Matt McKinzie is a Boston-based filmmaker, screenwriter, essayist, photographer, performer, and poet. His work has been showcased in numerous galleries, collectives, and publications, including the Film-Makers' Cooperative of New York, Studio 550 of Cambridge, and Hygienic Art. He currently works as Editorial Director of EM Magazine
Camille Billops moved beyond predictable and well-tread ground to open up space for new narratives in her films—about Black families, Black women, and Black middle-class life—that pulled on her distinctive and unapologetic worldview.
Joni Mitchell's foray into jazz was not an impulsive change. Rather, jazz has been the constant, undulating beneath industry demands and topical concerns that called for the acoustic guitar or the Appalachian dulcimer.
Haile Gerima's Bush Mama remains a critically transformative film, particularly in its most subliminal, yet important, proclamation: the days of separating "art" and "artist" are over. For in Black cinema, those days never existed to begin with.
Wave's status as Patti Smith's most unapologetically pop album reveals the most authentically "punk" gesture of her career: rejecting the idea that her genre capabilities begin and end with that four-letter word.
Joni Mitchell's latest book denotes the next step in the Joni evolution, and indicates that perhaps those different languages for her—of visual art, poetry, and music—will finally be held in equal regard.
The Velvet Underground's 1969 self-titled release, known as the "Grey Album", blazes boldly 50 years later, and retains the same sonic relevance as a Laura Nyro or Nick Drake record: artworks utterly of their moment, that sound like they could have been made yesterday.
Our pop culture landscape is controlled by capitalistic saturation and a deeply-entrenched machismo ethic. It might not be powerful enough to erase Agnès Varda's genius, but it is shameless enough to eliminate her from the common discourse.
With his 1949 avant-garde short film, Puce Moment, Kenneth Anger is vomiting glamour into our face, objectifying objects, sexualizing what cannot, in a vacuum, be sexualized: silk, velvet, cotton, glitter -- and we cannot get enough of it.
As in the America of the 1970s -- with its political corruption, war, economic straits, and fatalism -- Robert Altman's Brewster McCloud resonates loudly in these times. Shall we join the circus freaks dancing on the grave of an absurd and unjust society?