David Hamilton's First Desires

David Hamilton's Premiers Desirs ('84) is a good example of why his photographs are far more appealing than his movies.

If we see Hamilton's photographs as snapshots of lives in motion, our imaginations are left to fill in the worlds that exist beyond the perimeters of the images.

Unfortunately, when Hamilton makes movie versions of his imagery, the "worlds" beyond the perimeters of the erotic are not those of our imaginations anymore. They're so much more bland and uninteresting. Pedestrian even.

Another drawback is the the imagery itself. The cinematographer on these movies is rarely Hamilton himself. He hires a photographer so he can focus on directing the performers. As the credits roll on Premiers Desirs, a montage of actual photographs shot by Hamilton are flashed on the screen. All they do is remind us of how superior Hamilton's photographs are to his movies.

So why make the movies?

Money, of course.

Umbrella Entertainment's DVD (Australia) is well presented

Hamilton has made six features in a similar vein; Bilitis ('77) is the most well known.

 The most explicit of his softcore romps is arguably Tendres Cousines ('80).

Like his previous efforts, Premiers Desirs is about beautiful young girls trapped in ultra-contrived, juvenile scripts that exist only to disrobe them. They disrobe quite often, which is a fine thing, but, eventually, these Coming of Age dramas become numbing because they're so damn cliched.

Do people anywhere really behave like this?

It's a fantasy, of course, so anything is possible, but must such fantasy be so boring, slow, and, from a dramatic standpoint, embarrassingly amateur?

Which leads me to ask why, why, why -- apart from the money -- did Hamilton decide to make these films in the first place?

Probably a really dumb question.

To me, watching Hamilton's movies -- after leafing through his books -- is an experience similar to discovering that a beautiful woman you secretly admire picks her nose and eats it.

The Exotic Influence of the Past

I have some powerful connections to these images. When I was visiting my eye doctor (the late and great Dr. Hugh Ryan) in the winter of '72, I spotted the above image on the wall of his waiting room. It took my ten year old breath away.

The woman depicted in this ravishing painting by the immortal J H Lynch did things to my body and mind that I have never fully recovered from. I was entranced by her dark, exotic beauty, and transported immediately to the shimmering, almost surreal locale.

I wore an eye patch over my right eye for many years because the sight in my left eye was close to zero. Eventually, the muscle developed and my left eye learned to stand on its own.

After my visit with the doctor, I returned to an empty waiting room and waited for my mother. Feeling lucky, I stepped onto a chair and began to remove this framed print from the wall. My blood raced as I stepped back down with it and headed for the door. A moment later, a hand landed on my shoulder. It was a chubby hand belonging to a fat woman. She was the doctor's temp, I guess. I'd never seen her face before.

"Where are you going with that?" she asked.

I stopped and stared at her fat face. "To wait for my mum."

This wasn't really an answer; it was a child's way of providing a response in lieu of an honest answer that would incriminate me.

"WHAT'S GOING ON?!" was the next thing I heard. It came from my mother's mouth and it was said with shock and anger.

I turned.

Fatty didn't say anything (not with words). She just looked at my mum, and that probably said enough.

"WELL?" said my mother.

I remained silent.

My mother stared at the beauty in the picture before gesturing back towards the lonesome picture hook on the wall behind her.

"Put it back," she said.

I complied.

And as I complied, the fat temp provided some commentary: "He didn't have any trouble seeing THAT with his bad eye, did he?"

"No," my mother sighed. "He certainly didn't."

I got over this incident eventually, but I resented the actions of Fatty for about thirty-five years. Probably explains why I'm not real keen on fat chicks. I blame them for separating me from my dark, ravishing beauty.

A year later, while in the 5th grade, I fell in love with a miniature version of this exotic creature; her name was Linda Higgs, and she was a dark-skinned, athletic vision of miniature womanhood who drank a can of RC Cola every day. It was almost as dark as her skin. And when she let me taste it, I was in heaven.

These striking images are scans from a beautiful book called Just Above The Mantlepiece - Mass Market Masterpieces (Booth-Clibborn Editions, Ltd.; 2000). Edited by Wayne Hemingway, it's a stunning compilation of pop art gems that appeared on public and private walls in the 60's, 70's and 80's.

I have vivid memories of stumbling on many of these images for the first time.

For example, when I was just eight years old, I was in love with the doe-eyed waif in the picture above. The picture hung on the wall of a neighbor's garage. I would constantly find reasons to visit this alcoholic neighbor just so I could see it again. It didn't bother me one bit that her eyes were much bigger than a real person's eyes. On the contrary, her sad, almost tragic demeanor brought out the humanitarian in me.

Another consequence of my obsession with this picture was that I developed a fetish for women in red tights. There are some things we never grow out of.

The superb and unique working style of Margaret Keane, who painted both of the pics above, has inspired and been preserved by artists such as Mark Ryden.


Pre-dating David Hamilton and his photographic portraits of youth was the artist Stephen Pearson.

These two examples of his work are minor masterpieces, and demonstrate an exceptional grasp of form and shadow. The eroticism is certainly palpable, but also elusive.

Although the artist for the painting of the crying boy (one of many in the book) is not specifically identified, this piece traveled the world and caused uproar in some parts.

Crying children pictures are not so common these days.

Crying children still are.

People of The Grain

I love film grain. I love its naked, organic architecture.

To me, seeing grain is like seeing the cells of your lover's body. It shimmers. It pulses. It's alive!

As you can see in these images from Adrian Lyne's Lolita ('97), a magnificent film I like much more than Kubrick's stab at Vladimir Nabokov's novel, grain can create a brittle, aching timelessness to a an image; and a penetrating, almost painterly reality.

Grain is honest. Grain possesses a truth.

Does that explain the current movement against it?

I am confounded by many reviewers of movies on DVD who pepper their critiques with bizarre statements such as "Grain is noticeable", "There is some grain", and "Grain levels are acceptable".

"Some grain"? "Grain levels are acceptable"?

Excuse me, but grain is part and parcel of the film's emotional conveyor belt. It is the film's texture. Texture is a crucial component of the work.

In painted art, texture is achieved with the paint, the brush, the amounts of paint applied to the canvas, and the "finish" the painter chooses. The painting may be impressionistic rather than naturalistic, or it may be photo-realistic.

The artist makes choices. The result of those individual choices is what makes up the character of the piece.

The mental process of shooting on film is no different. The choice of film stock is not just a technical one; it is an artistic one. Stock makes a statement. It communicates an emotion.

DVD reviewers who are bothered by grain, and insist that it be expunged from the work, are ignorant. They are also dangerous. They are a special interest group petitioning for a cinema in which everything looks the same, and they won't be satisfied until it does.

These blockheads are part of a pathetic, wrong-headed movement that equates gloss (no grain) with acceptability and professionalism. The image is acceptable only if grain is not apparent. The image is acceptable if the look of the film is brought into line with the look of today's average studio picture, despite the fact that the film may have been filmed ten or fifty years ago.

It's gross revisionism, and it stinks.

What's behind the dislike of grain is the same thought cancer that's behind genre movie trailers. I call it Universal Templating. Take a million different horror movies and jam them into the template. Bingo! You have polished, suspicious smelling shit with an identical structure. Even if the movie has unique merits, you will not see them in the trailer.

This is a disease that has infected studio-produced movies. Although these expensive motion pictures are shot by different cinematographers, incredibly talented cinematographers, they all possess the same generic studio gloss. No grain. No evidence of an organic process. No damn truth.

Network TV is worse. With exceptions such as The Shield (which is cable, actually)...

...it is a medium that is terrified of grain, fearful of looking different, shaking in its boots when it comes to the "final look".

It has embraced wobbly, unjustified camera movement, of course, because everybody's doing it.

But to assuage its fear of alienating Joe Below Average, who wouldn't know his ass from a hole in the ground, let alone film grain from a wet pixel, it has managed to narrow his concept of entertainment imagery.

Fear of anything closes the door on opportunity. It rationalizes limitations. Stomps on possibilities. It argues for rules. It resents alternatives because it finds comfort in its own closed world.

Hollywood imagery has become the monster child of this fear.

The look of Hollywood movies is being redrawn. It is ironic that with such amazing technology in hand, it is being used to homogenize appearances.

Instead of accepting grain as a natural part of a film's make-up, reviewers are exhibiting serious grain aversion, a contagious disease that is like a scream insisting on being heard in a monastery.

Few artists employ grain as emotional provocateur as brilliantly (and professionally) as David Hamilton, the British photographer who is perhaps more well known for his nudes.

These exceptional images possess a verisimilitude that tattoos the psyche.

His color work appropriates the visual dynamics of oil painting with its use of exposure and grain.

French photographer Jean-Francois Jonvelle captures the timelessness of beauty in these images of women. The presence of grain lends the subjects a sense of fragility.

Grain is a crucial component of his work.

For the open-minded, it is never too late to get back to the grain of the matter.

In fact, this is one of precious few situations where not going against the grain may pay greater dividends.