Whatever happened to . . .
Thursday, June 25, 2009 | 0 Comments
Earlier this week the Toronto International Film Festival announced its first 26 titles, which got me thinking about several really good films I saw there last year that seem to have vanished into the ether. Blurbs are from my write-up at Senses of Cinema:
Me and Orson Welles (Richard Linklater)
Although I saw very few narrative films that had their world premiere at TIFF, my favourite among them was Richard Linklater’s Me and Orson Welles, which is earning much-deserved praise for Christian McKay’s genuinely uncanny performance in the title role. That anyone -- anyone -- could so closely resemble Welles and so effortlessly reproduce his barreling voice would have been unimaginable before this film, but McKay’s greater feat is his knack for the raised brow, the glimmering eye, and the sly smile -- or, in a word, the charisma -- that makes the young Orson Welles of Citizen Kane, The Lady from Shanghai and The Third Man so electric. Linklater has consistently alternated between work-for-hire studio pictures like School of Rock (2003) and The Bad News Bears (2005) and smaller films developed in-house, such as Waking Life (2001) and A Scanner Darkly (2006). Me and Orson Welles falls somewhere in between. The adaptation of Robert Kaplow’s novel was shepherded for several years by Linklater’s longtime associates Holly Gent Palmo and Vince Palmo and was financed independently. (As of this writing, the film has yet to secure American distribution). Linklater’s formal style is typically unassuming, but the central story of an idealistic teenage artist (Zac Efron) echoes his career-long concern with the creative life, particularly in the final scene, in which Efron and a young writer walk off into the future, determined to become engaged passionately with the world around them. Linklater has great fun with the material, inserting occasional allusions to Godard and Carol Reed, and his recreation of Welles’s production of Julius Caesar captures much of the transgressive excitement that made it such a sensation seventy years ago.
Salamandra (Pablo Aguero)
In the opening sequence of Salamandra, Pablo Aguero's remarkable debut feature, six year-old Inti (Joaquin Aguila) plays alone in the bathtub of his grandmother’s well-appointed apartment. His toys are an American tank and brightly-coloured magnetic letters with which he spells out, in an ironic moment recalling late-‘60s Godard, “U.S. Army”. His comfort and security is broken a moment later when his mother (Dolores Fonzi) returns unexpectedly from prison and whisks him away to El Bolson, an isolated hippy commune in Patagonia. Aguero, like Inti, was raised among the anarchy and recklessness of El Bolson. “When your life is endangered, you become more alive to the sensations around you,” he said after the screening, and it’s much to his credit that the dizzying cacophony he creates in Salamandra is downright overwhelming. While promoting For Ever Mozart (1996) Godard attacked Western governments for their exploitation of others’ suffering in order to promote political agendas: “We made images in the movies, when we began, in order to remember. TV is made to forget. We see Sarajevo, okay, we forget in two seconds. The same moment that we are looking, we forget.” Child in peril stories, like “Feed the Children” commercials, are typically designed to appeal to the simplest and most disposable of emotions, pity. While Inti and his mother are both deserving of our pity, Aguero precisely counterbalances that response, eliciting also our admiration, fear, disgust, respect, and curiosity. Salamandra is certainly difficult to forget.
Nuit de Chien (Werner Schroeter)
Disconcerting in a completely different way was Nuit de Chien (Tonight), the latest feature from Werner Schroeter. A film that can legitimately wear the cliched descriptor “Kafkaesque”, Tonight depicts the night-long journey of returned war hero Ossorio Vignale (Pascal Greggory), who hopes to find his lover and escape with her before their city crumbles in a vague and ever-shifting revolutionary struggle. Vignale wanders into bars, faces down tyrants, rescues a beautiful child, and encounters several femmes fatales -- in other words, he’s a kind of noir hero but one trapped in an absurdist wonderland. Unlike other films in this genre -- say, Orson Welles’s The Trial (1962) or Terry Gilliam’s Brazil (1985) -- there’s no easily-defined menace here, no corporate bureaucracy or sinister conspiracy pulling the strings. Instead, events in the film turn at random on base acts of human cruelty and irrational political ambition. It’s a senseless and violent world, and Schroeter renders it in a shocking Technicolor that harkens to the heydays of radical political cinema in the early-1970s. I’ve rarely been affected so viscerally by a film’s colour palette: in one overlit shot of two women who have been sexually assaulted, Schroeter’s use of high contrast red and white actually made me light-headed. His images are classically Surreal -- arresting, confrontational, and defamiliarizing.
Genova (Michael Winterbottom)
Like Nuit de Chien Michael Winterbottom’s Genova also alludes to cinema of the 1970s. A direct homage to Nicholas Roeg’s Don’t Look Now (1973), Genova is about a middle-aged professor (Colin Firth) who moves with his two young daughters to Italy after their mother’s tragic death. It’s another interesting experiment from Winterbottom, who over the past decade has averaged more than a film per year. Shifting the dynamic from the loss of a child in the original film to the death of a wife and mother here allows Winterbottom to explore the very different emotional tolls taken on those involved. Genova, like its predecessor, is particularly interested in the ways sexual desire presents itself -- almost against the sufferer’s will -- as a manifestation of the identity confusion and desperate loneliness that accompanies such a loss. The memorable sex scene between Julie Christie and Donald Sutherland in Don’t Look Now haunts this film as well, both in Firth’s flirtations with an attractive Italian student (Margherita Romoe) and, much more interestingly, in the bittersweet coming-of-age of his teenaged daughter (Willa Holland). Of Winterbottom’s previous films, Genova most resembles, stylistically, 9 Songs, particularly in its use of documentary-like handheld photography and jumpcutting, and both films, I think, share a sympathetic fascination with the pains and mysteries of human intimacy. The ghost in Genova isn’t scary or dangerous but the world it haunts certainly is.
Katia's Sister (Mijke de Jong)
Finally, Mijke de Jong’s Het Zusje van Katia (Katia’s Sister), though far from perfect, is certainly deserving of some critical attention. The film revolves around the performance of Betty Qizmolli, who plays a socially awkward and emotionally impaired teenager. She, her mother (Olga Louzgina), and her older sister Katia (Julia Seijkens) are Russian immigrants living in Amsterdam and surviving on the mother’s earnings as a prostitute. Andrés Barba, the author of the novel on which the film is based, has been commended for his ability to adopt the perspective, if not the actual voice (it’s written in the third person), of a young girl whose innocence and naivete are debilitating. She is a Holy Fool so far removed from the moral complexities of the world that she is literally nameless: when asked in the opening moments of the film what she wants to be when she grows up, the girl can only answer “Katia’s sister”. A friend complained near the end of the festival that he’d seen too many films with “their hearts in the right place”, and this was, for me, a curious exception to the rule. De Jong is working with what is, essentially, a parable, yet her solution to the problem of adaptation is to commit completely to an aesthetic we’ve come to equate, post-Dardennes, with “realism” -- natural lighting, handheld photography with a shallow depth of field, and a slightly overexposed and desaturated image. De Jong’s camera rarely leaves the girl’s side or shoots her from a distance of greater than a medium shot. We don’t watch the world in this film, we watch her watching the world, and it’s that formal discipline that keeps Katia’s Sister from falling apart under the weight of its premise.
SFIFF Diary 4
Tuesday, May 12, 2009 | 0 Comments
Rembrandt's J'Accuse (Peter Greenaway)
The last Greenaway film I saw was Prospero's Books, so I have no idea if Rembrandt's J'Accuse is a return to form, as programmer Rod Armstrong claimed when he introduced it at SFIFF. A companion to Greenaway's recent Rembrandt biopic, Nightwatching (2007), Rembrandt's J'Accuse is an art history lecture disguised as an essay film. In his meticulous dissection of Rembrandt's "The Night Watch," Greenaway alludes to the painter's biography, to the political life of 17th century Amsterdam, to the aesthetic tastes of the day, to romantic intrigues, to the history of technology, and to various schools of relevant academic criticism, but the film seems less intent on uncovering the mysteries of a great painting than on modeling for a contemporary audience the fine and fading art of looking. Really looking. Though drowning in a whirl of images, we are sorely lacking in visual literacy, the film implies. Or, that's certainly what I found most interesting about it, at least. Formally, Rembrandt's J'Accuse is an odd bird. Each of Greenaway's arguments is presented logically and in sequence (such is the burden of a linear medium), but it has something of the quality of a Flash presentation or a late-'90s CD-Rom. I can imagine it being spliced into hyperlinked elements and finding a home as an interactive museum kiosk. (I almost certainly would have preferred to explore it that way.) Greenaway's talking head even appears throughout the film like a pop-up window, reading from the script in a resounding, pedantic tone that rivals Terrence Davies's.
The Other One (Patrick Mario Bernard and Pierre Trividic)
My expectations for The Other One skyrocketed during the opening title sequence, which is a beautiful montage of high-angle, nighttime shots of a mostly-empty, twelve-lane highway. It reminded me of a Claire Denis film -- the helicopter ride that opens I Can't Sleep or the rooftops of Paris in Friday Night. The wide highway leads eventually to a toll station. Then, as I recall, Bernard and Tridivic cut to their heroine, Anne-Marie (Dominique Blanc), who proceeds to drive a hammer into the side of her skull. Anne-Marie, we learn, has recently ended her relationship with a much younger man, freeing him to meet someone more appropriate. When she later learns that his new partner is also d'un certain age, she comes unhinged. She fails, embarrassingly, to seduce him, she cyberstalks, she begins to hallucinate. With The Other One, Bernard and Tridivic are positioning themselves somewhere in that line from Sirk to Cassavetes to Almodovar, all of them male directors preoccupied by strong women of fading beauty and sexual power. Blanc's performance is impressive, and the style of the film is often suitably claustrophobic and disorienting, but something has gone awry in the structuring of this film. That cut from the toll station to Anne-Marie's bathroom is the first of countless ellipses, most of them chronological jumps, both forward and backward in time. It's not confusing -- I never struggled to understand what was happening, or when -- but the cutting creates a flatness or stasis in the main character, a woman who is presumably becoming transformed through a moment of crisis. Particularly during the last half hour, as my patience waned, I thought often of Fien Troch's disappointing recent film, Unspoken, which also seems to assume that fixing a camera long enough on an actress will necessarily reveal the complexity of her character (exactly the wrong lesson to be learned from the best practitioners of contemplative cinema). Sirk, Cassavetes, and Almodovar (at his best) empathize with, are curious about, and have an essential understanding of their heroines. I don't doubt Bernard and Tridivic's commitment to Anne-Marie but the film lacks a trustworthy guide behind the camera.
Why I don't read (or write) music reviews
Friday, May 08, 2009 | 5 Comments
"It's music inspired by Disney films." -- Annie Clark on her new album, Actor (recorded as St. Vincent)
"One would hardly expect the phrase 'Technicolor Disney nightmare' to become an overused idiom anytime soon, but it's a good bet you'll see some iteration of it, written or otherwise, in just about every reference to this album." -- No Ripcord
"if it sounds a bit like the kind of dark, violent fairy tale Disney might have made had they not strayed so far from their Grimm roots, well, that’s a pretty fair take on the album as a whole." -- The Hurst Review
"imagine Trent Reznor scoring an old Disney movie—princesses and demons battling in a swirl of distorted synth noises, orchestral strings and pianos." -- Culture Bully
"Marrow is the perfect mix of Disney musical meets rock n' roll." -- Sputnik Music
"The sophomore album from St. Vincent employs a cacaphony of sounds to create its Grimms brothers atmosphere. And indeed, Clark even looks like a Disney heroine." -- AOL Music
"The way that Clark’s trilling voice delivers melodies that skip and soars overtop richly-appointed arrangements, you could imagine these songs soundtracking any animated Disney film" -- Chromewaves
"Estas canciones nacen como un score imaginario para escenas de cintas como Badlands, Picnic at Hanging Rock y algunos clásicos de Disney como La Bella Durmiente y La Dama y el Vagabundo." -- Flaming Milk
"And like a Disney flick, the tune has a happy ending, with a soothing mix of accordion, acoustic guitar, and skyward vocals. However, Michey Mouse [sic] probably won't approve of Clark's lyrics about 'painting the black hole blacker,' quarreling with a lover, and keeping secrets in a relationship. Oh, well." -- Spin
"Clark’s sweet vocals carry a tinge of malice, and set against the fanciful, dreamy arrangements, they often recall a golden-era Disney-villain." -- Tiny Mix Tapes
"Annie Clark may look like an animated Disney heroine sprung to life, and the influence of willowy, ethereal singers and songwriters such as Feist and Tori Amos is obvious." -- STNG
"The whole project at times seems Disney-ish in its aims, soaring with its whimsical orchestral arrangements and painting scenes that you really want to see brought to life in animation." -- Express Night Out
"‘The Stranger’, the ambulatory opening track of Actor, is indicative of St Vincent’s efforts: kitsch strings, reminiscent of 60’s easy listening or a mournful Disney soundtrack, give way to a storm of fuzzed-up guitar." -- Wireless Bollinger
"Even when the music is at its most dramatic, as when songs slip out of placid, Disney-esque string accompaniment into jagged, distorted guitar passages, Clark consistently understates her characters' angst, and buries their negative emotions under layers of denial, stoicism, and subservience to the desire of others." -- Pitchfork
Okay, I like this one: "The fantasy of Disney is juxtaposed with the sweep of Morricone, David Mamet’s unsettling dramatic form and the alienation of Philip Roth." -- Music Remedy
SFIFF Diary 3: 575 Castro St.
Thursday, May 07, 2009 | 0 Comments
Dir. by Jenni Olson
Rather than write about the "Voices Carry" shorts program, which was a jarring and poorly curated combination of Roy Andersson/Terry Gilliam wannabes and thoughtful documentaries, I want to focus, instead, on 575 Castro St., Jenni Olson's cleverly conceived piece about Harvey Milk. The film is seven minutes long and consists of only four static shots, along with an opening title that contextualizes what we're seeing:
In February 1977, the San Francisco Gay Film Festival was born when a self-described “ragtag bunch of hippie fag” filmmakers got together and projected their Super 8 short films on a bed sheet. Many of these films explored gay themes, but (like many other experimental films of the era) many were simple light and motion studies. Most of these films passed through Harvey Milk's Castro Camera Store at 575 Castro St. for processing.
In 2008, the Castro Camera Store was recreated at that address for Gus Van Sant's film MILK. This film was shot on that set.
I've quoted the text in full because it's as essential to Olson's project as any of the shots are. It's as essential as the soundtrack, which is an edited recording of the "In Case I'm Assassinated" tape that Milk made while seated alone at the desk in his store. The film works wonderfully on the most basic level -- that is, as a haunted image. When I spoke to Olson after the screening, she told me how overwhelming it was to visit the set, to listen to Milk's voice, and to know that it was here -- right here -- that he contemplated his imminent murder. She's translated that experience well to her film, which is ghostly and deeply moving. But, of course, it wasn't right here that Milk made his tape. This is a meticulously dressed set. That's Sean Penn in the top-left corner (see the image above). It's artifice. Make-believe. Harvey's been gone for more than thirty years now.
Borrowing an idea I used last September when writing about James Benning's RR, here are a few more ways of looking at 575 Castro St.:
As a history of film technology -- I'd forgotten that Milk owned a camera shop, and didn't realize he processed Super 8 there and played a role in the making (literally) of gay cinema. That made the experience of watching 575 Castro St. interesting in two ways: first, Olson's film was projected not onto a bedsheet but onto a large screen in a stadium-seated multiplex; second, shot digitally, projected digitally, this "film" required no physical processing whatsoever. Olson didn't need a shop like Harvey's. Her medium is ones and zeroes rather than celluloid. You can even watch 575 Castro St. online.
As a "simple light and motion" study -- I wish I were familiar with the specific films Olson is alluding to in the text of the film's opening title. A longtime collector, archivist, and critic of LGBT cinema, she is presumably offering her film as an homage to those who came before her and claiming her place in their line. Each of the four shots lasts a bit longer than the one that precedes it, and the final shot lasts for nearly three minutes, or just under half of the film's total run time. It's a beautiful image. Sunlight reflecting off of passing cars illuminates the wall and gives a curious movement to the static shot. I would have happily watched it for several minutes more.
As tragedy tourism -- One consequence of the extended shot lengths is that viewers are allowed the time to thoroughly and freely explore each image. As a result, we become consciously aware of the artificiality of it all. The opening shot could be from 1977, until we spot two late-model cars pass outside the storefront windows. The last shot could be vintage as well, until we recognize Mr. Penn. I have a theory that, because 21st-century Americans' lives are marked by such comfort and politeness (generally speaking), we have a strange desire to associate ourselves, personally, with other people's tragedy, as if doing so will grant us access to some hidden, distant experience and wisdom. Hence the Martin Luther King, Jr. museum at the Memphis hotel where he was gunned down and, more recently, our commitments to "never forget" the victims of 9/11, the Virigina Tech shootings, the Minnesota bridge collapse (remember that one?), and on and on. When the Harvey Milk museum is eventually built, somewhere in the Castro, Olson's film will likely play on a constant loop there. Which isn't to say it's not genuinely moving. It is. But it's also one step removed from the genuine. It's a tourist destination.
As a comment on the Hollywood biopic -- I've bumped Milk to the top of my Netflix queue, although, truthfully, even as a great fan of Gus Van Sant, I don't have high expectations for it. Traditional biopics -- and especially Hollywood productions about recent historical figures -- are hamstrung, I think, by a wealth of extratextual pressures. Large budgets demand large returns, and that economic pressure necessitates the transformation of a complex, messy life into a coherent and familiar narrative. (Steve McQueen's Hunger is a recent and remarkable exception that proves the rule.) Hollywood biopics also tend to be marketed as acting showcases and "prestige" pictures, which forces audiences to view the film through a thin veil of celebrity. Plus, there's always that nagging problem of verisimilitude. (I've always liked E. L. Doctorow's response to critics of his "inaccurate" depiction of real historical figures in Ragtime: "I don't know if these events actually happened, but I'm absolutely confident they're true.") Again, that photo of Sean Penn is key here. 575 Castro St. challenges every formal tendency of the Hollywood biopic -- it's short, slow, contemplative -- but, in a way, it is a Hollywood biopic. On a practical level, an independent filmmaker like Olson would rarely have the resources to access and dress a location like this. And, presumably, those of us who are interested in a film like 575 Castro St. approach it with those same preconceptions about Penn's performance and celebrity, even if we haven't seen Milk. (Such is the nature of contemporary media saturation.) It's a clever interrogation of the form, I think.
As a document of progress -- Finally, as uncanny and heartbreaking as it is to hear Harvey Milk confess his fears, there's something celebratory (not quite the right word) about 575 Castro St., too. This is not a nostalgia piece or maudlin reveille. Even down to its digital form, it is very much a document of the present moment. When Milk mentions that, rather than rioting on news of his death, he would rather see "five, ten, a hundred, a thousand rise" and come out, we know that his dream is slowly but steadily becoming realized.
Anticipating the Limits of Control
Tuesday, May 05, 2009 | 0 Comments
"Another thing: Tilda Swinton (identified as “Blonde,” and lightly suggesting to me Bulle Ogier in Rivette’s Duelle) observes to the Lone Man at one point that she likes films even when people are just sitting around in them and not saying anything — a declaration followed by a long pause."
-- Jonathan Rosenbaum on Jim Jarmusch's The Limits of Control
Darren Hughes is a web designer and freelance writer in Knoxville, Tennessee.