was busy. “Are you playing board games with your grandma?” she asked. I wasn’t. I was baking cookies with my grandma, which is my favorite of my family’s Christmas traditions.

At one time I would help my grandma make six or more different kinds of cookies for Christmas. As she’s gotten older, though, that number has scaled back, and now each person in the family requests only our absolute favorites. My requests are cutouts and chocolate chip cookies.

I won’t tell you our recipe for chocolate chip cookies; it’s a family trade secret (actually, it’s on the back of the package of any package of Nestle Tollhouse chocolate chips. Just don’t beat the flour too much-that will make the cookies hard.)

I am willing, however, to share the recipe for my grandma’s cutout cookies, because they’re an absolute must for the holidays.

To get started, cream the sugar and shortening until it’s fluffy. Next, beat in the eggs, milk and vanilla. Sift together the flour, salt and baking soda and fold it into the batter. Now refrigerate the batter for at least a couple of hours. Roll out the dough so that it is about 1/4” thick, and use cookie cutters to cut the dough into desired shapes. I usually make the required Christmas trees, Santas and what not, but I also make chili peppers, bulls and sailboats. Don’t ask why. These odd shapes have become the favorites, though, at my friend Krista’s house where I go each year for Christmas Eve (another great Christmas tradition) and take a can of my grandma’s cookies.

Once you have cut them out, place the cookies on a greased cookie sheet, and bake at 350 degrees for eight to 10 minutes or until they turn a very light brown.

Now the fun begins. You’re ready to frost the cookies. Once when my father was young, my grandma went to a PTA meeting at his school and left him and his two brothers to frost the cookies. They made a puke-green frosting and decorated all the cookies, which were so hideous that my grandma refused to give any of them away and started another batch from scratch. This story has become legend in the family. To this day, my grandma has a tizz over frosting that does not closely resemble a primary color and will make me work forever to make the perfect Christmas green and red.

For the frosting, cream butter, salt, and vanilla, beating until light and fluffy. Add sugar gradually, beating after each addition. Add 3 tablespoons milk, beating until smooth. Beat in more milk until desired spreading consistency is reached. Makes about 2 1/3 cups of frosting.

Lastly, don’t forget to spread the season’s joy. Share these cookies with your friends and family.

Grandma’s Cutout Cookies

1 cup white sugar
3/4 cup shortening
2 eggs
2 1/2 cups flour
2 tablespoons flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon vanilla

Frosting

1/3 cup butter
1/ teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 pound (3 1/2 cups) sifted confectioners sugar
3 to 4 tablespoons milk

Bernell Dorrough

It’s been a long, glorious year in the arts and entertainment world, and though there were a lot of disappointments in movies (Matrix 2 and 3 bring themselves immediately to mind), music, literature and the fine arts, there were plenty of triumphs as well. Since someone was foolish enough to hire me as the arts and entertainment editor of Student Life-as if I were some sort of expert on the matter-here are my not-so-humble opinions of the year’s biggest disappointments and triumphs.

The Triumphs:

Best Album (mainstream): AFI, “Sing the Sorrow”

The major label breakthrough for the Bay Area goth-punk band is all huge riffs and anthemic sing-alongs. Sure, they might have sold out, but they’ve made selling out sound oh-so-good, and their rabid cult of tattooed fans has yet to abandon them, even though they’ve won an MTV Video Music Award. To top it all off, their trip to the mainstream is their most experimental and consistent album to date.

Best Album (underground): Black Cross, “Art Offensive”

Intricate, raw punk rock with a message, Black Cross are probably one of those bands that will go sorely unnoticed until they are gone and bunches of young kids try to imitate their sound. Bold enough to be abrasive and beautiful at the same time.

Best Single (mainstream): Outkast, “Hey Ya”

Riding on a dance beat straight out of “Shindig,” this cut from Andre 3000’s half of the two disc set “Speakerboxxx/The Love Below” is the most joyous song to hit the airwaves in ages. With Prince-like vocals and 60s pop guitar filtered through a futuristic hip-hop sensibility, “Hey Ya” is wonderfully infectious. If anything can stop the Middle East Crisis, it’s this song.

Best Single (underground): Give up the Ghost, “Love American”

With roaring yet chiming guitars, harsh, strangled vocals and wonderfully poetic lyrics, “Love American” from Boston hardcore band Give up the Ghost (formerly American Nightmare) redefines punk rock as the music of intellectual and visceral rebellion. Simply the best, most original extreme rock song of the year.

Best Music Video: Outkast, “Hey Ya”

Yeah, it’s “Hey Ya” again. But what could be better than a band of eight Andre 3000s in bright green outfits (especially the backup singers in jockey costumes) playing their hearts out on a “Top of the Pops” style show for an audience of swooning multicultural hotties ready to “shake it like a polaroid picture”? Nothing, I say. Nothing at all.

Best Book: “Fortress of Solitude” by Jonathen Lethem

Following up his wonderful, award-winning “Motherless Brooklyn” with a heartfelt tale of growing up in Brooklyn in the 1970s, Lethem creates two wonderful, believable characters named Dylan and Mingus who struggle against, and love, a world that is constantly stomping them down. “Fortress of Solitude” comes complete with plenty of music and comic book references that only reinforce the bond between high and low culture and the wonders of art in any form.

Best Movie: “About Schmidt”

Okay, technically it came out last year, but it didn’t open in St. Louis until 2003, and it was entirely snubbed on Oscar night, so I’ll give it its due here. Alexander Payne’s story of a retiree (Jack Nicholson) going on a quest to find meaning in his life after his wife’s death is profane and poignant, hilarious and heartbreaking. It’s the kind of movie that can make a viewer wonder about the hopelessness of American life while laughing at situations too familiar to be comfortable. “About Schmidt” also features the funniest haircut in a movie in some time: the balding mullet on Dermot Mulroney, playing Nicholson’s prospective son-in-law.

The Disappointments:

Movies: “The Matrix” parts 2 and 3.
If anyone understands what the hell happened, let me know.

Music: Major label debuts from formerly underground bands that lived up to neither the promise of their previous releases nor the media hype showered upon them: Thursday, Thrice, and the Rapture, just to name a few.