San Francisco International Film Festival

Where would I be with out my old Grimoire?

By Sara Schieron

“I’m sorry, his schedule is too full.” The publicist told me this more than once and it inspired nothing but disobedience. In a festival that boasts names like Robert Towne, Dario Argento, Errol Morris, and my film journalist/hero J. Hoberman, it’s Black Francis (a.k.a. Frank Black, formerly of the Pixies) that’s the apple of my eye.

Rumor has it we can credit inspired programmer Sean Uyehara for Mr. Francis’ appearance. Tonight he performs an original live score for Paul Wegener’s expressionist classic Der Golem. The choice of film couldn’t be more appropriate: The Jewish mysticism, the blatant seriousness that can hardly be viewed without the tang of irony, the Schiefra-horn.

Outside the Castro, the lines were long and the crowds dense. Yet, for all the tension of bodies on the theatre block (see video) the attendees were not as unhappy as most queue bound Americans. Perhaps it has something to do with the night.

The energy inside was palpable and the performance well surpassed any previous Black Francis concert I’ve witnessed. Better than the Warfield in ‘93, better than the Greek with the Pixies reunion (both tours) better than that dream I had where he played my wedding. He was pristine but more importantly, he was brilliant.

At a point early in the film, before the face of the film’s director and star (Wegener) is molded into the mystical, if yet inanimate, clay corpus, we see two animals fighting. Black Francis left a moment of bluesy near-rockabilly to enter a song with slow flute and whispered vocals. It was precisely the sort of counterpoint that elevates the electricity in the room. Like pulling a rug from the crowd, the somber downturn went aggressive and the vocals entered the realm of his more familiar bouncing growl. You could hear people inhale around you and it’s a wonder no one started screaming.

Later in the film, when the Golem transitions from the protector of the Jews to sure threat, the score officially ceased to be some independent creation to the film. As the Golem drags the vixen daughter of the alchemist up to the top of the ghetto tower the lyrics, again in rasping tones, kept rhythm with the alchemist; mickeymousing his gestures and taking on the blues while the ever responsible mystic watched that corner of the ghetto crumble like the towering inferno.

Afterwards people swarmed the pit for autographs. I pushed through the line, texting Aaron the videographer to follow me. Graciously, Black Francis invited us to join him for wine in the oasis-like curtained bar upstairs in the theater.

See me gushing in this video below. Like I was going to listen to the publicist when she said “no.”