FILM REVIEW: THE TEMPTATION OF ST. TONY

 

Capitalism, it fails us now. Comrades let us er, uh...?
 

By Don Simpson

The Temptation of St. Tony opens with death -- a funeral procession to be exact. Then, a car crash; which at first seems random and absurd, but in the grand scheme of this surrealist interlocking of events it’s significance is revealed when one of the survivors of the car crash drips blood on the immaculate interior of Tony’s (Taavi Eelmaa) new Mercedes Benz. This causes Tony to drive over a black dog, which prompts Tony to discover a stash of dismembered body parts, which delivers Tony to the local police department where he meets a mysterious woman (Ravshana Kurkova). The chain of events continues for nearly two hours...

Tony, the frizzy-haired manager of a local factory, waxes to tremendous existential lengths about his -- and mankind’s -- reason for being. Tony’s social and economic stature allows for various comments on the post-communist environment of...wherever the hell we are. (The Temptation of St. Tony was shot in Estonia.) The foreign evils of capitalism and modernism encroach upon society, as the newly developed bourgeoisie strives to represent sophistication and superiority. Though he is by definition one of them, Tony sees no point to the bourgeois attitude.

Capitalism and the “the provincial vegetating state” of the bourgeois lifestyle effects Tony to no end. A new breed of petty, shallow, dull and hateful people possessing a “hysterical mania of self-awareness” have arisen from the ashes of communism; for Tony only desolation and emptiness pervade from this new modern life. The ridiculous desire for maximum profit causes Tony’s superior to close the plant (the plant’s promised return on investment was 20 percent, but the actual ROI was 0.7 percent shy of that goal -- a measly 19.3 percent). The imported (American) concept of “swinging” (wife-swapping), and the reported “benefits” thereof, prompts his second wife (Tiina Tauraite) to cheat on him. Tony too has fallen prey to the infidelity of capitalism as he has developed a strange attraction to the mysterious woman from the police station.

The lower class has become an unbearable burden to the rich, an ugly blight tainting their existence. The lower class has not remained immune to capitalism either, as the commodification of objects has trickled down to them (which is represented brilliantly when a homeless person empties a wine bottle, because the empty glass bottle has more worth than the wine that once filled it). The ravaged poor that aimlessly traverse the desolate landscape -- who at times are indistinguishable from the rich drunkards who foolishly stumble about -- plague the capitalist world like mindless zombies.

The ruins of communism surround Tony. The remaining non-modern structures -- most of which are not fully intact -- appear to have been severely ravaged by time (and possibly a barrage of bombs). Tony is merely a spectator witnessing the death and destruction of his old world. Being has evolved into nothingness. Tony, our St. Anthony (as epitomized by Hieronymus Bosch’s triptych painting The Temptation of St. Anthony), has been catapulted from the normalcy of his prior life into sheer demonic torment -- which is represented most literally in The Golden Age, a Lynchian 1930s-style underworld cabaret for bourgeois hedonists. Tony’s only hope is that he will not succumb to temptation and the afterlife will be more fulfilling and pleasant than this living hell.

Stylistically pilfering from some of cinema’s great auteurs (such as Eric Rohmer, Luis Buñuel, Ingmar Bergman, Akira Kurosawa, David Lynch, Stanley Kubrick, Aki Kaurismäki and Jim Jarmusch), Estonian filmmaker Veiko Õunpuu’s The Temptation of St. Tony is like a ghost from cinema’s past (due at least in part to the luscious and meticulous black and white cinematography by Mart Taniel). Õunpuu cleverly balances the creepy and foreboding nature of its dreamlike surrealism and the dark humor of Scandinavian absurdism with a strong and deep philosophical undercurrent which is ripe with social and political commentary. It is worth noting that the overwhelmingly negative interpretation of capitalism is most likely a direct result of the economy of Õunpuu’s homeland of Estonia being the second worst hit of all 27 European Union members during the 2008–2009 economic crisis.

The dialogue is sparse, fragmented and seemingly random; yet in totality it forms a rich tapestry of philosophical and theological ruminations. Random characters expound upon the existence of man and man’s life worth; or they quote William Blake as they light their cigarettes. I suspect audiences will be polarized by Õunpuu’s narrative techniques, either declaring The Temptation of St. Tony to be a tedious and pretentious mess or a landmark work of cinematic genius.

The Temptation of St. Tony is a co-production between Estonia, Sweden and Finland. It was Estonia's submission for the Academy Award for Best Foreign Language Film at the 83rd Academy Awards.
 

THEATER REVIEW: THE MARRIAGE OF FIGARO

Count Almaviva (Bo Skovhus) and Susanna (Marlis Petersen) in The Marriage of Figaro. Photo by Robert Millard.

Money, love and sex at L.A. Opera

By Ed Rampell

Every once in a while there’s an uplifting work of art that makes one feel glad to be alive. L.A. Opera’s exuberant production of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart’s 1786 The Marriage of Figaro (Le Nozze di Figaro), conducted by none other than Placido Domingo himself, is one of those rare artistic experiences that enable audiences to walk on air and be grateful to be living, if only so they can experience such a rapturous, joyous vision and affirmation of life.

L.A. theatergoers are currently encountering Theatre West’s revival of Clifford Odets’ 1935 classic proletarian drama, Waiting For Lefty, while the Actors’ Gang is presenting Tim Robbin’s people’s history of Jamestown, Break the Whip. But I humbly submit that by making the servants Figaro (bass-baritone Daniel Okulitch) and his betrothed Susanna (sopranos Marlis Petersen through Oct. 3, Rebekah Camm Oct. 6-17) The Marriage of Figaro's lead characters, and their struggle with Count Almaviva (baritone Bo Skovhus) a focus of the opera, Mozart and librettist Lorenzo Da Ponte created a sort of proletarian, people’s history of Europe as it neared the French Revolution. Indeed, French playwright Pierre Augustin Beaumarchais’ original play, which Figaro is derived from, was banned in Vienna because it satirized the European aristocracy. (The Hapsburgs were not exactly known for their devotion to free speech or sense of humor.) 

This is the second time since December that L.A. Opera has produced a work featuring Figaro. Italian composer Gioachino Rossini’s 1816 The Barber of Seville, libretto by Cesare Sterbini, was also derived from Beaumarchais’ trilogy of plays featuring that sly, skilled working class hero, who lives by his wits and labor (this is somewhat subverted in Mozart’s opera buffa, although the nobleman remains the buffoon).

Nowadays much is made of a couple’s wedding night, but The Marriage of Figaro is about what is probably opera’s busiest wedding day, as Figaro and Susanna prepare to marry. Among other things, the newlyweds-to-be must contend with an old feudal law that allowed the lord to deflower plebian brides before they consummated their nuptials with their commoner husbands. (Common indeed: The 18th century was not big on anti-sexual harassment and other laws protecting employees in the workplace.) So the ever resourceful Figaro and Susanna must scheme to thwart their “master’s” marital rape of the bewitching bride-to-be, whom Count Almaviva most definitely has the hots for seducing. At the same time, the aristocrat’s scorned, forlorn wife, Countess Almaviva (soprano Martina Serafin), seeks to reign in her adulterous husband’s serial philandering.

Amidst must first act breast groping, there’s more trickery, twists, turns and trysts than a Woody Allen movie in Mozart’s rollicking romp. Toss into this potent mix the cross-dressing male Cherubino (beguilingly portrayed by a female, mezzo-soprano Renata Pkupic), his adolescent hormones roaring beyond his control, as the randy teen lusts for a variety of women, including Barbarina (portrayed at the premiere by Barbarella-like soprano Valentina Fleer; soprano Janai Brugger-Orman assumes the role Oct. 6-17). Cherubino, who dresses up in women’s clothing, becomes one soldier who’d definitely rather make love, not war. To further complicate matters, Marcellina (played by Ronnita Nicole Miller through Oct. 3, and from Oct. 6-17 by mezzo-soprano Tracy Cox) has her own designs on Figaro, and it is one of the opera’s biggest surprises when we find out why she really loves Figaro. (By the way, Miller, Brugger-Orman and Fleer are alumna members of L.A. Opera’s Domingo-Thornton Young Artist Program.)

Shake, do not stir, this coquettish concoction and you get a frothy elixir of the musical gods. Ambrosia that could soothe seething souls, with Mozart’s immortal music rousingly conducted by Placido Domingo, who fluidly moves as one with the music. Domingo seems prominently displayed on a raised platform underneath a spotlight in the orchestra pit, as L.A. Opera gets its money’s worth out of its wandering, world famous General Director. How appropriate for Domingo to conduct Figaro, which Mozart himself conducted at its 1786 world premiere in Vienna. (Israel Gursky takes the baton Oct. 14 and 17.)

Ian Judge deftly directs the players, but scenery designer Tim Goodchild’s humdrum sets only come alive in the gorgeous garden scene, with its full moon (although I don’t quite understand how chandeliers could be suspended outdoors – I guess I’ll just have to willingly suspend my disbelief a la Samuel Coleridge). Sets are often characters unto themselves in many L.A. Opera productions -- such as Tosca’s prison, Carmen’s plaza and The Fly’s mad scientist’s lair – but until Figaro’s grand finale, they are decidedly run-of-the-mill. Costume designer Deirdre Clancy’s duds have 18th century flair, although Figaro’s contemporary wedding outfit is a dud. This production also unnecessarily inserts other modern references, such as telephones and flashlights, into the 18th century milieu, which only serve to distract from what is otherwise a grand period piece.

And Mozart’s whimsical opera, wherein love conquers all, and is the be all and end all -- is arguably the grandest illusion of all. So why shatter the fantasy? The rest of real life does that for us regularly enough. (It’s easy to see why the composer, alas, was not long for this world.) But these are mere quibbles: To enjoy the most delightful, whimsical, charming opera I’ve ever seen, treat yourself to a well-deserved break and get thee to L.A Opera for Wolfy’s eternally joyful The Marriage of Figaro. A good time is guaranteed to all.

The Marriage of Figaro runs at L.A. Opera at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. For more info: 213/972-8001; www.laopera.com

FILM REVIEW: DOUCHEBAG

Sam (Adam Dickler) and Thomas (Ben York Jones) in Douchebag.

Brother smothers

By Don Simpson

Sam (Andrew Dickler) is only a handful of days away from tying the knot with Steph (Marguerite Moreau), a beautiful woman who is head over heels for him despite his propensity for being a douchebag. The final arrangements for the wedding are being made and Steph begins questioning Sam about why his estranged brother Thomas (Ben York Jones) is not attending the ceremony and why are they estranged in the first place?

Steph takes it upon herself to surprise Sam (and Thomas) by hand-delivering Thomas to their Los Angeles home to stay with them through the wedding. Sam and Thomas find themselves face-to-face for the first time in two years and neither of them are very happy about it. Sam’s knack for being patronizing and condescending towards his younger brother rears its ugly head, promptly reminding Thomas why he hates Sam so damn much.

A dinner conversation forces Thomas to reveal that he was only truly in love once in his life -- with Mary Barger in fifth grade. Sam and Steph decide that it would be fun to track down Mary to see if she would like to be Thomas' date for the wedding. By way of a $40 people locating website, they find three Mary Barger’s currently residing in California. Rather than using the telephone, Sam opts to drag Thomas on a road trip to find the real Mary Barger. Yes, Sam should be helping Steph with last minute wedding preparations but it soon becomes apparent that this is Sam’s final hurrah before getting hitched to the ball and chain of monogamy.

A devout vegetarian and gardener, Sam looks like a poster boy for early 90s grunge: over-sized flannel shirts, baggy shorts and a long bushy beard. He speaks coldly, bluntly and with great authority; and it turns out that this major douchebag is quite the charmer with the ladies (thus perpetuating the myth that nice girls like douchebags). I am, however, disappointed that Sam’s vegetarianism is used as a comedic tool to define him as a douchebag. (Of course this is somewhat redeemed when Sam is revealed to be a vegetarian poser. Ed. Note: I concur.)

Thomas seems emotionally scarred -- like an abused animal -- probably no thanks to the years he spent in close proximity to Sam. He is a timid and polite slacker with lofty aspirations of becoming a painter (while his parents support him financially). Sam’s skills of condescension peak whenever he rags on Thomas’ artistic skills, or lack there of. (“Do you still do those doodles?”)

Though slightly exaggerated for dramatic effect, most of us know people like Sam and Thomas. They converse and act like people rather than thespians and for the most part the situations we find them in do not seem all that contrived or manipulated. Directed by Drake Doremus, Douchebag could easily find itself at home with much of the mumblecore oeuvre (especially Humpday and Old Joy). Sure, the roles the director and script-writers are much more pronounced in Douchebag than in most mumblecore fare, but Doremus shows a real knack for keeping things 100 percent organic and natural.

FILM REVIEW: ENTER THE VOID

Watching him watch others Enter the Void.

Between the blank space

By John Esther

Enter. Friedrich Nietzsche’s eternal recurrence; Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey; George Bataille’s Erotism; Velvet Underground’s “Heroin”; Arthur Schopenhauer; The Germs; Candide (Voltaire); David Lynch’s Inland Empire; Ultravox’s “Western Promise”; Akira Kurosawa’s The Bad Sleep Well; Yasujiro Ozu’s Tokyo Story; Radiohead’s There, There; Sofia Coppola’s Lost in Translation; Ingmar Bergman; Ingmar Bergman’s Thirst; Beatles’ “Within You, Without You”; Michelangelo Antonioni’s phenomenal final tracking shot in The Passenger; the over-the-shoulder viewpoint works here as opposed to Darren Aronofsky’s misdirection in The Wrestler; those cowardly critics in the trades; Ultravox’s “I Want to Be a Machine”; Oliver Stone’s Natural Born Killers; Richard Kelly’s Southland Tales; this makes those tracking shots in Wim Wenders’ Paris, Texas all the more boring and seem light-ed years away; Wenders’ Wings of Desire; Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s epilepsy a la the opening credits; James Joyce’s Ulysses; Lars von Trier’s Zentropa; the “book drop shot” in Krzystof Kieslowski’s Red; Michel Foucault’s ideological accretions and deletions; Alexander Sokurov’s Russian Ark; Solaris (both); Carl Cox and the three turntables; Peter Greenaway’s A Zed & Two Noughts; Philip K. Dick – in particular, A Scanner Darkly; so the circle is not dead; film academic William Van Wert; CGI is in the Art House; Sigmund Freud; exchange cock for car and the protagonist becomes impotent a la Chinatown; Cabaret Voltaire’s “Crackdown” and “Sex, Money, Freaks”; Charlie Kaufman’s Synecdoche, New York; Thorton Wilder’s Our Town; and taxonomies are perhaps, perchance, per se, pure say, purr/stay, for the PRSA and precisely a few of the legible thoughts which crisscrossed, circumnavigated and swerved while watching Gasper Noé’s cinematic construct.

According to Noé’s testimonies, the atheistic-educated, adolescent pot smoker-turned-screenwriter/director/cameraperson/co-editor/associate producer had some similar (i.e. Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey; Dick and dick) yet more differing thoughts (i.e. Lady in the Lake; Robert Moody’s Life after Death; Katherine Bigelow’s Strange Days; and Tron), put into the text, although, at the least, his oeuvre proves he is no stranger to post-Sartrean French intellectual thought.

Divided by a hallucinatory scene of illustrious colors during two world-class tracking shots – that mirror in the bathroom scene! -- transports a young drug dealing American expatriate named Oscar (Nathaniel Brown) to a Tokyo nightclub where the setup by a friend-turned-fiend named Victor (Olly Alexander) because of Oscar’s sexual relationship with Victor’s mother (Sara Stockbridge) leads to Oscar’s death at the hands of Japanese police and the post-life recollections and recreations of Oscar’s life.

Brilliantly shot from Oscar’s, and only Oscar’s point-of-view, Oscar and the camera hover and circle over the past, present and future of the dead, young man’s life: the cataclysmic car crash that took the lives of his biological mother and father (Janice Sicotte-Beliveau and Simon Chamberland, respectively); the birth canal/blood oath he shares with his sister, Linda (Paz de la Huerta); copulating scenes of family members –- including a hilarious “money shot”; his relationship to his only true friend, Alex (Cyril Roy); his relationship to Victor; sake and Saki (Sakiko Fukuhara -- put pun pere); his interactions with others; the lives of others before and after his demise; etc., back and forth, flotsam and jetsam, great highs to grave depths; tenebrous to the incandescent-ing ; in and out of the minds of Alex and others; disco-rd to umbilical cord; wound to womb; adulthood in the east (Japan) to childhood in the west (Canada, because Made in USA would have been too expensive). In other words, the twilight’s last gleaming of a young, wild, and damned (promising) man is captured.

A groundbreaking “psychedelic melodrama” by any “cinematographic means” necessary, if you think last year’s Avatar broke boundaries, for every breakthrough James Cameron’s film offers technologically, Noé’s film does artistically. There is much more to experience and any other attitude may be cowardice.

Writing of which, judging by the ridiculous responses reported at the 2010 Sundance and SXSW Film Festivals, it seems viewing the film requires a certain cerebral capacity in dIs-Order to b-are/ear its roughly 160-minutes of sense and sensory overdrive. (The Cannes Film Festival 2009 screening was not the film’s “definitive form,” said Noé). Then there are the themes/d-reams/scenes of incest (“Ah, the western syndrome!”); a personal dioramic orgasmic porno(é)graphic personal apocalypse; drug induced hallucinations; various s(t)ink hole shots, an abortion and its dis/car-de(a)d/contents; Linda learning about the death of a family member -- from the spontaneous (parents) to the protracted (brother); a strip club; a roller coaster car crash; philosophical discussions based on The Tibetan Book of the Dead and the drug, DMT; the fear Noé is going to give us another shocking scene on par with Irreversible’s bludgeoning and rape scenes (he does not); parental loss; “average characters” at fault for their untimely deaths; etc., to endure. This film is not for the squeamish (or epileptic). At least English-speaking audiences do not have to worry about subtitles.

Unless this is Oscar’s omniscient/omni-potent(cy/see) drug induced trip in wastelandedUcated, and it legitimately could be, the film’s primary underachievement (which seems an unfair word to use here) is the beyond-the-grave narrative. I almost always loathe such reactionary narratives (i.e. Our Town; It’s a Wonderful Life; American Beauty; Lovely Bones), but here it is forgivable because it works without being sentimental, superstitious or spiritual in any traditional meaning or affirmation of the afterlife. (The film’s neo-structuralism could do wandering wonders for a reeled real historical figure.)

Highly likely to make my top ten of 2010, even if the film is not the best film of the year, the increasingly talented Noé has made the film event of the year. Lead grip Akira Kanna deserves kudos, too. Void.

FILM REVIEW: WAITING FOR SUPERMAN

Working class hero: Geoffrey Canada in Waiting for Superman.

Waiting for Superman

Ed-You-ca(n’)t/e-a-nation

By John Esther

Focusing on five endearing underprivileged children -- Anthony, Bianca, Daisy, Emily and Francisco -- plus teachers, dedicated educators like Geoffrey Canada, administrators, teacher unions, parents and a plethora of mixed meritorious experts analyzing the dismal conditions of a public educational system, the Oscar-winning documentarian of An Inconvenient Truth (2006), Davis Guggenheim, takes a look at how the United States of America fails to educate a lot of its children.

Applying a somewhat rather simplistic narrative based on a lot of empirical evidence, some startling documentation, and the questionable attributes of teacher unions, co-writer and director Guggenheim (It Might Get Loud) and others not only can cite what is wrong with the U.S. educational system, but also offer possible methods to make it better. And it does not require a superman, just the social and political will.

It is a lot to take in and it is a lot to get mad about. There are people, including precocious schoolchildren, who truly want kids to receive a great education but, due to a barrage of circumstances, they will never get it. For starters, kids have problems at home, schools are overcrowded, children lack respect for legitimate forms of authority, kids are passed on in the name of government funding, too many teachers are undeservedly tenured and resources are not properly allocated to education.

It is also heartbreaking to the point that you could, or wish you could, attain that teaching degree, get to that needy school and show the other teachers how it is done.

Sure to be a darling in politically conservative circles, Waiting for Superman certainly works on an emotional level and often an intellectual one as well. However, Waiting for Superman is not without its shortcomings.

The documentary creates a brief historical narrative on the role of education in 20th century America, talking about how superior it was until the 1970s when it started to deteriorate. What happened in the 1970s is not discussed. California’s Proposition 13 (1978) may be a good start.

(Guggenheim’s father, Charles, the most honored documentarian in AMPAS history, directed the 1983 Oscar-nominated documentary, High Schools, which looked at the public educational system in the 1980s.)

Another problem is the documentary’s failure to address a country with a notorious history and au courant dose of anti-intellectualism. In an era where an Ivy League education is often viewed as a flaw in character (and I do not mean in the Gore Vidal sense where an Ivy League education is still an under-education or a mis-education or a miso-education), superstitions supersede science, real intelligence is met with suspicion, and a fool (or propagandist) is allotted the same amount of space in the media to spew out nonsense on a matter as an expert on the same subject has made making a responsible case (i.e. climate change; healthcare reform; capital punishment), the public education system can only do so much.

Then there is the issue of influence in politics. Waiting for Superman takes its time tackling the American Federation of Teachers for its considerable influence in politics, and not without undue course, either. But what it fails to account for is those other special groups whose monetary interests depend on the continuation of an undereducated working class. These special interests lobby hard in state and national capitals for such policies as lowering those taxes funding public education, preventing the school year from expanding, Wall Street bailouts, handing over public programs to the private sector and maintaining the prison-industrial complex -- which goes hand in pocket with low education standards. (As of 2007, the very blue states of Vermont, Michigan, Oregon, Connecticut and Delaware, respectively, have the dubious distinction of spending more money on prisons than state colleges.)

To be sure, although Waiting for Superman is far from addressing it, the educational system of America and everything else weak about our nation will never significantly improve without drastic campaign finance reform.

Waiting for Superman also takes a rather kindhearted, if not whitewashed, viewpoint of charter schools. The documentary glosses over the poor achievement of most charter schools despite ample research illustrating that most charter schools perform lower than or just as comparable as general public schools. It would also be interesting to know how non-union charter schools fare against public schools (and union pay) over time. Do they work better in the long run or not? I would imagine the latter. At any rate, Waiting for Superman, like many parents and students who have little or no options, considers non-union charter schools to be the answer. This is good publicity for some highly respectable educators at charter schools, but it may just be wishful thinking for the parents whose children will wind up just as intellectually impoverished as their parents whether the kid’s name is drawn in a charter school lottery or not. (As the director readily admits in Waiting for Superman, his wealth permits choice.)

A documentary sure to stir up some heated debates, especially amongst those with more disposable income than others, Waiting for Superman is an important yet flawed discourse on the current courses America’s public educational system is taking, making, faking and breaking.

FILM REVIEW: WALL STREET: MONEY NEVER SLEEPS

Gordon (Michael Douglas) and Jake (Shia LeBeouf) in Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps.

Stone aged capitalism

By Ed Rampell

Oliver Stone’s Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps is a bold, visually stunning movie and the best critique of the capitalist system and its 2008 financial meltdown since Michael Moore’s Capitalism: A Love Story. 

The film opens with uber-financier Gordon Gekko’s (Michael Douglas) release from prison, where he has served around eight years for insider trading and other crimes he perpetrated in Stone’s 1987 Wall Street classic. This sequel, which is probably superior to the original, follows Gekko as he tries to re-establish himself in the world of high finance – where, Gekko observes, “greed got greedier” -- and in his daughter Winnie’s (Carey Mulligan) life. (In the original Wall Street, Stone had a son, not a daughter.)

The film explores whether Gekko’s imprisonment has humanized the “Greed is good” guru, and follows Winnie’s relationship with Jake Moore (Shia LeBeouf), a Wall Street trader who walks a tightrope between the type of predatory capitalism epitomized by his would-be father-in-law and a deep interest in green energy. Jake encounters another archetypal robber baron, Bretton James (played by Josh Brolin – a bit of canny casting, as he starred as one of the culprits of 2008’s economic catastrophe, George W. Bush, in Stone’s 2008 W.), who is sort of the Reagan era Gekko on 21st century steroids. At one point Bretton asks the alternative energy-touting Jake if he’s “an idealist or a capitalist?” Meanwhile, capitalism collapses around the characters.

In his previous film, South of the Border, Stone examined the phenomenon of what Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez calls “21st century socialism.” (The DVD will be released by Cinema Libre Studios on Oct. 26.) Now, in this bookend movie, Stone examines modern corporate capitalism, placing it under a Sherlock Holmes-like magnifying glass. The feature correctly, insightfully observes that more profit is derived from financial services than production in contemporary America. 

(A recent issue of the longtime independent socialist magazine, Monthly Review, ran a story on how capitalists in the financial sector have -- given the fact that the only things Made In USA nowadays are weaponry and mass entertainment -- surpassed the traditional industrial bourgeoisie as the ruling class’ dominant faction. Does anybody really think this decline in manufacturing is economically sustainable?) 

This film is a perfect goodbye gift for Larry Summers, as this pro-corporate wrecker of the American economy leaves his post on President Obama’s mostly woe-begotten team of economic mis-advisers. Their departures are eloquent admissions of the failures of their idiotic policies -- as if letting the foxes in the hen houses has ever worked as a crime-fighting tactic. Don’t let the screen door hit your ass on your way out of the White House, Summers!  

The superb cast includes Frank Langella, whose previous star turns as Dracula and Tricky Dick (he was Oscar-nominated for 2008’s Frost/Nixon) provided basic training for Langella’s portrayal of Louis Zabel, head of the doomed Keller Zabel Investments. (To be fair, unlike the Prince of Darkness or the disgraced ex-president, Zabel is actually human.) Venerable thespian Eli Wallach whimsically portrays another Wall Street veteran, who can remember the 1929 stock market crash. Oscar winner Susan Sarandon embodies Americans living beyond their means, depicting Jake’s mother, Sylvia, once a nurse who, her son muses, used to save lives, and is now a realtor ensnared in the sub-prime mortgage crisis. Sylvia Miles, who hilariously hustled Jon Voight’s male hustler in 1969’s Midnight Cowboy and played a realtor 23 years ago in the original Wall Street, is back for some more real estate wheeling, dealing and wheedling in the sequel, which includes cameo appearances by the original’s co-star, Charlie Sheen (Bud Fox), and by Stone himself, who is glimpsed onscreen a la Alfred Hitchcock.

Douglas is best of all in a stellar performance, reprising his Gekko part with a commanding presence that is absolutely guaranteed to win him an Oscar nomination -- and, I predict, another Oscar for portraying Gekko. A Douglas/Gekko win would be a first for the Oscars. Actors such as Raymond Massey portrayed abolitionist John Brown in 1940’s Santa Fe Trail and 1955’s Seven Angry Men, as well as Abe Lincoln in 1940’s Abe Lincoln in Illinois (for which Massey received his sole Best Actor nomination) plus in 1962’s How the West Was Won. Bing Crosby won the Best Actor Academy Award for 1944’s Going My way, and was nominated the following year for again playing Father Chuck O’Malley in The Bells of St. Mary’s, but did not win. Larry Parks was nominated for 1946’s The Jolson Story, but did not win the Best Actor Oscar, nor was he nominated for its 1949 sequel. During the 1970s Marlon Brando and Robert De Niro both won Best Actor and Best Supporting Actor Oscars, respectively, for portraying Don Corleone in The Godfather and Godfather II, respectively. Cate Blanchett was twice nominated for Best Actress in a Leading Role for playing Queen Elizabeth in 1998’s Elizabeth and 2007’s Elizabeth: The Golden Age, but did not win either time.

So if Douglas wins a second Oscar for portraying Gekko he’ll make Academy Award history. (By the way, the closest thing to this is Harold Russell, the real life disabled vet who won both a Best Supporting Oscar and an Honorary Oscar for playing Homer Parrish, a handless, wounded veteran in 1946’s The Best Years of Their Lives.) 

Awards or not, Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps is much more than simply a sequel, it is an original work of art that stands on its own, even as it draws from the original source. Unlike, say, bonehead Michael Bay’s Transformers flicks, this is much more than a mere money-making franchise (even if Gekko might wish otherwise, LOL).  Stone, the director of the 1980s Vietnam masterpieces Platoon and Born on the Fourth of July and 1991’s JFK, etc.,  is at the top of his game, and I predict many well-deserved Academy Award nominations for Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps – if not an Oscar gold rush. Don’t miss it – and don’t miss my interview with Stone in the September issue of The Progressive Magazine. (Say, if you can’t give yourself a shameless plug when reviewing a movie about capitalism, when can you?)

  



         

ARPA INTERNATIONAL FILM FESTIVAL 2010: FINDING GAUGUIN

The film poster for Finding Gauguin.

Poor impressions

By Miranda Inganni

In this fictional tale about the final years of impressionist painter Paul Gauguin, a young artist enters the picture to help Gauguin transition through the last phase of his life.

Gauguin (Lee Don Taicher, who also wrote, produced and directed the film) is an aging artist, living in the Marquesas Islands, a French colony. As he pushes harder against the French and becomes more and more involved with the natives, he finds trouble with the government from which he was trying to escape when he left his native country.

As Gauguin’s civil disobedience lands him in jail, a young American lands on the island in search of his artistic idol.  While Gauguin’s health fails him, the young American takes on the role of protector and student -- the child who has to care for his ailing parent and the one painter who can help his master complete his final work.

Sadly, the actors have very little to work with. The writing is stilted, the accents sound phony and the way Gauguin is portrayed makes him very hard to like, or even sympathetic. Taicher’s Gauguin is a self-centered egomaniac, who has a seemingly idealistic relationship with the woman he calls his wife. And clearly, Gauguin was far more interested in drinking, smoking, feeling sorry for himself and having three-ways with other willing women. (And apparently, in early-1900s, French Polynesia, woman had perfect teeth and nails, no underarm hair and perfectly trimmed lady bits. Right.)

Finding Gauguin is sentimental without any emotion. The bond between the young American and Gauguin could be touching, but isn’t. There is no reason to believe that this great artist thought his life worthless simply because his paintings weren’t selling in Paris.

(Finding Gauguin screens during the Arpa International Film Festival, Sept. 25, 1 p.m., Rigler Theatre. For more information: http://www.itsmyseat.com/AFFMA.html)

FILM REVIEW: BURIED

Deep trouble: Paul Conroy (Ryan Reynolds) has been Buried.

A story from under the war boards

By Miranda Inganni

To say that Buried is emotionally challenging to watch is an under-taking statement.  

Essentially a one-man show, Ryan Reynolds plays Paul Conroy, a truck driver who wakes up in complete darkness, quickly realizing he has been buried alive.

Contracted by an American company to deliver supplies in Iraq, Paul is armed with only a cell phone running low on battery power and a Zippo lighter, which is also running low on fuel. For the duration of the film, Paul tries to figure out who has buried him, why he has been buried and, most importantly, who can help find him and get him out.

As he frantically phones his family, friends and foes to find a fix, Paul, and the audience, know that he’s running out of time, air and light. Faced with governmental red tape, corporate cover-ups and too many answering machines, Paul’s fate seems all but sealed.

Told in real time, Buried is an intense drama occurring almost entirely in Paul’s confining coffin. Directed by Rodrigo Cortés (The Contestant) and written by Chris Sparling, Buried limits the story to one character in one small space, which in turn allows the audience the uncomfortable experience of feeling equally entombed. Although there are no big car chases or gunfights, Buried is rampant with action and psychological thrills. There are no fancy costumes or set designs, just excellent acting by Reynolds, a superb script, innovative cinematography by Eduard Grau (A Single Man) and tight direction from Cortés.

FILM REVIEW: HOWL

Allen Ginsberg (James Franco) in Howl.

The beauty of the beasts

By John Esther

Back in 1997 during his last year alive, I had the great fortune to spend some time with the astounding American poet, Allen Ginsberg. 
 
Among the many things Ginsberg imparted on me was that the worst thing in the world is for people to deliberately ignore one’s existence, especially when it comes to the poor.
 
“When some street person asks you for money and you don’t want to give it,” said Ginsberg, “at least acknowledge they exist. Don’t just ignore them.”
 
Since then I have tried to follow Ginsberg’s advice. After watching Howl, I remember why.  

Directed by Rob Epstein and Jeffrey Friedman, Howl looks at Ginsberg, circa age 29, and the influence his magnum opus and first published poem, Howl, had on America during the mid-1950s. 

In some ways a poetic equivalent of Orson Welles and Citizen Kane (the artist’s first work for public consumption was his best), Ginsberg’s Howl defined a country hell bent on making every unhappy face smile as they ignored and perpetuated the misery around and behind him and her. 

Rather than tell a straightforward biopic, Howl, which was an opening night film at Sundance Film Festival 2010, is essentially divided into four equal parts using four different mediums/tropes to convey the power the poet and his poem had on the people and the powers-that-be.  

One part is essentially theater, with Ginsberg (a marvelous James Franco) reading his poem at the Six Gallery on October 7, 1955, to an enthusiastic crowd, including the writers/future “absent lovers,” Jack Kerouac (Todd Rotondi) and Neal Cassady (Jon Presscott). The second part uses animation (designed by Eric Dooker) to illustrate the meanings/feelings of the poem -- at least one accurate interpretation thereof. The third part is the dramatic poetic justice of Howl, and thus free speech, on trial for obscenity (People vs. Ferlinghetti). And the fourth part is a pseudo documentary where Ginsberg answers questions to an off-screen interviewee.  

Highlighted by Edward Lachman’s magnificent direction of photography, Howl intermingles these four sets to brilliant heights.
 
While the poem Howl said so many things about America and Howl the film says so much about America then and now, the greatness in this film lies in the fact that the filmmakers managed to capture both Ginsberg and Howl at its vital essence: the voice of desire and fulfillment of communication and acknowledgement by and for those who have been ignored by society at large through malice, ignorance or indifference. 

Without a significant flaw in sight after two viewings, I will be very surprised if Howl is not one of the 10 best films of the year.

THEATER REVIEW: BREAK THE WHIP

Giselle Jones and Chris Schultz in Break the Whip. Photo by Christopher Ward.

A theatrical people’s history of the United States

By Ed Rampell

Add a quart of Commedia dell’ Arte masks, an epic cup of Brechtian alienation effects, a pint of Vsevolod Meyerhold’s biomechanics, a dash of Indonesian shadow puppetry, a tablespoon of Eugene Ionesco-esque Theatre of the Absurd, an ounce of African Djembe drumming, a soupcon of slide whistles and slapstick plus a gallon of radical politics, sprinkle liberally with Howard Zinn and Yogi Bear, stir vigorously over a high flame until boiling, and what do you get? A spicy recipe for theatrical gumbo and agitprop that only the Actors’ Gang chefs could whip up and serve -- and boy is this avant-garde troupe cooking with its new production, Break The Whip. 

Writer-director Tim Robbins’ new play is a theatrically rendered people’s history of what is now the United States, told from the point of view of the oppressed, of the not-so-wellborn common folk, of the indigenous, enslaved and indentured, instead of from the top down perspective of the hoity-toity, high and mighty. Nowadays there’s lots of anxiety among reactionaries that whites may become outnumbered by nonwhites in America, and Robbins’ sizzling story is set in a period when this was indeed the case: Shortly after the founding of the Jamestown settlement in Virginia, when Europeans were indeed a minority in a “New World” largely populated by indigenous tribal peoples, along with African slaves imported before the Mayflower. This combustible ethnic combination could be called “when worlds collide.” (Set on the East Coast in the early 17th century, Break the Whip doesn’t get into the Latino demographics of the Southwest -- that is another story.)

Break the Whip’s plot is fairly complex, especially as there are so many characters, and difficult to summarize. Suffice it to say that Break the Whip explores the class divisions between the English settlers, racial clashes between the Africans, Europeans and indigenous people, as well as tribalism among the latter. Quino (Chris Schultz) is an indentured servant who may have a same sex relationship with a lad who perishes during a famine sweeping Jamestown. Quino is outraged when the grave dug for the stricken boy is, instead, given to an upper class Englishwoman. In the second act Quino’s interracial romance with an African woman, Lumbine (the superb Giselle Jones), upends the racist colony and despite torture, leads to a desperate act of defiance that crowns the play, moving it along to its inexorable conclusion.

So how successful is the show, with its cast of 23 actors (many in multiple roles) in dramatizing history and making it entertaining instead of pedantic? The various special effects deployed by the Actors' Gang certainly enliven the production, which takes place on a bare stage, minus curtains or even dressing rooms, as cast members dress and undress on the side in the dark. The costumes designed by Christina Wright, from deer to bears, braves to slaves, highborn Englishmen to indentured servants, are eye catching. Creation myths are cleverly, amusingly depicted via wayang kulit (Indonesian shadow puppets projected on a screen, which the Actors' Gang also used to great effect a few years ago in its adaptation of Gulliver’s Travels). Fabrics of cloth denoting rivers are deftly deployed. The appearance of a spectral bear (Pierre Adeli) during Abooksigun’s (Jean-Louis Darville) vision quest is more Yogi Bear than spiritual talisman -- although, to be fair, while the clawed creature is cartoonish, he is indeed smarter than the average bear.

The chase scene in the second act, which is when the action picks up and the story really comes alive (the first act has lots of exposition), is extremely cinematically rendered, and one of the most exciting escape sequences seen onstage since Eliza fled slaver Simon Legree and his baying bloodhounds on the ice floes in productions of Uncle Tom’s Cabin.

But the use of masks -- a Commedia Dell’ Arte convention -- by the entire ensemble throughout the production is eyebrow raising. These masks worked perfectly in the Actors' Gang’s 2003 anti-Iraq War gem, Embedded, but then Robbins’ was, in part, depicting public figures, such as Condoleezza Rice and Donald Rumsfeld, whose faces were well known to audiences. However, in Break the Whip, fictional and obscure characters (by the way, Jamestown’s Pocahontas and John Smith don’t make special appearances here) are portrayed, and the masks deny the thespians much of their innate dramatic power, as spectators can’t see their faces, facial expressions and in many cases, even their eyes. As with the lack of a proscenium arch, Robbins may be using the masks to achieve Bertolt Brecht’s alienation technique in order to create a Lehrstuck (a teaching play) effect, wherein the illusion of theatrical naturalism and reality is shattered so, instead of empathizing with the characters, theatergoers are encouraged to think about them and the story instead. In other words, ticket buyers are prodded to use intellect instead of emotions to process the playwright’s lesson and perspective. If this is the case, one wonders if more is lost or gained in Break the Whip by disguising the actors’ faces and thereby diminishing their expressiveness.

Another point raised by an African-American woman who attended the premiere is that, apparently, few if any Native American actors play Paspahegh and Powatan roles. It seems that palefaces in “redface” and “blackface” (or mask, as the case may be) portray tribal and African characters. If so, is this perhaps perpetuating old stereotypes, with members of the dominant majority culture still controlling how minority ethnic groups are depicted? Los Angeles has a relatively large Native American population, and indigenous actresses such as Irene Bedard and Delanna Studi live within driving distance of the Actors' Gang’s Culver City theatre. If a play seeks to comment on injustices that subject peoples have been subjected to, it seems that those presenting the work should make extra efforts to include members of the maligned group in the cast.

On the other hand, you don’t necessarily have to be a chicken to know an egg. It’s a fair point that Marlon Brando, who wasn’t Italian, won a well-deserved Oscar for playing Don Corleone in 1972. At the time, some criticized The Godfather for caricaturing people of Italian ancestry as mobsters, yet Brando sent an indigenous woman, Sacheen Littlefeather, to decline his Academy Award due to Hollywood’s racist portrayal of Native Americans. So the issue of ethnic representation and misrepresentation remains extremely complicated and problematic.
An Academy Award-winning actor, Robbins has a cinematic sensibility, as well as a theatrical aesthetic, which he overall skillfully combines in Break the Whip. Above all, in this parable about colonial America, Robbins’ well known progressive politics win the day, with a rare depiction of a maroon community of escaped slaves and Natives, plus indentured whites, as the prototype of a “better future” for all Americans. But this elusive “Beloved Community” of equal rights for all is yet to be.

Break The Whip runs through Nov. 13 at the Actors’ Gang at the Ivy Substation theatre, 9070 Venice Blvd., Culver City, CA 90232. For more info: 310/838-GANG; www.theactorsgang.com





     

ART: LIVE WELL AGAIN ART AND EVENT SERIES

Shingo Francis' Glass Theater. Photo credit: Aja Davis.

Hula hoop dreams
 
By Aja Davis
 
This week Hotel Casa Del Mar in Santa Monica, Ca., opened “Live Well Again Art and Event Series”. An ongoing series structured to give new meaning to celebrating life, the exhibit is inspired by the hotel’s desire to want all whom enter to experience a newfound sense of youth, creativity, and happiness. The expectation is that each event will leave one with the will to live without inhibitions. The feature artist chosen to re-image the hotel’s lobby is a native of Santa Monica, Shingo Francis.
 
Francis, a founding member of Hatch art, an artistic technique used to create tonal or shading effects by drawing or painting parallel lines, describes his style as minimal abstract. Using hula hoops as his starting point, Francis explained that the inspiration for the exhibit was “all about fun," he said. "Hula hoops are historical and fun, just as Hotel Casa Del Mar is." 
 
The first peek of Francis’ talent is carefully hung from a framed canvas on the wall as one enters the Hotel’s lobby. The $8,000 oil based painting, which is the most expensive piece of this collection, is titled “Inter/Outer Green.” Constructed in an array of brilliant shades bordering on such deep and bright colors as Chartreuse, Olive, and Celtic green, it is a very attractive piece that draws one in, making one’s mind wander to another place. 
 
As one walks up the lobby staircase, a large mirror highlighted by bright lights showcases numerous colorful abstract shapes on its surface. Created in collaboration with artist Felicia Page, “Glass Theater” was made of polyvinyl and specifically constructed for the hotel’s event. 
 
Moving throughout the center of the room, one is drawn to large painted paper lanterns hanging from the ceiling. “The Lantern Series” is hung and strategically placed, almost putting one in the mindset of a flowing sea of color. Further into the room, prints that reflect modest ocean and desert themes are placed on walls created to resemble a library or study. The prints exhibit Francis’ keen use of color inspired by a spectrum of landscapes. The work draws one in, giving a sense of brand new energy realized only by appreciating the beauty of nature through the artist’s eyes. 
 
As one gazes to the back of the room toward the large paned windows, one cannot help but be attracted to a horizon of rainbow colored dots, titled “Variant Color,” applied to the top of each window. This collection of colors brings an animated freshness to the room, paying homage to the pop culture roots Francis learned while studying in Japan. These transparent pieces were also created strictly for the exhibit.  
 
Located in front of the hotel is Francis’ unique sculpture of hula hoops also located on beach side of the hotel. He explains that his one hope for the series is that others see his work and “are transformed by his creativity,” thus giving way to living well again.
 
The exhibit runs through November 30, 2010. For more Information on Francis or Hotel Casa Del Mar’s Live Well Again series, please visit www.hotelcasadelmar.com/livewellagain

FILM REVIEW: THE TOWN

Director-actor Ben Affleck in The Town.

Doug into a life of crime and Claire
 

By Don Simpson

Claire (Rebecca Hall) is abducted by four rubbery skull-faced thieves during a robbery of a bank where she’s an assistant manager. Once the thieves succeed in their getaway, they let Claire go. They keep her driver’s license and Jem (Jeremy Renner) -- the smoldering loose-canon of the wild bunch -- realizes that Claire lives in their ‘hood -- Boston’s Charlestown neighborhood.

Speaking of Charlestown, it is important to note that with its mix of upper-middle and middle-class residences, housing projects, and significant working class Irish-American population, Charlestown has produced more bank and armored car robbers than any other single square mile in the U.S.

Doug (Ben Affleck), the de facto leader of the gang (because he is the smartest), quickly pounces on the opportunity to spy on Claire in order to ensure that she does not sing too loudly to the police. In one of the most formulaic scenes in a very formulaic film, Doug and Claire meet in a laundromat. Claire is crying. She briefly tells Doug about her traumatic encounter at her bank. Doug says “I’m sorry.” Claire says “It’s not your fault.” Oh, if only she knew the truth about Doug.

Soon Doug is bedding Claire -- she is much classier, more specifically middle-class, than the other Charlestown girls -- and they fall deeply in love. In fact, his love for Claire is so unbelievably strong that Doug decides he is going to change his life. The question is will they not only survive but transcend the standard destiny of star-crossed lovers in popular fiction? Have I mentioned that The Town is very formulaic?

Doug has a lot of people rooting against him. First and foremost there is Jem, who is able to manipulate Doug, like any good Catholic, by way of a multitude of guilt trips. Jem’s family raised Doug after his mother "abandoned" him and his father (Chris Cooper) was sent to the big house for robbery. Doug also had a romantic past with Jem's sleazy sister, Krista (Blake Lively). Most importantly, Jem spent nine years in the slammer for protecting Doug. Next there is Fergie (Pete Postlewaite), the leader of their micro Irish Mafia, who is certainly not going to let Doug walk away from him. Lastly, FBI agent Frawley (Jon Hamm) wants nothing more than to sentence Doug to being lifetime cellmates with his father and Frawley is hot on Doug’s' trail.

The film's action sequences are sharply orchestrated and nicely paced. The plot features three very neatly spaced heists: at the beginning, middle and end of the film. Unfortunately, the first two heists are the the only redeemable parts of the entire film. The second robbery features an impressively orchestrated car chase through some very narrow streets.

My problems with The Town are two-fold: Affleck the actor and Affleck the director. As Doug, Affleck speaks in a thick yet flimsy Boston accent (his manner of speaking is eerily reminiscent of an Adam Sandler persona) and he is much too clean cut and pretty to be believable as a working-class Charlestown hoodlum. (There is a vanity-soaked scene in which Affleck flexes his muscles that is cringe-worthy at best.) As the director, Affleck purports to be revealing the truth about the rough and tumble working class world of Charlestown, which lives by its “pitiable, misguided Irish omerta”; instead The Town is an overtly contrived and formulaic glorification of violence and thievery. Affleck gives Doug three excuses for his life of crime: his motherless childhood, his criminal father and his failed hockey career. There is no mention of the role poverty (or even gentrification) has played in any of it.

The Town was adapted from Chuck Hogan’s Prince of Thieves: A Novel.

FILM REVIEW: CATFISH

Henry Joost and Ariel Schulman in Catfish.

Outsid(h)er art
 

By Don Simpson
 

In the case of Catfish, I beg for you to not read anything about the film before you see it. No matter how ambiguously I pen this review, I fear that there is no way to discuss Catfish and not destroy your viewing experience. So, this will be my final plea for you to stop reading and come back to JEsther Entertainment after you see the film.

OK, so I am now going to assume that those of you who are still reading this review have either already seen Catfish or you are not afraid of learning too much information about the film. Everyone else should have stopped reading by now. OK. Good. There will be spoilers coming very soon...

In 2007, the co-producing/co-directing team of Henry Joost and Ariel Schulman began filming a documentary of Ariel's younger brother, Nev, a dance photographer, as he developed a Facebook friendship with a prepubescent art prodigy named Abby. The friendship was originally instigated by Abby when she sent Nev a painting of one of his photographs; it quickly escalated to Abby mailing boxes of her work to Nev. Nev’s Facebook relationship with Abby seems very intriguing to Joost and Schulman, but they presumably never suspected that the relationship would take the strange directions that it does...

Nev promptly becomes Facebook friends with Abby's mother, Angela, and Abby’s sultry older half-sister, Megan; soon Nev is connected with an wide assortment of other family members and random family friends. It is only right and natural that Megan and Nev commence a virtual Facebook flirtation which quickly evolves to cover the gamut of modern communication: texting, IMing and good old fashioned phone conversations. Megan, an amateur musician, begins writing songs for Nev and posts the new MP3s to her Facebook page.

Things suddenly begin to unravel. Nev, horrified and humiliated, becomes reluctant to continue the documentary. Ariel and Henry urge him to continue -- they realize that they have hit a cinematic goldmine. One thing leads to another and the three guys arrive in Michigan -- with cameras blazing -- to confront Megan, Angela and Abby. They arrive to find a very ordinary and soft-spoken middle-aged housewife who has woven her lifelong fantasies into a complex network of Facebook facades, all to attract and retain Nev's attention. Vulnerable and sympathetic -- though prone to lies and gross exaggerations -- it seems she merely longs to be able to sell her paintings; and posing as a very young outsider artist seemed like her best option to do so.

Somehow this strange woman, who has done nothing but lie to Nev, transfixes him and wins his sympathy. Nev seems to think that since Angela’s reality is so depressing that gives her ample reason to fabricate a more exciting existence. I find it to be very difficult to agree with Nev on this, but I wonder if he feels equally guilty for using Angela in this film.

Catfish is an extremely potent critical analysis and philosophical diatribe on modern communication and the necessary rewriting of social rules and morals associated with 21st century relationships; it is all enough to give Marshall McLuhan a virtual post-mortem orgasm. In fact, it is almost too potent and too perfect (so much so that it is tempting to assume that this is all just a elaborately constructed post-modern ruse a la Banksy’s Exit Through the Gift Shop). But if it is true that this entire documentary is essentially a mockumentary, well, Joost and the Schulman brothers deserve even greater kudos for pulling off such a wonderfully transfixing prank.

My favorite part of Catfish is that it opens to the score of “Good Vibrations” by The Langley Schools Music Project -- an alluring example of outsider music created by children which works as a perfect introduction to this film about a child outsider artist. (The remaining soundtrack is courtesy of Mark Mothersbaugh of Devo fame).

FILM REVIEW: EASY A

Olive (Emma Stone) tightens up for Easy A.

Hester lesser

By Don Simpson

If you are a fan of corsets, have I found a film for you! And if corsets alone are not enticing enough, how about Emma Stone in corsets? Ah, now I have your attention!

Olive (Emma Stone) is a high school virgin who concocts a lie about losing her virginity to a make-believe community college boy. Said lie is told in order to avoid a weekend with her curvaceous best friend, Rhiannon (Alyson Michalka). Unfortunately the tantalizing tall tale is overheard by Marianne (Amanda Bynes) -- the leader of the local chapter of Jesus freaks -- and spreads like an epidemic gone wild via texts and tweets around campus.

For this one (made up) indiscretion, Olive is labeled a slut. Rather than attempting to debunk her promiscuous reputation, Olive spins it into a profit-making venture. In exchange for saying that she hooked up with random high school misfits and losers (in order to improve their social standing), Olive accepts payments in the form of retail gift cards. This coincides with Olive’s reading of Nathaniel Hawthorne's The Scarlet Letter in her English class; she finds a comrade in Hester Prynne, and sews an “A” into her wardrobe, which by this point consists only of corsets.

At times, Easy A tries really hard to be this season’s Clueless (1995) with its flippant banter, gratuitous snark, and tiresome self-awareness. Other times it flat out apes the iconic John Hughes high school movies of the 1980s (and not very successfully). As a modern update of The Scarlet Letter, Easy A is no better than Roland Joffé’s The Scarlet Letter (1995) starring Demi Moore -- which Easy A mocks on multiple occasions.

Easy A is sure to piss off people on both sides of the political aisle, but I think it will piss off God-fearing Christians the most. Producer-director Will Gluck (Fired Up!) takes quite a few cheap shots at the fundamentalist Christian crowd, representing them as clownish caricatures whose judgmental intolerance is pathetic and unwarranted. (Jesus freaks annoy me too, but what good does this cartoonish portrayal do anyone?) As for the more liberal members of the audience, well, where do I begin? First and foremost, this is a despicable representation -- corsets and all -- of women. Olive is purportedly intelligent, but other than some polysyllable words and witty wordplay she never really shows her smarts. Oh yeah, and men too! I am downright confused about what Easy A is trying to say about teenage promiscuity and underage sex.

Then again Emma Stone sure looks good in corsets, so how bad can Easy A be?

FILM REVIEW: THE GIRL

Home alone  

By Don Simpson

The titular girl (Blanca Engström) -- who remains unnamed throughout the film -- is left behind by her idealist parents (Shanti Roney and Annika Hallin) who are off to Africa with their older son (Calle Lindqvist) for a feel good summer of helping and saving Africans. Six months shy of her tenth birthday, the girl is too young to travel with them. A free-spirited aunt (Tova Magnusson-Norling) is summoned to stay with the girl, but it soon becomes obvious that parenting is not the aunt’s forte.

In a film in which it is the adults who act the most irresponsible, selfish and childish -- at least in the absence of other adults -- the girl is soon left alone fending for herself. (You know, like Home Alone...but without Joe Pesci.) The girl keeps it secret that she is on her own, but that does not absolve her from feeling adult emotions (such as abandonment and loss) that the girl probably has little or no prior experience with in life. When it comes down to it, she does not want to be thrust into adulthood; she just wants to be left alone to have fun. (Just ask Cyndi Lauper -- she will tell you that girls just want to have fun.) She seems to know how to keep the fun responsible, because otherwise her charade will probably be uncovered. (Other children lead her astray from the path of responsibility, but she always finds her way back.)

Teetering on a fine line between resiliency and totally falling apart, the girl reveals an incomparable amount of stoicism and tenacity. The expression of the girl's freckled face remains unflinching, if not cold and emotionless, behind her thicket of wild orange hair for a majority of the film. The girl matures quickly throughout the timeline of the film -- however long that actually is as The Girl cleverly lacks very little notion of time -- she is even inspired to learn about female anatomy, such as breast & vagina development.

Shot in Upphärad, Trollhättan by cinematographer Hoyte Van Hoytema (Let the Right One In), The Girl captures the mood of summertime in rural Swedish while carefully balancing visual lyricism and realism. This feature film debut by Swedish director Fredrik Edfeldt is a magnificent example of Swedish cinema's poetic coolness. Maintaining a safe distance from the onscreen events and making sure that the characters do not over-explain their situations -- and especially not their emotions -- Edfeldt reveals a significant amount of respect and trust for his actors. (The lack of name for the lead character adds to the feeling of detachment.)

The naturalness of Engström’s acting debut -- a primarily facial one at that -- is what really makes The Girl a fantastic film. Her interpretation of the purity, freedom and solitude of childhood is a transcending experience to say the least. Engström is a transfixing presence and we, the audience, are left as helpless observers stuck on the other side of the screen wanting to extend a kind and caring hand to assist her.

FILM REVIEW: PICTURE ME

Supermodel Sara Ziff is in front and behind the camera in Picture Me.

Blow-Up robots
 
By Don Simpson

Sara Ziff began modeling at age 14. She started working as a full-time model after high school at age 18. Her then-boyfriend, Ole Schell, fresh out of film school follows Ziff with a video camera tirelessly documenting her full immersion into a career as a model. (Ziff, too, is armed with a video camera.) Ziff and Schell interview other models, as well as famous photographers and designers. They probably did not have a purpose early on, but after almost five years of footage (most of which resembles a personal video diary or home movie) the purpose becomes more apparent. Ziff and Schell’s resulting film, Picture Me, reveals the ugly side of the modelling industry...and I do not mean ugly models.

Models are some of the most recognizable figures (mind the pun) of our time, yet other than the occasional news story about anorexia or drug-abuse, outsiders know very little about the inner-workings of the business itself. Models rarely give interviews; when they do, they certainly do not want to bite the hand that feeds them. With Picture Me, Ziff steps up as a whistle-blower of sorts, but this film has nothing to do with enacting any sort of revenge. Ziff has had a (comparatively) long and successful career as a model. Her All-American girl next door blue eyes, blond hair, stunning cheekbones and long limbs have been used to advertise for Calvin Klein, Tommy Hilfiger, Stella McCartney, Dolce & Gabbana and Gap; while on the runway Ziff has represented practically every major designer, including Marc Jacobs, Louis Vuitton, Gucci and Chanel.

Ziff’s message: models are people too and they deserve better treatment. Topics such as the female body image bubble to the surface, specifically the extreme thinness and youth of models -- starting their careers as early as 12. Beginning their careers at such an early age, models are forced to put education (high school, college) on hold or forget about it altogether. There is an extremely high turnover in modeling -- out with the old and in with the new -- but with no education, what is a model qualified to do when her modeling career ends? Then again, even early in her career, Ziff was earning single paychecks for $80,000 and $111,000. Enough of those paychecks could build up a nice little nest egg for the future (assuming that the model is responsible and knowledgeable enough to save).

And it seems all too obvious that models find themselves as subjects of the male gaze, but there should be a line. Photographers snatch nude photos of models in dressing rooms during runway shows; or sometimes models find themselves in compromising situations with photographers during photo shoots. Models are treated like lifeless and emotionless shells, robots to abide by their designer and photographer’s every whim.

I agree wholeheartedly that something needs to be done to correct the inhumane conditions of the modeling industry, change the way women are represented and end the proliferation of unhealthy body types. Unfortunately, Ziff and Schell’s film feels so overly edited and light that it will probably not have the results that they intended, but I think Picture Me is a fine first step, and Ziff does deserve a lot of credit for having the courage to take a stand.

THEATER REVIEW: WAITING FOR LEFTY

Edna (Kristin Wiegand) and Joe (Paul Gunning) in "Waiting For Lefty" at Theatre West. Photo Credit: Thomas Mikusz.

Odets’ revolutionary proletarian drama is the most important play in L.A.

By Ed Rampell

The wait is over, and Theatre West’s revival of Clifford Odets’ Waiting For Lefty is the most important play currently being presented in Los Angeles, and possibly the best production of 2010. Odets’ one-act play, originally presented by the fabled Group Theatre on Broadway in 1935, is one of the classics of the Depression era movement of proletarian drama, and perhaps the most successful of that entire noble genre in the U.S.

Waiting for Lefty unfolds during a raucous meeting run by a corrupt company union of taxi drivers who have gathered to consider whether or not to go out on strike. Throughout the drama militants clash with the union president (appropriately named Harry Fatt and creepily portrayed by the beefy Anthony Gruppuso) and goons as they wait for the leader of the cabbies’ most radical, left-leaning faction -- the aptly named “Lefty” -- to arrive at the meeting and speak.
 

Odets captures the angst of that age of economic anxiety, when unemployment soared to 25 percent (or more) of the work force, and President Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s New Deal programs tried to ameliorate the harshest conditions workers confronted, with social safety net and pro-labor initiatives and programs. (Among them was the Federal Theatre Project, which not only gave lots of actors, stagehands, directors, et al, jobs, but produced some socially conscious plays such as The Living Newspaper, both on Broadway and throughout the country.)     

Much more importantly than merely reflecting FDR’s New Deal reforms Waiting for Lefty captured the zeitgeist of labor militancy that swept America during the Depression. While Roosevelt’s concessions tried to avert a revolution, labor militants sought to promote one. During the Depression unionization jumped by about 300 percent, as workers fought the bosses, their armed goons (in and out of uniform -- remember that first and foremost, a cop is a potential strikebreaker and union buster), and the powers that be with radical tactics such as sit down strikes, wherein workers not only went out on strike but even took over factories. Some of this is glimpsed in archival footage in Michael Moore’s 2009 documentary, Capitalism: A Love Story.

What’s ironic, even tragic, is that the Depression era 1930s milieu of Waiting for Lefty is still resonant with today’s audiences, as unemployment, foreclosures, Wall Street disasters, etc., continue to ravage the land and the working classes. But while contemporary theatergoers can relate to the miserable conditions, cutbacks and hard times facing their 1935 counterparts, what’s missing now is the class warfare militancy that made Waiting for Lefty not only a hit on the New York stage, but in theatres around the country, where it was widely produced during the Depression. I recently watched Capitalism: A Love Story again on cable (I hadn’t seen it since attending a private screening with Moore last September), and it was more obvious to me on second viewing that what Moore was trying to spark, and hoping for, was a revival of the labor militancy that shook America during the last Great Depression, such as the Flint sit down strike in his hometown that established the United Auto Workers as a powerful force in guaranteeing workers some measure of human decency and progress.

Odets’ proletarian drama builds towards a climax as the workers wait for Lefty and then come to the realization, like latter day Hamlets, that he/she who hesitates is lost. The rousing tour-de-force ending is one of the greatest and most celebrated grand finales in all theater history, as the militant ethos spreads from the stage to the seats, as the denouement counts to great measure on audience participation. For revolution means participation by the people as the protagonists who, no longer waiting for messiahs, realize that they, and they alone, can make their collective and individual destinies, and must do so by taking matters into their own hands.

The audience participation aspect of Waiting for Lefty is superb and clever -- for once, it’s the spectators who must perform with panache, and, as that old cliché goes, “once more with gusto.” But it is also the genius of Odets, that Shakespeare of proletarian drama, to cinematically breakup the union hall meeting with flashbacks that tell the cabbies’ back-stories, and how they came to drive their 20th century chariots through the mean streets of Gotham -- because they weren’t born behind the wheel.

Donald Moore plays Miller, a skilled lab assistant at a defense plant, who is sacked after he declines a raise in order to work on poison gas, in a back-story redolent with antiwar sentiment. Elizabeth Bradshaw movingly portrays Dr. Benjamin, a Jewish female doctor who is laid off at a hospital. (Does this sound familiar amidst our own age of layoffs, cutbacks and healthcare crisis?).

In one of the most poignant and well-acted vignettes, Joe Mitchell (Paul Gunning) is a working Joe whose meager wages and tips aren’t enough to pay the bills, and his wife, Edna (Kristin Wiegand), desperate to support their two children, threatens to leave Joe for another man or possibly even to become a prostitute. Yet, they are lucky when compared to Florrie (Heather Alyse Becker) and Sid (Adam Conger), a couple too poor to find a private place to have sex, let alone to get married, thanks to the Depression’s grinding poverty. 

Edna tells her hack husband: “For five years I laid awake at night listening to my heart pound. For god’s sake, do something, Joe, get wise. Maybe get your buddies together, maybe go on strike for better money. Poppa did it during the war and they won out…” His wife’s threats propel Joe to finally take a stand.

And in a sequence that seems purged from the Grove Press edition of Odets plays (including Golden Boy and Awake and Sing! -- which I saw a great Broadway revival of a few years ago, starring Ben Gazzara) a theatrical agent’s secretary (Sandra Tucker) surreptitiously reads from Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels’ 1848 Communist Manifesto and slips a buck to the down at his heels actor, Philips (Jason Galloway), playing the role most thespians spend more time playing than any other part: trying to get an acting job.

The taxi drivers’ redemption comes in the form of labor militancy, if not a revolutionary consciousness, that they must unite, organize and fight for their rights -- by any means necessary. Interestingly, and I don’t know if Odets intended this, it is women – Edna, the pro-Communist Secretary -- who seem to impart this wisdom and fighting spirit to the mostly male workers, and not the eponymous Lefty himself, the most radical of the organizers.

Charlie Mount’s deftly directed production of Waiting For Lefty is a period piece set during the Depression (the last one, not the current one), and is part of Theatre West’s Chestnuts program which, according to the Foot Lights playbill, is “dedicated to quality revivals of great plays.” I attended the premiere with a hot date, writer Norma Barzman (The Red and the Blacklist; The End of Romance), who originally saw Waiting for Lefty on Broadway in 1935 when she was 15, and still remembers being swept up in the emotion of the Group Theatre’s revolutionary ending. Actress Betty Garrett, who is on Theatre West’s board, was also at the revival’s debut, and commented that it brought her back in time to her teenage years, when she originally saw Waiting for Lefty during the 1930s, and how it helped open up a whole new world to the once-sheltered actress-to-be.

I couldn’t help but wonder, however, if this production of Waiting for Lefty, as stellar as it is, would have been even better and would have benefited if, instead of being a period piece, it was set in contemporary times. I mean, in the 1950s, William Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet was convincingly and wildly successfully transmogrified into the then modern dress, contemporary West Side Story, and so on. Perhaps placing Lefty in our time period might startle today’s audiences -- while readily recognizing the miserable economic conditions, might regard unionization and militancy as science fiction.

My own play, The Waiters -- which derives its title, in part, from Waiting For Lefty -- attempts to update Odets’ classic in a 21st century setting and to revive proletarian drama, and is about a revolution by disabled workers who take over a restaurant run by tyrannical bosses. In it, I extend Odets’ audience participation aesthetic in Waiting for Lefty. In any case, what are you waiting for? Don’t miss the flawless ensemble acting in the most important play in L.A., Theatre West’s Waiting For Lefty, and the next time you’re oppressed, remember, don’t wait: Strike!

Waiting For Lefty runs through Oct. 10 at Theatre West, 333 Cahuenga Blvd. West, L.A., CA 90068.  For more info: 323/851-4839; www.theatrewest.org