A parable about film criticism andintelligence analysis from AMC’s Rubicon

So far (four episodes in) I am enjoying AMC’s Sunday night “Mad Men” companion, “Rubicon,” the “seductive conspiracy thriller,” as the ads say. What I like most about it is its “Twin Peaks”-like snail’s pace (a two-chord repetition in the score echoes Angelo Badalamenti’s) when it comes to unraveling the central mystery, which has something to do with crossword puzzles and four-leaf clovers and suicide and murder/accidents and sets of characters who haven’t even met each other yet. I’m in no hurry. The worst parts of any mystery come when they start explaining things.

But this speech, in which a CIA intelligence analyst analyst tries to explain to officials at a National Security Council meeting something about the reliability of subjectivity, taste and evidence, struck me as an interesting parable for the practice, and uses, of criticism. Check it out and see what you think…

December 14, 2012

A cinematic (crossword) puzzle

© 2007 by Joe Krozel

Ebert reader Joe Krozel, who has contributed a couple puzzles to the New York Times, sent in a crossword he designed based on information found in Roger Ebert’s annual Movie Yearbooks. The puzzle and the clues are at RogerEbert.com — and the answers will be published in two weeks.

December 14, 2012

Young Haven Hamilton: A Poem by Henry Gibson

Here’s the late, beloved Henry Gibson on my favorite sitcom, “The Dick Van Dyke Show,” in 1966. (When I grow up, I still want to be Rob Petrie.) On “Laugh-In” (1968-1971), he was known for his recitations, which began with him holding a large artificial flower (he himself was only 5’3″) and announcing: “A poem… by Henry Gibson.” This particular poem, originally penned by a guy named Frank Stanton circa 1920, later became a song by Gibson and Richard Baskin, performed by Haven Hamilton at the Grand Ole Opry (and sponsored by Goo Goo Candy Clusters) in Robert Altman’s “Nashville” (1975). Full lyrics to Haven’s inspirational anthem below:

(via Robert C. Cumbow, >Richard T. Jameson)

December 14, 2012

Watching movies from the inside out

“Well, watching a film by Godard is more or less like any other aesthetic experience, in that you’re able to go back and forth, inside and outside, at the same time–watching/ thinking, thinking/watching.”

— Richard Brody, interview with Miriam Bale (2/23/09)

Which is more important in criticism, journalism and journalistic movie criticism: objectivity or transparency? OK, trick question. It’s a false dilemma.

I admire critics who strive for the attitude that every movie starts with a blank screen, because every movie does, to some degree. In that respect, pre-existing opinions aren’t relevant. The evidence of what transpires on that screen is all that matters. On the other hand, I don’t think it’s quite honest, or necessarily desirable — or even humanly possible — to possess significant knowledge or experience with movies and to put it all out of your memory every time you see a new one.

If you’re just trying to lock yourself inside this one movie, not bringing yourself and everything you have to it, you’re as ill-equipped to deal with the as the protagonist of “Memento,” adrift in a present-tense vacuum. Often the experience of a new (to you) movie will depend on your familiarity with other movies from the same filmmakers, genre, period, culture, etc. So, I’ve always been more of a transparency guy, myself: I try to own up to my biases and preconceptions, while leaving myself open to having them overturned by any individual picture. I love surprises at the movies — and most of all I love it when a move upends everything I expected or thought I knew about the filmmakers involved: Heath Ledger in “Brokeback Mountain,” Colin Farrell in “In Bruges”…

December 14, 2012

Opening Shots: Zodiac

View image Opening shot: Above it all.

View image Second shot: A street in a neighborhood: Vallejo, CA – July 4, 1969. Music: “Easy to be Hard,” from “Hair.”

It’s probably the second shot of David Fincher’s “Zodiac” that you remember best: the linear, smooth-gliding traveling shot (out the passenger window from within the car that will be the site of the movie’s first “Zodiac Killer” murder) through a suburban neighborhood on July 4, 1969.

View image What is this boy running from — or to?

The first shot is a simple (if breathtakingly beautiful) aerial establishing shot, of the sort that will be used repeatedly to introduce timecoded segments throughout the rest of the movie. We won’t know it until the next shot, but the fireworks we see are exploding over Vallejo, CA. From above, we get a sense of the terrain — the bridge over the river, the cityscape stretching into the distance. Nobody in the movie gets to see this Big Picture this way. Everyone is limited to looking at events from ground level, trying to map out the larger view, one piece at a time, in their heads.

View image The kid approaches the car and his face appears in the (window) frame.

View image Same “kid,” last frame.

This is a movie about maps, about time and place and getting from one point to another and how long it takes to get there and whose jurisdiction events fall within. It is, as I’ve written before, an analog movie set in an analog world. It is about, and made up of, an obsession with details — an investigation into our need as pattern-seeking animals to understand and make sense of the evidence we observe or uncover or have delivered to us by phone or mail or courier (but only rarely by fax). The Zodiac Killer proved elusive in large part because he didn’t stick to his patterns. In so doing, he sent police and newspapermen scurrying all over the map, and they kept losing him in the details. (See also: Hurdy Gurdys and Aqua Velvas: Misc. “Zodiac” fax….)

View image Noticing what is in front of one’s nose: “This can no longer be ignored. What is it?”

View image A typical “Zodiac” establishing shot, marking the temporal and geographical coordinates, as if putting a pushpin in a map of time and space: “September 14, 1972 – Santa Rosa, CA – Sunset Trailer Park – Space A-7.” What do all these details add up to?

The film’s other establishing shots may be aerial views or more conventional exteriors or wide-shot interiors, but they accomplish the same purpose: to place the next piece of action in a particular time and place in relation to the previous one. The movie’s second shot — from the street, but with glimpses of the fireworks overhead connecting it to the first — shows a neat row of subdivision houses. The parallel motion of the camera emphasizes the geometric orderliness of the setting, but there are glimpses of life in passing property as we glide by — but there’s also something a little creepy about them: a kid entering a house, a girl with a sparkler, a cone fountain (“CAUTION: Emits shower of sparks”) erupting in a front yard, a man with a Weber, a family congregating in the rear of a driveway/alley…. The shot ends when the camera stops in front of a house and a boy runs from the front steps, down the sidewalk, and into view from the driver’s POV. His face, framed in the car window, the first we see clearly in the film, will also be the last shot in the movie. That will be years later, and this boy will be a different person. “Zodiac” traces the distance from this face to that one. His face is one of the movie’s maps or cryptograms.

December 14, 2012

Opening Shots: The Producers (1968)

From Raymond Ogilvie:

“The Producers,” Mel Brooks first film, uses its first shot to break taboo by sexualizing old women. The character Max Bialystock is based on a producer Brooks worked for as a young man. This producer would, like Max, make love with old women to get funding for his plays. But Mel Brooks, whose films “rise below vulgarity,” doesn’t end his taboo-breaking here. He goes on to apply the same gleeful irreverence to ex-Nazis, homosexuals, and voluptuous foreign blonds. Indeed, if the studio had not objected, Brooks would have called this movie “Springtime for Hitler.”

Cold open on a frosted glass window with the legend, “Max Bialystock, Theatrical Producer.” Behind the glass, two silhouettes kiss and giggle mischievously. The man, the taller of the two, excuses himself for a moment, putting up his finger to tell the woman to keep quiet. Slowly he cracks open the door and peeks out. Here is Max Bialystock, theatrical producer, played by the tall, portly comic actor Zero Mostel. He’s checking to see that there are no witnesses to his clandestine love affair.

December 14, 2012

Close Up: The movie/essay/dream

Words are linear. Movies not so much, even though they are encoded onto strips of celluloid or served up as streams or spirals of digital bits.

The web is not so linear, actually. Hyperlinks in all directions are more like the interconnected synapses of the human brain than any other technology or art form I can think of. But sometimes when I try to convey something about my experience of movies — filtered, as always, through reflections and contrasts between images, memories, themes, styles — what I really want to do is make a movie about it. That seems like the shortest, most direct way from imagination to articulation. The movie itself (as Godard famously suggested) is the criticism, the analysis.

When I put together the images and commentary for my previous post, “Close-Ups: A free-association dream sequence,” in celebration of the Close-Up Blog-a-thon at the House Next Door, that’s what I was getting at. I just didn’t have the tools to fully express what I wanted to say. Strike that. I had the tools, right here on my MacBook, but I didn’t know how to use them.

One weekend and three long nights later, here’s what I wanted to say. I will resist the temptation (you don’t know how much I am tempted) to analyze my own cinematic essay, but I want you to watch it for yourself first. I’ll translate it from web into movie and back into language later. This is a direction in which I want to move my film criticism.

Oh, and it’s not a “literal” interpretation of the post. Some things just work differently on the motion picture screen than they do on the computer screen. Think of the first post as the original set of annotated storyboards, from which I felt free to depart whenever it felt right. The idea was not to overthink it, just to go with the flow and see where it led, like the ant-hole in hand / armpit / sea urchin / top of head sequence in “Un Chien Andalou.” Enjoy — and please leave comments, critiques, interpretations and questions! Just be sure to stay all the way through the end credits — a minute or so of the six-minute running time….

UPDATED 10/19/07: While looking for a frame grab from “Black Narcissus” to honor the late Deborah Kerr, I discovered the source of an indelible mirror-image (you’ll see) that I’d previously been unable to locate. It’s now been incorporated into the movie.

December 14, 2012

David Foster Wallace on David Lynch

The apparent suicide of David Foster Wallace, shockingly sad and disturbing as the sudden death of Heath Ledger earlier this year, has me revisiting my memories of his writing. I know him from his short stories and nonfiction — never tackled “Infinite Jest,” even though I bought it in hardback when it was first published. I won’t put off reading it much longer.

From Premiere magazine, September, 1996: “David Lynch Keeps His Head,” anthologized in “A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again: Essays and Arguments”:

13. WHAT EXACTLY DAVID LYNCH SEEMS TO WANT FROM YOU

MOVIES ARE AN authoritarian medium. They vulnerabilize you and then dominate you. Part of the magic of going to a movie is surrendering to it, letting it dominate you….

December 14, 2012

Same scary dude funding Fox News andthe inaccurately labeled “Ground Zero Mosque”

The Daily Show With Jon Stewart

Mon – Thurs 11p / 10c

The Parent Company Trap

www.thedailyshow.com

Daily Show Full Episodes

Political Humor

Tea Party

Because this is a blog about critical thinking, and everyone in the world needs to see and appreciate this “Daily Show” clip, “The Parent Company Trap.”

Everybody should also read Nicholas Kristof’s column, “Taking bin Laden’s Side”:

In short, the proposed community center is not just an issue on which Sarah Palin and Osama bin Laden agree. It is also one in which opponents of the center are playing into the hands of Al Qaeda.

These opponents seem to be afflicted by two fundamental misconceptions.

The first is that a huge mosque would rise on hallowed land at ground zero. In fact, the building would be something like a YMCA, and two blocks away and apparently out of view from ground zero. This is a dense neighborhood packed with shops, bars, liquor stores — not to mention the New York Dolls Gentlemen’s Club and the Pussycat Lounge (which says that it arranges lap dances in a private room, presumably to celebrate the sanctity of the neighborhood).

December 14, 2012

Opening Shots: ‘Greetings’

The public and the private, the personal and the political: Although this isn’t precisely the opening shot of “Greetings” described here, it’s part of it, showing the same TV, the same book and the same coffee pot in the same apartment. Frame grabs to come…

Excerpt from my programme notes for a double-bill of “Greetings” and “Hi, Mom!” — the first presentation in a Brian De Palma series programmed by R.C. Dale at the University of Washington, April 14, 1981:

…. “Greetings,” De Palma’s 1968 anti-military/anti-war movie mélange, was the first of his films to find an audience. In fact, it was so successful that “Hi, Mom!” was conceived as a sequel (originally to be called “Son of Greetings”). “Greetings” is an ebullient comedy, and a brazenly disturbing mixture of movie-movie acrobatics and American counter-culture politics in the manner of pre-l968 Godard. Critics have emphasized over and over De Palma’s debt to filmmakers such as Godard and (especially over-emphasized) Alfred Hitchcock. In “Greetings,” Michelangelo Antontoni’s “Blow Up,” another hip youth-cult film of the time, also looms large. But the filmmaker whose specter really presides over this film is that of Abraham Zapruder, the man who made the most famous home movie of the Kennedy assassination at Dealy Plaza.

The first thing we see in DePalma’s movie is a television set carrying a speech by President Johnson. In front of the set sits a book: “Six Seconds in Dallas.” “Greetings,” made five years after the assassination, is a picture of a nation obsessed with six seconds of 8 mm Kodak movie film. Right away, De Palma begins detailing the dissolution of the barrier between the personal and the political in American society; just as, in this and subsequent films, he will dissolve the barrier between the film and the audience, between horror and humor, between public and private.

December 14, 2012

Movie dialog that leaps off the page

WARNING: Your eyes and ears will be be exposed to the fully spelled-out and pronounced f-word if you play the above clip.

I love typography. If you’ve read previous posts on “Helvetica” and Trajan, the Movie Font, you know that.

Thanks to Dennis Cozzalio and Larry Aydlette for calling my attention to these lively and imaginative animations that breathe Kinetic Typographical life into great (and even not-so-great) chunks of movie dialog.

Above: Some choice words from “The Big Lebowski,” written by Oscar-winners Joel and Ethan Coen. In Helvetica.

Below: The rules of “Fight Club.”

There’s more…

December 14, 2012

Pick your villain

Following up on “Former President Jar Jar”: David Edelstein considers the proper cinematic representation of Dick Cheney — Fu Manchu, Voldemort, Palpatine, Richard Nixon, Elmer Fudd, Fritz Lang’s Dr. Mabuse (whose cousin Rotwang was recently referenced here) — though Mabuse perhaps bears more resemblance to Heath Ledger’s Joker:

Dr. Mabuse. Like Cheney, the Teutonic arch-fiend controls a vast criminal network while lurking in the shadows. He wields hypnotic power, unnerving subordinates and enemies alike with his implacable demeanor. Called on to surrender in the name of the state, Mabuse cries, “I am the state!” Unlike Cheney, however, he creates chaos intentionally rather than by accident, through the use of incompetent party loyalists and their inbred progeny. Also, he does not hide behind the rule of law, and, again, he never perverts or violates the Constitution of the United States.

Andrew Sullivan is having a contest (“Nixon Without The Conscience,”) asking readers to submit “classic movie scenes that depict Cheney.” One of the first submissions is this one (after the jump) — although, above all, I believe it serves as a powerful reminder of what a terrible, amateurish over-actor Tom Cruise has always been — in this case, especially his right hand. Torture? See if you can watch this without cringing:

December 14, 2012

Opening night

View image The intersection of Bloor and Yonge on another night. (photo by Jim Emerson)

Here’s the way my festival began: I was returning to my hotel room after dinner, around 8:30 Wednesday, the night before screenings began for the 2006 Toronto International Film Festival. It was almost dark and the streets and sidewalks were crowded, everything lit up with the ambient glow of store signs and an advertising jumbotron looming over the major intersection of Bloor and Yonge Streets. A pair of police officers were standing in the street, directing traffic to clear the way for some motorcycle cops who rode through with their blue and red lights flashing. Farther down Bloor, more sirens and lights were approaching. The vehicles wailed as they turned, heading south on Yonge, followed by hearse after hearse after hearse after hearse.

“It’s the soldiers,” somebody said. Heads nodded. The cops in the street saluted as the limos made the curve. People on all four corners stood silently — not stiffly or formally, but attentively, while the significance of the black parade soaked in. The procession passed and the two cops climbed on their motorcycles and rode on. The light changed, and we were on our own again, so we walked.

Welcome to Canada.

December 14, 2012

Consensus and the Big Film Poll Blowout of 2007

View image Conspiracy or coincidence? “There Will Be Blood” opened nationwide on Friday and won the Village Voice/LA Weekly film poll and the National Society of Film Critics poll the same weekend! What can it mean?

“There Will Be Consensus”: That was the headline for the intro by Village Voice film critic (and self-described “lapsed structuralist”) J. Hoberman, accompanying the results of the annual film critics’ poll co-sponsored by the Village Voice and the L.A. Weekly, which are both published by Village Voice Media (along with the SF Weekly, Seattle Weekly, Kansas City Pitch, Nashville Scene, Cleveland Scene, Dallas Observer, Miami New Times, Phoenix New Times, Minneapolis/St. Paul City Pages, and several more). Unless you read the same piece by Hoberman in the LA Weekly, in which case the headline was “If It Bleeds, It Leads.” I don’t know what the headline was in those other weeklies, but you can look it up if you like.

Here, then, is the bleeding consensus, which is, as you might expect, practically everything you would expect in a consensus — which is to say hardly anything that you would not expect. (Like Iowa.)

1. “There Will Be Blood” (Paul Thomas Anderson, USA)

2. “No Country for Old Men” (Joel & Ethan Coen, USA)

3. “Zodiac” (David Fincher, USA)

4. “4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days” (Cristian Mungiu, Romania)

5. “I’m Not There” (Todd Haynes, USA)

6. “Syndromes and a Century” (Apichatpong Weerasethakul, Thailand/France/Austria)

7. “The Diving Bell and the Butterfly” (Julian Schnabel, France/USA)

8. “Killer of Sheep” (Charles Burnett, USA, 1977)

9. “Ratatouille” (Brad Bird, USA)

10. “Colossal Youth” (Pedro Costa, Portugal/France/Switzerland)No surprises there — at least not if you’ve been paying any attention to mainstream movie reviews coming out of New York, Los Angeles or the major international film festival circuit (Cannes, Telluride, Toronto — the launching pads for most of the above) in both 2006 and 2007. Compare to the indieWIRE poll results, which are almost identical — with late-December opener “The Diving Bell and the Butterfly” at #13 (IW) instead of #7 (VV/LA); “Assassination of Jesse James” at #7 (IW) instead of #12 (VV/LA); and — the most dramatic difference! — “Ratatouille” at #20 (IW) instead of #9 (VV/LA).

I wonder: Were it not for DVDs — especially DVD critics’ screeners — and, to a lesser extent, On Demand distribution channels like HDNet and IFC First Take, how many of these films would have had the chance to become critical favorites outside of New York (and maybe LA) by the end of 2007? What are the odds that films that never even played theatrically in more than one or two American towns (“Syndromes and a Century,” “Colossal Youth”), or that don’t open in more than a few until 2008 (“There Will Be Blood,” “4 Months, 3 Weeks, 2 Days,” “The Diving Bell and the Butterfly”) would have placed so strongly in national critics’ polls with mid-December deadlines? I think I’m impressed… unless, wait a minute, the success of such films is actually further evidence of insular critical hype and inbred groupthink. But why choose to think of it in that way?

From this link you can see all the vote-getters by category (feature films, performances, documentaries, first films, undistributed films, worst film), or look at the individual contributors’ ballots here. Including mine, although I immediately regretted impulsively citing “Southland Tales” as the “worst” movie I saw in 2007 and still do. I’d much rather make a case against the bloodless literalism of “Sweeney Todd” (musically, sexually and politically neutered) or “Youth Without Youth” or “The Diving Bell and the Butterfly.” But let’s keep things in perspective. None of those movies expressed a cinematic worldview quite as reductive as those reviews of “No Country for Old Men” that invoked this year’s most hackneyed substitute for criticism, summarized in this clip from Hoberman’s intro:

In formal terms, the Coen brothers’ latest pinball machine is obviously superior to 90 percent of the year’s releases. But it’s also a soulless enterprise, with nothing more on its mind than the expert manipulation of the spectator, critics included.The Voice didn’t run a Hoberman review of “No Country for Old Men” (it reprinted Scott Foundas’s admiring piece from the LA Weekly), so we may never know more precisely what Hoberman thinks he is “obviously” saying about the movie, or the movies, or himself. (Some of my responses to similar autonomic spasms can be found here and elsewhere. In what language can something that is “obviously superior to 90 percent” of movie recent releases “in formal terms” be considered the equivalent of a “pinball machine” — one that manipulates instead of being manipulated? What is the nature or significance of such “formal” superiority if we’re drawing comparisons between movies and pinball machines? Is a wristwatch formally superior to a Mondrian? Which one? Why? The answer, obviously, is Salvador Dali’s 1937 movie script for the Marx Brothers, “Giraffes on Horseback Salad.”)

Hoberman offers the opinion that “NCFOM” might well be his choice for the year’s “Most Overrated” picture if there were such a category as that. And in his next paragraph he announces he’s pleased that the strenuously over-praised and over-maligned “Southland Tales” tied with the comparably ambitious and significant “The Bucket List” for the year’s Worst Film — though each really only received five votes — just ahead of “300” and “Hostel: Part II” with four each, and “Juno,” “Margot at the Wedding,” “Redacted” and “Trade” with three):

You know something’s happening when “Southland Tales” also headed three critics’ lists as the year’s Best Film [Melissa Anderson, Bill Krohn, Nathan Lee]. Time constraints have made it impossible to calculate the 2007 poll’s Passiondex— my formula to measure the degree of ardor with which critics voted for particular movies—but my heart tells me that “Southland Tales” is the obvious winner. Here is a movie that some people love and others love to hate. That’s double passion! And that’s good.Yes, doubleplusgood passion. Something must be happening. Hoberman predicts that Pedro Costa’s “Colossal Youth” (#10) might have been the year’s choice for Worst Film “had more critics seen it” … although, in fact, nobody did vote for it in that category, including critics who had seen it. This makes me wonder if, perhaps, there might have been any other films this year that some critics loved and others just hated… Nah.

December 14, 2012

Putting NYFF in its place

From “Syndromes and a Century.”

Manohla Dargis (one of my favorite critics) does a fine job of putting the New York Film Festival into perspective in today’s New York Times. This is very much the kind of realistic historical and aesthetic evaluation I’ve been hoping somebody would write, ever since I posed my own questions about the role and relevance of today’s NYFF, in posts and comments here and here. Dargis writes:

Good, bad and sometimes just blah, most of the selections in the coming week support Mr. Peña’s assertion that the festival represents something like the state of the art. Too bad the fine art has to share precious shelf space with white-elephant frippery like “Little Children��? and “Marie Antoinette.��? Along with the similarly audience-friendly film “The Queen,��? which was released in theaters the day after it opened the festival, these selections feature the bulk of the recognizable faces in the event. All three are red-carpet bait, the sort of star-gazing entertainments that attract the mainstream-media attention that is so crucial for festivals from Cannes to Los Angeles. All three are also being released by a studio or studio division, and are among the small set of English-language films that will dominate awards chatter until the Oscars in February.

Given the increasing competition for the audience’s attention, it would be easy to justify putting any one of these three in the festival: films like “The Queen��? sell tickets (and newspapers), and probably make board members happy. But it is harder to justify programming all three in a festival with just 25 slots in its the main section. The New York Film Festival isn’t a grab bag; it’s an elitist event for film lovers willing to shell out as much as $40 a show. In a D.I.Y. world with too many choices, including an estimated 600 film festivals, some of which have seriously deep pockets and no qualms about pandering to their audiences, elitism is a virtue. It’s also this festival’s greatest strength.

The public’s appetite for serious work of the sort that has defined the New York Film Festival since its inception in 1963 has diminished, at least in theatrical terms. The generation that watched Jean-Luc Godard’s “Masculin Féminin��? at the festival in 1966 and continues to get to Lincoln Center this time of year, still sometimes frequents its local art-house theater. Not so, apparently, that generation’s progeny: a similarly large and dedicated younger audience for filmmakers like Mr. Weerasethakul [“Syndromes and a Century,” also shown in Toronto], whose films show at prestigious festivals the world over, racking up ecstatic reviews along the way, has yet to emerge in America. That said, the vanguard of fiercely engaged cinephiles blogging online about the latest in Korean cinema suggests that a new generation of passionate filmgoers could emerge with more nurturing.

There are a multitude of complex, interconnected reasons why foreign-language cinema has taken such a hit, including its displacement by American independent film in the public’s over-multimedia-stimulated imagination. In this climate small distributors are finding it difficult to take chances with challenging, difficult, thoughtful (each adjective another kiss of death) foreign-language films, even when individual titles come equipped with glowing notices and the imprimatur of a world-class festival like Cannes. When even well-received American independent films like “Old Joy��? and “Mutual Appreciation��? are facing a tough market ride, it becomes increasingly difficult for a director like Mr. Weerasethakul to get a toe in the distribution door. His films don’t look, sound or play like the usual Hollywood or Sundance fare; they are, like their director, sui generis.

It’s great that “Syndromes and a Century,��? which has yet to find an American distributor, is on the menu this year; too bad that the entire program isn’t similarly adventurous. It has always been the case that some good films, like Jia Zhang-ke’s “Dong��? and Tsai Ming-Liang’s “I Don’t Want to Sleep Alone,��? both of which showed at recent festivals, don’t make it into the New York lineup. [“Dong,” shown in Toronto, is a companion piece to “Still Life,” which won the Venice festival this year and was belatedly added to the Toronto line-up, but neither “Still Life” nor “Dong” is in NYFF.] Festival programming is always a matter of timing, taste, desperation, politics and logistics, not to mention worthiness. But if the New York Film Festival is going to remain relevant in these difficult movie times, it needs to work harder to secure the best, and it needs to nurture a new audience, not just dine out on the faithful. Whether it scales up or retains its modest proportions, it needs to embrace the very exclusivity that makes it occasionally maddening and generally indispensable.

Brava! As a recent NY commenter here at Scanners recently reported, the NYFF is running a trailer for itself saying something like: “Some people accuse us of being selective and having high standards, but that’s what our audience expects from us.” I’m all for elitism — as long as it implies having standards. Simply having a small number of slots does not alone make a festival “selective” or “elitist” or “prestigious” or “exclusive.” It makes it limited. And that’s fine. Telluride (held over Labor Day Weekend) doesn’t have all that many slots, either. A festival is defined by what its programmers do to fill the slots that are available. As a film festival programmer myself (from the epic Seattle International Film Festival to the “exclusive” Floating Film Festival), I know how hard it is to program these events, whether you have hundreds of showings or only a few, so I am fully sympathetic. But any festival needs to figure out its identity and its role in the film culture (based, in part at least, on its location and its desired audience). I think Dargis’s assessment of NYFF is right on.

December 14, 2012

TIFF 2007: It’s alive!

View image Alejandro Polanco plays… Alejandro.

Within the first 30 seconds or so of Ramin Bahrani’s “Chop Shop,” you know you’re in good hands. I’ve written quite a bit about how much I loved Bahrani’s debut feature, “Man Push Cart,” from its opening shot to its final ingenious moment, and “Chop Shop” is a piece of filmmaking that is every bit as observant and assured. So, that first shot: A cluster of day workers stand in wait. This could be anywhere — California, Texas, Mexico, South America — but the first thing you sense is that it’s not: it’s this particular place, even if we don’t know the name of it yet. The camera (hand-held, but not shakycam style) pans to the left as a truck pulls up. A guy gets out and picks two men for the job, telling a persistent kid, “I don’t need you today” — and the accent is unmistakably NY. As the pickup pulls out, the kid hops into the back.

Simple enough, but in these few seconds the movie establishes a setting, a milieu, some characters and the beginnings of a story with an ease and grace that you don’t often see in the work of filmmakers who are much more established. What’s more, the film develops a sense of place, and the people who inhabit that place, that few movies ever succeed in capturing. This guy knows how to make movies.

I admit I went in wanting to like “Chop Shop.” I’d been wowed by “Man Push Cart,” and I met Bahrani and that film’s star, Ahmad Razvi, at Roger Ebert’s Overlooked Film Festival a couple years ago, and I liked them and their work so much I wanted them to succeed. But by the end of “Chop Shop” I was walking down Bloor Street about 18 inches above the sidewalk, just from seeing a film that skillfully avoided so many pitfalls and cliches, and that felt so fresh, so alive, and just so right down to its last detail. (And, once again, the moment at which the movie chooses to end is both unexpected and unexpectedly satisfying. Seconds before it happens, you just feel it’s so right it’s inevitable.)

Here’s what I knew about “Chop Shop” going in: It was directed by Ramin Bahrani and I was pretty sure it had a kid in it. That’s all. Except I knew it had been shown at Cannes. I wish you’d see the film the same way (trust me), but I want to tell you as little as possible while still conveying my enthusiasm.

View image Alejandro P., director Rahmin Bahrani, and DP Michael Simmondson the set in the setting of “Chop Shop.”

As usual, I’ll explain next to nothing of the story, except to say that it concerns a 12-year-old boy named Alejandro (Alejandro Polanco), who works any number of odd jobs (subway candy vendor, bootleg DVD salesman, chop shop assistant), mostly in and around the “Iron Triangle,” a neighborhood of body shops and junkyards in the shadow of Shea Stadium in Queens.

But here’s the thing: Too many of these “slice-of-life” movies feel like they’re made by tourists. They shoehorn a fairly generic story and characters into a “colorful” setting in hopes of getting a distribution deal at Sundance. In “Chop Shop,” the story and characters seem like details that the filmmaker has noticed within the hustle and bustle of this patch of city real estate — as if they were here all along, and it just took someone with a sharp eye and an attuned ear to pick them out and give them shape. The texture is organic and alive; the story is an accumulation of incidents and experiences.

Listen to the hum of an oscillating fan in a tiny plywood room; the irregular tapping sounds (rain on the roof, or expanding/contracting pipes, or an overworked mini-fridge?) that turn out to be coming from a bag of microwave popcorn; the rising and falling roar of an unseen ballgame echoing off the honeycomb of metal garage doors and cement walls. Notice the mud puddles in the potholed streets; the pit bulls and the pigeons; the meats sizzling on a grill at a block party; the elevated trains passing over and through on their way to other neighborhoods, other people, other “stories” (the way they’re photographed they are both part of the teeming cityscape and a reminder of a whole stratum of life going on above the low-lying realm where these characters scrape together a living, and a life).

View image Isamar Gopnzales and Alejandro Polanco, as sister and brother Isamar and Alejandro.

I don’t want to use one American indie to bash another, but… looks like I’m going to. Consider “Quinceañera,” a Sundance prize-winner that felt like a guided-tourist movie to me. In my review, I wrote:

If there was ever a movie that seemed precision-tailored for a Park City reception, this is it — the quintessential example of the festival’s favored brand of hand-crafted, slice-of-life, youth-oriented filmmaking that expresses affection for a nicely captured American subculture. In other words, it’s a Sundance specialty, right from the box.

This is a shopping-list movie: A double coming-of-age story spiced with local color; a bittersweet portrait of a Los Angeles neighborhood in transition; a warm and soapy celebration of a Mexican-American community. “Quinceañera” is also a thoroughly predictable melodrama that’s both kitchen-sink and “After-School Special.” You can see every plot development coming from miles away, much more clearly than you can see downtown L.A. from Echo Park most days. The story is so generic it seems put together from pre-fab modular elements…

The life of a movie is all in the details, the atmosphere, and the contrast between “Quinceañera” and “Chop Shop” could not be more vital or revealing.

Ahmad Razvi, the star of “Man Push Cart,” has a supporting role here as a local shop proprietor, but remains a star. The camera loves this guy, and he holds it with the magnetism of Harvey Keitel in early Scorsese movies. In fact, if Bahrani’s guiding influences in “Man Push Cart” were the likes of Bresson and Ozu, he seems to have been inspired by Scorsese and Altman this time, in making a movie that recalls “Pixote” and, of course, Italian Neorealist classics like “Bicycle Thieves” and “Paisan,” but without the slightest hint of sentimentality. I’m told he starts shooting his next movie in two weeks. My movie-lovin’ heartbeat quickens at the news….

December 14, 2012

Title for a Movie

Ad on a Poster.

Chuck Klosterman has a story in Esquire magazine called “The ‘Snakes on a Plane’ Problem: The tragedy of the best-titled movie in the history of film.” The truth is, I don’t think “SOAP” is such a great title, just a generic one. I can think of a lot of others I think are funnier or more effective or more creative — from “Eraserhead” to “Beneath the Valley of the Ultra-Vixens” to “O Brother, Where Art Thou?” to “Talladega Nights: The Legend of Ricky Bobby” and the upcoming “Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan.”

But Klosterman has some smart things to say about “SOAP” and what it means at this point, when it is not yet a movie (and a product that won’t be screened in advance — make of that what you will) but is really only a marketing phenomenon. He writes:

“Snakes on a Plane” is like the Wikipedia version of a movie. A year ago, New Line Cinema planned to change the title to the ultraforgettable “Pacific Air Flight 121,” but everyone who cared (including its star, Samuel L. Jackson) freaked out. That reaction was understandable; the one thing everyone seems to agree upon is that “Snakes on a Plane” is a funnier, more expository, paradoxically intriguing moniker.

A while ago, I wrote that the problem I had with “SOAP” was that I had heard so much about it (and, really, what more is there to say after those four words?) that I felt like I’d already seen it. Klosterman envisions the movie’s — or, at least, the title’s — appeal as “irony in reverse” — a picture designed to be cheesy so that the audience can feel superior to it:If a film never takes itself seriously and originates as satire, everything is different; its badness means something else entirely. “SOAP” doesn’t fit into either category: It doesn’t take itself seriously, but it’s not a satire. It will probably be unentertaining in a completely conventional way. Which, apparently, is what people want. They want to see “Snakes on a Plane” in order to tell their friends that it’s ridiculous, even though a) that’s the only thing everyone seems to know about this movie, and b) that’s been the driving force behind its marketing campaign. It’s not a bad movie that’s accidentally good, and it’s not a good movie that’s intentionally bad; it’s a disposable movie that people can pretend to like ironically, even though a) it’s not ironic and b) they probably won’t like it at all. The only purpose of “Snakes on a Plane” is to make its audience feel smarter than what it’s seeing. Which adds up, since that’s part of the reason people like reading the Internet.

I wish this movie were still called “Pacific Air Flight 121.” Really. That would be so much worse, but so much better.

What a blessed relief it will be on Friday, when there’s actually a movie to respond to. Not that I intend to see it. As far as I’m concerned, it may as well be called “Kitties on a Plane.” I just don’t think snakes are inherently scary or creepy — not like, say, “Patchouli on a Plane,” the thought of which makes me sneeze and feel nauseous — although I suppose poisonous ones or constrictors are to be avoided in the overhead bin or the seat pocket in front of you, especially when the “Fasten Seat Belt” sign is illuminated. But I feel like someone should pay me if I have to hear Samuel L. Jackson say that m—–f—-n’ line again.

December 14, 2012

Dina Martina’s Tried-and-True Oscarrific Recipe Blog-h’ors-d’oeuvres!

Dina sez: Taste and rate. Four stars! (photo by David Belisle)

– – CLIP-‘N’-SAVE – –

Once again, it’s that very annual Dina time of year, when it wouldn’t be Oscar Time without Dina Martina and it wouldn’t be Taco Time, either!

ANNOUNCING: The very first second Oscar Recipe Blog-h’ors-d’oeuvre (pronounced like “blog-a-thon,” only more like “blog-or-derve”), hosted by Scanners and Our Lady of Perpetual Mojo, the World’s Foremost Hostess-in-Absentia, Dina Martina! This Sunday, more than a billion people around the globe will be serving one or more of Dina’s Governess’s Ball’s Recipe’s… (below). And that means you. (For more Dina Martina Oscar Entertaining Party Hints, see above.) They are easy to make, easy to serve, easy to eat, easy to enjoy, and fully digestible. (And bloggorhea is rarely a problem, except in rare cases.) After it’s all over and you have your Faye Dunaway moment, please return here to give us a report of how tickled you and your guests were to consume Dina’s salacious gustatory delights! Or share your own family secrets! And, recipes. Did you embellish? Did you improvise? Did you remember ice cubes and condiments? Let us know: Now thru Monday, February 26, 2007 25, 2008!

* * * Dina Martina’s all-new 2007 2008 Oscar Party Blog-h’ors-d’oevres * * *

* * Serving Suggestions & Requirements * *

by Dina Martina

Dina’s Academy Award Meaty-O-Rites

Ingredients:

3 lbs. Ground beef

1 can pitted black olives

1 can green olives

1 clove garlic

1 + tbsp. Worcestershire sauce

oregano (to taste)

1 can Snack Mate cheese in a can

December 14, 2012

TIFF: Kids at play

“Beauty is overrated”: Patrick Wilson to Kate Winslet in “Little Children.”

What are your expectations about the second feature directed by Todd Fields (Nick Nightingale in “Eyes Wide Shut”) after “In the Bedroom”? Ditch them — a smart thing to do before watching any movie. If “In the Bedroom” was the child of Chabrol (specifically “La Femme Infidel”), “Little Children” takes a sample of Todd Solondz’s DNA. I don’t think it’s giving away anything too important to say that “Little Children” is a melodramatic tragi-comedy (co-written by novelist Tom “Election” Perratta, based on his novel), and that the title refers not so much to wee ones who have been born recently as to the immature young adults who are now faced with raising their offspring.

It’s a funny, frustrating, even infuriating film — and at Toronto people seemed to either love it or hate it. I know I did. It just depended on the scene. I think I appreciate it more now, 24 hours later, than I did the moment it was over. It’s an odd film, with a wryly intrusive, deep-voiced narrator who appears to be standing just behind the screen reading excerpts from the novel.

December 14, 2012
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