Explaining the absolute power behind William Basinski's The Disintegration Loops may just be the most pretentious thing you ever do (and I will now attempt to do). Basinski's four-part series denies logic in the simplest sense of music, as it's more of an enigmatic force than a traditional album. So instead of trying to sound intelligent while reiterating its history, here's the Wikipedia entry:
"Loops is based on Basinski's attempts to salvage earlier recordings made on magnetic tape, by transferring them into digital format; however, the tape had physically deteriorated to the point that, as it passed by the Tape Head, the ferrite detached from the plastic backing and fell off. Basinski has said that he finished the project the morning of the September 11 attacks on the World Trade Center in New York City, and sat on the roof of his apartment building in Brooklyn with friends listening to the project as the WTC towers collapsed.[2] In 2011, Basinski corrected earlier reports where he described recording the last hour of daylight of 9/11 in NYC with a video camera focused on the smoke where the towers were from a neighbor's roof, then set the first loop as the soundtrack to that footage."
I came across ambient music the way anybody else might. I was blown away by Brian Eno's Ambient 1: Music for Airports and Ambient 4: On Land, Tim Hecker's Haunt Me, Haunt Me Do It Again, and Stars of the Lid's And Their Refinement of the Decline. I fell for Aphex Twin, Tangerine Dream, Voice of Eye, and Gas. I love ambient music because, like Brian Eno said, it can be either, "actively listened to with attention or as easily ignored, depending on the choice of the listener." More pretension, right? But the Father of ambient music couldn't be more spot-on. I may loop ambient music while I'm typing away at work or just lounging around the bedroom, and it's rarely an offensive listen. Little do I know I'm slowly illustrating soundscapes, drawing pictures with the invisible notes floating throughout my mind, and normally it all comes together without much mental work from me. Dreams, fears, politics, life—it's all fair game with ambient music, and the best artists bring those themes to life.
Tim Hecker grabs me by the collar and puts the fear into me; Brian Eno can be as calming as an uncrowded airport or as fierce and detached as a treacherous jungle; and Stars of the Lid can make the most unoffensive hour of your life pass by in seconds. Yet for me, none of those experiences matched listening to The Disintegration Loops for the first time. Basinski made me feel both hope and decay—the prospect of life pit against the inevitability of death. As Basinski's Loops slowly deteriorates along with the World Trade Center, the mixture of emotions inside me gradually build and intertwine, leaving a mess of a human being as it fades into oblivion. I watch/listen to The Disintegration Loops at least once a month to subconsciously remind myself of what I'm capable of, and how easily it can be stripped away.
So when I first heard The Disintegration Loops looping in Rick Alverson's The Comedy, I was understandably taken aback. Basinski's classic ambient album has been picking up steam lately, receiving a 9-LP special edition box set earlier this year, but used in a film? This was new. Up until this point, I was an admirer of The Comedy. It's easy to recognize the generational gap being explored in The Comedy as Swanson (Tim Heidecker) personifies the stereotypes associated with an entire generation and shields himself with irony during his sluggish, alcohol-ridden descent into anonymity. Set to receive a vast amount of money upon his father's death, Swanson feels the need to create a unique identity, relishing in incredibly awkward situations and driving people's comfort levels through the roof. Naming the film "The Comedy" even carries its own level of irony, as Swanson challenges the very tropes of comedy as a genre whilst shooting the shit with friends and candidly begging his audience to laugh on several floundering occasions.
But comprehension and perspective are two very different experiences. After so much hype, I felt as though I understood The Comedy's intentions before even watching the film. But as Swanson and his friends merrily rode bikes alongside Basinski's The Disintegration Loops—that's when I gained perspective. From that point on it was total and complete immersion that went beyond understanding the finer points of a film. The Comedy is a skulking, breathing example of the uncertainty of life, the imminence of death, and the inescapable past that looms over it all. Swanson's descent into discovering (or perhaps denying) this fact is as irrevocable as the crumbling of the World Trade Center.
"Have you ever had to deal with a prolapsed anus?" That's pretty much how we're introduced to Swanson (other than drunkenly dancing in his underwear with friends), bringing about the Louie-esque idea that stand-up jokes do not translate to real life. Whereas Louis C.K. would continually rant about a single subject on stage and keep it endlessly entertaining, Swanson's continual berating of his father's nurse is a tragic display of denial. In the presence of the dying man driving Swanson's rebellious and perverse abuse of humanity, we find Swanson attempting to isolate himself through human connection—the line between the two is so thin that he is often successful. Swanson desperately wants to engage in an honest conversation with this nurse, but Swanson's societal sense of "honesty" has been shattered through a combination of his friends' acceptance of him and society's misunderstanding. So as the nurse endures Swanson's rant about tasting the shit underneath your fingernails with a straight face, Swanson becomes more and more intimate in an attempt to both come closer and ensure distance.
When Swanson leaves the nurse, he happens upon a group of Hispanic gardeners working on a rich man's front lawn. This is one of several times Swanson will insert himself into a situation he craves to learn more about, along with a bar full of black people, a late night taxi ride, and a job as a dishwasher. With these gardeners, Swanson creates an ironic alternate identity for himself, slaving away through hard labor he will never again have to endure. Not that Swanson has ever experienced hard labor, but upon receiving his father's vast estate, the idea will essentially be stripped away. Swanson approaches the man employing the gardeners and cringingly requests his workers be allowed to swim in the backyard pool. Swanson, in an attempt to associate himself with these gardeners by offering them a bit a solace, actually inserts himself into a leadership role that ultimately attempts to dictate how these men feel. Swanson's search for irony only results in further distancing, as the gardeners look away in nervousness and appall. Swanson finds himself making good with the man and not "his workers", thus leading to his face of disgust and walking away.
The black bar may be more of sad reminder of Swanson's alcoholism more than anything else. He once again asks for a job, noting the bar could use a bit of diversity. It's another situation where Swanson attempts to understand a lifestyle he's incapable of understanding, butchering hip hop music with his atrocious delivery and shouting, "I want to fuck some black chicks!" This juxtaposed alongside the scene where Swanson drives the cab is a clear reminder that, despite his ability to extract laughs from the surrounding "tough" black guys at the bar, he's only acknowledged for his sheer out-of-placeness in these situations. Swanson craves to become one with these people, but they have no intentions of unshielding themselves for a rich boy's amusement. Driving a taxi cab is a welcoming excursion for a man who spends his time harassing drivers from the backseat—for this driver, swapping roles is not quite as ideal. "This is my life," the man says, until the prospect of $400 becomes too much—another moment of unrealized irony as Swanson uses money to run away from his wealth. As Swanson slowly picks up speed in the cab (and his new passenger becomes more and more nervous), we find Swanson racing towards absolutely nothing. The rush he feels isn't one of discovery, but instead one of cowardice and contradiction. Then as Swanson runs away from the car laughing, we see than his capricious form of "comedy" hasn't fully gained texture. He's shaping as he goes, denying himself the ability to gain insight into these people's lives for the sake of outlandishness.
This scene recalls another where Swanson and his rowdy friends harass a taxi driver, shouting at him to play some "hip hip hop" music. With his friends, comedy takes an entirely different form. He often discusses "comedy" as a genre with his friends, telling his impossibly dull friend to wait at least thirty seconds before addressing a topic. "You have great comedic instincts," Swanson says, "and you sabotage them with the worst followup." You could say that this statement succinctly captures Swanson's detachment from society, unable to recognize the hopelessness of his plight of irony and continually pressing the buttons of comfortability. But in this particular case, this line reflects why Swanson is unable to interact with others without shedding his skin. The sense of camaraderie and agreement amongst Swanson and his friends allows for a much more textured form of comedy that evenly provides scenes with structure and delivery. These men feed off one another, catching each other's beats and building momentum. Their ability to laugh at one another starkly contrasts the entire point of Swanson's journey, as he attempts to penetrate those outside his gaggle of troublemakers with the same methods. This disconnect is a lamentably muted way of displaying this gap, essentially stealing the only blissful portion of Swanson's existence and extinguishing it outside the confines of his living room. Each new interaction carries with it a display of a man desperately trying to connect with people outside this small group, as he'll make up news reports about hobo dicks being cleaner than hospital scalpels with his friend, and then similarly use a fake theory about fatalism to flirt with a young woman. His friend plays along, yet the girl only laughs at his ludicrous statement. It's quite clear that Swanson can never achieve the consistency he craves from such a lifestyle.
The tugging effect it has upon Swanson is clear when paralleled alongside his flirtation with his co-worker (Kate Lyn Sheil), who actually engages with Swanson's sick sense of humor and toes that incredibly thin barrier he continuously shatters. After so much disconnect with others and familiarity with his friends, he's understandably surprised by her retort to his demand for dish soap: "Did you try using the dish soap to clear out your asshole?" Unable to comprehend this moment of genuine human connection, Swanson quickly ends the discussion with "I rape anything I can get my hands on" in an attempt to drive her away. Later Swanson cuts himself and blames "that cunt," creating a strange take on romance where Swanson is legitimately troubled by this girl. Their romantic rivalry continues, as his quite adept impression of Nick Nolte and a healthy supply of weed woos her into a state of relaxation around Swanson. It doesn't match his other sexual flings, as those women simply laughed at his cruel jokes, digging his sense of irony. Here, this young woman quite understands Swanson and feeds off his humor, building a sick relationship that's actually healthy in Swanson's case. And then, as he slowly strips off her clothing, she goes into a fit of panic—a seizure, I believe, produced from God knows what (possibly the drugs?). But instead of panicking or reacting, Swanson simply stares in silence, almost accepting of the turn of events. Even in this special case where Swanson's humor connects with an outside human being, he is denied the opportunity to create a life for himself. It's a moment of divine intervention that's hellbent on alienating Swanson, which is a perfect lead-in for the final scene.
Just before the worst date of all time, Swanson visits a hospital. He exits the elevator on a random floor after being the reverse-victim of some children's prank and wanders into a random room. There he finds an old man—a surrogate form of his own dying father. The mixed emotions Swanson holds towards others is undoubtedly a result of this unacknowledged relationship—especially since his father's money is the driving force behind his excursions—and his reaction is quite telling. We may never know his angst or love towards his father, only signaled by a cocked-and-loaded joke with his sister about his level of generosity, ("Papa was nice, using their skin for furniture"), but his rare gentleness with this man is a display of longing and regret. He softly combs the man's hair and looks upon his family photos in a painstakingly intimate situation that doesn't belong to him. After spending so many days and nights attempting to create his own identity, we find him aping another life to achieve what he so desires. He's pushing away a life that drives his unhealthy obsession with comedy, all the while craving an alternate form of the same life.
When pairing this crushing moment alongside the final scene, we find the absolute personification of The Disintegration Loops. His friend Bobby (Neil Hamburger) cycles through a slideshow of old family photos mixed in with pornographic images (of course), and Swanson looks on with apathy. The beauty of the scene lies in its absolute simplicity. Along with the hospital scene (and just after his seizure date), it's a transparent moment of reflection and discovery that drives Swanson to board his bicycle and race away. He reaches a beach and storms into the water with a child, gleefully splashing water and encouraging their bout. And then the child attempts to run away, which brings panic out of Swanson as he begs the child to come back. Simplicity is once again the dominator, as the tragic lucidity of his attachment to this child is the culmination of an arc that began with forced detachment and ends with blissful ignorance. Swanson is as happy as this child because he's chosen to abandon every fiber that has compelled him to relish in rebellious irony. But once again (and one final time), the only irony lies within Swanson's denial. As his run as an adult comes to a calamitous end, he retreats to childhood, disintegrating to a former state of mind that suddenly doesn't seem so unattainable.
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